Slave Traders by Invitation, West Africa's Slave Coast in The Precolonial Era

SLAVE TRADERS BY INVITATION
FINN FUGLESTAD
Slave Traders by Invitation

West Africa’s Slave Coast
in the Precolonial Era
1
1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Finn Fuglestad.
Title: Slave Traders by Invitation: West Africa’s Slave Coast in the
Precolonial Era / Finn Fuglestad.
Description: Oxford [UK]; New York: Oxford University Press, [2018]
ISBN 9780190876104 (print)

ISBN 9780190934750 (updf)
ISBN 9780190934972 (epub)
Dedicated to the memory of Stephen Ellis (1953–2015)
Y para Elisa Pérez-González de la Barreda

CONTENTS
Acknowledgements ix
List of Illustrations xi
List of Abbreviations xiii
Maps xv
Introduction 1
PART A
STRUCTURES AND TRENDS
1. The Slave Coast: A General Presentation 21

2. Historiography, Sources and Epistemology 37
3. Societal, Religious and Political Structures: A Model 57
4. Some Concrete, Practical Implications 69
5. A Few Comments on Certain Economic Matters 81
6. The Database and the Slave Trade from the Slave Coast 91
PART B
CHRONOLOGICAL OVERVIEW: EARLY DAYS TO THE 1720s
1. Focus on the European Side 113

2. The African Side: Early/Legendary Past 129
3. Allada, Its Vassals and Neighbours, and the Europeans 139
4. Dahomey and Its Neighbours: Early Beginnings and After 159
5. Convulsions Further West 171
6. The 1680s-1720s: An Overview 179
vii
PART C
CHRONOLOGICAL OVERVIEW: THE 1720s –1850/51
1. The Dramatic and Decisive 1720s 199

2. Aftermath and General Considerations 215
3. Near Disaster: The First Years of the Tegbesu Era 225
4. More about the Tegbesu Era 237
5. Continuation 249
6. The Long Goodbye 265
Epilogue 289
Notes 295
Bibliography 393
Index 435
viii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author of the present manuscript written in English is a Norwegian whose

first foreign language is French, and who took up residence in Spain many
years ago. The implication is that if the manuscript has become at all readable,
it is thanks to the toiling of my good friend Ms Juliet Wrightson who has done
a tremendous job in correcting my English. My debt and gratitude to her are
beyond words. Juliet agreed to take over after her sister, the late Penelope
Wrightson, who had offered to help me out with my English, was struck down
by a terminal disease.
Another friend of mine who has left us is Selena Axelrod Winsnes, with
whom I have had many inspiring conversations, and who provided me with
many hints and suggestions with regard to the Danish sources especially.
After completing the first version of the present manuscript, I most
fortunately succeeded in persuading fellow-Africanists Adam Jones and Edna
G. Bay into reading parts of it: the former read the Introduction, the latter the
Introduction and Part A. Those two sections contain the ideas and viewpoints
developed in the rest of the manuscript. Ms Bay in particular has saved me
from some embarrassing misinterpretations, plus a number of errors. Her
endeavour is all the more admirable since she and I continue to part company
on certain fundamental matters, as will become clear later on.
I have also had the honour and pleasure to discuss some of the ideas
expressed in the following with the legendary Professor John Donnelly Fage
(1921–2002). I still hear his voice.
I would like finally to express my gratitude to all those archivists and
librarians in many countries and on three continents who assisted me during
my research, which I initiated, if my memory does not fail me, nearly forty
years ago.
ix
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
If these acknowledgements are unusually short, it is because the present

manuscript belongs, for many reasons, to the “in-spite-of ” category, rather
than the “thanks-to” one.
As for the rest, the usual disclaimers pertain.
x
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Figure 1: European lodges in the inland town of Savi, then the capital of
Hueda and hub of the local slave trade (17th century). From the
Des Marchais archive, British Library
Figure 2: Map of the Slave Coast before 1724. From the Des Marchais
archive, British Library
Figure 3: Restored main building of Ouidah’s Portuguese “fort” (2010).
Photograph by Finn Fuglestad
Figure 4: View of the River Weme at Porto Novo (1980s). Photograph by
Finn Fuglestad
xi
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
AAP/EB or Anais Anais/Annaes do Archivo Público/do Arquivo do

Estado da Bahia (Salvador da Bahia, Brazil)1
AAR African Archaeological Review
AD Archives Départementales
ADM Admiralty
AEH African Economic History
AHR American Historical Review
AHU Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, Lisbon
AM Archives Municipales
AN Archives Nationales, Paris
APEB Arquivo (Público) do Estado da Bahia
BCEHSAOF Bulletin du Comité d’Études Historiques et
Scientifiques de l’Afrique Occidentale Française
(predecessor of BIFAN)
BIFAN Bulletin de l’Institut Français/Fondamental
d’Afrique Noire
BNE Biblioteca Nacional de España
BT Board of Trade (UK)
CAOM-DFC Centre des Archives d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence
Dépôt des Fortifications des Colonies, Côtes
d’Afrique
CÉA Cahiers d’Études Africaines
CO Colonial Office records
CUP Cambridge University Press
ÉD Études Dahoméennes
xiii
ABBREVIATIONS
EHR Economic History Review

HA History in Africa. A Journal of Method
HAHR Hispanic American Historical Review
IAI International African Institute
IFAN Institut Français/Fondamental d’Afrique Noire
IJAHS International Journal of African Historical Studies
JAH Journal of African History
JHSN Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria
NA The National Archives (formerly Public Record
Office), Kew
NS Nouvelle série/New series
OR Ordens régias/regiaes2
O.s. Old style (to 1751)3
PRO Public Record Office, Chancery Lane (later
renamed The National Archives and transferred to
Kew)
RAC Royal African Company
SA Slavery and Abolition
SFHOM Société Française d’Histoire d’Outre-Mer
T (as for instance T70) Treasury records in NA
THSG Transactions of the Historical Society of the Gold
Coast and Togoland/of Ghana
UP University Press
WIC Generaele/Geoctroyeerde West-Indische
Compagnie
xiv
N
0 80
miles
O Y O
Abomey
Tado
D A H O M E Y
R.W
R.M
ono
eme
r est
l fo
s ta
oa
Lake Allada C
Ahemé
Aja-Mono Lake
plateau Nokoué
Lagos
Offra
Ouidah
Lake Togo Jakin
Grand Popo
Glidji /
Little Popo
.V Anlo a s t
C o
R
o
e
a v
lta
Keta S l Bight of Benin
Gold Coast © S.Ballard (2017)

© S.Ballard (2017)
N
Savi 0 1
mile
Toho
Lagoon
Ahozon
Ouidah
Agbanzin Pouta
swampland
Aouandji Lagoon
Zoumbodji
Lagoon
Ouidah
beach Bight of Benin
INTRODUCTION
Common sense may tell us that trade on a significant scale cannot flourish for
long on a heavily surf-ridden beach without any permanent human settlement.
But if so, common sense turns out to be a poor guide to the past of that part
of the coast of Guinea that we call the Slave Coast. In fact, the Slave Coast,
whose shore line corresponds to the description above, was the site of a
considerable trade for more than 240 years, between around 1616 and
1850/51, before it petered out during the next 12–13 years. This was a very
special trade, a trade in human beings, a slave trade.1
Indeed, the 320 km long beach between the River Volta and Lagos known
as the Slave Coast, and especially the central part around the towns of Ouidah
and Offra, ranks as one of the major epicentres of the Atlantic slave trade, and
as the leading West African centre. The Slave Coast “exported”, according to
the best available estimates (but veering probably on the low side), some two
million slaves: that is, about sixteen per cent of the (probably) twelve and a
half million human beings (or more) sent from Africa to America in the era of
the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. It means that on average some 20 slaves were
embarked from the Slave Coast each and every day for more than two
centuries. Of those two million, probably more than half transited at one
single spot, the beach south of Ouidah2 – an open roadstead with no port
facilities whatsoever. Note that the figures above refer to the slaves who were
alive by the time the ships set sail, and who had survived the notorious loading
and waiting time, of which more later.
The paradox then is that this large-scale trade in human beings took
place in a particularly inhospitable, even dangerous environment. To quote
an employee of the company in charge of the upkeep of the English forts,
1
Justly Watson, who went ashore on the beach south of Ouidah on 20

December 1755:
The landing is the worst I ever saw, and I believe one of the worst in the whole
world (yet we arrived in the best season). I was informed, sometimes ships have
been four or five weeks before anybody could get ashore, or any boat go off to
them. There is a bar before the shore, in which the sea breaks prodigiously, & the
canoes frequently overset in what is called good weather. After one gets ashore
there are several rivers to pass over, which makes it very tiresome & dangerous3
to reach the town of Ouidah, Watson’s destination, some four kilometres

inland.
Watson was certainly not exaggerating, quite the contrary. In fact, he
noticed only one bar, whereas there were actually two moving underwater
sandbars which ran parallel to the coast, implying that the surf broke three
times during most seasons, the third time over the shoreline itself.4 It has been
described by other visitors as a wall of water, with waves reaching truly
impressive heights, altogether not bereft of majesty.5 It has also been described
as a dangerous belt of death owing to the frequent capsizing of canoes and the
presence of man-eating and reputedly enormous and “gluttonous” sharks,
sharks that there is every reason to believe were well fed in the era of the slave
trade.6 It is claimed that during certain periods human lives, and not
exclusively slave lives, were lost nearly every day.7 As for the average loss of
goods (other than slaves, who were regarded as goods), it has been estimated
at five per cent of the cargo by Patrick Manning.8
We can deduce from the existence of the exceptionally heavy surf and the
sandbars that the European ocean-going ships could not go anywhere near the
coast in what were also shallow waters. In fact, they always had to stand 2–3
km off the coast9 in what was called the “roads”, for example, the Ouidah road.
The references and quotations listed above have been chosen at random
from many available sources. The forbidding conditions under which the slave
trade was conducted on the Slave Coast loom in fact large in our sources.10
Obviously, those conditions functioned as an effective barrier against
intruders coming from the sea, which was where the Europeans came from in
our period. But there was an additional barrier inland south of Ouidah behind
the kilometre-deep beach – a natural moat in the shape of a lagoon. Its width
varied according to the season, but was never less than two to three hundred
metres at Ouidah. The lagoon ran parallel to the coast for several hundred
kilometres. It was mostly shallow, generally less than one metre, but in several
2
INTRODUCTION
places reached a depth of three to four metres, and hence was not always
possible to ford.11 Behind the lagoon there were wetlands, swampy grounds
and streams (Watson’s “rivers”) whose extension obviously also varied
according to the seasons. As for the town of Ouidah and the region of
permanent human settlement, that is, the area of permanently dry and
therefore cultivable land, that, as can be deduced from the above, was some
three kilometres north of the lagoon.12
So there was a total of a distance of seven to eight kilometres between the
ships and Ouidah. One question is how it was possible to drive unwilling and
underfed slaves from Ouidah town, the centre of the slave trade, to the beach
via the lagoon, where no bridge existed, and then out to the waiting ships.
Another is how it was possible to carry goods in the opposite direction, and
the Europeans in both – Europeans who usually travelled in hammocks once
on shore,13 in this country where no wheeled carriage existed and where horses
were few, small and condemned to an early death due to trypanosomiasis
borne by the tsetse fly14 (horses were reserved in theory for the king and the
Europeans).15 As for the canoe crossings between the ships and the beach, it
goes without saying that one was almost guaranteed to reach one’s destination
soaking wet. Thus many Europeans confronted the surf wearing only the
minimum.16 But then, if we are to believe a local proverb, even the water is dry
in Guinea.17
Actually, what we have described above is the situation that came to prevail
after about 1727 and the famous but long drawn-out Dahomean conquest of
the coast (in fact the beginning of a long, chaotic period, as we shall see).
However, before 1727 the slaves were gathered together not at Ouidah, but at
Savi, some nine kilometres further north (about 16–17 km from the ships),
and driven from thence down to the shore and the ships. Savi was the palatial
capital of the pre-1727 and rather Lilliputian polity (“kingdom”) of Hueda.18
As for the question of how the slaves arrived at Savi, later at Ouidah, in the
first place, it is formally outside the scope of this book, but will nevertheless
be touched upon later.
We do not really need any sources to convey to us the near-absurdity of it
all. Anyone who has set foot on the small melancholy backwater town of
Ouidah19 before the (modest) transformations of the 1990s (about which
more in the Epilogue), and who made at that time the short but difficult
journey – still no road then, although there was a bridge – down to the
absolutely desolate and empty but imposing beach, would have had
considerable difficulty in imagining that he found himself right in the middle
3
of the old epicentre of the slave trade in West Africa. That is especially true if
he had been to the Gold Coast and contemplated the many imposing
European forts that grace its seashore, forts that were not constructed
originally for the purpose of the slave trade. On the Slave Coast he would
have encountered only what is presented as one of the original three, the not
very impressive Portuguese fort as it now stands (the present layout dating
from 1865, that is, long after the end of the slave trade).20 He would have
wondered anyway what that fort was doing some four kilometres inland. The
point is that what some call “visible memory” is near-absent from the Slave
Coast. Given all this, our visitor must be forgiven for expressing incredulity
when told that Ouidah was often, and frequently still is, referred to as a port
in the literature.21
But apart from the “how-was-it-possible” question, here we must draw a
number of preliminary conclusions. The first is that although the local
conditions functioned as an efficient barrier against foreign intruders, they
also functioned as a barrier in the opposite direction. We have explained then
why the local people turned their back on the ocean, why they never
developed a maritime tradition. They did not have to, since the lagoon and
the extensive wetlands were overflowing with not only fish and other aquatic
animals, but also all sorts of wildlife, even big game.22 The lagoon is in fact
part of a vast inland aquatic ecosystem. The paradox here is that the locals’
lack of navigational skills contributed to guarantee, in a sense, the success of
the slave trade.
The next and really crucial point is that for a slave trade, or for that matter
any sort of trade over time on a substantial scale to develop between the
Africans and the Europeans in this very special environment, one basic
requisite had to be met: a strong determination on the part of the former to
overcome the natural barrier that protected them against the latter, that is, a
strong determination to enter into contact with the Europeans, and to
maintain that contact. The locals also needed to guarantee the safety of the
European slave traders to a certain extent. The conclusion is that the
Europeans could not and would not have got anywhere without the very
active collaboration of the locals (not that they ever tried), without having
been invited ashore, so to speak.23 Indeed, the Europeans were and remained
totally dependent on the local inhabitants: that is, the few Europeans stationed
on the Slave Coast, no more than a hundred most of the time and frequently
far less. The hostility that Joseph Inikori believes characterized the inhabitants
of the coast towards the Europeans24 is nowhere evident on the Slave Coast.
4
INTRODUCTION
The Europeans erected all told, and long after the beginning of the slave
trade, three forts grouped together within a short distance of each other in
Ouidah town,25 that is, we repeat, about four kilometres inland (from the
English William’s fort one could at least glimpse the sea, because of the down-
sloping configuration of the land).26 This is to be contrasted with the situation
on the Gold Coast where there were some 26–27 forts, all built with solid
material (not the case in Ouidah), and all situated on the seashore or close to
it.27 The Europeans began constructing those forts some two centuries before
the first emerged from the ground at Ouidah. The implication is that the Slave
Coast forts, as opposed to those on the Gold Coast, were out of artillery range
of the European ships. The implication is also that they could not command
the landing places for their own supplies, which in turn meant that they could
be starved to surrender any time if the local population so decided. In fact, the
Slave Coast forts, constructed of dried earth28 – it was said that not a single
pebble could be found on the Slave Coast – and with thatched roofs, were
simply indefensible, as the Europeans knew full well (the forts also caught fire
easily and were constantly in need of repair). This was true even though they
may have looked imposing enough in the local context: two-storey
quadrangular buildings of considerable size (100 by 80 metres) surrounded by
dry moats, across which were moveable bridges of boards in the manner of
their medieval predecessors in Europe, and provided with a number of
cannon.29 But if they were not defendable, the cannon notwithstanding, what
then exactly was their purpose? We suggest that they may have served as
embassies of sort, plus information centres – and finally as social clubs for the
captains and officers of the ships in the roads.30 Or, if one prefers, forts served
the function of facilitating contacts and organizing services for visiting traders
and to some extent also as warehouses, or barracoons for slaves.31
But the forts may also have been considered valuable markers for the
various companies’ ongoing trade at particular places on the African coast.
That is, they may have been built to defend and to maintain the interests of
those who constructed them against European competitors.32 That being said,
the forts turned out to perform, unexpectedly, a crucial, even strategic, role in
many circumstances from especially 1727 onwards, as a result of wars between
Africans, serving for instance as refuges. Ouidah became, as we shall see, the
object of a long drawn out local internecine war with the Europeans caught in
the middle not always knowing which party to support.
We add however that there could also be at any time a number of factories
or lodges (the difference between the two, if any, is not clear – the French
5
word is comptoirs); these were much less imposing edifices, unfortified, and in
many cases simply temporary installations. For instance, the Dutch never had
forts on the Slave Coast, but they were very much present nevertheless until
the 1750s, thanks in part to their factories33 (the same also applies, but to a far
lesser extent, to the Danes and the Germans of Brandenburg-Prussia).
In any case, many Europeans began early to question the usefulness of forts
or even of factories, that is, of permanent land bases.34 The point is that land
bases were not a necessary requisite for trade. Many Europeans did without,
especially the private traders, those we call interlopers in the period of the
monopolistic companies.
To return to the main track, the active collaboration of the locals was not
enough. Somehow some people would have to be able to go through the surf
both ways. And since the European light boats were totally inadequate for the
purpose, and the locals had, as noted, no maritime tradition, the question was
where to find such people. They were recruited from two of the three known
maritime communities along the coast of Guinea: the Ga and especially the
Fante of the neighbouring and very different Gold Coast west of the river
Volta (the third such community were the Kru of Liberia).35 But although the
coastal Fante people did have a tradition of venturing into the open sea, it
must have taken the first generations of them quite some time, and a
considerable number of casualties, to master the surf, the likes of which they
cannot have been familiar with from home. What is certain is that they had to
be, and became in fact, accomplished athletes, and especially excellent
swimmers and divers.36
That, then, is the short answer. However, it begs a number of unanswerable
questions. The central one is simply why the Fante canoemen volunteered at
all. But more generally, those canoemen, the famous remaderos or remidors of
the sources,37 present us with a problem of some magnitude: we know next to
nothing about them. We are well informed about the ethnic group we call
Fante, but not about the Fante (also called Mina) canoemen. The latter have
been severely neglected by historians, formally for the same reason that there
remain so many other blanks in the past of the Slave Coast: the dearth of
sources. But even so, the very fact that historians (the present author included)
have not even given it a try calls for attention. As it is, we can only state the
obvious, that the Fante and their occasionally enormous flat-bottomed dugout
canoes, manned by from seven up to over 30 paddlers,38 were absolutely
indispensable. In fact, the Europeans had no alternative but to entrust them
with all that they needed,39 and indeed with their very lives,40 which
6
INTRODUCTION
incidentally not a few of the Europeans lost in the venture.41 The bitter
complaints that the Europeans occasionally lodged in their reports in the early
days42 against the canoemen obviously served no practical purpose.
The only certain information that the present author has been able to glean
about the Fante canoemen is, first, that they were very religious43 – as everyone
was, but obviously it was very understandable in their case since they put their
lives on the line on each and every trip; second, that the best and most
expensive were from the region of Shama;44 and third, that some of them
(probably a minority) were formally slaves,45 a fact which does not make much
sense, although we presume they would have been very privileged slaves.
Fourth, and finally, since many Fante canoemen settled down on the Slave
Coast, it seems legitimate to speak of a sort of Fante colonization of the coast
east of the Volta.46
Were the Fante canoemen ever conscious of their power and what they
were actually doing? To give an idea of that power, here is a quotation from
the famous slave trader Thomas Phillips, who wrote in the 1690s:
the canoes frequently over-setting, but the canoe-men are such excellent divers &
swimmers, that they preserve the lives of those they have any kindness for, but such
as they have any displeasure to…(so) very prudent for all commanders to be kind
& obliging to them, their lives lying in their hands, which they can make them lose
at pleasure, & impute all to accident, and they could not help it.47
Another European, the Portuguese Father Vicente Ferreira Pires, claimed

a century later that the canoemen were occasionally paid by Europeans to get
rid of fellow Europeans.48
If more proof were needed of the Europeans’ total dependence on the local
population and on the Fante canoemen, we can turn to the period of the
so-called illegal slave trade after 1807/8, that is, after Europeans, principally
the British, abolished and then tried to stop the slave trade. And here the
point is that the Commodore of no less a force than the anti-slave-trade
squadron of the Royal Navy, amounting to one-tenth of British warships on
active service, found it impossible to bring the main slave-trading mart,
Ouidah and its beach, under his control.49 Britannia never ruled the waves off
Ouidah. The reason was that the local population was opposed to abolition,
and the Fante canoemen were uncooperative.
Since the picture drawn above refers primarily to the region of Ouidah, we
need to add a few qualifications. The first is that, in order to avoid any
misunderstanding, the slave trade did not get under way first at Ouidah, but
7
some 30 kilometres further east, at Offra in the kingdom of Allada. However,

Ouidah (in the kingdom of Hueda) took over very quickly as the leading
emporium.50 Furthermore, if we are correct in believing, as most do, that
Offra, which has disappeared as such, corresponds to modern Godomey, then
it was situated slightly further away from the sea than Ouidah, and with
equally forbidding landing conditions. There were other centres on the Slave
Coast which were situated closer to the coastline, and several, such as Little
Popo-Aneho and Keta (or Kitto), even on the shore itself. But they were
always statistically insignificant compared with Offra, and later Ouidah, as far
as the slave trade is concerned.
Our second qualification is that the surf was not uniformly as strong as
implied above all the year round or even on the whole of the Slave Coast. The
best period seems to have been between January and March, that is, towards
the end of the dry season51 (our source Watson was wrong, he arrived not in
the best season, but slightly too early). But the surf could be formidable even
in calm weather (see below).
There is in any case no doubt that the worst surf-ridden part of the Slave
Coast was precisely and surprisingly that of Offra-Ouidah,52 that is, the
Central Slave Coast, where it really happened.
Our next qualification is that the figures above refer, strictly speaking, to
the export of slaves from the Bight of Benin, of which in geographical terms
the Slave Coast constitutes only the small western part. But there is reason to
believe, as we shall see, that during the period we are interested in the export
of slaves from the rest of the Bight of Benin, that is, east of the Slave Coast,
was close to negligible.
Let us add finally that the beach was certainly not empty all along the
coast, as the previously mentioned examples of Little Popo-Aneho and Keta
indicate. In the more general case of Anlo in the west, the beach was at places
much larger in depth than at Ouidah (but in others actually smaller), and in
fact inhabited far in the past.53 But again, the slave trade from Anlo, and from
the Western Slave Coast generally, was on a modest scale compared with what
went on further east.
***
It is important to bear in mind what we have hinted at already, namely that
the Slave Coast was (and is) unique compared with the other coasts of Guinea,
and in particular with that of the neighbouring Gold Coast (now Ghana).
About the Gold Coast we need to know first that, as its name indicates, it was
8
INTRODUCTION
gold that attracted the Europeans, not slaves. However, the Gold Coast did
eventually become what has been described as a second Slave Coast – from
the early 1700s, as we shall see. We also need to know that the Gold Coast was
always the epicentre of European activities on the coast of West Africa during
the precolonial era – as the many forts still standing along the coast bear
witness. The Europeans in question were first the Portuguese, who arrived in
1471,54 and later especially the Dutch and the English, but also the French,
plus the Danes and the Germans from Brandenburg-Prussia,55 and finally the
Swedes for a short period.56 The oldest section of the presidential palace of the
present-day Republic of Ghana in Accra is actually a former Danish fort
(Christiansborg) that dates to 1661. Christiansborg, in its time reputedly one
of the most impressive forts on the coast, together with the Dutch (originally
Portuguese) Elmina and the English Cape Coast Castle, was for long the only
Danish establishment on the whole of the coast.57 It was also the easternmost
of all the Gold Coast forts. Hence, if the Danes wanted to expand – which
they did, especially towards the end of the eighteenth century – they could do
so only eastwards, aided by the fact that between Christiansborg and Ouidah,
a stretch of some 280 km, there was for most of the period no fort and little
European activity. In brief, the Danes always took a keen interest and dabbled
increasingly in the affairs of the Western or Little Slave Coast, as they called
it.58 In the process they converted themselves into privileged observers of the
Slave Coast scene, for which reason they will appear frequently in this work.59
Actually, the Danes erected the only known fort on the Western Slave Coast;
but that happened rather late in the day, in 1784, and the Danish fort was and
remained of very marginal importance.
The three nations that erected forts where it really mattered, on the Central
Slave Coast, were the English, the French and the Portuguese, in chronological
order. Among them, only the English had permanent establishments on the
Gold Coast throughout our period. The French tried hard for a long time to
establish a permanent base on the latter coast, but never really succeeded.60
Neither did the Portuguese. In their case it was a question of trying to return
to a coast from which they had been ousted by the Dutch in the 1640s, a fact
that did not stop Portuguese vessels from trafficking on the Gold Coast.61
The reasons for the Gold Coast’s central position are many, one having to
do with the fact that all the indispensable canoemen came from there; but the
other reasons are purely physical. Its coastline was characterized by inlets, bays,
rocky promontories and pronounced headlands where it was easy to construct,
and which gave shelter from prevailing winds and currents and allowed for
9
relatively safe anchorage.62 There was then no beach of the Slave Coast type,
and no lagoon. That said, conditions on the Gold Coast were far from
optimal.63 There were in particular no genuinely natural harbours (except
possibly at the Shama river).64 And the surf could be occasionally a problem
on the Gold Coast too.65 Nevertheless, the Dane Erick Tilleman was certainly
correct when he noted in 1697 that “the land of the Slave Coast is different in
every way” to the Gold Coast.66
What then about the coast to the east and the south-east between Lagos
and the Niger Delta where the Europeans never erected forts, and whose
centre was the old kingdom of Benin? (Not to be confused with the present-
day Republic of the same name much further west.) Here the conditions
were different again, owing to the swamp vegetation and the problem of
navigating the many rivers characteristic of the region. But the central point
for our purpose is that the slave trade was statistically close to insignificant
in that part of West Africa.67 The Slave Coast, and especially the central
part, was the main exporter of slaves in West Africa west of the Niger Delta,
followed by the Gold Coast, and – far behind – Senegambia with the
famous islet of Gorée.
***
One obvious conclusion that can be drawn from the above is that along the
Slave Coast Africans played a very active role in the emergence of what we call
the South Atlantic system. Hence the sad but inevitable contention summed
up in the title of this work: slave traders by invitation.
But is this contention based exclusively on the physical conditions under
which the slave trade was conducted, or do we know of any genuine invitation
that was actually extended, formally or otherwise, to the Europeans? The
European sources are not very eloquent. We know, though, that the
Portuguese had a good idea of the configuration of the Slave Coast by the
middle of the sixteenth century.68 Nevertheless, for a long time they simply
sailed past it on their way to Lagos with its very dangerous bar, or regions
further to the south-east:69 perhaps while waiting for an invitation.
According to the local traditions from Ouidah (those of Offra have
disappeared along with the town itself ), the first locals who spotted the
Portuguese and managed to persuade and/or lure them to venture ashore were
later elevated to the dignity of divinities (they are so worshipped to the
present). And they were so elevated because they were considered as
benefactors to society.70 The trouble was, however, that the locals had nothing
10
INTRODUCTION
to offer but slaves, and the Portuguese at that early stage were not particularly
interested (it was gold, not slaves, that originally attracted the Europeans to
the coast of Guinea).
According to one version, Kpatè, the one who spotted the Portuguese
became the divinity of shipwrecks – that is, the divinity to which one offered
sacrifices to make ships run aground. Indeed, according to the custom on the
coast the locals had the right to loot any ship wrecked on the beach71 (a
custom not unknown elsewhere, including parts of Western Europe). That
happened with some frequency in the following centuries. It is tempting to
argue that the Kpatè story testifies to the difficulties of establishing contact,
and more generally to the dangers the Europeans were confronted with in
these waters.
Whatever the case, we suppose that there was a considerable time lag
between the first contact and the time when regular trade relations developed,
an extensive period of trials and failings. The Slave Coast was in fact the last
region of coastal West Africa to establish regular relations with the Europeans.
It is at this juncture that we must lament the disappearance of the oral
traditions of the Offra region, since we suspect that they may have had a
somewhat different story to tell. We know for certain that the polity of Allada,
which included Offra, exported in the early days considerable quantities of
cloth, and cotton cloth at that, to the Gold Coast, as well as other “normal”
merchandise.72 This trade went on until at least the 1680s and co-existed for
some time with the slave trade.73 Why and how that non-slave trade
disappeared, and why Offra-Allada was superseded rapidly by the
neighbouring region of Ouidah, are questions which still await answers.
The next point is that the invitation (we consider it as such) to trade in slaves,
once extended, was never withdrawn. Indeed, in the end it was, as we shall see,
the slave trade that abandoned the Slave Coast, not the other way around.74 It is
significant in this respect that when the region was rocked by warfare, the slave
trade does not seem ever to have been an issue, all sides vying for the control of
that trade – for the very simple reason that it constituted a major source of
material enrichment, and all sides tried to enlist the Europeans as allies, while
attempting at the same time, and with success, to keep those same Europeans in
their place. Regarding warfare, there was a contradiction inherent in the slave
trade, which was certainly not like any other trade. It is true that like all trade, it
needed peaceful conditions (and predictability) to thrive. But, to state the
obvious, it needed also exactly the opposite, namely violence, since violence in
whatever form was clearly an important way of procuring slaves. The question
11
was, however, where that violence took place. It had to take place away from
those centres where the trade as such was conducted.
As for the Europeans, although possibly lukewarm initially, they quickly
proved themselves to be over-eager to respond to the invitation. The so-called
sugar revolution in the Caribbean around the 1670s (see later) had created an
insatiable demand for slaves. But why slaves from Africa? The short answer is,
because that was where slaves could be had (apart from obvious climatic and
microparasitic-epidemiological reasons). But how so? J.D. Fage suggested
some time ago that “the possession of men and women was both the source
and symbol of wealth and power, particularly perhaps because they seem to
have been a scarce resource in relation to…land”.75 In other words, wealth and
power were rooted not in ownership of land (a non-existent notion anyway),
but in control of people – the wealth-in-people paradigm. Hence Fage posits
the emergence of an important group of dependents, and the temptation to
use those dependents as money with which to purchase the commodities the
Europeans had to offer.76 Convincing or not, Fage’s theory remains to date the
only one on offer. But if the selling of dependents was how it all began, it does
not explain the continuation, that is, how and why it developed into a large-
scale enterprise and why it lasted for so long. Clearly dependents constituted
only a small fraction of the totality of slaves sold. The question is where the
others came from, how they were “produced”, so to speak. And as we shall see,
the answer is far from evident.
An important point in this context is that from the European side it was in
a sense “safe” to fetch slaves in Africa, and especially so on the Slave Coast. For
as Seymour Drescher has underlined,77 the slaves had no sailing skills, so that
in case of a successful revolt they could not steer a ship back to Africa, where
there was no safe haven waiting for them anyway, since most of the people
living along the coast were involved in the slave trade one way or the other. In
addition, there was no risk that anyone would come after the slave ships in
order to liberate the slaves, or for that matter to mount a rescue expedition to
the Americas. In brief, the slaves, once the Middle Passage had begun, had
nowhere to go and no-one to turn to. They were absolutely alone in the world.
***
As we have seen, the slave trade on the Central Slave Coast was conducted
under extremely adverse physical conditions. The wider theme is what
happened to the slaves from the moment they came into the purview of the
Europeans up to the moment the slave ships, after having set sail, lost sight of
12
INTRODUCTION
the coast. We call it the loading and waiting time and we consider it to be a
neglected theme in the history of the slave trade. The contention here is first,
that it was a very long-lasting stage; and second, that it was a stage during
which a frightful number of human lives was lost, not only because of the
physical conditions, but also because of what some sources refer to as the local
“ill usages” and “ill conducts”,78 which were certainly deadly, whatever they
may have consisted of exactly – our sources do not really tell.
The casualties during the waiting and loading time on the Slave Coast far
exceeded, we suspect, those on the better-known Middle Passage – the
Atlantic crossing.79 The loss of life during that crossing was due in large part
precisely to the conditions endured by the slaves during the waiting and
loading time. Indeed, the squandering of human life on the Slave Coast must
have been on a scale not seen anywhere else on the coast, or perhaps even
anywhere else in the context of the history of slavery and the slave trade. That,
at least, is the contention. To prove it, we would have had to conduct a vast
comparative study, complete with reliable figures, and this we cannot do. We
cannot even quantify what happened on the Slave Coast (can archaeology
help?). Yet the evidence, circumstantial and as presumptive as it may be, does
point unequivocally in the direction suggested.
***
All this brings us to the epistemological and especially philosophical-ethical
problems at hand, problems we can no longer avoid. They are like the
proverbial hobgoblins of Nordic folklore, impossible to ignore and impossible
to get rid of. The epistemological problem (which will be investigated in depth
later) is multi-dimensional, one dimension having to do with the problem of
imbalance in the sources, those sources being certainly voluminous but
nevertheless vastly inadequate in many ways and, in particular, terribly one-
sided. Hence the tentative and incomplete nature of the history we present to
the reader. Another dimension is whether the past of Africa can be fully
understood in terms of our Western conceptual categories, unsatisfactory but
so far the only ones we have at our disposal.80
As for the philosophical-ethical problem, the sources, for all their
shortcomings, are more than adequate in one particular aspect. They provide
us with an idea of the practical day-to-day functioning, the routine as it were,
of the slave trade. The inescapable impression we are left with is that we are
confronted with an authentic horror story in which the superlatives become
quickly exhausted. Hence the problem for the historian who looks into
13
precisely the day-to-day functioning, as opposed to the more abstract

quantitative dimension, is how to maintain the required clinical detachment
from the subject, what is known as academic restraint.
The point is that there is something very special about the slave trade. For
it went on day in, day out, year after year, decade after decade, and indeed
century after century, in a routinely, not to say monotonous-bureaucratic and
starkly callous fashion, and on an unrivalled scale, and even in the teeth of
formidable natural barriers, as in the case of the Central Slave Coast.81
In fact, the routine aspect, the very long time span and the enormous
distances involved, and the gigantic infrastructural apparatus and logistical
organization necessary, tempt one to ask if there is really anything comparable
in the history of mankind. If we add the genocide-like fate which awaited the
majority of the slaves, those who ended up in the Caribbean and Brazil,82 it
seems entirely possible to suppose, that no, there may not have been anything
like it in the past. (Note that we are talking here exclusively about the Atlantic
slave trade. Had we added the little-studied but obviously statistically
significant Trans-Saharan slave trade,83 we would have ended up with an even
bleaker picture.)
It is this unremitting, large-scale, mass-production aspect, this big-business,
capitalist, modern, or industrial dimension, which is particularly striking, and
which in our opinion sets the Atlantic slave trade apart from whatever may
have occurred earlier, later, or elsewhere.
While we are at it, and in relation to the possibly un-academic “how-could-
they” question, and at the risk of falling into several traps, including that of
anachronism, we may as well go on to wonder what would have happened if
the Pope, the Archbishop of Canterbury and/or some leading Lutheran and
Calvinist theologians (plus, say, an influential rabbi) had promised the slavers
eternal doom and damnation. They never did, quite the contrary, as is well
known.84 Can we take refuge in the argument that the Atlantic slave trade
happened a long time ago, that the world and what the Germans call our
Weltanschauung, have changed radically since then – if they have so changed?
It is true that many Europeans considered the slave trade and slavery to be
a problem, moral or otherwise, that its supporters were often on the
defensive,85 and that something akin to bad conscience among the direct
participants surfaces occasionally in our sources. One of those participants,
the Frenchman Antoine Pruneau de Pommegeorge, even went as far as to pray
for the Almighty’s forgiveness for what he had taken part in. He went on to
label the slave trade as a profanation of the Christian religion.86 But Pruneau,
14
INTRODUCTION
who was stationed in Ouidah in the 1750s and 1760s – ending his local career
as director-governor of the French fort, and as such directly responsible for the
slave trade – had no success in convincing his superiors.
It is equally true that the Europeans, and especially the British, did in the
end conclude that the slave trade (and later slavery) was incompatible with
their own basic values and norms (in 1807 in the British case).87 But not with
those of capitalism. To paraphrase a sarcastic historian, one gets at times the
impression that the slave trade and slavery were and are perceived as some sort
of regrettable but “inevitable” collateral damage of capitalism’s triumphant –
and applauded – progress.88 However, the British “were a long time finding it
out to be wrong”, as noted ironically by none other than possibly the leading
African slave-trader of the day, King Gezo of Dahomey on the Slave Coast.89
The other Europeans were even slower in finding it out.90
On the African side, one cannot but wonder what would have happened if
the local rulers had followed the example of a certain seventeenth-century
Hindu warlord on the Coromandel coast of India who refused to supply the
Dutch with slaves, in spite of the latter’s insistence. His argument was that to
do so would have been a great sin in the eyes of the gods. As a result, the slave
trade from that coast never took off, and in fact petered out quickly, much to
the disappointment of the Dutch.91 Actually, we do know of at least one
African ruler who did something of the sort, as we shall see – the king of
Benin in present-day southwestern Nigeria; he decreed a ban on the sale of
male (although not female) slaves, a ban that lasted for more than two
centuries. But his was and remained an exceptional case.
On the African side, furthermore, or rather that part of the African side
that we know about, there is no hint of anything even remotely resembling
remorse or moral scruples, not to mention an abolitionist movement, and
certainly not in Ouidah. Consider Robin Law’s assertion, based on his
extensive fieldwork in the area, that there was “until very recently [this was
written in 2004], a local consensus that the slave trade was a good thing for
Ouidah”. He added that he did not detect any feeling of shame anywhere.92
Law, who is not taken to verbal excesses, notes also that references to the slave
trade in the remembered praise names of prominent traders are sometimes “by
the standards of modern susceptibilities, alarmingly callous”.93 In fact, and as
we intend to demonstrate later, the treatment of the slaves destined for
America, before they ended up in the custody of the Europeans, demonstrates
that their fate was of no concern to the local population. If one asks why, the
answer may perhaps be something to the effect that a slave was an “other”,
15
someone without kin relations in this kinship-type society, and as such no

longer considered to be a genuine human being, in the sense of not belonging
to any human community.
It could be, nevertheless, that the slave trade represented a problem for the
Africans involved too, including a spiritual one. We can deduce from works
concerning the slave trade in other regions that capturing and selling slaves
may have been considered in a sense a polluting exercise, placing the traders
(but only the traders?) in spiritual danger. Hence the need for some sort of
ritual-spiritual purification, assistance and/or protection, even some kind of
religious redemption.94 But the problem is that there is nothing whatsoever in
our sources from the Slave Coast on the subject. We can therefore do no more
than repeat Robin Law’s speculative suggestion that the slave trade may have
been understood in the idiom of witchcraft,95 and that there may have existed
some attempt to establish some sort of “psycho-religious control” of the
operation of the slave trade,96 whatever all that really means.
Incidentally, the frequent references to the works of Robin Law above are
not fortuitous. Law’s corpus constitutes an important part of the existing
historiography on the past of the Slave Coast, and will therefore be with us
throughout. However, the present author begs to dissent from some of Law’s
conclusions, one of the reasons why the present book has been written.
In the more global context, it remains true what the Cameroonian
sociologist Axelle Kabou – as far as we know only she – has underlined on the
African side, namely that the Africans hold the regrettable record of being the
only people in the world to have sold their own kin (although perhaps they
were not considered as such) into slavery on a vast scale.97 However, we hasten
to add (recalling the case of the kingdom of Benin), certainly not all Africans,
and certainly not all the time.
But nothing of this really answers the “how-could-they” question, and
certainly not on the European side. It is a question we have in the final analysis
to leave unanswered, unless we argue that all, or at least most, European
participants were really confident about the “subhuman identity” of the
Africans or believed seriously that the Africans “filled up the space between
mankind and the ape”.98 In brief, the Europeans simply could and did, they
“slaved”, to use a verb (accompanied by an adjective, “halve [half ] slaved”)99
which has disappeared from current English, while usually claiming at the
same time to be good Christians. Allow us to quote in this context two typical
contemporary justifications, for whatever they may be worth. The first is the
standard Pontoppidanian one (see above) that, as a Portuguese official (but
16
INTRODUCTION
not a clergyman this time) put it, the Africans were freed through slavery, that
is, given the opportunity to “see the light”.100 Note in this respect that the
prudish Portuguese did not officially take part in the slave trade at all, they did
not “slave”. What they did was to resgatar slaves, a verb which can be translated
as to buy back, to redeem, to ransom, to set free.101
The second justification is, as pointed out by no less a figure than King
Louis XIV of France in 1696 (or by someone expressing himself in the king’s
name), that the Negroes (the word “slaves” was avoided) were essential for the
cultivation of useful crops in America (no moral objections raised).102 Or as
expressed somewhat more straightforwardly by an anonymous French official
in possibly 1775: “May humanity pardon us, but the case is that the negroes
[he too avoided the word “slaves”] are as indispensable to the cultivation of the
land in our colonies as the oxen and the horses are to the same in Europe”.103
All this is echoed by another Portuguese official who as late as 1811 referred
to “this sad but necessary trade”.104
***
We have allowed the questions and thoughts formulated above to surface in
this Introduction, in the hope that they will not colour, or at least not colour
unduly, the rest of this work, whether one believes they should do so or not.
We need, however, to make a few comments on the problem of objectivity. We
have been told repeatedly that objectivity is but a dream, be it a noble one.105
But that is true in our opinion only in the absolute, fundamentalist sense of
the term. In the historian’s real world, a skewed, biased, or partisan account is,
apart from being generally boring, easily detected; we all know what the
reverse of objectivity and impartiality is. The question is in fact whether we
pursue the goal of objectivity or not, while knowing full well that it is
unobtainable. If we do, as we must, and do so displaying what is called
intellectual honesty, we respect (however sermon-like this may sound) the
ethical and moral obligations of our craft, which is, we believe, what we as
historians must demand of ourselves, and what the rest of the world is entitled
to expect from us.
Intellectual honesty compels us, among other things, to abide – if
necessary – by conclusions we find repugnant, such as the one which appears
in the title of the present work. It also compels us to distinguish between what
we know for certain, what we think we know, and what we do not know, or
know loosely, but allow ourselves to speculate about. The point is important,
and especially so in the context of the Slave Coast with regard to the
17
epistemological problem at hand, and leads us to make a programmatic

declaration about the type of history we believe we always try to write, trying
again in this work. We favour a problematizing approach, that is, one in which
we focus on the problems the past presents us with, which are always legion,
given that very little about the past is absolutely certain, even at times at the
purely chronological-factual level (leaving aside the problem of what an
absolutely certain and irrefutable fact really is). The task of the historian in this
context is not necessarily to resolve those problems, but to discuss and above all
to define them. It makes for a kind of history-writing which implies necessarily
more questions than answers, and is therefore not universally favoured. We
think, however, that probabilizing history, as we call it, contributes powerfully
to our insight and understanding, which is in the final analysis what history is,
or ought to be all about. Or so the present author argues.
***
It is time to redress the balance somewhat. Although the local environmental
conditions and the slave trade must necessarily loom large in the history of the
Slave Coast – they represent a sort of backdrop to the rest – and although it
seemed natural to focus on them in this Introduction, they do not constitute
the whole story. In fact, our ambition is to present something approaching a
global overview of the history of the Slave Coast in the relevant period. Due
attention will then have to be paid to a variety of other, necessarily related
themes, among them especially the nature of the polities which existed or
emerged on the Slave Coast, in a comparative context. We frequently use the
neutral term “polity” instead of “kingdom”, and especially of “state”, whether
archaic, primary or secondary. We are in fact not certain that the existing
definitions of those terms are applicable to the African political entities of
olden times;106 if, that is, they were really political entities…).
18
PART A
STRUCTURES AND TRENDS

1
THE SLAVE COAST

A GENERAL PRESENTATION
A general presentation of the Slave Coast is long overdue. So to begin at the

beginning, the term Slave Coast refers to a maritime region; that is, we repeat,
the long stretch of the Lower Guinea coast1 in West Africa, roughly 320 km
in length, between the river Volta in present-day eastern Ghana and the Lagos
channel (the outlet of the vast Lagos lagoon) in western Nigeria, as well as that
coast’s hinterland (except in the small easternmost Apapa-Badagry-Lagos part
where one does not normally include the Yoruba hinterland). How far inland
is a matter of choice. We settle for about 150 kilometres, and we do so for
sound linguistic reasons. However, we have noted that Robin Law opts for
another 70 kilometres further north.2 The problem is that about 120 km
inland we enter progressively into a sort of heterogeneous frontier zone,
characterized by a mixture of peoples, ethnic groups and languages. And the
question is where exactly that zone begins, how extensive it is northwards, and
how much of it can or should be defined as pertaining to the region we call
the Slave Coast. 150 kilometres inland (our choice) gives us an area slightly
larger than Belgium, that is, a very small proportion indeed of the enormous
African continent, but a globally significant one for many centuries.
In modern terms the Slave Coast corresponds approximately to the southern
ten per cent or less of the Republics of Togo and Benin, together with small
parts of southeastern Ghana and southwestern Nigeria: more precisely,
nowadays, the southern half of the Volta region in the former case, and Lagos
21
State in the latter. The Slave Coast is divided then between no less than four
modern states, two officially Anglophone and two Francophone. It constitutes
nevertheless a clearly delineated region, and not only for historical and
linguistic reasons, but also for geographical-vegetational ones. Most of the
Slave Coast coincides with a significant ecological feature, the so-called Benin
Gap, where what is called the forest-savanna mosaic zone, comprising vast
stretches of open grassland, breaks through the belt of tropical rainforest and
reaches all the way down to the coast.3 The reason has to do with the local
microclimate:4 this region receives much less rain than its eastern or western
neighbours, a fact usually attributed to the roughly south-north-running
Akwapim-Togo-Atakora hills and mountains along the Ghana-Togo border in
the west,5 and hence rainfall increases from west to east. Hence also, whereas
the Benin Gap extends panhandle-like on the coast westward beyond Accra in
Ghana,6 the easternmost tip of the Slave Coast is covered by rainforest and is
thus situated outside of the Benin Gap. (The name “Benin” refers then not only
to a precolonial polity in southern Nigeria, and to a modern Francophone
republic much further west, but also to a vegetational-environmental zone, as
well as to a part of the Gulf of Guinea, etc.)
The Central Slave Coast centred on the towns of Ouidah and Offra (or
Offra/Jakin) is no more than 100 kilometres in length, between Lakes Ahémé
and Nohoué. But it was from this Central Slave Coast (the genuine Slave Coast,
one may call it) that the great majority of the slaves was exported. The rest, the
Western and Eastern Slave Coasts respectively (some 220 kilometres altogether),
may be called peripheral, in the sense that it played only a marginal role in the
slave trade to the 1770s. However, from that decade onwards the slave trade
soared on the Eastern Slave Coast, owing in part to the considerable influx of
people from the Central Slave Coast after 1724/27 (about which more later).
West of Lake Ahémé (and east of the river Mono, north of Grand Popo),
we come to a curious small and sparsely populated sort of no-man’s land, the
Aja-Mono (or Adja-Mono) plateau. There, more or less “archaic” structures
survived to the nineteenth century if not longer, that is, the structures
associated with what we call acephalous (“headless”) societies.7
As for the region west of the Mono, the Western Slave Coast – the Little
Slave Coast of the Danes – it corresponds grosso modo to Eweland, plus
regions occupied by the Hula, the Bê of Lake Togo being the westernmost
Hula as far as we know.
Obviously the term Slave Coast, which was coined by European slave
traders in the seventeenth century,8 is highly pejorative. Yet it has stuck, and
22
THE SLAVE COAST
has survived so far both the era of decolonization and that of political
correctness. Indeed, the term is still widely used, as atlases, encyclopedias and
many scholarly works testify. Why the name? Because the Slave Coast came
to export only slaves once the cloth trade from Allada disappeared – as
opposed to the Grain, Pepper, Ivory, and especially Gold Coasts, where, as
their names indicate, other goods were, had been or remained of importance.
Since the Slave Coast can be defined as an historical region, it makes sense
to study its past more or less separately from the rest of West Africa, even from
the neighbouring Gold Coast, with which interrelations were intense, although
certainly not in isolation from those other areas. For instance, we will encounter
frequently in the following pages such polities as Oyo and Akwamu, the former
a mighty and enormous Yoruba polity in the north-east,9 the local superpower
as it were; and the latter originally a realm in the inland of the Gold Coast.10
Then there were, as we have seen, the Fante canoemen, together with the Ga of
the region of Accra, and finally the Europeans, who, although they often
distinguished between the Upper or Windward and the Lower or Leeward
coasts (the Gold Coast and the Slave Coast respectively), also tended at times
to consider the two as one region, and certainly to trade on both.
If one argues that it would have made more sense to choose as one’s frame
of study the whole of the Lower Guinea coast, one certainly has a point. But
although that would have been too big a cake to swallow for the present author,
in fact comparisons with the neighbouring regions are unavoidable, so that the
present work does at times resemble something approaching the history of that
broader region. It may also be that what follows has been inflated, somewhat
unintentionally, with a certain global dimension (“the pen took charge”).
As for the linguistic and ethnic distribution, the salient feature is that most
people of the Slave Coast apparently speak what is basically the same language.
The exception is, and especially was, a small section situated east of the Weme
river and part of the wider Yorubaland. Ketu, a neighbour of Oyo, is the best-
known and largest Yoruba polity inside the Slave Coast.11
Those who argue that with that exception there is only one language are a
number of linguists, including the Beninese Hounkpatin Capo,12 whom we
choose to follow. Should one argue the opposite, namely that there are several
languages (about twenty), one would have to add, our linguists say, that those
languages are very closely related indeed. It all hinges on one’s definition of
what constitutes a language, what constitutes a dialect, and at which stage a
dialect becomes a separate language (or vice versa). The problem of
considering that there is only one language is that no agreement has been
23
reached on any measure of standardization, not to mention a name for that

language. However, Gbe, meaning “tongue” or “language” in all the relevant
dialects (hence for instance Fongbe and Ewegbe, the Fon and Ewe tongues),
has been proposed, and has been adopted by many scholars, Hounkpatin
Capo included. Other names proposed are Xwegbe and Egaf, the latter short
for Ewe-Gen-Aja-Fon.13
What is beyond doubt is that Gbe differs sharply from the other languages
spoken in the wider region, whether Yoruba in the east (and in the north, as
we shall see), Ga-Adangbe in the west between the Volta and the Densu river
west of Accra,14 or Twi of the Akan and the Fante even further west.
But the apparent linguistic unity has not fostered any other kind of unity,
and certainly not an ethnic one. Indeed, the people of the Slave Coast
belong, and belonged traditionally, to a bewildering number of more or less
fluid ethnic groups. Hence we have to confront and tolerate quite a few
ethnonyms – that is, names of ethnic groups. In brief, the literature presents
us with (roughly from east to west, to the west of Yorubaland) the Gun or
Egun, the Tofinu, the Hula, the Wemenu or Oueneou, the Hueda, the Mahi,
the Guedevi, the Fon, the Aïzo, the Aja, the Ewe, also written Eve or Vhe (the
two occasionally put together as Aja-Ewe); the Guin (also called Ge or Gen),
the Mina, the Anlo, the Watchi or Ouatchi, the Krepi, and a few more. Some
may be considered to be subgroups of others (the three last mentioned are for
instance often also catalogued as Ewe, and Krepi is frequently used in the
sources as synonymous with Ewe).15 One (Aïzo) does not really refer to a
specific ethnic group as such, but denotes in general terms indigenous
peoples or firstcomers. Other groups have disappeared more or less, especially
the Guedevi. And some ethnonyms are of relatively recent date, Gun/Egun
and Tofinu in particular. We must remember in this context that ethnic
identity is bound to and by historical development, and that ethnic affiliation
can be fairly unstable and fluctuating. That being said, we may define
ethnicity (loosely) as perceived common ancestry, plus common customs and
common language, together with in many cases boundary maintenance
towards other groups.
Some minorities there are, in the north, in the region shading into the
above-mentioned frontier zone. And here it is noteworthy that we find
Yoruba-speakers in the north too. In fact, they inhabit a sort of southwest-
bending panhandle all the way to, and including, Atakpamé far to the west in
the Plateau region of present-day Central Togo.16 Thus they constitute partly
a buffer zone between the land of the Gur-speaking peoples to the north and
24
THE SLAVE COAST
our Gbe in the south. What is noteworthy about the panhandle-Yoruba –

Peel’s Western Yoruba Groups17 – is that, apart from two small polities,18 they
display what is qualified as marked archaic traits: they have no kings (contrary
to those of the vast Yoruba heartland). They too are, in short, classified as
acephalous.19 Are we dealing with the advance guard of a migration which
petered out, as Robert Smith has suggested?20
As for the present-day Mahi in the hilly region of central Benin (and clearly
in the frontier zone), they do not constitute a linguistic minority properly
speaking, they are in fact Gbe-speakers. But theirs is a relatively new ethnic
group, a mixture of Yoruba and Fon, the latter being refugees from the south
in the eighteenth century especially.21 Since they were the northern
neighbours of Dahomey, the main polity on the Slave Coast after 1727, and
became possibly the principal victims of the slave-raids of that polity, the
Mahi will appear frequently in the following.
We find genuine linguistic minorities in the Plateau region of Central Togo
and especially its continuation into modern Ghana, north of Ho, that is from
the shores of the modern Volta Lake and eastwards, yet another typical hilly
refugee zone.22 Those (small) minorities “speak languages which are unique to
themselves”.23 We are referring to the more or less mysterious people who speak
the so-called Ghana-Togo Mountain Languages (GTML-Togo Restsprachen in
the German literature). They were and are clearly acephalous.24 We mention
these people because they pop up now and then in the traditions of the
neighbouring Ewe. As for making head and tail of their past, it seems like even
the specialists have given up the attempt, noting that their oral traditions, and
the available linguistic evidence, sprawl out in all directions. Hence our leading
authority, Paul Nugent, has described them as the first postmodernists.25 But
at least one linguist believes that their languages may be related to Guan26 (the
language of one group is actually classified as Guan27). And people who speak
Guan constitute also an enigma of sorts – they are scattered in small and not so
small groups nearly all over Ghana,28 as well as possibly also in Central Togo.
After this brief overview of the linguistic situation, it remains for us to
lament the rather strange fact that research in historical linguistics has, as far
as we know, not yet been undertaken in the case of the Slave Coast. It is indeed
one of the few fields one can think of which has the potential of broadening
and deepening our understanding of its past. One wonders in particular what
a systematic study of the etymological origins of place names might result in.29
The local political situation, past and present, implies that there was, and
is, no authority capable of imposing a common language, or even of
25
standardizing any of the component dialects (if dialects is the correct term).
Hence there is no agreed-upon orthography. If we add that the Europeans
wrote down the words and names as they saw fit or thought they heard them,
the result is an onomastic nightmare for the modern researcher.
Take for instance Ouidah, admittedly an extreme case. Ouidah, so spelt, is
how the name appears on modern road maps and on the local roadsigns, and
is also the orthography adopted by Robin Law in his work on its history
already cited. Hence it is also adopted, in the present work, though
reluctantly – somehow it does not sound right. But in the sources the town is
more often referred to as Whydah (our favourite), or alternatively as Widah,
Whidawe, Wheda, Guydah or Vida (all mainly English and Danish styles),
Juda or Judas (French style), Ayuda or Ajuda (Portuguese style), and finally
Xweda and Fida. But the problem is that the town was (and perhaps is) also
called Glehue, Gléhoué, Gregory, Gregoy, Grighwe, Grighue and Agriffie etc.
(I.A. Akinjogbin adds to the confusion by using what he presents as the
Yoruba name for the place, Igelefe).30 This second class of names has obviously
another origin than the first. So what is the explanation? Ouidah/Whydah
etc. is derived from Hueda, also written Xueda, Weda or Pédah, which is the
name of the local ethnic group (not necessarily that of the original inhabitants
of the place, who may have been Hula).31 But it was also, we have learned, the
name of a pre-1727 polity, of which Ouidah was part, with its capital at Savi
some nine kilometres further north (also written Sahè, Saxè, Xavier, Sabba
etc.). The original name of the village of Ouidah was in fact Glehue etc. Why
and how the original name was replaced by one derived from that of a local
ethnic group and the corresponding polity, we do not know. Hence Agriffie
in Whidawe – that is, Glehue in Hueda – in the earliest extant document
written from Ouidah in 1681 may be the correct way of putting it, according
to Robin Law.32 An additional problem is that the polity of Hueda
disappeared in 1727, but certainly not the town of Ouidah-Glehue. However,
the real problem is that when reference is made in the sources before 1727 to
Ouidah or Whydah, we are not always certain whether it refers to the Hueda
polity or to the town (village?) of Ouidah. To avoid confusion, we have tried
to use the double name Ouidah-Glehue for the town and that of Hueda for
the polity.
To take another possibly confusing example from some kilometres further
east, there is Jakin (the twin town of Offra), also written Djèkin,33 Diaquin,
Djaquin and Jacquin; this is incidentally a Hula polity – Hula being also written
Houla, Kpla, Xula, Xwla, Huda or Pla – at some points neighbouring the
26
THE SLAVE COAST
Weme, also written Ouémé (note that Weme is the name of a river, an ethnic
group and a polity; the original name of the river seems to have been Wo).
***
Let us pause for a while and have a closer look at the Hula, because they provide
us with a sort of introductory glimpse into the logic of the societies of the Slave
Coast even in remote times. The Hula are, or were, the famous water people, so
called, those who worshipped Hu, the vodun or deity of the sea,34 the meanest
of the deities35 since the sea was never really calm (hu means actually the sea –
hence, we suspect, the names Hula and Hueda). To-day only a few scattered
groups who call themselves Hula remain. But they constituted, one is inclined
to suppose, the indigenous people of the south of possibly the whole of the
Slave Coast36 – Eweland included, or at least that part of the indigenous
population whose domain was the lagoon and the marshlands, devoting
themselves principally to fishing and salt-making.37 It is in this context
significant that they, like the Hueda, claim to have emerged from a hole in the
earth38 (incidentally not from the sea), usually a sure sign of indigenous status.
The point here is that although the name Hula may refer to the original
inhabitants of the coast itself, possibly the people who greeted or invited the
Portuguese on shore, it refers also to a specific way of life, one connected with
water. Hence, people who were distinct from economic and religious points
of view (the two being very much interconnected) also tended to constitute a
distinct ethnic group. And when that specific way of life began to be eroded,
the same happened to the corresponding ethnic group, its members shifting
simply their ethnic affiliation. Note in addition that when the Hula of the
Ouidah-Glehue region came under the sway of the Hueda, this was reflected
in the religious domain too, in the sense that Hu was relegated to the position
of younger brother of Dangbe the python,39 the tutelary deity of the Hueda.
In what we may call the official Huedan pantheon, Hu remained very much
in evidence at Ouidah-Glehue.40
Finally, let us present a very curious Hula personage who lived at
Agbanakin (or Agbananken) on an island in the lagoon; Agbanakin, together
with the surrounding hamlets on both sides of the lagoon, is called Grand
Popo or Hulagan (which is a direct translation of Great Hula). Grand Popo-
Hulagan could be the (mythical) ancestral home of the Hula.41 Agbanakin,
whose title was hulaholu according to Félix Iroko42 (who unfortunately does
not explain what it means) called himself the “Master of the Lagoon”,
according to the eighteenth-century German-Dane Paul Erdmann Isert.43 The
27
hulaholu has been variously presented as a chief, a priest, and even a sacred
king.44 As such he exercised some sort of undefined power, perhaps primarily
a ritual one, over a vast area.
***
We repeat that although most people of the Slave Coast speak basically the
same language, this linguistic unity is not mirrored in the ethnic field. Nor for
that matter in the political one. That is, we cannot exclude the possibility that
the above-mentioned hulaholu of Hulagan, and (afterwards?) the rulers of
Tado in the interior, once held some kind of sway over a considerable portion
of the Slave Coast. It is also fairly certain that those of Allada did so some time
later.45 Tado is situated ca. 100 km inland, in present-day Togo, but close to
the modern Benin Republic border; the town of Allada, also called Ardres,
Arida etc., is situated some 38 km inland in what is now central Benin; Offra
and Jakin were for long dependencies of Allada. If the rulers of Tado did rule
such a wide area, they sank early into oblivion, and those at Allada lost their
prominent position after a short while. And the later dominant polity, that of
Dahomey, controlled probably less than half of the Slave Coast.46
In fact, should one choose to consider the Slave Coast as one entity, as we
do, we would have to add that it was an entity rocked by a more or less
permanent civil war during the whole era of the slave trade, the rise and
expansion of Dahomey in the first half of the eighteenth century being the
most notorious episode in this context. The temptation is to argue that this
permanent civil war may explain, in part at least, the slave trade.
One may wonder if there existed any kind of feeling of unity even at the level
of the various ethnic groups. The Ewe or Vhe, who occupy roughly the western
half of the whole Slave Coast (the Hula excepted), and who are often presented
as a bloc, do apparently display such a feeling – there is even reference today to
Ewe nationalism. But there are scholars who argue that this pan-Ewe identity, as
we may call it, was fashioned, if not fabricated, by the German missionaries who
were active in the region from 1847.47 Indeed, according to the anthropologist
Paul Nugent, the very term Ewe, as a unifying designation, was probably not in
common currency before the 1920s.48 Hence the contention that “The very
term ‘Ewe’ has its origins in missionary ethnography”.49
A closer look reveals that the term Ewe dissolves itself into a number of
more or less separate, although closely related, groups. There is for instance the
case of the coastal Anlo in the south-west who adopted what is called Ewe-
ness, whatever that may mean exactly, only recently.50 They were traditionally
28
THE SLAVE COAST
opposed to, and kept aloof from, those of Ewedome (inland Eweland51), that
is, principally the Krepi or Peki in the west around Ho, and the Watchi on the
plateau that bears their name in the east.52 In fact, most slaves in Anlo came
from Ewedome and thus spoke conveniently the same language as their
masters (“Domestic slavery was widely practised in precolonial Anlo”).53
It is probable that the various groups which made up the population of the
Slave Coast in the period under scrutiny, and still do in large part, have
occupied their present habitat since time immemorial.54 This in spite of all the
migration stories we encounter in the traditions. Those stories, if they really
correspond to actual events, probably refer to migrations over short distances,
involving only a limited number of people. However, we do know of several
apparently fairly large-scale exoduses in our period, including many waves of
Ga-Adangbe from the Accra region of the eastern Gold Coast, who fled east
of the Volta after their homeland was conquered by Akwamu in about 1680.
Some of them established the polity of Glidji or Genyi about 55 km west of
Ouidah-Glehue, and formally including Little Popo-Aneho. But regardless of
how numerous or few the fleeing Ga were, the fact remains that they were
linguistically assimilated by the local Gbe-speakers.55
The expansionist wars of Dahomey also provoked migrations (as we shall
see), mainly southwards and eastwards towards the sparsely populated
Yoruba-speaking Eastern Slave Coast. The Yoruba were either pushed back or
assimilated by the Gbe. The phenomenon affected especially the ethno-
linguistical composition in the flood-plain of the Weme river and eastwards.
***
As noted, the people of the Slave Coast live in a region which corresponds
roughly to what is called the Benin or Dahomey Gap, and which is part of the
forest-savanna mosaic zone. Has the area covered by forest decreased in the
last two to three hundred years? With modern ecological consciousness, it is
tempting to believe so.56 But the specialists tell us, first, that the forest-savanna
mosaic type of vegetation and not forest was the original one, and second, that
the change could actually be in the contrary direction, that the forest is
advancing.57 However, what does seem certain is that the fauna has declined
sharply. One is particularly struck, when combing the sources, by the frequent
reference to elephants, an animal of the savanna; and in fact to a somewhat
lively trade in ivory, especially on the Western Slave Coast. There was even
from old times a sort of corps of elephant hunteresses in Fon country known
as gbeto, possibly the predecessors of the later famous Amazons.58 To the best
29
of our knowledge, there are few if any elephants, or any kind of big game, left
on the Slave Coast today.59 But of course, the reason may have more to do with
demographic expansion than with ecological deterioration.
It is tempting to argue that the Benin Gap phenomenon also explains in
part the predominance of the Slave Coast in the slave trade. One may in fact
surmise that the forest-savanna mosaic, and the low-lying undulating plain
which makes up most of the region, implying the absence of serious physical
obstacles to human movement, facilitated the circulation of slave caravans,
although obviously also of armies and of robber bands and others. However,
we imagine that the many rivers, floodplains, lakes, wetlands and muddy
depressions, not to mention the lagoons and other features, forced people on
the move to adopt at times complicated zigzag-like itineraries.
We need more detail about the local climate. We note, first, that the era of
the slave trade corresponds roughly to a relatively dry phase (c.1300–c.1850)
in the climatic history of West Africa.60 We note, second, that although the
climate is tropical, it is characterized by four seasons, two dry and two rainy
ones. The main rainy season begins normally in mid-March and lasts until
mid-July. It is also called the travat season in the European sources, because of
the frequent thunderstorms which often wreak a great deal of havoc from May
onwards, owing in part to the nature of the soil (travat is possibly derived from
the Portuguese trovoada, and not travado as some authors would have it). The
little dry season lasts from mid-July to mid-September, and is followed by the
little rainy season from mid-September to mid-November.61
The main dry season (mid-November to mid-March) is accompanied
between December and February by the famous Harmattan, a relatively cold
and dry wind from the north-east or east, which often provokes the forming
of fog.62 It was called the “Doctor” by the Europeans because of its beneficial
effects on their health.63
For our purpose, it is important to note that the Harmattan alters the
direction of the maritime currents close to the coast: they flow for a short while
from east to west, instead of the reverse as in the rest of the year. Harmattan-time
was then the only time of the year when it was possible for the canoemen to
make the return trip to the Gold Coast, thanks to their use of sails.64 What also
facilitated the maritime-coastal communications during the dry season was the
reduction in the outflow of the Volta, a river which could not be passed at sea by
canoe for the rest of the year, and thus functioned as a barrier of sorts.65
The main dry season, including Harmattan-time, was the time of the year
when the sea was relatively calm, and the surf much less formidable. But it was
30
THE SLAVE COAST
still there, owing to the continual presence of the underwater sandbars. Those
sandbars are usually presented as the main cause of the famous surf. But the
matter is somewhat more complicated, and is actually related to meteorological
conditions far away in the south Atlantic. Hence the calming of the surf during
the dry season is primarily ascribed to the fact that that season corresponds to
summer time, and hence stable weather, in the Southern Hemisphere.66
The main dry season was obviously the “best” period for the slave traders.
But was the slave trade really a seasonal business? One is tempted to believe so,
considering what we know about the local climate. However, the strange point
is that I have been unable to dig up any convincing evidence to that effect. One
of the problems is that the slave trade as a seasonal activity would have required
a strict timing, something which was possibly outside the reach of the slave-
traders, among other reasons because they could not know beforehand how
many months they had to stay on the coast in order to complete their cargoes.67
Besides, the supply of slaves did not in any way respect the seasonal changes.68
The beach is in general between 500 and 1,000 metres deep, says Nicoué
Gayibor69 – that is, as noted, less than a kilometre south of Ouidah-Glehue,
but a mere 30 metres in some parts of Anlo. At Anlo one is struck by the
inescapable and in a sense oppressive presence of the ocean, and behind the
beach of the huge inland lake-like lagoon.70 Indeed, behind the beach, there is
the famous lagoon whose size has varied enormously, but which has always
been by far at its largest at Anlo, and which may have extended (the seasons
and the climatic cycles permitting) from Anlo in the west to far east of Lagos.
Or it may also always have been broken at two sites, as in recent times, one site
being situated east of Jakin, where the lagoon loses itself in the earth.71 The
lagoons (the plural is in fact required) broaden at times into veritable lakes,
and not only at Anlo-Keta. Mention must be made, especially, of Lake Togo
or Haho in the middle, of Lake Ahémé – the residual estuary of the Couffo
river72 – and especially of Lake Nokoué in the east. Lake Nokoué in turn is
connected with the river Weme west of Porto-Novo, which flows into what is
called the Lagos lagoon, a very large such lagoon complete with many islands,
one on which the town of Lagos emerged.73 This extensive inland waterway
system was part of a vast amphibian landscape, a sort of strange intermixture
of water and land; an aquatic ecosystem complete with rivers, floodplains,
swamps, marshlands, and so on – and, we repeat, a perpetually changing one,
waxing and waning according to the seasons and the climatic cycles. But note
that it is a landscape which is, since the onset of colonial rule, slowly
disappearing owing to drainage, construction of artificial harbours, and so on.
31
As indicated, the lagoons had two permanent openings. But only one was
navigable, the Lagos channel in the east – navigable, although barely so, and
deemed in fact unapproachable by many Europeans in the relevant centuries.74
The other opening was and is at Little Popo in the west.75 As for temporary
openings, especially at high water, there may have been quite a few, beginning
with the famous and presently impressive Boca del Rio (“mouth of the river”)
east of Grand Popo, which is reported to have moved eastwards over the
centuries. It is usually presented as a permanent opening, but was in fact
closed during certain periods of the colonial era, and therefore possibly also
earlier. Other earlier known openings were at Great Popo proper and at
present-day Cotonou.76 These openings, plus near-regular flooding at high
tide, explain why salty water frequently penetrated the lagoon, creating
propitious conditions for a teeming aquatic life.
This watery region, a luxuriant natural setting, must have been an
important source of food for the local population.77 As for the principal
lagoon itself, it seems also to have been an important medium of lateral
communication,78 although a rather slow one, because of its shallowness
which made it necessary to “pole” or punt the canoes, as opposed to paddling
them79 (the exception here is the Lagos lagoon). A trip on the lagoon from
Ouidah-Glehue to Grand Popo, a distance of less than 25 kilometres, is
reported to have lasted some eight hours.80
***
Inland, on the central-eastern Slave Coast, the land rises slowly to the Abomey
plateau situated no more than some 260 metres above sea level (and some 97
km from the coast in the case of the town of Abomey). On the western Slave
Coast the rise is much more marked. First, there is the Watchi plateau, and
then the Akwapim-Togo ranges, a narrow belt of ridges and hills which
extends in a northeast direction from near Accra on the eastern Gold Coast.
They become the Atakora mountain range in Togo and culminate at nearly a
thousand metres above sea level in the above-mentioned Plateau region.
One more feature of the landscape needs to be mentioned, namely the
extensive low-lying area of marshy and heavily wooded country called Lama,
meaning “mud” in Portuguese (also called the Agrimey swamp), and teeming
with wildlife in our period – separating the Abomey and Allada plateaux.
North-south it is situated roughly halfway between Abomey and the coast,
and east-west between the rivers Koufo and Weme. This “no-man’s-land” was
reputed to be close to impassible in the rainy season, and served therefore as a
32
THE SLAVE COAST
barrier of sorts between the coastal regions and the interior of the Central
Slave Coast.81
***
The vast majority of the people of the Slave Coast living north of the lagoons
and outside of the wetlands were and still are agriculturalists tilling the soil.
That soil is usually referred to as terre de barre;82 a lateritic-reddish-leached,
iron-bearing and clay-rich soil, it is considered to be relatively fertile, in fact
exceptionally rich according to some observers, who argued that the land
could produce absolutely everything one needed and wanted.83 But the system
of cultivation was of the reputedly primitive itinerant slash-and-burn type,
although of a kind, we learn, which did not entail any negative ecological
consequences.84 It permitted three harvests a year85 (four according to James
Houstoun who wrote in the early eighteenth century).86 Originally, the local
peasants may have cultivated especially yams, possibly also millet and
sorghum. But with the beginning of the first globalization – that is, the arrival
of the Europeans – the local agriculture underwent some sort of revolution
due to “the introduction of a complete foodcrop complex from the
Americas”.87 Among those foodcrops were cassava and above all the miraculous
maize, making possible as many as four harvests a year. The Watchi Ewe in
particular acquired the reputation of being exceptional cultivators of maize.88
In addition the coconut palm and rice arrived from Asia.
But if Jouke Wigboldus is correct in arguing that the Guinea coast “was the
habitat of no other domestic animal than the dog before the 1470s”,89 we will
have to postulate a much broader agricultural revolution, since we have to
include the introduction of a vast number of smaller domestic animals: pigs,
sheep, goats and poultry in particular (the climate did not favour horse and
cattle breeding). Note the possibly central role of the Portuguese islands of
São Tomé and Príncipe in the introduction and dissemination of new crops
and new animals, together with the gardens the Europeans set up in or outside
their forts.90 Note also that European iron bars enabled African smiths to turn
out considerably more and better farm tools, as well as improved fishhooks,
which boosted catches.91
In view of all this, and the abundant wildlife, it comes as a surprise to learn
that famine was not an altogether unknown phenomenon on the Slave Coast,
that is, if we are to believe especially Willem Bosman, who wrote in the early
eighteenth century, and Alexis Adande, a modern scholar.92 But the question
here is whether the people of the Slave Coast were able to feed themselves and
33
the slaves destined for America, the latter including during the Atlantic
crossing. The question is then more generally where the necessary food for the
functioning of the Atlantic slave trade came from. In this connexion we may
note that the French slave ships in particular had often to make stops on the
Gold Coast in order to take in water, wood and victuals, which seem to have
been in short supply on the Slave Coast, and to hire the indispensable
canoemen.93 We must also note that most slave ships, after leaving the Slave
Coast, did not sail directly for the New World but made, as we shall see, a
rather long stopover on one of the Portuguese islands, for reasons of
provisioning, among others. But even so, it is tempting to believe that what we
may call the maize revolution contributed to the “success” of the slave trade.
***
We have so far avoided the subject of demography. The reason why is
unfortunately all too evident: we have no idea how many people lived on the
Slave Coast in our period, and how the local demographic regime evolved. We
can note, as we shall see, that the Europeans came away with the impression
that the first polities they entered into contact with, Allada and Hueda, were
very densely populated. We can also note that today the southern parts of the
modern Republics of Togo and Benin, corresponding to the major part of the
Slave Coast, are by far the most densely populated regions of those two states.
But that is about all.
***
If one wonders how the Europeans stationed on the coast, basically in the
Ouidah-Glehue and Offra region, perceived the environment they lived in, the
surprising answer is that they found it literally enchanting. It is true that many
complained about the local facilities and various nuisances such as the insects,
including very dangerous ants.94 But others seem to have had the time of their
lives in Ouidah-Glehue.95 And virtually all were full of praise for the country
which, according to the most enthusiastic Britons, compared favourably, it
almost seems, even with “England’s green and pleasant land”.96 Possibly the
most rapturous description is by James Houstoun from 1725: “an open,
pleasant, plentiful fine champaign country, as any this globe can produce.
Nature has made this country vie, if not exceed, for pleasure and plenty…any in
Europe” [It was, in fact, a country which offered] “everything for the support
of human life, nay, even to feed luxury”97. Note also that Houstoun was among
those who thought the country “prodigiously populous”.98
34
THE SLAVE COAST
What can we say more generally about the (few) European employees on
the coast, those who did the dirty work in sum?
They were all men, bachelors mostly, or at least not with their wives in
Africa, and very young, arriving often as teenagers and attaining positions of
responsibility in their twenties, if not earlier.
But although the Europeans were enchanted with the country, we learn
from the literature that they were prone to homesickness, alcoholism,
depression, paranoia etc.; that some were converted into jittery melancholics,
and some went berserk; that some (most?) led dissolute, intemperate, not to
say extravagant ways of life, often at the expense of whichever company
employed them; and that most saw to it that their wages “were supplemented
by proceeds of fraud and deception”.99 Can we conclude by arguing that what
Johannes Postma has to say of the Dutch – the “dregs of the nation”100 – is valid
for all? The description strikes us as unjustifiably unkind. The problem is that
the Europeans on the coast constitute an all too easy target, they are the
obvious scapegoats. If one wants to go looking for those really responsible on
the European side, one has to look elsewhere, in the boardrooms of the various
companies and in the chancellery offices of many European states; people to
whom those left to face the reality on the spot in Africa were of little concern.101
The latter had at least two excuses, they were involved in a trade which
must have wrought havoc with their sensibilities; and they expected their lives
to be short, owing principally to the famous coast fever, “the country illness”.102
Indeed, the Europeans died literally like flies on the Guinea coast, the
notorious “white man’s grave”. One historian has characterized going to that
coast as a “Russian roulette in which more chambers were loaded than
empty”.103 For example, at Ouidah-Glehue and Offra, the English presence
was nearly interrupted various times between 1680 and 1687, because most
employees died.104 And Johannes Postma has found that of the personnel the
Dutch West Indies Company sent out, some sixty per cent died during the
first eight months.105 Was it always possible to fill the vacancies?
That being said, among those who survived the first year or so, some went
on to spend decades on the coast, and to exercise considerable influence on the
course of events. We shall meet some of them later. We add that the local
Europeans, and not only those who served as directors or governors,106 have left
us the main bulk of our sources; sources which are often eminently readable –
dregs do not usually write thus. In fact, some of them even published books.
And some went on to make quite respectable careers – Archibald Dalzel (about
whom more later) and Pruneau de Pommegeorge, to cite but the best known.
35
Less well known, but possibly more spectacular is the case of William
Devaynes. He took over as director of William’s Fort Ouidah at the tender age
of 17 because he was an officer on a naval ship which chanced to be there at a
time (1747) of acute staff shortage.107 He was appointed to that position three
times, spending some twelve years altogether in Ouidah-Glehue between 1747
and 1763. After that he ended up sitting in the House of Commons as an MP
during thirteen years (1774–80, 1784–86 and 1796–1801). He also became
one of the directors in London of the famous East India Company.
Among the naval officers who spent time on the coast, we will encounter
inter alia the Dutch national hero Michiel de Ruyter (1607–76) and the
Frenchman Jean-Baptiste Ducasse (1646–1715), who held many prominent
positions, including that of Governor of Saint Domingue (1697–1700).
It is true that we find at the other end of the scale the case of Charles
Whitaker, also Director of the fort in Ouidah-Glehue (in 1733–4), who simply
ran away108 (in his defence, 1734 was a very dangerous time in Ouidah-Glehue).
A third category is represented by the famous Lionel Abson, another director in
Ouidah-Glehue but much later (1770–1803), who “went native”, as we shall see.
The only genuine mutiny among the Europeans in the Lower Guinea that
the present author is aware of took place outside the Slave Coast, in Accra on
the Gold Coast, and in the Danish fort of Christiansborg, in October 1744.109
We add that some Europeans were, as we shall also see, confronted
unexpectedly with very perilous situations in which they displayed
considerable courage. Some paid for it with long periods of captivity in
wretched conditions, others with their very lives.
***
For those familar with the stranger-king phenomenon well-known from other
parts of the world,110 and with the frequently encountered contention that the
Europeans were considered to be spirits of deceased Africans and/or returning
ancestors and/or deities,111 the Slave Coast must be considered to a be
disappointing case, since nothing of the sort appears in the sources. We have,
it is true, one Englishman in the seventeenth century called Petley Wybourne
and a Dutch-German by the name of Hendrik Hertogh in the next century,
who acquired very special positions, as we shall see. But those positions fell
probably rather short of the categories just listed. Even so, it carried prestige
for a local African king or chief to have a fort or a factory in his domain and/
or Europeans in his entourage.
36
2
HISTORIOGRAPHY, SOURCES
AND EPISTEMOLOGY
The quantitative-statistical dimension of the slave trade, the “numbers game”,

has made great strides since the pioneering work of Philip Curtin from 1969.1
It has culminated so far in the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade Database, the result
of an admirable disinterested collective endeavour, easily available on the
Internet.2 Its aim is to provide regularly updated estimates for the number of
slaves exported from Africa to America – estimates we repeat, not absolute
figures, a fact we must not lose sight of. That being said, the figures of the
Database are not without their problems for our purpose. We shall return to
the matter in some detail in the next chapter.
We are also fairly well informed about many related topics – slave and crew
mortality on the Middle Passage, prices and profits, conditions aboard, sex
ratios, and so on. That is, everything related to the European side of the story.
But outside of the Database, figures which speak for themselves are close to
non-existent. Actually, once one goes “upstream” as it were, that is, once one
goes ashore on the Slave Coast, genuine hard facts of whatever kind, including
precise dates, become difficult to encounter. Hence we are left often with what
one is tempted to describe as soft facts – hearsay, impressionistic, anecdotal
and/or subjective evidence etc. – and forced to content ourselves with
suppositions, extrapolations, probabilities, educated guesses and so on.3 This
may sound somewhat surprising in the light of a book such as Patrick
Manning’s which presents us with economic statistics going back to the 1640s,
no less;4 considering also more generally the apparently abundant sources and
37
the impressive historiography on the Slave Coast – a historiography dominated

by Robin Law. But, to put it briefly, the part of Manning’s book dealing with
the economy is empirically unsound and cannot be accepted, as Jouke
Wigboldus, among others, has demonstrated.5 And the historiography in
general may be said to be often based on a quicksand-like empirical foundation,
as it seems to us that Law himself has emphasized time and again. Finally,
abundant sources do not necessarily tally with reliable or informative ones, or
for that matter with original, as opposed to repetitive or derivative ones.
In fact, certain parts of the historiography, and particularly the book by
Manning with his extravagant theory of early economic growth cut short by
the slave trade, may be said to illustrate a syndrome not unknown among
historians, and certainly evident among Africanists: the temptation to
elucidate from the sources more information than what they can actually
yield, or, one might say, the urge to fill in the blanks (to avoid
misunderstanding, we are not arguing that Manning is necessarily wrong, only
that his work is guesswork in statistical disguise).
We have, then, a severe epistemological problem at our hand (epistemology
being usually defined as the theory of knowledge – how we can know what we
believe we know).
***
“…from Whydah [Ouidah-Glehue] beach to Abomey [the capital of
Dahomey], which is perhaps the most beaten track, by Europeans, of any in
Africa…” Thus the anonymous writer of the Preface to Archibald Dalzel’s
history of Dahomey.6 Dalzel’s book was the first full-fledged history of that
polity, and it appeared as early as 1793. But as can be deduced from the
quotation, at that time Dahomey was already well known in Europe, although
in a rather unfavourable light.
Dalzel’s book was the first genuine history of any part of the Slave Coast,
which is why we need to devote some space to it. There are three elementary
and obvious points about Dalzel’s book that we need to stress. First, it was
written by a European, symbolizing the fact that most of what we know about
the past of the Slave Coast we owe to foreigners, that is, Europeans: a problem,
whichever way one puts it. The second point is that Dalzel was mostly not a
private trader (although he was also that at times) but an official, first of the
slave-trading Royal African Company of England, and after 1751 of the
Company of Merchants trading in Africa (often called the African Company,
a similarity of names which has generated some confusion). The latter was a
38
HISTORIOGRAPHY, SOURCES AND EPISTEMOLOGY
regulating company exclusively in charge of the upkeep of the forts, and hence
dependent on grants from Parliament. And here the essential point is that
most of the sources emanate precisely from the officials on the coast, not from,
for instance, the so-called interlopers, as the private traders were known in the
days of monopolistic trade. The implication is that even within the European
sources there is a heavy bias, in favour of officialdom.
A third point: Dalzel chose to write a history not of the Slave Coast, but
of the polity of Dahomey, a relative latecomer. In fact, Dalzel set the tone. For
as Patrick Manning has expressed it, the study of the past of the Slave Coast
has tended to be organized around the history of Dahomey.7
It is not difficult to understand why: the case of Dahomey is a fascinating,
not to say sensationalist one, with, as presented by Dalzel, its endless stream
of wars, executions and human sacrifices, not to mention the despotic
character of its absolutist rulers – and with Europeans as witnesses to nearly
all of it. We are in fact well informed about Dahomey and the Central Slave
Coast, whereas we know next to nothing about many other parts of that
region. What has been said about the Watchi-Ewe, that “they appear
spuriously in the midst of information about other groups, without (ever)
taking centre-stage”,8 is true in an embarrassing number of cases. The result has
been an imbalanced historiography, one that reflects the nature of the sources.
The ambition of the present author is to try to redress that imbalance – to the
limited extent that it is possible. But we too must take as our point of
departure the case of Dahomey, especially the controversy occasioned by the
image presented by Dalzel; or, if one prefers, the image presented by those
who have interpreted Dalzel.
Dahomey was conquered by the French in 1892–94, that is, nearly a
century after the appearance of Dalzel’s book. The unanswerable question is
whether the nineteenth-century authorities in Dahomey knew about the
contents of Dalzel’s book, and if so, whether, to what extent, and how, the oral
traditions of Dahomey were coloured by its content. It is highly unlikely, we
have been told. But the point has the merit of alerting us to the eternal
problem of feedback from the written sources.
Second, there is no doubt that Dalzel (Dalziel before he changed his
name), a naval surgeon by training, knew his subject intimately from his many
years on the Guinea coast, including three (1767–70) as director of the British
fort at Ouidah-Glehue (while leaving at the age of 29–30, he nearly perished
in the famous surf ). 9 In addition, a large section of the book (pp. 156–230)
is based on communications from Lionel Abson, who arrived with Dalzel in
39
1767 aged 17, succeeded him as director, and remained in that position for
the next 33 years – an absolute record on the coast – until his death in 1803,
actually functioning in the end more as an African chief than as a European
employee.10 The section based on the testimony of Abson may then be
qualified as a primary source.
As for Dalzel himself, after having tried his luck directly in the slave trade
for quite some time,11 he re-emerged in 1792 as no less than the governor of
Cape Coast Castle, that is, as the head of all the British establishments on the
Guinea coast, a position he held for some eight years altogether (1792–98 and
1800–2).12 Before and after that he was a somewhat active participant in the
public debate in Britain over the slave trade, generally defending it, although
with an eye to the nuances.13 What is not in doubt is that Dalzel, who has left
traces in many archives,14 was a person of some standing whose testimony
must be taken seriously.
Did Dalzel write his book to justify and/or to legitimize the slave trade? It
has been argued that Dalzel’s aim was to demonstrate that the Africans were
naturally warlike, thus refuting those who contended that it was precisely the
slave trade which had triggered off wars in Africa.15 But if that was Dalzel’s
intention, it is nowhere made explicit in a book which is purely descriptive,
and which could in our opinion as easily be interpreted as a blaze against the
slave trade. We note in this context that Dalzel was not the only former
Director at Ouidah-Glehue who wrote books. We have also the one by the
Frenchman Pruneau de Pommegeorge who was stationed there for a long time
and whose book was published four years before Dalzel’s.16 It contains a large
section on Dahomey – basically a witness account – and in that section
Pruneau confirms, it seems to us, Dalzel’s image of Dahomey; in spite of the
fact that Pruneau’s intention was clearly not to justify the slave trade, but, as
argued earlier, exactly the opposite.
Whatever the case, Dalzel’s book set the tone in a sense. And it is no
coincidence that in the next general history of Dahomey to appear, some 174
years later, the Nigerian historian Isaac A. Akinjogbin, reacting against the
perception of Dahomey as the classic slave-trading polity characterized by a
rule of terror, tried to refute Dalzel, or rather the standard interpretation of
Dalzel.17 He thereby triggered off a major controversy which we must
investigate in some detail, since it is related intimately to one of the main
contentions we intend to make in the present work. Before going on, we must
note that it may perhaps not be correct to put the blame for Dahomey’s
negative reputation exclusively on Dalzel. What must also have contributed
40
was that Dahomey, like other polities on the Slave Coast, including notably
Lagos, insisted on carrying on with the slave trade in the nineteenth century
long after it had come to an end elsewhere in West Africa. During that period,
the period of the so-called “illegal” slave trade, many Europeans visited or had
dealings with Dahomey. Most wrote about what they saw or experienced,
depicting Dahomey in a rather unfavourable light.
As for Akinjogbin, he argued famously that Dahomey was an innovative
polity, a new and revolutionary one at that, in the sense that it did not
conform to what Akinjogbin called the Ebi social theory, which according to
him was the norm in West Africa at that time18 (ebi means lineage or kindred
among the Yoruba, it is synonymous with idile19). The Ebi social theory
implies, according to Akinjogbin, that most polities were of a federal structure,
and as such made up of autonomous entities, with kinship ties, mostly fictive,
having been established between those in command: families writ large, if one
prefers. This is certainly logical, considering the fact that we are in a region
and an epoch where the social structure was a kin-based one. However,
Dahomey was different, according to Akinjogbin, in the sense that the
Dahomean rulers rejected the Ebi social theory and tried consciously to
destroy the old order. All this impelled Dahomey to conquer the coast in
order to put an end to the slave trade. But unfortunately, King Agaja, the real
founder of Dahomey who died in 1740, was forced by the Europeans to
reactivate that trade, much against his will.20 Akinjogbin evokes in this context
“the desecrating hands of the European factors”….21 And of course, once
Dahomey and other polities were drawn into the slave trade, that trade
“entangled African societies in destructive relationships of dependency”.22
In order to see clearly, it may be worthwhile to split the controversy in
two. There is on the one hand the nature of the Dahomey polity and
Akinjogbin’s Ebi social theory, and in this case we believe that Akinjogbin
was in a sense on the right track, although he overdid it. On the other hand,
there is the topic of Agaja and the slave trade. And in this context
Akinjogbin’s case rests, as far as we can see, first on the fact that all the
European permanent trading establishments at Savi were burned down in
1727 and the Europeans encountered there made prisoners, and second on a
letter that king Agaja is supposed to have written in 1726 (that is, before the
beginning of the conquest of Hueda) in which he advocated the
establishment of plantations on the Slave Coast. (The letter was incidentally
read aloud in the House of Commons in 1789 by an MP opposed to the
proposed abolition of the slave trade.)23
41
As for what happened at Savi, Akinjogbin is certainly correct. But the

Europeans were released quickly, the forts at Ouidah-Glehue, as opposed to
the trading establishments at Savi, were not destroyed, and Agaja went out of
his way, as we shall see, to reassure the Europeans of his desire to carry on as
usual. What Agaja was bent on erasing was, it seems to us, an intermediary
and a rival, namely the Huedan polity, not the European presence, nor the
slave trade. Had he really wanted to put an end to that presence and that trade,
the events of 1727 presented him with a golden opportunity to do so – and
anyway he did not need such an opportunity, he had it in his power to do so
at any time. As for the letter, assuming that it is genuine (as Robin Law does,
I am less certain), it indicates simply that Agaja wanted plantations and slave
trade. Nevertheless, the idea that he was opposed to the slave trade, an idea
first formulated by John Atkins as early as 173524 and repeated by Akinjogbin,
turned out to be a success. It has in fact been seized upon, one could say
eagerly, by the historians of the so-called Radical school –Walter Rodney and
Basil Davidson among others.25 But the very idea that an external agent could
force a ruler on the Slave Coast to engage in the slave trade against his will
strikes us as being frankly absurd considering the local conditions.
As for Akinjogbin’s reconstruction of the history of Allada and the early
years of Dahomey,26 the problem is that it is in a sense too detailed. Like
Manning, he knows “too much”. However, the Ebi social theory, and the
contention that Dahomey was different, is something else. In this case, the
most critical voice has been Robin Law who denied originally any validity to
the Ebi social theory.27 He argued that that theory simply did not exist,
implying, we suppose, that it did not exist as a sort of ideology which some
people proposed consciously at some stage. But the way we read Akinjogbin,
his Ebi social theory is simply a model which purports to convey to us how the
polities of Yorubaland, and in fact of most of West Africa, were constructed
and functioned. If so, Akinjogbin’s point is that Dahomey did not conform to
what we may call the traditional pattern of polities in that part of the world.
This is in sum Akinjogbin’s rupture theory. Law’s central argument is, on the
other hand, that the differences between Dahomey and the other polities of
the region, although substantial, were in the final analysis of degree, not of
kind. Indeed, according to Law “The evidence suggests…that the type of
government which Dahomey evolved was essentially an adaptation of what
was already known”.28 Edna Bay, another distinguished historian of Dahomey,
agrees.29 The principal difference between Dahomey and the rest, according
to Law, is the fact that Dahomey was a much more militaristic entity,
42
employing means of destruction hitherto unknown in the region – firearms,

and more generally a military organization clearly geared to the gathering of
slaves.30 Dahomey was, in sum, a predatory polity. Hence, “If the rise of
Dahomey was a revolution, it was a revolution of destruction”.31 Nevertheless,
“by the 1770s, the Dahomians clearly had…won the consent of many of the
conquered to the legitimacy of their rule”. In fact, under King Tegbesu (1740–
74), Agaja’s successor, whatever problems may have existed at whatever level
of legitimacy had been resolved.32
This is what we may call the continuation theory, which in Law’s
presentation looks in our view rather like its opposite, the rupture theory. The
present author finds it in any case difficult to reconcile the continuation
theory with the predatory, militaristic nature of Dahomey. As for the historian
who has presented most forcefully Akinjogbin’s original rupture theory,
J. Cameron Monroe, he argues that we are confronted with “a revolutionary
militaristic, and increasingly bureaucratic, ideology that differed dramatically
from the ritually based principles of political order established [earlier]”.33 But
if that was the ideology the Dahomean rulers tried to impose (it may actually
have been so), the question is whether they were successful in doing so. And
the present author’s opinion is that they were not.
Our position is, first, that we find Law’s portrayal of the reign of Tegbesu,
an absolutely crucial period in this context, difficult to reconcile with the
empirical basis; second, that we disagree with the continuation theory; but
third, that the rupture theory needs to be seriously modified.
The heart of the matter is this: Dahomey was founded by outsiders, that
much all are agreed upon – whether bandits, outlaws34 or members of the
royal sib of Allada, as Akinjogbin and many oral traditions would have it.35
But as outsiders they had to abide by a certain number of rules if they were to
be accepted, in particular that of respecting the indigenous “earth-priests” and
their ritual control of the land. Here we have entered into a subject which is
fundamental in our sense, but which has not received the attention it merits.
The central point is that the early rulers of Dahomey, by not respecting the
indigenous “earth-priests” (about whom much more later), and in fact killing
them (or claiming to have done so), and by usurping their position, committed
an unheard-of and unforgivable sacrilege according to the prevailing beliefs
and/or customs of the time in that part of the world (and according to the
model which will be presented shortly).36 Those who founded Dahomey
violated just about every rule in the book, as they admitted in their oral
traditions. If they expected to get away with it, they were mistaken, which is
43
why they found themselves saddled with a severe problem of legitimacy. In

fact, our newcomers were left with little choice but to establish a polity based
on force and terror, that is a bloodstained militaristic one (here one can say
that we rejoin Law again). However, we are not certain it was a consequence
of deliberate innovations or a new ideology. The alternative is that we are
dealing with some kind of continuous fuite en avant.
Once in power, the newcomers who founded Dahomey tried naturally to
explore avenues to legitimate their position, a legitimation which would
necessarily have to be of a religious character. Hence very extensive attempts
at manipulation and engineering in the religious domain, as we shall see. But
in this they never really succeeded (here we part company with Law once
more), they were never able to get around their “original sin”. For as Jacques
Lombard pointed out, religion always escaped the complete control of the
Dahomean kings37 – a very uncomfortable, not to say impossible situation for
any monarch to be in at that time and in that part of the world. In addition
those kings were not very successful in what was supposed to be their very
raison d’être, in which success might perhaps have made up for everything
else: expansion, that is to say war, which meant in turn spoils, especially in the
shape of slaves. Worse, Dahomey was forced early on to become a tribute-
paying vassal of Oyo, and remained so until the decline of that once mighty
polity, not a very glorious position for a self-declared warrior polity.
To sum up: the results of Dahomey’s very marked militaristic-aggressive
policy were in the end not very impressive, even measured by their own
yardstick.38 In fact Dahomey, although certainly the leading power on the
Slave Coast after 1727, was in the final analysis a small and, we may add,
second-rate polity, completely dwarfed in the larger region by such entities as
Oyo and Asante, possibly also by old Benin at its height. Sir Richard Burton,
who visited Dahomey at the moment of its greatest extension in the 1860s,
perhaps summed it up adequately when he qualified Dahomey as “a small
black Sparta [our italics]…hedged in by hostile accolents”, that is, neighbours.39
With those neighbours, Dahomey had exclusively relations of war.40
As for the slave trade, there is every reason to believe that the Dahomeans
did what they could to encourage it, which was not very much. Like
“barbarians”, as they were from the point of view of the people of Allada and
Hueda, the two principal polities they conquered, the Dahomeans, lacking in
commercial acumen and trans-cultural experience, did it all wrong, driving
away the Europeans little by little, one of the consequences being that they
were faced with increasingly stiff competition from new centres on the eastern
44
Slave Coast, a competition Dahomey sought to eliminate simply by physically

destroying those centres. In fact, the Dahomean rulers provoked a sharp
decline in the slave trade from the central Slave Coast: that is, exactly the
opposite of what we suspect they had aimed at.
In order to avoid any possible misunderstanding, we consider that the praise
Robin Law has received recently in the shape of a voluminous Festschrift is
certainly merited.41 Law’s contribution to the exploration of the past of West
Africa is indeed nothing less than colossal (in some periods he published articles
and books faster that the rest of us could read them). The aspect of Law’s
endeavour which we find particularly admirable, because totally disinterested, is
his editing and publishing of a number of collections of archival sources, which
has made life much easier for the rest of us. It is an activity which is not
considered too glamorous in certain more prestige-focused quarters.
All this serves to explain why the present book relies on the works of Law
to an embarrassing, some would say, unbecoming degree. But then, as Law
himself has written, appropriately modestly, and elegantly: “I have no desire to
have the last word, only that the debate should continue”.42 As indeed it should,
since the evidence at hand is often capable of more than one interpretation, and
some of Law’s theories and conclusions need to be questioned. Among these
are especially those pertaining to the origin and nature of the Dahomean polity.
That being said, Law’s “I have no desire” statement expresses my view also.
***
Now for the sources. Respecting the conventional division between written and
oral sources, and as far as the written sources are concerned between archival
and printed sources, we must begin by noting that the huge corpus of archival
sources is exclusively European, and preserved exclusively in European and
American archives, one of the negative consequences being that one does not
have to take the trouble to travel to Africa to write about the past of the Slave
Coast (but as we hope to have demonstrated in the Introduction, a geographical
reconnaissance is absolutely indispensable for the comprehension of that past).
Even when we are told that the contents of a particular manuscript were dictated
by a certain local king, we cannot be certain that the words are those of the
relevant king (the classic case is the letter from Agaja mentioned above). After
all, whoever wrote down the dictates of the king in question was a European,
and the king had no means of controlling what the European penned.
The European archival sources that have been preserved emanate in the
main from the trading companies on the coast. As such they are concerned
45
principally with company affairs. But although they are often far less
informative than one would have liked – they contain a lot of hearsay – they
are nevertheless indispensable. Robin Law has an excellent point when he
argues that the main problem with those sources is that there is not more of
them.43 Since Law wrote those lines, the task of the historian has been
immensely facilitated thanks to the publication of a good many archival
sources, often duly edited and translated, in many cases by Law himself. What
is still missing, however, are the sources emanating from the so-called
interlopers, many increasingly organized in private firms, which were
responsible for an ever larger share of the slave trade.44
Next there is the rather impressive bulk of printed reports, and above all
travel accounts, personal recollections and so on by Europeans, mostly
employees of the trading companies, who thought they knew well the Guinea
coast and the slave trade, and who felt the need to share their experience with
European readers. Some did so with remarkable success, especially the
Dutchman Willem Bosman, whose reminiscences from his 14 years’ stay on
the coast, ending up as the Dutch second-in-command at Elmina before being
swept out in 1701 at the age of 29,45 became an international best-seller – and
an all-time classic. Many others also enjoyed a wide international readership,
including those of two other Dutchmen, Pieter de Marees and Olfert Dapper
(the latter actually never set foot on Africa),46 and the German-Dane Paul
Isert.47 Not to mention Dalzel and a host of other Britons.
Whether or to which extent books like these should be classified as
primary or secondary sources is a complex matter we need not go into.48 But
we note that they include more or less everything, from the seventeenth-
century Spaniard Alonso de Sandoval who, like Dapper, never went to
Africa but, also like Dapper, had privileged access to information unavailable
to the modern scholar;49 to the eighteenth-century French-English
Huguenot slave-trader Jean/John Barbot, who spent no more than 30 days
ashore in Africa;50 to long-term residents like Bosman, Dalzel and Pruneau
de Pommegeorge etc. What is certain is that this corpus still constitutes a
very important bulk of our sources for the past of the Slave Coast (and of
the Guinea coast generally), and an easily accessible one. But of course the
perennial question is how trustworthy they are (note Edna Bay’s warning
that “pre-colonial travelers have seldom been read critically”).51 They
borrowed freely from each other, they plagiarized, in sum they often
committed a sort of literary robbery, as one expert in these matters, a certain
John Green, put it in 1745–46.52
46
The next wave of Europeans to write on the Slave Coast were the
missionaries and above all the first official envoys (including after a while
colonial administrators), who began to arrive in the nineteenth century. In
both groups there were many who tried their hands as amateur historians and
especially as amateur anthropologists. In so doing, they undertook in a sense
a rescue operation, confining to paper many customs, cultural traits, and above
all oral traditions which would otherwise certainly have been lost. The famous
case is that of Auguste Le Hérissé, to which we will return shortly. The
temptation for the modern scholar is to rely heavily on this sort of evidence,
since it is at times the only one available.
The next to arrive on the scene were the professional anthropologists,
whose works are certainly indispensable to the historians.53 But as we all know,
the anthropological literature presents the historian with a number of
problems. The first is the tendency to convey to us a somewhat timeless view
of whatever society they study. And the second is how far back in time we can
risk extrapolating from the findings of early twentieth century and later
anthropologists, especially considering the break the colonial conquest
represents. Robin Law in particular warns against “the persisting influence of
an assumption of effective social stasis in the pre-colonial period, implicit in
the still common use of extrapolation from twentieth-century ethnography to
provide an imputed cultural background for pre-colonial history”.54 This
warning is easy to agree with but difficult to abide by, and incidentally works
in both directions – it is at times tempting to assume that conditions in, say,
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries turned out to be permanent.
The third problem is simply how trustworthy or reliable and representative
the anthropological studies are: what about their sources? How long did a
particular anthropologist stay on the coast, what was his or her relationship
with the local colonial administration (often a very touchy point), and above
all, how many informants did he or she consult and where did those
informants come from? What kind of version did those informants propagate?
The answers to those questions are not always reassuring.55
Then finally arrived (in the 1960s) the historians, with Akinjogbin and
the French-Brazilian Pierre Verger as the undisputed pioneers, although the
latter was never trained as such, and did not claim to be one. Nevertheless,
Verger is the only scholar so far to have genuinely explored the voluminous
Portuguese-language sources mostly in Salvador da Bahia in Brazil.56 He did
such a thorough job that his successors have, somewhat surprisingly, not
deemed it necessary to consult even the easily accessible sources in the
47
Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino in Lisbon, including the many duplicates of

those in Salvador.57
And the archaeologists? They have appeared at long last – Danes and
Americans in particular. The latter have concentrated on the ruined town of
Savi and on the pre-1727 polity of Hueda,58 the former on the Abomey
plateau further north, the old heartland of Dahomey.59 The Danes in
particular have added substantially to our understanding of the past of the
Slave Coast, as we shall see. It is however surprising that the archaeologists
have so far paid little attention to places like Tado and Notsé (Nuatja) which
loom so large in the oral traditions.
The archival sources present the researcher with a number of daunting
practical problems, the principal one being the fact that they come in no less
than nine European languages, including Latin. The scholars who master nine
languages are few and far between, and the present author is not among them.
The second problem is that they are spread over a great many archives, in nine
countries altogether, and on two continents (one apparently important
manuscript even turned up recently at Yale University in the USA).60
The third problem is that a fair amount of the archival sources are simply
illegible one way or the other. This may be either because they have been
severely damaged, or because they are written in a script unfamiliar to the
historian – the so-called ‘Gothic’ script of the Danish sources in particular61 –
or because they are written in a European language which has undergone such
profound transformation since the time they were penned that a fair
knowledge of the modern language does not help much; this is the case with
the Dutch sources.62 These problems taken together are simply insoluble, the
implication being that we all have to take short cuts. It must be said, though,
that the recent publication of a fair amount of precisely the Dutch and Danish
sources translated into English has alleviated the situation considerably.63
We repeat that absolutely all the written sources emanate from Europeans.
This we allow ourselves to consider a problem. The point here is that with the
exception of a few locals who had worked closely with the Europeans, the
peoples of the Slave Coast were totally and, we may add, staunchly illiterate in
the precolonial era – in spite of king Agaja’s apparent fascination with literacy
(“he much loving to look in a book, and commonly carries a Latin Mass-book
in his pocket”).64 Indeed, the locals seem to have actively combated literacy,65
as did certainly the Akan of Asante on the Gold Coast,66 and possibly others.
What should we make of it? Let us note that the people of the Slave Coast had
active intercourse with the Europeans for some 2–300 years before the
48
beginning of the colonial period (which incidentally lasted for “only” 70–80
years), and those of the Gold Coast for even longer, some 400 years. The result
was that the locals did adopt new crops, new domestic animals, and European
firearms, as well as umbrellas (an important symbol of status)67 and a few more
items, but little else; certainly not literacy, nor for that matter the many tools
and “arts” the Europeans made use of or practiced in their gardens in the
forts68 (not to mention ocean-going ships). We add one minor detail which
may or may not be significant, but which certainly surprised many Europeans:
the locals never tried to tame and use elephants.69 Clearly the locals were not
genuinely receptive to European technology, ideas, values and religion.
It is also noteworthy that we do not know of attempts to make practical use
of technical assistance from foreigners, as administrators, mercenaries and/or
military advisers, as happened occasionally elsewhere70 (there is one exception,
that of Francisco Nunes, a Portuguese adventurer, who served briefly as
secretary and private councillor to Agaja in the 1730s).71 And as far as we
know, no-one from Hueda or Dahomey or any other polity on the Slave Coast
was ever sent to be educated in Europe;72 there are however indications that
one or two future Alladan kings spent time in their youth in São Tomé, as we
shall see. Nor is there any sign of cultural transformation, or of what Kenneth
Kelly calls cultural creolization.73 In sum, the European presence did not
foster any cultural conversation. Is this as it should be, or have we got a
problem here? It is a question of words and what sense, ideological or
otherwise, one infuses them with. If we say that the locals were in general
change-averse, it may sound somewhat unattractive. But if Dahomey was
different in whatever sense, then at least the rulers of that polity should in
pure logic be receptive to new ways in many fields. There is no reason to
believe that they were. Was the continuing ancestor cult a powerful
impediment in this context?74
Incidentally, what about the other way around – were the Europeans on the
spot, many of them very young, even teenagers, as we have seen, influenced by
the African environment? If so, how, and to what extent? Were there others
besides Lionel Abson who “went native”? And were there people who
nourished projects like the one portrayed in Rudyard Kipling’s The Man Who
Would be King? 75
***
We now come to an apparently complicated topic, the oral sources and the
oral traditions. Oral sources are what anthropologists consult, plus some
49
historians, interviewing (preferably older) people, who then acquire the status
of oral informants, about their more or less personal reminiscences, including
what earlier generations have transmitted to them. It is called fieldwork and
may not be relevant for a work such as this which is concerned with a period
too remote in time. Oral traditions on the other hand are more fixed myths,
legends and tales. Some of them circulated only among a certain stratum of
the population or were confined to a small select group.
The problem is that what goes under the name of oral traditions constitutes
a rather heterogeneous mix (those of the Slave Coast are incidentally
considered to be much poorer than those of the neighbouring Gold Coast).76
We do not have, for instance, a multi-volume and easily accessible collection
called “The oral traditions of the Slave Coast”.77 Nor do we have a sort of
official version of the oral traditions written down for all posterity, as is the
case with Samuel Johnson’s History of the Yoruba.78 Instead, what are presented
as oral traditions come in bits and pieces. Above all, and as Patrick Manning
has pointed out, none of these traditions were collected scientifically: “That
is, you cannot distinguish the tradition itself from modifications given to it by
the researcher, nor can one separate the tradition from material and ideas
gathered by the researcher from [already] published materials”.79
In addition, those who first penned down the oral traditions were
amateurs: they were missionaries or colonial administrators. In the case of the
latter theirs was not always, we imagine, a disinterested task, since they were
often looking for traditions which might confirm or bolster whichever
“indigenous” policy they were pursuing. One suspects that the locals knew it
and shaped their tales accordingly.
We can say more generally that oral traditions are no longer the panacea
they once were considered to be.80 Apart from being close to useless at the
level of chronology, the problem with the oral traditions is that they are
mostly about kings and rulers. As such they reflect nearly always the
perspective and perceptions of the ruling strata, and have therefore little to do
with “history from below”, one of the present fashionable trends.
The dilemma the modern historian is faced with is in any case, and once
more, one of credibility: whether to believe or not an author who claims that
what he/she presents us with are oral traditions collected and written down
by that author. If the relevant information is corroborated (more or less) by
written sources, fine. But if not, the historian has a problem.
In this context we need to know that, as Edna Bay has noted, “Dahomian
history claims perhaps the most blatant manipulation of oral memory ever
50
documented”,81 the elimination of the reign of a king (Adandozan) who we are

certain reigned for a long time, from 1797 to possibly 1818. But there are of
course other manipulations, since the Dahomean authorities “sought to
suppress discrepant versions circulating outside official circles”.82 Most
traditions are, in brief, the official and authorized versions of the past.
Let us take the case of the famous account by August Le Hérissé published
in 1911, and the corner-stone of almost everything which has been written on
precolonial Dahomey since then.83 This is in a sense as it should be, since Le
Hérissé’s book contains a lot of general and interesting information, including
the myths of the origin of the royal lineage or clan, which were published for
the first time (the true history of the royal family is said to have been esoteric
knowledge84 – in fact all clans kept their traditions secret one way or the
other).85 But who was Le Hérissé? A French colonial administrator, none
other than the Commandant de cercle (equivalent to District Officer) of
Abomey, and as such a man who wielded considerable power at the local level.
In addition, he was married to a daughter of Béhanzin, the last king of
independent Dahomey (1889–93).86 In addition, Le Hérissé got most of his
information from one of his brothers-in-law, that is, from a son of the same
Béhanzin called Agbidinukun, who was chef de canton, and as such integrated
into the colonial administration.87 No wonder that Le Hérissé’s book – or is
it Agbidinukun’s? – was the first pro-Dahomey study of the kingdom. No
wonder, either, that it omits Dahomey’s many defeats in war.
Faced with all this, the modern historian finds himself in a somewhat
awkward position. He knows that he ought to consider Le Hérissé’s book with
scepticism since it may be labelled as “official history”, that is, propaganda. But
he also knows that he cannot do without it.
Another example: Edna Bay’s authoritative and informative work on the
institution of kpojito,88 which she defines as that of the Queen Mother of
Dahomey, that is, the most important women’s office in Dahomey. But the
problem here is the section on the origins of that institution and its nature in
the early days, a section based exclusively on oral traditions. Ms Bay interprets
those traditions as indicating that the kpojito represented in some sense the
local indigenous population, the implication being that the conquerors
established some sort of modus vivendi with the indigenous people.89 But first,
it takes, as we shall see, more than just one office to establish the above-
mentioned modus vivendi (which is incidentally never associated with the
figure of the Queen Mother in the cases that we know of ); and second, Ms
Bay’s interpretation of the origins of the institution is after all based on oral
51
sources collected some two hundred and fifty years after its supposed
founding. If we add that, as Ms Bay herself notes, “enormous problems of
documentation surround the kpojito”, and that “Written sources and [even]
oral accounts are oddly vague about [her]”,90 one feels that some caution is
called for.
All that being said, we can be allowed nevertheless to present a short
defence of oral traditions. We need to understand what they really are: not
sources in the generally accepted sense of the term, but in the main
propaganda designed to legitimate and if possible to enhance the position of
whoever holds power. As such they inform us about the bases of legitimacy,
and thus also about the mindsets and cosmologies of the relevant population.
In other words, we need to focus on the themes the oral traditions evolve
around, not on whatever more or less reliable information they may contain.
And we must certainly forget trying to elicit any reliable chronological
framework from those traditions.
Furthermore, since oral traditions are mostly propaganda, they aim
deliberately at manipulating what we may call the “truth”. But the interesting
questions become how they do that, in what sense and for what purpose, and
how far they succeed (one of the theories of the present work is that the kings
of Dahomey were not particularly successful in this respect). And when the
oral sources become clouded, as often happens, did someone intend them to
be so, and if so, why?
We can conclude by arguing that the oral traditions of the Slave Coast
provide us, in the final analysis, with an invaluable glimpse into the
functioning and world outlook of the societies of old.
One interesting subsection of oral traditions can be said to be the many
festivals celebrated in most polities. During those festivals, the founding
moment of the polity is reenacted (or rather, the past and the present fuse),
and the ideal order which the founding moment represents is considered to
have been restored. There is in addition a strong element of fertility cult
present.91 We shall return to the subject.
***
Here then is the epistemological problem, which has many facets. The most
obvious one is the tremendous culture gap between the “producers” of the
sources (the Europeans) and most of the “observed” (the Africans). The
“producers” occasionally admitted their perplexity, not to say their ignorance,
regarding the surrounding African societies. The problem is made even more
52
poignant by the obvious fact that the modern historian, even an African one,
has much more in common with the “producers” than with the “observed”,
and that the “observed” belong to a world which has since disappeared. In
short, if we argue that we need to understand the people and the societies of
the Slave Coast in the light of their own logic in order to reconstruct their
past, the question is whether it can be done. This without denying the
existence of what goes under the name of transculturation.
But the epistemological problem goes deeper. It has to do, first, with what
the present author has called earlier the Trevor-Roper trap; that is, the need,
apparently never satiated, to demonstrate that Professor Hugh Trevor-Roper
was wrong when he argued that Africa has no history.92 That is, many
Africanists committed (in our view) the fatal blunder of accepting Trevor-
Roper’s logic, his dichotomy between “barbarians” and “civilized” peoples.
Hence the rush away from the “barbarian” label. In brief, the Africanists,
instead of rejecting Trevor-Roper’s very logic, set out to “prove” that the
history of Africa is “as rich and as interesting” (whatever that may mean) as
that of Europe. This involved erasing what we see as the most fascinating part
of it all, the cultural differences – if one prefers, the truly “other”. The result
has been what we have called “Europeanized” African history: the Africans
reason, think, behave, act, smell etc. the same way as the Europeans do – or
vice versa if one prefers. And kings and kingdoms, for instance, are construed
as similar to the European institutions that go under the same names – what
Paul Nugent calls an optical illusion.93
We can illustrate the Trevor-Roper trap by taking as examples the excesses
(we consider them so)94 of Akinjogbin and his followers. Indeed, Akinjogbin,
in addition to the arguments and theories referred to above, went on to argue
that Dahomey was founded by a group of patriotic Aja, who then set about
constructing a European-like nation state. Hence, Dahomey came to be
organized on principles which “ran very close indeed to the modern European
idea of a national state”.95 As for the rulers, they were comparable to the
eighteenth-century European benevolent despots.96 Note that in this
Akinjogbin was in a sense merely following Robert Norris who wrote in the
eighteenth century, and had already portrayed Agaja as a nation builder.97
Maurice Glélé abounds in the same sense, celebrating Dahomey’s
achievement in fusing communities of disparate origins into a single national
identity: the end result was obviously a “nation state”.98 As for John Yoder, the
most extreme, he is on record for having argued that the Dahomean king was
a constitutional rather than an absolute monarch, and that the Dahomean
53
regime was, in the nineteenth century, actually a constitutional monarchy

endowed with something resembling a Parliament.99 We add that J. Camenon
Monroe obligingly provides Dahomey with, not necessarily a fully developed
centralized state bureaucracy, but certainly one in the making – this in a non-
literate society. Incidentally, Monroe goes on to argue that Dahomey achieved
order in this period of dramatic instability (the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries).100 The present author believes the reverse, that Dahomey
destabilized the region.
Even Robin Law has allowed himself to be somewhat contaminated,
moving into perilous territory when he argues that there is no question that
in the long run many of the conquered peoples came to adopt the Dahomean
language and culture and to identify themselves as Dahomeans.101
This then is the Trevor-Roper trap in all its splendour, the urge always to
compare with the European model, a model which is implicitly conceived as
the ideal one. And the aim? Always the same, to demonstrate that the Africans
were in no way inferior to the Europeans; as if the task of the historians were
to establish a ranking-list of societies, cultures, peoples or whatever. If it were,
the immediate question becomes, according to which criteria, and chosen by
whom? Those criteria must necessarily be neutral from a cultural-civilizational
point of view. And that is where the trouble begins. For since history is a
science, it must necessarily, or ideally, lay claim to universality. It follows that
its conceptual framework must be adequate for the study of all the civilizations
and/or cultures of the past. Or put differently, we must be able to separate the
lenses through which we study the past from the past itself, that is, from our
object. But this, as we all know, is not what happens.102
The heart of the matter is the incestuous relationship between history and
what is traditionally called Western Civilization – history as we know it
originated within that civilization, and may be said to constitute one of its
defining parts (history as “the quintessential Western discourse”).103 More
concretely, our conceptual framework, which is by definition a cultural-
civilizational product, originated from within Western Civilization, from within
the past of that civilization. Hence we cannot separate history from its own
object, or rather, from one of its objects of study. History is in fact the product
of its own object of study, the only academic discipline or science of which this
can be said; the only discipline or science which can study itself. In conclusion,
what we “see” through is also part and parcel of what we see. Our conceptual
framework is therefore “Eurocentric”, and leads to the aberrations listed above.
The question is whether it is condemned to remain so. (Actually, that framework
54
is not only “Eurocentric” but also “presentist”, in the sense that, if we have
understood correctly, even the students of Europe in the Middle Ages, not to
mention earlier periods, feel at times uneasy within that framework.)104
Or put differently, the broadening of history’s vision to encompass the
non-Western world, something which happened not that long ago (a
surprising fact in its own right), has not yet been accompanied by a
corresponding effort to accommodate our conceptual framework to that new
reality. The logical next step would be to propose a new or modified
framework. But that is easier said than done, if it can be done, for a variety of
reasons which it would take too long to enumerate here. It is possible to argue,
though, that the process has been set in motion; we would like to think that
the present work is part of that process.
There is, anyway, all the difference in the world between on the one hand
adopting the existing Western-centric conceptual framework lock, stock and
barrel, and on the other being aware of the problem, conscious of the
inadequacies of our framework, and to propose, if only in certain limited
circumstances, possible alternatives.
In other words, if we argue that any given society deserves to be studied on
its own terms, not by the yardstick of another, we are confronted with a very
difficult task, especially in the African case. The easy way out is in fact the
Trevor-Roper stance, to establish a hierarchy of societies, and to label
everything one does not understand as “barbarian” in order to eliminate it
from the historical discourse. But again, an awareness of the difficulties
certainly helps.
***
Implicit in the above is the contention that the subject under scrutiny, the past
of the Slave Coast, presents a challenge to the very nature of the science or
academic field we call history – at a time, incidentally, when our confidence in
history as a way of knowing is crumbling, according to certain authors.105 The
point is that the Africans who lived on the Slave Coast in the period under
scrutiny certainly did not think of making life easy for the future historians;
they did not in any way try to make certain that their experience would be
remembered by future generations.106 Is it legitimate to wonder why?
***
In the end we are forced, as usual, to pick our way as we can through the
evidence as it stands, that is, we must reconstruct what we can.107 But as Igor
55
Kopytoff has pointed out, granted the paucity of written records, and in order
to reconstruct from the few pieces that we know, we must have what Kopytoff
calls a structured understanding of what we do not and may never know108 –
the known unknowns, in sum. Put differently, we need to develop a model, a
task we now turn to.
56
3
SOCIETAL, RELIGIOUS AND

POLITICAL STRUCTURES
A MODEL
What follows may be considered arduous reading by many. We will have to

present the reader with a number of words, expressions and concepts which
are not frequent in the historical literature, but which are highly central to our
purpose. Among them are ritual control of the land, contrapuntal
paramountcy, “earth-priests” and “owners of the land” ritually speaking – all
of which will be explained in due course (the quotation marks are used
because we are not talking about priests or owners in the commonly accepted
sense of the terms). Somewhat more familiar may be expressions such as sacred
society, sacred kingship, stranger-kings, ritual regicide, kinship-type societies,
fertility cults, non-linear concepts of time, and so on.
***
“With respect to Dahoman religion, it will hardly be expected that we should
be able to say much”.1 So wrote Archibald Dalzel in 1793. Understandable in
light of what Dalzel admitted in a hearing some years earlier, namely that he
had never been able to understand the religion of the “natives”.2 The frank
Dalzel was certainly not alone, and some Europeans, despairing of
understanding, opted for the easy way out, by arguing simply that the Africans
had no religion3 – early soulmates of Professor Trevor-Roper in a sense. There
were however Europeans on the Slave Coast who concluded that the Africans
57
did in fact believe even in an Almighty God, the Creator of all, and who
governs everything in the world.4 Were they correct in concluding so?
However, the real point is that Dalzel made it easy on himself by simply
ignoring what is certainly an excruciatingly complicated subject, but which
according to the present author constitutes the most fundamental aspect of
the past of the Slave Coast, and in fact more generally (to make an apparently
extravagant claim) of a very large part indeed of the past of humanity: the
religious aspect. Dalzel is in good company, however, in the sense that religion
is not fashionable among modern historians – ever since the Enlightenment
it has in fact been difficult to know what to do with “religion”. This is
especially the case among the Marxist-leaning historians, a category to which
Robin Law has proclaimed he belongs.5
The modern historians have an excellent excuse since we all live in a
secularized world where for many people religion no longer takes centre stage.
But once we move sufficiently backwards in time, and especially once we move
to what may be called the overseas world (for want of a better expression), the
historian is confronted with a very different reality in our opinion. For then
we encounter in many instances what the present author believes can be
labelled sacred societies. The expression is meant to refer to societies where
religion was all-pervading and all-permeating; that is, societies in which
everything had to be legitimized and explained via religious beliefs and where
no human pursuit could be accomplished without it being secured successfully
first in the spiritual realm.6 Or to quote from some works concerned with our
region: “All life, public and private, is pervaded by the worship of the trowo”,7
that is, the deities, among the Ewe; for the Mahi, “Religion encompassed their
entire existence”.8 For the Yoruba “religion was the binding force which held
society together, and the relevant people saw the whole world as a sign of
supernatural reality, implying that everything is both what it is itself and also
a sign of something else, a higher and deeper truth”.9 And in the case of the
Fon, “what we see is only the surface of a more profound reality, invincible,
the real reality, which upholds [soutient par la force] the visible world”.10
It is significant that religion took centre stage even in the military field:
spies were sent out to destroy the power of protective gods and other
supernatural forces,11 and defeat in war was attributed to the loss of war
charms. Cruickshank noted the idea seemed to be that in wars, “the protecting
deities of one nation are contending against those of the other”.12 Or as it has
also been expressed: warfare was primarily about neutralizing, capturing or
even destroying the enemy’s deities.13
58
SOCIETAL, RELIGIOUS AND POLITICAL STRUCTURES
And in the economic field? We learn that the establishment of a market

supposed magico-religious ceremonies, including a human sacrifice – markets
had to be consecrated. In fact, the market-places were considered to be holy
ground, and as such the regular scene of religious rituals.14 As for the
ironworks, they were ritual shrines or sanctuaries.15 More generally, each and
every occupation and/or economic activity had its own deities, the canoemen
very much included.16 We learn also that for each and every undertaking there
was a corresponding ritual, often one of divination.17
With regard to the headmen or rulers, they all had, as we shall see,
religious rituals to perform, rituals which constituted in a sense their veritable
raison d’être.
There is in short no doubt about the centrality of what we may call
religious beliefs in the lives of the people of the Slave Coast; people displaying
incidentally a devotion to their gods provoked the envy of at least one
European Christian priest.18
In all this there was nothing unique or special about the societies of the
Slave Coast. They were similar to most societies of Atlantic West Africa, and
in fact, to make another extreme claim, to a great many societies all over the
world for thousands of years. To make this claim seem somewhat less
extravagant, when we are talking about similarities we mean a certain number
of archetypes, plus above all what we may call the underlying logic. The end
result at the concrete or superstructural level could of course be, and was, very
dissimilar according to the cases and according to the epochs. It is for instance
obvious that there was an enormous difference between on the one hand the
great polities (“kingdoms”) and on the other the so-called acephalous
(“stateless”) societies. But the contention here is that the differences were not
of kind but of degree, both cases displaying (once more) the same archetypes
and the same underlying logic. What then was this logic?
This is where the real difficulties begin. It is indeed very well to argue that
religion was all-important and needs to occupy a, or the central position in
the historical analysis in many cases. It is also very well to lament the
apparent fact that the religious dimension was left out to a considerable
extent when African history began to emerge.19 But if so, we will have to
explain what kind or sort of religion we are dealing with – what exactly was
it that the people of the Slave Coast believed in and how were those beliefs
structured? We need to understand it in other words, and we will have to
find out how we can genuinely integrate religion in the historical discourse,
especially at the analytical level. The task is a daunting and probably
59
impossible one. But that is no excuse for not trying to elucidate at least some
central or pertinent points.
Part of the problem is the word religion itself, because it carries
connotations which are peculiar to the so-called revealed religions, like
Christianity and Islam. For instance, and as Winston King has underlined, “a
distinction between a transcendent deity and all else” does not make sense
outside of the revealed religions.20 The religions classified as non-revealed (for
want of a better expression), such as those of the Slave Coast, were quite
something else, of a different nature so to speak. Exactly what nature is hard
to define. But what we can say in any case is that our non-revealed religions
were certainly not fixed or static; there were no theologians or genuine priests,
no church, and no holy script. As for pantheons, opinions vary. But if there
were, one or several, or pantheons within pantheons etc., they must have been
extremely unstable and varying almost from one locality to another.
What was there then?21 Let us say tentatively a belief in a powerful and
invisible spirit world that is inextricably linked to the visible human one. Or
if one prefers, a bundle of basic creeds, always roughly the same, and all
connected in turn with the belief in an immaterial supranatural world which
in the final analysis commands everything, is the source of everything, and
which it is essential to communicate with one way or the other, and perhaps
above all to get as close to as possible.22
Another part of the problem is that it does perhaps not make much sense
in the context of the Slave Coast or elsewhere to study more or less in
isolation something called religion. For as Louis Brenner has pointed out,
“most African languages did not include a word which could be convincingly
and unequivocally translated as ‘religion’”.23 He could have added that the
same goes probably for many other languages around the world, including
those of India.24
The point here is that the very existence of the word religion implies the
existence of a corresponding more or less separate or autonomous religious
sphere (alongside political, economic etc. spheres). But in a society where
everything is religion, no such autonomous religious sphere exists and no
corresponding word either. That is, we cannot separate the religious from the
rest, the intertwining is absolute.25 It does not imply, as some seem to believe,
that material considerations or motives of a non-religious character are absent,
or that manipulations do not happen, far from it. But the point is how they
are clad, how they are presented, how they are legitimized, in sum.
***
60
Let us start all over again by asking what the societies of the Slave Coast of
yesteryear were like, and how they were structured. Furthermore, what did the
people of those societies believe in, what do we know about their cosmology,
their Weltanschauung, and more generally their religion? In brief, what kind
of universe are we entering into? What follows then is supposed to be about
the local cognitive universe, which implies testing the boundaries of the
comprehensible, and delving into matters theoretically “unknowable”.
Our first point is that we are dealing in West Africa of old (and elsewhere)
with what we may call kinship-type societies: societies made up, not of
individuals as such, but of what is called alternatively kindreds, sibs or descent
groups – collectivistic in a sense. “I am because we are”: hence the notion of
collective responsibility and solidarity, leading in extreme cases to what we
may call virulent egalitarianism. For instance, in Eweland (and elsewhere)
“The notion of collective responsibility hangs like the threatening sword of
Damocles upon the group and compels individual members to have a say in
the lifestyles of others”,26 one of the implications being that the very notion of
a private sphere is virtually unknown (“threatening sword of Damocles” from
an individualistic European point of view, that is). A king, in those societies
where the institution of kingship existed, is often, apparently, the only clearly
discernible individual around. The king is, incidentally, always the head of a
kindred, generally the largest one. One of the implications of all this is that
each and every title or position, including that of the king, in whatever kind
of hierarchy that may have existed, was in a sense the property, as it were, of a
kindred. This is of course the exact opposite of the bureaucratic model which
holds that only the individual counts, and where no position is hereditary – at
least not in principle.
A kinship-type society is based on roles, that is to say that an individual
assumes or, put another way, is hedged in by pre-determined rules which
define how he or she is supposed to behave and act at each and every stage of
his/her life. One is in a sense caught in a web, defined once and for all by the
ancestors. For those who fail to comply, expulsion is the supreme sanction.
And expulsion means the loss of place and rights in the ancestral cult, and
especially the loss of protection by the ancestors, a very serious matter; and the
loss of the possibility of reincarnation, a not infrequent belief, attested among
the Ewe, and also widespread among the Fon (that is, a special type of
reincarnation in the latter case, since only the portion called joto of an
ancestral spirit is reborn in a child).27 Death is in any case seen as a mutation,
not an end – the dead converted into ancestors and spiritual forces continue
61
to influence the lives of their descendants.28 In fact, the intercourse between

the living and the ancestors is intense, and the spiritual linkage with the
ancestors must not be broken.
From all this it can be deduced that a kindred is made up of the living and
the dead, and of the not yet born, that is to say, future reincarnated ancestors
in some sense.
In most parts of the Slave Coast there were two types of kindreds: the clan
and the (smaller) lineage. Clans are usually dispersed and of secondary
importance, the lineages or lineage segments the opposite. Each clan and each
lineage has a founding ancestor or vodun, in the Fon case respectively
akovodun and henuvodun, but also called tohwiyo, who protect the kindred
and to whom offerings are due.29 But each household within a lineage has its
own (lesser) ancestors, and therefore also its own spirits. One is in fact struck
by the private character of much of the religious worship.30
It is logical to assume furthermore that a society based on ancestor worship
will necessarily be a conservative one in the sense that the original community
created precisely by the ancestors constitutes the ideal, that is, a community
of the past.
As for those without kin, they were necessarily slaves, and as such no longer
human beings in a sense. They could therefore be disposed of at will, for
instance exported to the New World.
***
Armed with these notions, we can take as our point of departure at the
concrete-practical level the societies of Yorubaland of old. That choice may
not seem logical at first glance, considering that most of Yorubaland is situated
outside of the Slave Coast. But since we hold that what we have called the
underlying logic, plus in fact the social fabric generally, were roughly the same
all over West Africa (at the very least), the well-documented case of
Yorubaland can help us to make sense of those, such as that of the Slave Coast,
which are somewhat less so.
The specialists tell us that the Yoruba lived in what they call towns. But
note that the word for “town” is the same as that for “community” – ilu,
synonymous with ebi.31 And all the towns/communities were composed of
lineages. Also, those towns/communities were ruled by hereditary and sacred
“kings”, the famous obas – each and every one possessing “a power like that of
the Gods”,32 and each and every one being regarded by his people as a deity
with whose well-being their own condition was bound up. As such the oba
62
had to be free of physical blemish. As such, also, he was by definition the

titular head of all religious cults; he was in fact the supreme religious
authority of his realm, be it the oni of Ife or the alafin of Oyo, to name but
the two best known obas.33
On succession it is argued that the new oba had to eat the heart of his
predecessor, possibly not literally, and was in any case considered to have been
born anew after having gone through very elaborate enthronement rituals.34
A sacred king, then, which is not the same as a divine king – the latter being
the living incarnation of a god as in Pharaonic Egypt of old;35 but both sorts
of king are invested with a “force” of divine provenance, the famous mana, to
use what has become a generic term (it is actually a Polynesian word), which
allows him to command nature in a sense.36 This means he must keep himself
in a state of physical perfection, as an outward sign of his inner moral
perfection. We dare to compare mana with electricity for illustrative reasons,
noting that it was dangerous simply to get near a sacred king (acè, ase or aché
may be the local variants of mana among certain ethnic groups of the Slave
Coast outside of Yorubaland).37 But if the deities withdraw their favour, as it
were, if the king’s mana is as a consequence dwindling, he is in trouble.
Pursuing the analogy with electricity, one could say that the king needs to
recharge his batteries. Or in some polities (and in extreme cases?), as in Oyo,
the king could be sacrificed, ritually or concretely so – in the case of Oyo
“asked” to commit suicide.38 This, then, is the custom of ritual regicide or
king-slaying of Frazerian fame.39 In other polities he was destooled, that is,
desacralized.40 Note that there are scholars who argue that human sacrifices
are an integral part of the concept of sacred kingship: “a means of enhancing
[the king’s] divine attributes”.41
But if the king wields tremendous power, it is mostly in theory; the reality
is somewhat different. In fact, Montserrat Palau-Martí has a point when she
argues that the king is above all a symbol.42 For as Lucien Scubla has put it
regarding sacred kingship generally, “The king is a sacred figure, but for this
very reason he is ‘bound’ by the ritual. Under house arrest and a recluse in his
palace, he (has to submit to a great many) restrictions”43 – a plethora of taboos
and inhibitions. So this is “a monarchy trapped by its own ideology of power”,
according to Nii Quarcoopome.44
In fact, the king is always surrounded by a sort of state council which severely
circumscribes his power; a state council composed moreover of hereditary
dignitaries whom he cannot remove or displace – each seat in the council being
the “property”, as it were, of a particular lineage.45 It is this council, for instance
63
the famous oyo mesi in Oyo, which has the power to decide whether it is time
for the king to depart from this world – that is, if the king has lost his mana for
whatever reason (defeat in war, failing harvests, even impotence).46
We must have a look at the founding myths and legends of Yorubaland.
And here we note that all the obas trace their descent from the famous culture-
hero Oduduwa; the one sent, the myths have it, from heaven to create the
world, who founded Ife, the traditional site of creation and cradle of the
Yoruba.47 From there, according to the orthodox version, the kinsmen of
Oduduwa spread out in all directions, establishing themselves everywhere as
obas (that is, all obas are required to claim descent from Oduduwa and Ife,
whether that filiation is historically correct or not). What then about the
members of the various state councils? It is tempting to argue that they
represented the lineages of the pre-Oduduwa or autochtonous population –
the “owners of the land”48 – in which case Oduduwa and others could have
been in some sense foreign conquerors. The acephalous panhandle-Yoruba
north of the Slave Coast are perhaps what is left of pre-Oduduwa Yorubaland.
The “owners of the land”: this is where the really complicated (and long)
part begins. And this is where we have moved to the acephalous societies of
old. Let us take as our point of departure the fact that the earth was sacred in
Africa of old (and elsewhere), it was and remained in fact a deity, let us say
Mother Earth the nourisher (that is, a vodun in the language of the people of
the Central Slave Coast).49 We are dealing with possibly the world’s oldest or
original deity among societies made up of farmers. Since it was a deity, no-one
could “own” the earth or the soil in the modern sense of the term, one could
only claim usufructuary rights, rights normally vested in the lineages, and
especially in the most ancient local lineage or considered as such. The way we
have understood it (and we present it in a somewhat plain language dress for
reasons of clarity),50 the head of this lineage was considered according to the
relevant legends to be the descendant of the first settler (or settlers), the one
who originally “married” the earth (Mother Earth), who inseminated Her, so
to speak, by sowing, and who was thus granted the permission to till the earth.
The task of his descendants was to see to it that the original pact (matrimony)
with Mother Earth was upheld, that is, that the earth and the first settler(s)
converted into ancestors were revered and provided with adequate offerings.
Otherwise the harvest would be in danger, or there could be other perils. This
is, it seems to us, the essence of what is referred to usually as fertility cults.
But to return to the lineage of the founding ancestor(s), it exercised in
sum what has been called “ritual control” over the earth, a very central but
64
somewhat vague term which is not easy to grasp. In any case, the head of this
lineage is the famous “earth-priest”, so called in the literature (aïnon among
the Adja-Fon, balè among the Yoruba – as noted earlier the word aïzo,
written earlier Aïzo, always indicates indigenous or local people on the Slave
Coast).51 As such, the “earth-priest” is the intermediary between the humans
and the world of the deities and the ancestors. He and his companions and/
or the members of his lineage are then the so-called “owners of the land” by
virtue of their status as those who came first – the famous firstcomer
principle which looms so large in the past of Africa52 (we use the term
“owners of the land” always between inverted commas because they were in
no way owners in the modern sense of the word). We have here, in our
opinion, a universal institution.53
The “earth-priest” is, in a sense, the head of the council of elders or lineage
heads of the society (remember, we are in an acephalous society). If one
wonders what happens to those who are not farmers but rather fishermen, the
answer is that we also know of “water-priests” (possibly the case of the
hulaholu of Hulagan/Grand Popo mentioned earlier). In addition we have
“iron-priests” among the blacksmiths. “Bush-priests” too figure in the
literature and refer probably to hunters.54
The next and most important point is that the ritual control of the land (or
the water or the iron, etc.) is formally inalienable – for reasons we are at a loss
to explain.
The “earth-priest” is, then, the first among equals in an acephalous society,
the visible head, as it were, of that society. But not all acephalous societies may
have been blessed with “earth-priests”; we can in fact imagine cases where all
the lineage-heads of the “owners of the land” collectively exercise the functions
of “earth-priest”.55
What happens when an acephalous society is transformed into something
else – let us say a genuine polity, or “realm” if one prefers, a transformation
usually related to the “wealth-in-people” paradigm? Concretely, where does
the king come from? The “earth-priest” is obviously a likely candidate. But so
is also the “iron-priest” in societies where there is a local lineage of blacksmiths,
which is usually the case (the blacksmiths always constitute a separate
kindred,56 and blacksmiths are renowned for their magical acumen). An
“earth-priest”-turned-king (to take that example) ceases to be a primus inter
pares. But if he acquires more power, the logic of the sacred societies holds that
he also acquires more responsibilities. He becomes in short a sacred king, and
as such the head of what we may call a “kingdom” (the persistent contention
65
that a kinship-type society is incompatible with “states” or “kingdoms” is one

which should be put to rest).
But the problem is that we know of many cases where the king and those of
his lineage either claim a foreign origin or are considered to have come from
somewhere else. This is the case of Yorubaland generally, as we have seen,
including Oyo (whose ruling kindred may have come from the land of the
Bariba, and not from Ife, as the traditions claim, indeed have to claim).57 We are
entering the field of the stranger-king, yet another universal archetype.58 Here
we are dealing with what we choose to call contrapuntal paramountcy, a term
originally coined by the anthropologist Jack Goody.59 What does it mean? We
must take as our point of departure the inalienable ritual control over the earth
exercised by the “owners of the land”. It is inalienable, and cannot then be
abolished by the incomers. Put differently, the right of conquest as such does not
exist, it is unfathomable. Hence an invading group of people needs to placate the
spirits of the indigenous inhabitants of the land they have conquered. What this
means in practice is that the newcomers have to establish, as noted already in the
preceding chapter, some sort of modus vivendi with the “owners of the land”; a
modus vivendi often sealed by a marriage arrangement, the incoming king
“marrying” in some sense a daughter of the “earth-priest”, a daughter who, still
in some sense, symbolizes Mother Earth. The result is precisely a contrapuntal
paramountcy, often presented as a sort of power-sharing arrangement, in which
the (incoming) king is surrounded by a council composed of the lineage-heads
of the firstcomers, the former “earth-priest” being perhaps the head of that
council. It is then this council which decides in the relevant cases whether the
king is still worthy of the favour of the deities, and hence of the humans, or not.60
But note that the king is frequently portrayed as the political-military head, and
the council-members as the religious leaders – and this cannot be the case. In
fact, the king is, by virtue of being a sacred king, always, and by definition, the
religious head of the polity, his sacredness having in a sense been delegated to
him by the “owners of the land” in the case of a contrapuntal-paramountcy
arrangement.61 Besides, the king has important religious functions to perform
in his own right, as the supreme priest of the cult of the ancestors of the royal
lineage, a lineage which is as a rule by far the most numerous. As a rule, because
we know of cases where the new ruler is expelled from his lineage and forced to
establish, so to speak, his own (fictitious) kindred.62
That being said, we think it can be argued that contrapuntal paramountcy
implies a sort of inbuilt tension in the relevant polities, Oyo being in this case
a paradigmatic example.63
66
One may imagine that the set-up outlined above could have been
perceived as a sort of straightjacket from the point of view of certain kings.
An important but complicating point is that contrapuntal paramountcy,
another universal phenomenon in our view, is not necessarily linked to the
stranger-king phenomenon and may not necessarily result from conquest as
such. It may be, for instance, that the local society finds it expedient for one
reason or another to appeal to a warrior-band for protection against external
enemies (or for that matter to appeal to a lineage of iron-smiths for the
necessary weapons). Furthermore, since an acephalous society is as a general
rule marked by a strong egalitarian ideology, and opposed to any “state”-like
setup, it makes sense, one could argue, to recruit the king, in case one turns
out to be needed, from outside the local society.64 Indeed, a sacred king is
reputed always to be over and above but also outside of the society, or at least
outside of the ranks of the farmers, always the vast majority of the local
population. Hence the cases of iron-priests becoming sacred kings, as in the
old kingdom of Kongo in our opinion (as we shall see). Also in Oyo? The
possibility cannot be excluded.65
The next question is what happens if a polity, whether characterized by a
contrapuntal paramountcy or not, tries or begins to expand. Generally, larger
entities came into being when, as in the Yoruba case, one “town” forced the
neighbouring ones into subjection (or persuaded them to submit), but
without annexing or annihilating them – they lost their independence, but
little else (the ruling community becoming, let us say, the metropolitan area
of the new enlarged polity, like Oyo Ile in Oyo). But if so, the principle of the
inalienable ritual control of the “owners of the land” remains, implying that
the “right of conquest” does not exist in this case either. What it means is that
if one conquers a neighbouring polity, one has to content oneself with what
could be called indirect rule, that is, with exacting some sort of tribute and
possibly imposing a governor in charge of supervising the locals, but otherwise
leaving intact the local institutional set-up and the local rulers,66 since the
position of those rulers has been sanctioned by supernatural powers. It is in
fact customary to retain the vanquished ruler as vassal lord, and/or to install
a close relative in his place. If the submitting polity is of the acephalous sort,
one can imagine that the king of the conquering polity sends out, say, a
younger son as governor, and that this younger son becomes the king of that
entity (in which case one can further imagine that a contrapuntal
paramountcy emerges). The new king and his successors will then all be
considered as the sons of the overall-king – in perpetuity.
67
But again we do not need to stipulate conquest. One may imagine for
instance that a local society (whether acephalous or not) finds it expedient in
some sense to relate itself to a powerful and prestigious centre which has arisen
somewhere close by, perhaps because the king of that centre is renowned for
his privileged access to supernatural powers, or/and for his exceptional mana
etc. In which case one could perhaps talk of ritual overlordship. Or it could be
that the above-mentioned local society simply acknowledges the overlordship
of that centre, or even invites some junior prince from thence to establish
himself as vassal-lord. Whatever the case, the kinship ideology (if so it can be
called) often permeated the relationship between the centre and its vassals
(Akinjogbin’s Ebi social theory, it can be suggested).
Now, having outlined the rules of the game, there were of course ways of
trying to get around them, of manipulating them. One way of doing so would
be to argue in the case of incomers that there were no local “owners of the
land”, that the land was simply empty when they arrived. Or alternatively that
the “owners of the land” were so few that they were quickly assimilated and
hence could be forgotten.67 Or it might be possible to manipulate the
genealogies to such an extent that the head of the incomers appears in some
sense to be the direct descendant of the founding ancestor(s) in lieu of the
“earth-priest”. But to manipulate implies acknowledging, in a sense, the rules
of the game. What is not acceptable is to blatantly disregard those rules, which
is precisely what the founders of Dahomey did. Besides, of course, it was one
thing to try to manipulate, quite another to succeed.
There existed actually at least one way of undoing altogether the rules of
the game listed above: to convert to a revealed religion. Those on offer in
Africa were Christianity and Islam. Neither holds the earth to be sacred, and
both are formally incompatible with a kinship-type society and with ancestor
worship, and also with sacred kingship. Christianity or Islam implies, in other
words, doing away with “earth-priests”, the “owners of the land”, contrapuntal
paramountcy, ritual regicide, sacred kingship and so on. It can also imply
replacing lineage-appointed senior chiefs with royal appointees.
But again, it was one thing to try to impose a revealed religion – and as we
shall see, surprisingly many rulers on the Slave Coast seem to have toyed with
the idea – and quite another to succeed.
68
4
SOME CONCRETE, PRACTICAL IMPLICATIONS
We need a description of what we may call the religious world of the people
of the Slave Coast. The idea is not to present a comprehensive overview but to
extract what we need for our understanding.
There were two worlds: Kutome, the invisible one, and Gbetome, the land
of people, the two constituting a coherent whole.1 The invisible world was
inhabited by the deities, often deified ancestors, vodun among the Fon and
related groups, trowo (sing. tro) among the Ewe and orishas among the
Yoruba.2 And according to Roberto Pazzi, happiness consisted for a human
being in maintaining oneself in perfect equilibrium with the invisible world.3
Communications or links between the two worlds were through prayers,
sacrifices, rituals, oracles, divination, and later also possession dances.4 Each
world could affect the other. And neglected and/or angered deities could
injure and even kill.5 But humans could also try to appropriate the deities,
manipulate them, as it were, for their own purpose.6
The vodun could then be good or bad, benevolent or nasty, even lethal in
the case especially of Legba, the “trickster”, or devil, to whom everyone
everywhere presented offerings (unless Legba the devil is the product of
missionary conception).7 That is, some provided protection, others one
needed to protect oneself against; some were dormant, waiting to be
“captured”; and some dwindled into oblivion for lack of attention on the
part of the humans, although they could “resurrect” at a later stage.8 Or as it
has been expressed, humans and deities mirrored one another in West
African philosophies.9
69
Naturally, there are scholars who argue that it is more complicated than
that. Suzanne Preston Blier has for instance defined the vodun as “mysterious
forces or powers that govern the world and the lives of those who reside
within it”10 – the word “power” (or force) again. And Roger Brand argues that
the word vodun is untranslatable. According to him, vodun calls to mind or
relates to an idea of mystery and designs what partakes of the divine; it relates
to all manifestations of a force we cannot define. Or else vodun means power
and to tap into that power source means access to authority.11 All this is noted.
But before going on, a parenthesis for those who wonder about the link
between the vodun of the Slave Coast and the vodou or voodoo cults of Haitian
fame, but also known from places such as New Orleans: there is no question
that the latter derive from the former, but the specialists tell us that it is an
error to postulate a simple transfer of religious beliefs from the Slave Coast to
America. Haitian vodou, which we associate primarily with magic, has in fact
been deeply transformed, we are also told, by the experience of the local slave
population.12 That being said, the existence of voodoo cults in Haiti, and
similar cults elsewhere in America, and their survival to the present day,
indicate that many slaves imported to America from the Slave Coast must
have come from that coast itself, as opposed to other places further afield.13
Now, there were different types of vodun (or trowo). There were the tutelary
deities, there were the deified ancestors, there were the vodun who personalized
the various forces of nature. Some of those deities became “national”, in the
sense that they received a name and were worshipped by many different groups.
A pantheon in the making? We repeat that opinions vary.
But if a pantheon there was (from what time?), the most obvious candidate
for the top position is Mawu-Liisa, a dual or twin vodun, often presented as
the all-powerful supreme being or beings, the master(s) of the universe14 – but
with Mawu often as the leading of the two (called Nyigble among the Ewe
according to certain authors, and both male and female,15 except in Anlo
where the name is Awu, obviously a variant of Mawu16). As the supreme deity,
Mawu-Liisa (he and she) created the world, but then retired, so to speak. A
classic deus otiosus in other words, and as such not the object of any cult.17 In
some versions, the other voduns are presented as the “children” of Mawu-
Liisa,18 including the famous Sakpata sent to rule the earth.19 If so, Mawu-
Liisa had an enormous amount of children, since the voduns were literally
without number.20 But we cannot rule out the possibility of “contagion” from
Christianity, since Mawu is the name adopted locally for the Christian God.21
There are of course many complicating details, one being the belief that Aido-
70
Hwedo, the primordial serpent, was not the child of Mawu and even existed
before Mawu-Liisa.22
Apart from Mawu-Liisa, among the best-known vodun who have names we
have already encountered Sakpata, Legba and Hu; the latter being, as already
noted, the meanest of the deities.23 We may mention in addition, inter alia,
Hevioso – a thunder-god, but also linked to water24 – and Gu, the deity of the
blacksmiths (Ogun among the Yoruba).25 But their shape was often very
imprecise, they floated over one another and may have been in actual fact
manifestations, or personifications or something of the sort, of others, including
Mawu-Liisa; or they may have constituted, say, “a separate conception” of the
Supreme Being,26 whatever that may mean exactly; or there may have been many
voduns in one. Also, the deities interacted with one another in the spirit world.
But the deity which is of supreme interest for our purpose is Sakpata. In
order to understand the role and position of Sakpata, we will have to both
recapitulate and anticipate: Dahomey was founded, we have learned, by a group
of outsiders who did not respect the rules of the game as defined above. That is,
instead of seeking a modus vivendi with the indigenous population, that is, the
“earth-priests”, they killed them and usurped their position. Hence no
contrapuntal paramountcy emerged. What is more, the conquered polities were
simply annexed, incorporated into Dahomey, and erased from the map. It is in
this context highly significant that the Dahomeans always tried, as we shall see,
to wipe out completely the ruling lineages of the polities they conquered.
But nothing of this went unchallenged. And this is where Gu and especially
Sakpata come into the picture. Sakpata was or became a many-faceted vodun
or even perhaps a series of voduns, which seems originally to have been the
deity (or deities) of the smallpox, but were also linked to thunder and
lightning – and hence possibly the “rival” of Hevioso earlier. But above all,
Sakpata, whenever that vodun emerged, replaced and/or took up in him the
cult of the earth, the earth deities and fertility. Sakpata became in sum the
“fetish” of the earth, the aïkoungbanvôdun.27 Sakpata’s ritual names were in
fact ayihosu or king of the earth and aïnon,28 the latter being precisely the
“title” of the old “earth-priests” as indicated above (aï or ayi alone means earth
and the earth deity,29 anyigba among the Ewe). In brief, Sakpata became the
symbol, the rallying cry, the banner and so on, of those who had not accepted,
and in our view never accepted, what it is tempting to qualify as “foreign
illegitimate rule”. Indeed, Sakpata (together with Gu of the black-smiths)
provided the basis for a solid and durable opposition to the monarchy,30 one
which wielded a redoubtable arm, that of smallpox, a major scourge on the
71
Slave Coast then, earlier and later, including among the slaves exported to the
Americas.31 In fact, Sakpata manifested his wrath on many occasions; several
Dahomean kings died of the disease, and important military campaigns failed
because it wrought havoc in the ranks of the army.32
In brief, the rulers of Dahomey never managed to eliminate or even to get
around the opposition symbolized by Sakpata. Not for want of trying – they
had in a sense no choice but to try, since in Africa of old the golden rule was
that political and religious power were always inextricably linked.
Our point of view is that the rulers of Dahomey were always short on
legitimacy, and that was why they had to resort to what we would call terror.
Indeed, they tried to institute a regime of a markedly totalitarian bent; a
regime in which the subjects were all simply slaves of the king. They tried but
never really succeeded. We disagree, in sum, with those historians who argue
that the religious prestige of the king of Dahomey was enormous.33
***
We consider it necessary to try to place the Dahomean case in a wider
comparative context. In brief, was Dahomey the sole exception that confirms
the rule in the larger region, if not Africa-wide, or are there other exceptions
as well?
We begin with the ancient polity of Kongo far to the southeast. The way
we interpret the relevant literature34 is that Kongo, before the arrival of the
Portuguese towards the end of the fifteenth century, was certainly
characterized by contrapuntal paramountcy. But with the Portuguese came
the “temptation” represented by Christianity. In brief, the sacred kings of
Kongo, especially the one known as Afonso I (1509–42),35 tried to impose the
new creed on the local population. But in this they failed, in our opinion. For
although Christianity did acquire a certain foothold, the Kongolese kings
triggered off a sort of permanent civil war which fuelled the slave trade,
converting the Congo-Angola region (the West-Central region of the
Database) into the leading purveyor of slaves for America (Kongo is the name
of a polity, Congo that of a region).
The little-known, small and nearly inaccessible Warri kingdom of Itsekiri
in the Niger delta is perhaps another case in point. It was founded by a royal
prince from Benin, one of whose successors converted to Christianity late in
the sixteenth century, followed by his subjects, who were described as
enthusiastic converts. In fact, the royal dynasty remained Christian
throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, even though missionary
72
visits were very few and infrequent – but apparently not longer.36 What
happened? We do not know.
In the case of the northern neighbour of Itsekiri-Warri, the much more
imposing kingdom of Benin, we believe that a strong case can be made for
arguing that the establishment of a typically sacred kingship, by people
connected in some way with Ife, was accompanied by the emergence of
contrapuntal paramountcy. But at some later stage the local king tried to put
an end to that system, apparently without the aid of Christianity, although it
is said that the king in question showed himself willing to receive missionaries
from São Tomé. However, in Benin too the consequences were negative,
namely a long civil war (we are possibly in the 1680s and 1690s), with the
result that Benin lost its position as the dominant polity of the wider region.37
North of Benin we come to the vast Yorubaland where, we repeat,
everything is clear cut (to the present author, that is): most Yoruba polities
were apparently established by outsiders and virtually all were characterized
by a contrapuntal paramountcy, Oyo very much included. And in Yorubaland
as elsewhere, kingship is in a sense incompatible with the ideals implied in a
kinship-type society, yet is at the same time indispensable for avoiding
discords among the descent groups.38
There are, however, some polities which show certain “anomalies”, primarily
the “new” polity of Lagos (on the Slave Coast this time) which emerged from
late in the seventeenth century onwards when the office of viceroy of Benin
became hereditary and was turned into an autonomous monarchy, and the
viceroy converted into an Oba. There existed a group, the ìdéjo, who represented,
and were considered to be, the original “owners of the land”. But the relationship
between the Oba and the ìdéjo does not seem to have amounted to a full-fledged
contrapuntal paramountcy. In fact, the leaders of the ìdéjo, the olófin, after
leading the resistance against the incoming Edo from Benin, disappeared out of
sight. But the relationship between the royal dynasty and the ìdéjo chieftaincy
families continued (significantly?) to be an uneasy one.39
As for the small Yoruba polities just north of the Slave Coast, in the case of
Dassa-Zoumé all we know is that the indigenous people, the máhàhún, were
recognized as the rightful owners of the land and as such had the custody of
rituals connected with the land.40
With regard to Ketu, a polity founded by immigrants from Ife, the ritual
murder of several kings and the position and role of the “owners of the land”
loom large. Some, possibly many, of the indigenous lineages were at least
represented in the state council.41
73
North and west of the Yoruba, among the Gur-speaking Bariba of Borgu
whose ruling elite speaks a Manding language, there seems to be little doubt
that we encounter a typical contrapuntal paramountcy set-up.42
Let us now move to the Akan of the Gold Coast and especially to the
imposing kingdom of Asante which emerged around 1701 at the expense of
Denkyira (and in the tropical rain forest, an environment not considered
appropriate for “state formation”).43 Asante was certainly not characterized by
a contrapuntal paramountcy, and there was no reason for it to be so
characterized, for the simple reason that there is nowhere any trace of non-
Akan people or of migration, whether in the oral traditions or in the European
sources (no Guan people having been encountered).44 Indeed, the Akan and
their rulers claim that they emerged from a number of holes or caves in the
ground (at Adansi), or alternatively descended from the sky,45 types of legend
generally considered, as noted, to be a sure sign of indigenous status. There are
then no “owners of the land” distinct from the rest of the population. In fact,
the amanhene (sing. omanhene), the heads of the original and component
Asante polities (aman, sing. oman) held significantly also the title of asase
wura which can be translated as “earth-priest” (derived from asase yaa, the
female deity or spirit of the earth).46 It should be noted that inside Asante each
territory and each village was a self-governing community47 – fitting almost
perfectly Akinjogbin’s Ebi social theory. Note also that when Asante
expanded, subjugating a great number of polities, the internal autonomy of
those polities was respected,48 that is, the Asante conquerors abided by the
rules of the game (although resident commissioners were appointed from the
1760s).49 That this led at times to rather confusing situations in which polities
which were vassals of the Asantehene, the supreme ruler in Kumasi (originally
the omanhene of the oman of Kumasi), waged war against each other and
occasionally even against the Asantehene, is another matter.50
Moving north of the Akan (and even further away from the Slave Coast),
we come to the quintessential “contrapuntal paramountcy” region, if so it can
be expressed, that of Gonja and its neighbours, a region conquered by Asante
(note, however, that many local societies were and remained acephalous).51
Contrapuntal paramountcy is also very much in evidence among the Mossi
even further north, in present-day northern Ghana and especially in
neighbouring Burkina Faso.52
Moving south again, to the central coastal region of the Gold Coast, the
land of the southern Akan, or Fante, we note that the Fante have a tradition
of migration from the north. There are in fact ample traces of a pre-Fante
74
population in the shape of the Kpesi and/or Etsi (Guan people?) who were
considered to be the local original “owners of the land”. But since no genuine
monarchy emerged – the Fante remained acephalous, or were constituted in
what Rebecca Shumway calls mini-states which eventually formed a sort of
confederation53 – there was in a sense no need for a contrapuntal
paramountcy.
There were also Kpesi (and/or Kple) among the Ga further east – they too
were considered to be the “owners of the land”. Note the position of the sitse,
the senior wulomo or priest, and obviously a Kpesi. In fact, land was considered
to be “owned” by the gods of the Kpesi.54
But then there is Akwamu, a polity which rose to prominence after it
conquered the Ga kingdom of Accra in ca. 1680. And in fact Akwamu is of
considerable interest for our purpose. Akwamu may be another polity which
did not respect the rules of the game, at least not after 1689, which is the date
Ivor Wilks gives for a sort of coup d’état organized by the military leaders and
resulting in the loss of power by the traditional chiefs.55 What is more, the
rulers of Akwamu after 1689 certainly did not behave like, and cannot
possibly be described as, sacred kings.
Given all this, our conclusion is that we are dealing with, not one but two
exceptions that confirm the rule: Dahomey and Akwamu. But Akwamu,
which also became heavily involved in the slave trade, displayed much less
staying-power than Dahomey, since the polity was destroyed in 1730 –
although a sort of rump-Akwamu survived east of the Volta river after that
date, where it subjugated Ewe communities, and made its presence felt now
and then on the rest of the Slave Coast.
***
We return to the Slave Coast properly speaking. And here we repeat what is
implicit in the above, that Dahomey was unique, implying that all the other
polities, including those which Dahomey conquered, conformed roughly to
the “traditional” model elaborated above. We will have occasion to test those
claims when we turn to the chronological overview.
However, for the time being we deem it necessary to have a closer look at
the Ewe (or Vhe) block of the Western or Little Slave Coast between the
rivers Volta and Mono. The Ewe do not fit into the dichotomy with which we
have operated so far, that between acephalous societies on the one hand and
societies which developed kingly institutions on the other, whether within the
framework of the contrapuntal-paramountcy variant or not. Eweland presents
75
us with a sort of third in-between case, that of “chieftainship” societies – for

want of a better expression.
Our point of departure is that according to many local traditions, all the Ewe
originated from one place, namely the town of Notsé (so named on modern
road maps – Nuatja earlier), which still exists to-day, a small backwater town
(possibly 22,000 inhabitants) situated some 95 km from the coast in present-day
central Togo. The traditions speak of a wholesale exodus from Notsé in order to
escape the tyrannical rule of the king of that locality. The view is that the Notsé
experience cured the Ewe forever of anything to do with kingship.56
Is it really the case that all the Ewe came from Notsé (Nuatja) and that they
spread out over and settled a region previously empty of people, or at least so
thinly populated that the original inhabitants were quickly and easily
assimilated? Many modern historians and anthropologists have their doubts.57
They argue in substance that the story was fabricated by, once more, the
German missionaries, who felt it necessary to try to convert the Ewe into a
genuine nation, a Volk. They point in particular to the apparent fact that there
were several traditions, later suppressed, which refer to other origins than
Notsé. Also, many Ewe traditions admit earlier settlers, a point we shall return
to, whoever those earlier settlers may have been58 – we do not know, although
the Hula come to mind.
It is, above all, a fact that many of the small polities (dukowo, singular
duko) – no less than 120, approximately – of which Eweland was traditionally
made up59 were characterized by an institutional set-up reminiscent of, if not
identical to, contrapuntal paramountcy. Hence the by now familiar distinction
between the original “owners of the land” and the latecomers, and the title of
duto (or anyigtao, also written anyigbafio/fia), which may be translated as
“earth-priest”.60 What is clear also is that the “political” chief, the dufia, is not
of the stock of the “owners of the land” (nor is he, for that matter, a genuine
sacred king). Incidentally, the office alternated often between two or more
lineages, a device designed obviously to avoid any excessive accumulation of
power. There was also a state council, the fiaha made up among others of the
“great priests”, a council which could destool the dufia.61
A case somewhat apart, even in Eweland, is that of coastal Anlo, by far the
largest of the Ewe polities (followed incidentally by that of Peki in the
interior).62 Anlo is variously presented as one duko or as a confederation of
dukowo (no less that 36 according to Gayibor),63 that is, dukowo which had
decided to cooperate for defensive purposes64 (the -wo ending indicates the
plural). The ruler, the awoamefia in Anloga (compare with the title of
76
mawoafia in Notsé, and with Awu, the local name for Mawu, alongside with
Nyigble), is presented as a rain-maker, who had to be free from any physical
blemish and lived in seclusion indoors. In fact, only a few elders of the nation
had access to him.65 In sum, the awoamefia, who could be destooled if
necessary,66 strikes one as more akin to a sacred king than a “mere” chief.
But we need to add that the position of the awoamefia alternated between
two (or possibly more) clans, primarily the Bate and the Adzovia.67 In addition
he was surrounded by a state council of kingmakers, made up of other clans
(especially Lafe and Almade), precisely those clans which provided the
hereditary religious specialists in each settlement, and as such were recognized
as the ritual “owners of the land”. A near-perfect contrapuntal paramountcy in
sum, had it not been for one jarring detail: all the clans mentioned above, and
in fact all the people of Anlo, claim descent from Notsé.68 The easy way out
would be to argue that it cannot be the case and that the specialists have got
it wrong somehow. Or that the events of the seventeenth century and later, to
which we shall return shortly, altered the situation. But if the original
population has disappeared officially, it so happens that the last to disappear
were deified, because it was recognized that the indigenous inhabitants had
spiritual authority over the land.69 Among those last indigenes-turned-deities
we find especially Mama Bate, possibly the leading local divinity alongside
with Nyigble.70 But here comes another jarring detail: Mama Bate has given
her name to, and is associated with the Bate clan, which as we have seen is one
of the clans which provides the awoamefia. The other one, that of the Adzovia,
is incidentally associated with strong supernatural forces having to do with
blacksmithing,71 possibly a significant detail.
But if all the details do not fit together, assuming that the anthropologists
can be trusted – or that some people have somewhere along the line indulged
in extensive manipulation for reasons unknown – the conclusion is clear: this
case (that of Anlo plus that of Eweland more generally) belongs to the
“traditional” variant, not the Dahomey/Akwamu one.
So what about the Notsé story in all this? It is difficult to tell, one of the
reasons being that we have, as far as the present author knows, no genuine
in-depth study of Notsé itself, whether historical or anthropological.72 We
limit ourselves to pointing out that numerous Ewe polities still acknowledge
the ritual primacy of the ruler of Notsé, according to Robin Law,73 a ruler who
also wore the title of anyigbafio, and that there used to be an exchange of gifts
with the chief of Notsie on the accession of each new awoamefia.74
***
77
We have to return to a theme mentioned fleetingly earlier, that of the so-called

festivals celebrated in most polities, such as for instance the famous annual
Odwira festival in Asante,75 and the many similar festivals known from
Yorubaland.76 They represent the moment when the past, rehearsed in the
present, was projected into the future, according to Tom McCaskie.77 That is,
the distance between the past and the present is abolished, what happened in
the past, often the founding of the polity, is actually happening again. All this
has to do with an important concept, namely that of time, a concept the
Africanists have been reluctant to explore, and one that our sources are
certainly not very eloquent about. However, it does seem possible to argue
that most Africans of old had very different understandings and
representations of space and especially of time compared with those prevalent
in the modern Western world.
Now, the way we have understood it,78 the past presents us with basically
three different concepts of time. The first and most obvious is the familiar
linear one which has it that whatever happened in the past will never happen
again. It is associated with the emergence of the revealed religions which all
introduced a year zero (or year one, if one prefers): the birth of the Christ, the
flight of the Prophet from Mecca to Medina, and so on. The opposite, the
circular time concept, naturally implies the contrary. We doubt, however, that
many societies of the past were characterized by such a time concept. Which
leads us to the third and in-between category, a linear concept encapsulated in
a circular one:79 that is, one counts days, weeks, months, years etc. in a linear
fashion, but at the end of a certain cycle (possibly after a long process of
deterioration), the past will eventually return some way or other and one starts
afresh. And/or the past returns and/or is reenacted at regular intervals, in
ceremonies and rituals, including the festivals mentioned. In societies like this
the past of the historian is in a sense irrelevant. Or if it exists, only those
moments of the past which are of transcendental importance for a society,
again basically the founding moments, are remembered.80
It is difficult to back this general overview up with hard evidence in the
concrete case of the Slave Coast. It is true that the only scholar who has
investigated the matter in some depth, the anthropologist Claude Savary,
argues that the concept of time of the Fon and neighbouring groups was
clearly of the non-linear type.81 But in the sources there are only references to
“the utter insignificance of the value of time with” the locals82 or the “very
vague notions of time” they displayed.83 As for Robin Law, he argues that the
Dahomeans possessed a sense of linear chronology at least superficially
78
analogous to that of modern historical thought,84 a suitably ambiguous

statement. But he also notes that what he calls historical knowledge was
treated as having inherent power, analogous to certain ritual objects,85 thus
echoing Jacques Lombard’s point that history was a royal monopoly.86 We are
dealing here with a concept of the past and hence also of time which does not
square well with the linear scheme.
Our conclusion is that a linear concept of time is not much in evidence
among the people of the Slave Coast of old. The implications should be obvious.
79
5
A FEW COMMENTS ON CERTAIN

ECONOMIC MATTERS
It is time to change the subject and to turn to economic matters. The first
purpose of this short chapter is to have a cursory look at the existing models
and theories regarding the economy of the Slave Coast (mainly Dahomey)
and the slave trade. The second is to propose some alternative points of view.
The pioneer in this context was Karl Polanyi, who had an enviable
reputation before he plunged into the past of Dahomey in the 1960s.1 Polanyi
argued that Dahomey was characterized by an archaic economy, a relatively
new concept which he did not define properly, and that the slave trade forced
itself upon that inland country. The reaction of the rulers, rulers incidentally
accepted as of divine origin, was to isolate the slave trade from the rest of the
economy and society through a tight royal monopoly, and especially through
establishing a sort of administered port, that of Ouidah-Glehue, cut off from
the rest of the economy. In brief, the purpose was to control and to minimize
the economic influence of the European trade, in order to protect indigenous
social institutions and values from the corrosive impact of market forces.
Polanyi noted in this context the irrelevance of the profit motive, and talked
about gainless barter (implying thus that the slave trade was a barter).2 Note
that in Polanyi’s scheme of things Dahomey and the Dahomean monarchy
predated the slave trade.
As one can see, Polanyi’s affirmations are not easily reconciled with what
has been argued so far in this book. They are in fact “empirically
unsustainable”, as Robin Law has pointed out.3 Polanyi committed the deadly
81
sin of indulging in some quite extravagant extrapolations, based on inadequate

research – he does not seem to have visited any archive, or collected oral
traditions. That said, we need to add that many of Polanyi’s articles on the
slave trade and the Slave Coast do provide food for thought.
Other scholars believe that the classic Marxist concept of mode of
production is applicable. Georg Elwert in particular argues that
“Sklavenraub” – that is, robbery of slaves – must be considered as a separate
mode of production, and that it was characteristic of Dahomey.4 As for
Roberta Kilkenny, she opts, quite simply, for the slave mode of production,
defined by her as the domination of the production process by slave labour,
with effective possession of slave labour by a separate class of slave owners.5
There is also the family mode of production, as befitting a kinship-type
society. There is finally the interesting twist proposed by Jack Goody who
wonders if it may not be more relevant to talk of the means of destruction
rather than production.6
Goody apart, what can we say? That it all sounds appealing, but that it is
not very informative, and does not get us very far.
Among those who have tried to be somewhat more specific, David Eltis
and Lawrence C. Jennings have argued that the Atlantic slave trade was not
on a sufficient in scale to have had a major impact on West African economic
and political development, except for the case of some (unspecified) coastal
regions. Their stance has been interpreted as implying that trade with the
Atlantic world made no difference to the history of Western Africa between
1600 and 1860.7 As for the (still unspecified) coastal regions themselves, J.E.
Inikori (incidentally a critic of Eltis and Jennings) believes that “The coastal
economies became typical parasitic enclave economies, with little productive
but largely disruptive links to the economies in the hinterland”.8 Inikori also
argues that the reduction of currency imports in the Bight of Benin is a clear
sign that the internal trade, whether regional or interregional, and the
development of the market economy were all in decline at the beginning of
the nineteenth century.9
Are these scholars correct? Frankly, we have no idea. But we wonder how
they can know what they claim to know.
Robin Law represents a reaction to all this. Indeed, he tried in a number
of articles, following in the footsteps of Marion Johnson, to lay a solid
empirical foundation for the economic history of the region, a genuinely
quantitative economic history at that.10 But to take a short cut, at the risk of
not valuing justly that part of Law’s scholarship (or of unveiling the present
82
A FEW COMMENTS ON CERTAIN ECONOMIC MATTERS
author’s limited understanding of matters economic), it seems to us that

beyond a certain general level, the results were not up to expectations, which
prompted Law to abandon his scheme. The same occurred in a sense with
Patrick Manning’s attempt already alluded to, of writing a general and
quantitatively oriented economic history of Dahomey from 1640, complete
with statistics.
The very limited amount of hard statistical evidence and other economic
facts that one can squeeze out of the sources is capable of defeating even the
most tenacious of scholars.
***
We believe it necessary to start with two elementary points: the first is that the
great majority of the people of the Slave Coast were farmers, with fishing and
hunting as subsidiary activities. But one visitor emphasized that the people of
Ouidah-Glehue/Dahomey manufactured “cotton cloths of a most excellent
quality & possessing great durability”. He went on to argue that they wove
grass cloths, for common use, which in his opinion were “always beautifully
variegated”.11 A handicraft industry in the making? Could something have
come of it?
The second, but often somewhat strangely overlooked point is that if the
societies of the Slave Coast were structurally very different from those of, for
instance, the Western world, the same must also be the case of the economy.
Indeed, if the Western world was during the period under scrutiny on the road
to global hegemony thanks to the emergence of a capitalist growth economy
blazing the way for an industrial revolution, the situation in Africa must have
been very different. One could say in effect that its economy was the exact
opposite of a capitalist growth economy. But what is that opposite?
At this stage we encounter yet another epistemological problem, the one
the science of economy or economics presents us with. That science originated
in an emerging capitalist world, a world that its central paradigms and
assumptions reflect (yet another incestuous relationship, in sum). Indeed,
economics are based on the rational actor model, or rational choice theory –
that is, humans will rationally pursue profit,12 and profit in the capitalist sense
of the term. To this we must add the law of supply and demand. The trouble,
however, is that theory and that law suppose an individualistic society, not a
sacred kinship-type society in which the ideal of solidarity among the
members of one’s kindred is paramount. Hence the economic behaviour of the
people of the Slave Coast cannot be adequately explained by concepts drawn
83
from market economics. Nor, for that matter, can it be explained by Marxist
concepts which constitute the antithesis of market economics, but function
nevertheless within the same framework or logic.
The opposite of a capitalist growth economy may be said to be a moral and/
or an ostentatory one, concepts which do not figure in the pages of Adam
Smith’s Wealth of Nations. We have to do with suitably vague concepts – they
are meant to be so. However, the essence of the moral economy is first, that it
is focused on the collective (the kindred), not the individual, and second, that
what tradition (that is, the ancestors) prescribes is of prime importance. But if
so, what were the consequences at the concrete, practical level? For instance,
what happened to whatever the Africans earned from the slave trade? As far as
we know, those earnings meant the possibility of lavishing more offerings to the
supernatural world,13 and accumulating wives, slaves and dependents, that is,
retainers of all sorts, the traditional power-basis in Africa (the “wealth-in-
people” paradigm again). They meant, finally, the possibility of cementing the
important patron-client relations. In this context the big man, or rather the
powerful kindred, is not the one that accumulates, but the one that publicly
displays wealth, in part by spending lavishly (the ostentatory dimension), and
distributes, or is at least perceived to do so – but at the end of the day somehow
manages to end up with a huge profit (in Western terms). In the case of the
polities of the Slave Coast what helped enormously in this respect were all the
taxes, duties, excises, tolls, rents and gifts paid to the various monarchs,
including very many paid by the Europeans.
Distribution was of what, exactly? Goods obviously, especially goods from
far away, that is goods which carried prestige for one reason or another (not
necessarily because of their value in the market), plus wives and retainers etc.,
but also, and perhaps above all, goods which might generate the indispensable
blessings of the ancestors and of the supranatural sphere.14 In this world,
concepts such as entrepreneurship and investment (in productive
undertakings, that is) are unknown. Therefore, and at the limit, whatever
amounts one injects of, let us say, money and wealth in such societies has a
tendency to disappear into thin air (from a “rational” point of view, that is).
As for wealthy traders, to the extent that they exist, they are suspect by
definition; first, because their wealth can only have been acquired through
reprehensible means such as witchcraft (the idea that there is a link between
hard work and wealth is not much in evidence); and second, because they pose
a threat to those in command. Wealth has to follow one’s formal position in
society, by definition, not the other way around. The emergence of a more or
84
less autonomous commercial-mercantile sector is therefore resisted. In

Western Europe capitalism, in our view, broke through the moment those in
power, the Catholic Church included, were no longer able to contain that
sector, which attained some sort of autonomy. Or put differently, the
economic sphere ceased to submit to the political and/or religious sphere, it
liberated itself to some extent from those spheres (this happened first in the
city-states of Northern Italy in the high Middle Ages).15 Nothing of the sort
occurred on the Slave Coast, where, as we have tried to demonstrate, the
economic sphere was never divorced from the religious one.
In sum, to try to force the economy of West Africa of old into the concepts
invented by Western economists will not work.
But to return to Robin Law – he may well be correct in stressing the highly
commercialized and market-responsive character of the domestic economy of
Dahomey, and in arguing that wealth derived from European trade had a
multiplier effect.16 That trade functioned as an enormous stimulus to the
domestic economy, although it accentuated considerably what from a Western
point of view were social inequalities.17
So there existed a commercial, market-based sector of some importance
if we are to believe Law, and we do; a by-product of the European trade, and
as such, by definition, monetized. But to embark on a very long detour, the
money in question was principally the famous cowries. The cowries we are
well informed about, they have aroused the curiosity of a number of
researchers. Cowries are simply shells, but not any shells, in fact light, very
solid and durable shells imported exclusively from the small Maldives
islands in the Indian Ocean. They are the shell money of the slave trade, to
quote the title of a well-known book.18 Only the English and the Dutch had
access to those islands and those shells, implying that the French, the Danes,
the Portuguese and the others had to buy them from their Anglo-Dutch
rivals.19 But the cost of acquiring cowries was staggeringly high for all, it has
been argued.20 Now, it is quite clear that all slave ships had to carry a large
amount of cowries. How large is however open to debate,21 as is also, more
generally, the role and function of that very special currency. The first point
is that cowries are a very bulky currency, and hence limited to relatively
small-scale transactions; it was the currency of the poor, says Polanyi.22 And
the second point is that the local authorities, whoever they may have been,
could in no way control its supply. Nor, naturally, were the cowries
convertible. In fact, they were often part of a multiple currency system,
serving as small change alongside, for instance, gold – and slaves.23 Note
85
finally that cowries were at times more than just money, since they were also
used in magico-religious ceremonies.24
Slaves as currency? On the Slave Coast the value of goods was indeed
expressed in terms of the quantity of goods equivalent to one slave.25 We
presume that this is what is called in the sources a pieza de Indias, that is, a
healthy adult male (pieza is Portuguese for “thing “or “piece”).26 Hence, for
instance, one and a half female slaves, or, say, three child slaves could correspond
at certain moments to one pieza de Indias. With regard to European goods, a
basket of such-and-such a quantity of articles corresponded then to the price
of a pieza de Indias. The question which immediately comes to mind is who
decided upon the content of that basket, and how that decision was taken; and
on those concrete questions the sources and our experts are remarkably silent.
Is there something the rest of us have not understood?
Then, from probably the 1760s/70s the so-called ounce system spread to
Ouidah from the Gold Coast where it originated.27 So the question was which
assortment of trade goods could be exchanged for one ounce of gold. Hence
two units of account emerged, or put another way, two currencies existed at
the same time.28 But in the case of the ounce system, the problem is the same,
namely who decided what was the equivalent in trade goods of the famous
ounce, and how.
The broader questions are, first, what the Africans got for their slaves and
second, who “won” or who “lost” – who got the “best” deal? A.G. Hopkins
has argued in respect to the first question that the European ships came to
resemble “floating supermarkets”,29 offering a very broad range of commodities.
However, practical cloth, especially Indian fabrics, and metal goods clearly
dominated. If we add cowries, alcohol, Brazilian tobacco plus pipes, and
increasingly firearms and powder – consumer articles all – we have said what
needs to be said30 (pipes, clay pipes included, were also produced locally).31
The trouble, from the European point of view, was that African tastes, and
therefore also African demand, fluctuated widely with time and place, making
it very difficult to compose an adequate cargo.32
The second question, the who-lost-and-who-won question, is basically
unanswerable, since it all depends on what we compare with and in which
context we contemplate it all, considering once more the fact that Africans and
Europeans functioned in different economic worlds. Here is a case of cross-
cultural trade in which it is futile to try to establish anything resembling a
balance-sheet.33 The same object may have different meanings and be valued
differently depending on the different sides of the cultural divide – Nicolas
86
Thomas’ “Entangled Objects”.34 Hence, a bundle of goods which was expensive

in Europe may have fetched fewer slaves in Africa than a less expensive one, or
vice versa,35 which could lead to a very complex bargaining situation. And, as
hinted above, some items may have been regarded by the Africans as attributes
of status and as such reserved for elite consumption.36 But again, who fixed the
price and how? However, Polanyi points out that no troubles arising from what
he calls the “rates of trade” are on record.37 In other words, it was perfectly
possible for both sides to consider themselves the “winners”. In fact, if the slave
trade lasted for some 400 years, it is evident that both sides, or at least those in
power on both sides, considered the trade to be to their advantage.
What is clear, in any case, is that the competition on the European side was
intense. It leads us to believe that the prices were always close to the ceiling of
what the Europeans thought they could afford to pay, and that no real “goods-
dumping” occurred.
But to return to Robin Law’s comments quoted above: as we see it, the
point is not how many or few goods found their way to the market-place or
how transactions were made and/or organized, and/or to what degree money
entered into the picture. Rather, the point is what the earnings were fuelled
into, the finality of it all. And in this respect we must remember that certain
“modern” economic practices such as increased commercialization and
monetarization, although they may in the end contribute to destroy structures
which are more or less “traditional” – that is, anti-capitalist – may also have
exactly the opposite effect, that of bolstering the “traditional” (or “neo-
traditional”) structures: if, that is, the doses are manageable, which they do
seem to have been in West Africa.
Let us now move upstream, as it were, to the production of slaves. And here
we begin by noting that slave-raiding (the production of slaves) has been
defined at the macroeconomic level by E.W. Evans and David Richardson as a
hunter-gatherer and rent-seeking activity which was the exclusive domain of
“states”.38 Hence, “earnings from the slave trafficking largely accrued to the
social and political elites…for whom rent seeking became an important
activity”.39 But the present author fails to understand why slave-raiding,
defined as a hunter-gatherer activity, has to be the exclusive domain of “states”.
He notes, furthermore, that the sources are full of transactions in which only
one or two slaves were sold, and sold by individuals.40
But more generally, what is the link between warfare and the slave trade?
For instance, is it true, as Robin Law has argued, that war was a major source
of material enrichment?41 It does sound logical. It is in fact tempting to agree
87
with Law that warfare was probably “an especially important activity in
precolonial West Africa…an industry in its own right”. Indeed, “The
importance of slaves, both in the internal economies and as a commodity for
export, contributed to the institutionalization of warfare: for the procuring of
slaves depended upon organized violence. War, therefore, was an economic
activity.”42 To which one feels like adding that it always is, anyway.
But if we are correct in believing that Dahomey, the most militaristic and
belligerent of the Slave Coast polities, was not particularly successful in the
economic field, including the slave trade, then we can go on to argue that
warfare proved in the end detrimental to trade. It is of course true that “the
procuring of slaves depended upon organized violence”, though probably far
from exclusively so. But the problem is where that violence occurred and in
which forms; for instance, how “decentralized”, how “spread out” it was, how
large the “catchment area” was. And in this respect we are left with the
impression that Dahomey committed two major sins, first that of neglecting
the middleman trade (as Robin Law emphasizes), and second that of
concentrating its raiding activities on a much too small area, rarely venturing
further afield than its own backyard. Obviously, frequently raided
communities will react very differently to infrequently raided ones.
Law’s line of argument, plausible as it may be, consists of deductions based
more on common sense than on hard facts. But as we know by now, common
sense does not always function well in the case of the Slave Coast.
***
Finally, a central question in global (and macro-economic) history: was there
a link between the slave trade and what is usually referred to as the rise of the
Western world? But since most historians are now agreed, it seems to us, that
there was such a link, the question has become what exactly that link was. To
cut the discussion short, we believe that the slave trade had a beneficial indirect
effect on the economy of the West. There is, however, also a direct one:
African slaves comprised the vast majority of the immigrants to the Americas
before 1800.43 What would have become of the New World without them?
Already many pamphleteers of the epoch were aware of the positive
consequences of the slave trade: not necessarily that trade in isolation, but the
vast economic circuit that it became part of, what we call the South Atlantic
system: the slave trade, slaves, plantations, the Triangular Trade and so on.
We single out for attention two pamphlets, one English from 1680,44 the
other French from 1777,45 because they are, in spite of their different origins
88
and the time-lag between them, remarkably similar in content. What they say
is that the slave trade implied expanding economic activity, it set wheels in
motion, it stimulated, in particular, shipping and naval construction, and
above all the labour market – one has only to think of all the seamen needed,
they came from all over Europe. All told, the slave trade had a tremendously
stimulating multiplier effect, that is, a synergetical one – never mind the cost
in human lives. The English pamphleteer noted in addition that the slave
trade had a quite direct effect on the economy in the sense that it challenged
the English to come up with substitutes for all the manufactures they had
previously had to import from the Netherlands, especially in order to
participate in that trade (and in other fields of foreign trade). It was a
challenge the English rose to,46 it is part of the well-known story of how the
English managed little by little to compete with the Dutch and finally to
surpass them. But it was a challenge (now an increasingly Dutch-English
one) which the French and above all the Portuguese were never really able to
meet, as we shall see.
The slave trade, in part because of its hazardous nature and the long delays
it involved, also constituted a challenge to, and hence a boost to another
important sector of the economy, namely the service sector, banking and
insurance in particular.47
By “expanding economic activity” we mean the fact that the slave trade
contributed to enlarge the market-oriented, monetized sector of the economy,
the capitalist sector if one prefers; that is, the most dynamic sector, the very
locomotive which pushed the Western world towards “modernity”. The level
of profits becomes in this context of rather secondary importance.
In conclusion, as Roland Findlay and Kevin O’Rourke have put it: “the
inhuman institution of slavery [hence also of the slave trade]…was an
important factor underlying the transition to modern economic growth in
Europe”.48 Exactly how important is obviously impossible to ascertain.
***
Why could not the slave trade, as inhumane as it was, have had the same, let
us say, positive economic effect on Africa as it did on Western Europe? Why
did not the slave trade generate some sort of long-term economic expansion?
If what we suspect is correct – that the inhabitants of the “kingdom” of Hueda
before 1727 had one of the world’s highest standards of living at that time (see
Part B) – why could not something have come out of it? Basically, we believe,
because the economic structures were radically different in the two cases.
89
What was lacking most conspicuously in the Hueda case was an emerging
capitalist sector capable of revolutionizing the economy; hence no synergetical
effect emerged, or alternatively, it did emerge (witness the contention of
Robin Law above) but was prevented from expanding to any significant level.
The point can incidentally be illustrated by a comparison between Portugal
and England. Portugal, in spite of being the leading European slave trading
nation, did not really take off, whereas England, the number two, certainly
did. They differed structurally, the Portuguese economy being much less
capitalist (or proto-capitalist) than the English (or the Dutch). So they had
limited ability to genuinely channel whatever profits they made into
productive undertakings, or to integrate it all into a greater economic circuit –
the multiplier effect being much more pronounced in the English case than in
the Portuguese one.
The ultimate question is of course how an emerging capitalist sector
surfaces in the first place. How is it that what we may call certain capitalist
tendencies, habits or practices (which we imagine were present nearly
everywhere) take off, or are allowed to take off and to expand, in some
societies, but not in others? If one argues that it is a question of world-outlook
and of mentality, the next question becomes what came first, what triggered
off what – unless there was a joint, more or less synergetic emergence. The
basic problem here, as elsewhere, is the origin of everything.
90
6
THE DATABASE AND THE SLAVE TRADE FROM

THE SLAVE COAST
Since this is a work about the Slave Coast in the era of the trans-Atlantic slave
trade, it is time to have a closer look at that trade. An indispensable point of
departure is the earlier mentioned Database.1
But as noted, there are problems with the Database for our purpose. The
principal problem is that it has adopted what we consider to be a regrettable
convention in quantitative studies regarding the definition of areas of
embarkation.2 The Slave Coast, contrary to the Gold Coast, incomprehensibly
does not figure among those areas. Instead it is subsumed under what is called
the Bight of Benin, which is usually defined as the coastline about 640 km
long, from the mouth of the Volta river all the way to the Niger Delta.
Superficially this makes the Database useless for our purpose, since we cannot
deduce from it how many slaves came from the western half of that coastline
(the Slave Coast) and how many from the rest. Unless, that is, we can
demonstrate that the latter half exported few if any slaves, at least in the period
under scrutiny; and it so happens that we can do so.
The eastern part of the Bight of Benin region, where the Europeans never
built forts, corresponds to the “kingdoms” of the Itsekiri of Warri and of
Benin, both mentioned previously, and the territories of the acephalous Ijaw
(Ijo). Benin certainly exported slaves, it took an active part in the early
Atlantic slave trade (a wider category than that of the Trans-Atlantic slave
trade). In fact, Benin had already entered into contact with the Portuguese by
1485,3 that is, roughly some 140 years before the Slave Coast. But first, the
91
local geographical conditions were, if possible, even more forbidding than on

the Slave Coast, implying that the slave trade was and remained on a very
modest scale.4 And second, we repeat that the local rulers actually banned the
trade in male slaves as early as the beginning of the sixteenth century (before
the Trans-Atlantic slave trade really got under way); those were precisely the
slaves the Europeans were most interested in, and very few females seem to
have been sold.5 Even after the ban was lifted, more than two hundred years
later, in the 1720s, the slave trade remained close to negligible up to the
1780s.6 In fact, A.F.C. Ryder, our leading authority, has stressed “Benin’s
general indifference to the demands and opportunities of the European slave
trade”,7 the implication being that “Benin either could not or would not
become a slave-trading state on the grand scale”.8 Instead, a limited trade was
carried out in other commodities – cloth especially, but also ivory and gum
and the marble-like beads called akori.9
Incidentally, the few slaves taken from Benin had a bad reputation. They
were much more prone than those from other parts to lie down and simply
die – 308 slaves out of 436 among one particular ship-load that we know of.10
All in all, it has been argued that about 6.5 per cent of the slaves embarked
in the Bight of Benin came actually from the “Kingdom” of Benin,11 and most
before the sixteenth century; this suggests that 93.5 per cent came from the
Slave Coast, possibly more in the period in which we are primarily interested
in the present work. If these percentages come anywhere near the truth, then
we can conclude that the Database’s figures for the Bight of Benin reflect
roughly those of the Slave Coast, at least up to the 1780s.
But there is a second problem with the Database: the distinction between
the Gold Coast and the Gulf of Benin, that is, between the Gold and Slave
Coasts, a distinction which did not stop the slave traders from trafficking
indiscriminately on both. For instance, many ships bound for the Slave Coast
stopped at Shama to take in wood and water, and to hire the necessary
canoemen.12 And of course most Dutch, English and Danish ships called at
Elmina, Cape Coast Castle and Christiansborg respectively before proceeding
further eastwards; the Portuguese were obliged in theory to call at Elmina and
many did, as we shall see. This implies that many ships began purchasing slaves
on the Gold Coast and continued to do so on the Slave Coast,13 but not vice
versa outside of the (short) Harmattan season. The question then is under
which point of embarkation they are listed, and the more general problem is
that the Database lists only one point for each ship, whereas many ships
actually called at several places. But given the reputation of the Slave Coast as
92
THE DATABASE AND THE SLAVE TRADE FROM THE SLAVE COAST
a reservoir of slaves – “the chiefest place for slaves in all these parts”14 – it is
more likely that many more slaves listed as having come from the Gold Coast
actually originated further east than the other way round. For instance, we are
told that the vast majority of the approximately 30,000 slaves exported by the
Danes from the Gold Coast after 1792 did not come from that coast, but from
its eastern neighbouring territory.15 Part of the explanation has to do with what
is called the coastal trade, the fleet of smaller vessels belonging to the trading
companies (yachts, snows, barques, brigantines etc.) which roamed the coast,
especially during Harmattan time when, as already noted, it was possible to sail
from east to west, and which could transport up to 200 slaves. The slaves
purchased in this way, mostly on the Slave Coast we suppose, were “stored” in
the forts of the Gold Coast pending the arrival of ocean-going ships.16
We may add (although it is a minor point statistically speaking) that the
Slave Coast was an important source of slaves for the Gold Coast labour
market,17 including the slaves the Europeans needed for their forts. One could
argue that the opposite was equally the case, that most fort slaves on the Slave
Coast came from the Gold Coast, from some distance away, and hence were
less likely to run away.18 But the number of slaves needed on the Gold Coast
was obviously much superior to the needs of its eastern neighbouring territory.
Incidentally, fort slaves must have made up a very special category of slaves who
had to be very leniently treated and could certainly not be sold overseas. For as
one English official noted very logically, if he sold any of them the rest would
run away, something they could do very easily.19 Our general conclusion is that
probably a considerable number of slaves listed in the Database as having come
from the Gold Coast actually came from the neighbouring Slave Coast.
Now for some definitions. The all-embracing term “Atlantic slave trade”
refers to the export of slaves from any point of the African coast to any place
in the Atlantic world. Hence it includes also the export of slaves from one
African region to another, for instance the well-documented export of slaves
from the Benin polity to the Gold Coast and São Tomé in the early days of the
European presence – that is, the carrying trade within Africa.20 The Atlantic
slave trade lasted for some 400 years altogether, from the end of the fifteenth
to the end of the nineteenth century.21 As for the most important subsection,
the one we call the “Trans-Atlantic slave trade” – the export of slaves to the
Americas, it is reputed to have begun in 1501 and to have come to an end in
1866–7 (the extreme dates in the Database). But the first direct shipment of
slaves from Africa to the Americas took place in 1525.22 This trade therefore
lasted thus 340 years or more. The Slave Coast was a latecomer in this context,
93
since the first shipment of slaves from that coast to the New World may have
taken place in 1616;23 the last such shipment occurred in 1863. But within
those 247 years, we will focus especially on the period between the 1670s,
when the slave trade from our region really took off, and 1850–51, which
marked the beginning of the end of that trade. We are left then with roughly
180 years, the period when the Trans-Atlantic slave trade must rank as a major
organized enterprise on the Slave Coast. What went on before the 1670s may
be qualified as “statistically insignificant”. And what went on after 1850/51,
up to 1863, when the last trans-Atlantic slavers ran the international blockade,
may be qualified as residual, the last spasms of the slave trade as it were. Those
spasms resulted in nearly 33,000 more slaves being embarked for the Americas,
that is some 2,500 per year, but those numbers are insignificant compared
with those of the period when the slave trade from the Slave Coast was at its
height, the 1710s and the 1720s.
We also need to know that of the estimated 12.5 million slaves embarked
from Africa for the New World during the era of the Trans-Atlantic slave
trade, the majority came from the enormous region of West-Central Africa,
that is, roughly the present-day Congo and Angola and neighbouring regions.
But the next-largest number was taken from the Bight of Benin/Slave Coast
and Gold Coast. As noted, possibly more than two million slaves came from
the Bight of Benin, and over one million from the Gold Coast, making more
than a quarter of the total. Of the two million, perhaps some 60 per cent
ended up in Brazil,24 and especially in the region of Salvador da Bahia, the
famous South Atlantic port city and major slave mart where Europe met
Africa in the Americas, and where the visitor in our own time may be forgiven
for feeling at times that he has returned to Africa.
***
Slave trade figures according to the Database:
Bight of Benin- Gold Total

Slave Coast/ Coast/ Africa/
1601/16–25 (a) 2,921 68 352,843
1626–50 6,080 2,429 315,050
1651–75 52,768 30,860 488,064
1676–1700 207,436 75,377 719,674
1701–25 378,101 229,239 1,088,909
1726–50 356,760 231,418 1,471,725
94
Bight of Benin- Gold Total

Slave Coast/ Coast/ Africa/
1751–75 288,587 268,228 1,925,324
1776–1800 261,137 285,643 2,008,670
1801–25 201,054 80,895 1,876,992 (b)
1826–50 209,742 5,219 1,770,979 (c)
1851–63/7 33,867 0 225,609
(a) from probably 1616 in the case of the Slave Coast
(b) of whom 1,160,601 went to Brazil
(c) of whom 1,299,969 went to Brazil
Here are some slave trade figures divided into five-year periods for the
Bight of Benin/Slave Coast, with the share of Lagos for certain periods
(according to Mann [2007], 38) compared with the totals for Africa:
Bight of Benin:
Lagos Totals Africa:
Slave Coast
1676–80 19,134 119,552
1681–5 40,705 145, 546
1686–90 39,185 115,018
1691–5 47,931 128,356
1696–1700 60,480 211,201
1701–5 73,009 211,590
1706–10 63, 934 182,651
1711–5 72,000 210,977
1716–20 77,463 242,431
1721–5 91,694 241,259
1726–30 102,736 (a) 307,133
1731–5 80,999 282,593
1736–40 64,806 315,410
1741–5 54, 188 287,564
1746–50 54,032 279,025
1751–5 73,467 361,496
1756–60 49,099 281,462
1761–5 53,654 367,023
1766–70 56,729 451,937
1771–5 55,638 463,396
1776–80 54,248 292,271
1781–5 48,133 3,870 362,658
95
Bight of Benin:
Lagos Totals Africa:
Slave Coast
1786–90 65,509 14,077 505,335
1791–5 47,594 4,186 459,366
1796–1800 45,603 3,282 389,040
1801–5 45,268 21,412 453,906
1806–10 50,160 28,418 369,648
1811–15 47,454 20,584 282,726
1816–20 26,369 22,683 403,117
1821–5 31,533 17,727 367,595
1826–30 27,717 (b) 488,153
1831–5 38,445 16,336 216,683
1836–40 34,636 27,582 469,601
1841–5 52,339 35,038 226,918
1846–50 56,604 37715 369,624
1851–5 7,784 5,410 66,361
1856–60 14,744 0 105,057
1861–3/5 11,339 53,315
1866 0 877
a) that is, on average, nearly 70 slaves exported every day of the year for five years.
b) Mann’s figures for 1826–30 – 31 776 – have been left out, since they are higher than
the total for the Slave Coast. Either Mann’s figures or those of the Database are incorrect.
The data are explicit enough for our purpose. They demonstrate first, that
the early and relatively massive European presence on the Gold Coast had
nothing to do with the slave trade, but that the situation changed radically
from about 1700 or slightly earlier.25 They demonstrate second, that the real
take-off of the slave trade from the Slave Coast occurred in the 1670s and
1680s, coinciding perfectly, as noted, with the sugar revolution in the
Caribbean – whereas the take-off on the Gold Coast is probably linked to the
wars of “state-formation” which culminated with the rise of Asante from
1701. Third, the heyday on the Slave Coast was from 1696 to 1730, during
which period no less than a third of the slaves embarked in Africa came from
that small stretch of coast, which took over from West-Central Africa as the
leading supplier. If we add the figures from the Gold Coast, which may, as
already noted, include slaves from the Slave Coast, the two regions together
counted for more than half of all slaves exported from Africa between 1701
and 1725, clearly the “golden age”; that is, before the Dahomean conquest of
the coast. Thereafter, however, decline set in, a very marked such decline from
96
1736, both absolute and relative. Actually, the decline from the Central Slave
Coast, that is from the region controlled by Dahomey, was probably
particularly pronounced, since it was from the 1770s that the slave trade
centred on the Eastern Slave Coast, especially Lagos, began to expand,
basically from nil.
The decline coincides perfectly with the beginning of Dahomey’s
dominance on the Central Slave Coast. We may conclude, therefore, that
Dahomey’s “success” as a slave trading polity was very limited. What is the
explanation? One could of course argue that the region was running out of
the necessary “raw material”, that is, slaves. Certainly that is plausible – the
Europeans wondered often how it was possible for such a small region to
“produce” so many slaves, they feared “exhaustion”.26 An alternative theory is
that the people of the “catchment area” had learned how to resist efficiently,
which is also plausible. But the third possibility, that the rulers of Dahomey
consciously limited the slave trade, can be safely disregarded; the sources
make it very clear, as we shall see, that the sharp decline of the slave trade
constituted a major preoccupation for the Dahomean elite. In fact, it looks
very much as if the Dahomeans conquered the coast in order to confiscate for
themselves all the gains from the slave trade; but that the end result proved
rather disappointing. What went “wrong”? The principal problem, we
believe, was the Dahomeans’ lack of commercial and other acumen – that is,
the apparent fact that they relied exclusively on their (overrated) military
might, and hence on raiding, and raiding, we repeat, only their own
backyard. Hence they neglected the important role of middlemen which
Dahomey’s predecessors had performed more or less satisfactorily. This
provoked, we imagine, the ire of perhaps the leading inland supplier of slaves,
namely Oyo, which redirected its slave caravans to the Eastern Slave Coast.
One may presume, more generally, that the Dahomean conquests disrupted
a sophisticated trading network.
One can also imagine that the very existence of Dahomey as a “new” type
of polity proved both offensive and threatening, even to Oyo, though
Dahomey remained for long formally a vassal of Oyo. Perhaps that allegiance
explains in turn why Dahomey preferred to rely more on its own raiding than
on the slave caravans from Oyo.
We note finally that the high figures for 1701–25 indicate that the slave
trade was never seriously affected by warfare among the European powers.
Indeed, the period was marked by the War of the Spanish Succession (1702–
13/14), a nearly worldwide conflagration which involved most of the slave-
97
trading nations. Actually, the war turned out to be a real bonanza for the slave
trade from the Slave Coast, for reasons which will be explained later.
The overall figures for Africa indicate also more generally that the many
wars fought between the Europeans later in the eighteenth century never
disrupted the slave trade – though it is tempting to ascribe the decline from
1800 to the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic wars. But the alternative
theory is that the decline is connected to the beginning of the campaign to
abolish the slave trade.
The big surprise of the Database – at least to the present author – is that
Portugal, with its dependency Brazil (independent from 1822), and not
Britain, emerges as the leading slave trade nation, responsible for no less than
5.8 million slaves embarked, compared with 3.2 million for Britain. Together
the two accounted then for 9 million out of the 12.5 million Africans
embarked in Africa. Then followed France, Spain (absent 1701–50), the
Netherlands, the future USA – from late in the day – and finally Denmark-
Norway and Brandenburg-Prussia, lumped together in the Database.
But if we consider only the Bight of Benin, the ranking list is slightly
different, the Portuguese being very much ahead this time, actually responsible
for more than half of the total figure, entering the trade on a large scale during
the second half of the 1670s. Then follow the French (from 1704), the British
(from early in the seventeenth century), the Spanish (but only from 1800),
and the Dutch (well in the lead until 1675, second from 1676 to 1701, and
disappearing completely in the 1750s). Then finally, far behind, came
Denmark-Norway, the USA being statistically insignificant.27 (Note that
Brandenburg-Prussia does not figure at all: a minor omission.)
However, it does not necessarily make too much sense to distinguish
between the various European nations. Some nations contracted out part of
the trade to others, and the flags many ships flew did not necessarily
correspond to the nationality of most crew-members, coming as they did
usually from many parts, or even to that of the owner(s) – especially during
the era of the “illegal” slave trade. On the ground in Africa the personnel of
the European establishments were often a cosmopolitan lot.28
***
There are historians who argue that the estimates of the Database err on the
low side. J.E. Inikori especially believes that more than 15 million slaves were
exported from Africa, as opposed to the 12.5 million of the Database.29
Whether he is correct or not, or how he arrives at his figure, does not need to
98
concern us here. But part of his argument is of interest for our purpose. What
Inikori does is to list all the pitfalls concealed in the data, especially when
using slave import data in America. Indeed, Inikori underlines the obvious,
that “the institutional framework under which the trade was conducted
encouraged fraudulent concealment.”30 He refers here to the many private
freelance merchants known as interlopers in the era of formally monopolistic
company trade. Those interlopers were legally smugglers, and as such avoided
any sort of officialdom whenever they could. But even company trade had its
share of smuggling in the shape of the many slaves not declared aboard the
company ships.31 We must note here that in the period which occupies us in
this context smuggling was widespread, economically significant, and
understood by participants not as a criminal activity but as a necessary
adaptation to metropolitan commercial restrictions.
Inikori also wonders about all the slaving ships which were wiped out by
captures and other losses.32 Have they found their way into the figures of the
Database?
Incidentally, Inikori might have added, for whatever it may be worth, that
many contemporary and obviously impressionistic estimates, commonly
partial, are usually higher than those of the Database. Whatever the case,
personally we would not be surprised if in some years’ time it turns out that
even Inikori erred on the low side.
However, what is important for our purpose is not necessarily the overall
figures, but how the slave trade varied over time and what the position of the
Slave Coast was in the overall comparative context. And in these respects the
Database presents us, as we have seen, with some essential clues. But once
again, we consider that the really meaningful figures may not be the numbers
of slaves still alive by the time the slave ships set sail, but the numbers of slaves
destined for export. And those figures we do not, and may never, have.
***
The Database is concerned exclusively with the numbers game, or rather with
one aspect of that game, namely the slaves exported from Africa (that means,
as noted, the slaves alive after the end of the waiting and loading time). In
brief, the Database pretends only to tell part of the story. Here we must turn
to the other parts, and the other questions that that story generate, though
they may be partly or totally unanswerable.
If we begin by asking where the slaves came from in the first instance, we
already bump into a partly unanswerable question, one of the reasons being
99
that the interior remained a terra incognita to the Europeans. They were
permitted to travel no further north than the respective capitals of Hueda,
Allada and Dahomey – in the latter case the towns of Abomey and Kana,
situated less than 100 km from the coast (Kana, often written Cana, is located
11 km south-east of Abomey). And they made it under heavy escort.33 The
first who tried to venture further inland, the Briton Thomas Dickson as late
as 1825–26, was killed two days’ journey north of the Dahomean “frontier”.34
Now, did the slaves come from the Slave Coast itself or from further afield,
or both? Put differently, was the Slave Coast a slave-producing region or a
slave-importing one, or was it both? Was there a so-called slaving frontier
which moved gradually deeper into the African continent, as some specialists
believe?35 Patrick Manning has argued that 90 per cent of the slaves were
obtained locally, implying a general and terrible depopulation.36 Robin Law
doubts the first part of Manning’s theory, but seems to agree with the second,
the depopulation bit, arguing that the repopulation by elephants after their
near-extinction in the 1690s constitutes proof.37 That many slaves were
“produced” locally is something Law himself has demonstrated, by digging up
a number of examples of survivals in the Americas of ethnic terms, and words
and expressions, which obviously originated on the Slave Coast.38 Then there
is, as we shall see, evidence to the effect that even the pre-Dahomean polities,
Hueda in particular, indulged in considerable local raiding. Nevertheless,
there is no question that Manning, and also Law, overstated the point. We
note first, for whatever it may be worth, that the south of the present-day
Republics of Benin and Togo – that is, the old Slave Coast – is today by far the
most densely populated region of the two countries. We note also that in a
polygynous society the effects of the loss of a fair percentage of the male
population may not necessarily affect radically the rate of natural increase. But
more to the point, Manning and Law seem to have overlooked the existence
of the mighty inland Yoruba polity of Oyo, which always looms large in the
background in the history of the Slave Coast; and Oyo owed its rise to
prominence precisely to the slave trade. So argues in fact Robin Law himself,
presenting Oyo as a polity which, already from the 1640s, exported slaves to
the south, through the Slave Coast, in order to finance the continual purchase
of horses from the north.39 Horses did not do well as far south as Oyo, because
of the tsetse fly, and so Oyo had to replenish regularly the supply of horses it
needed for its cavalry, which was the basis of its might.40 Hence the necessity
for Oyo to send slaves southwards for sale. Obviously, many of those slaves
came from regions far in the north, deep inside the Sahel-Sudan belt. This also
100
explains why Oyo took, as we shall see, a keen interest in the affairs of the
Slave Coast, often intervening militarily so far as the environment permitted
(the Slave Coast being of course situated even further south, and thus even
more dangerous for horses).
The contention that many slaves came from far away, via Oyo and Borgu
among other places,41 tallies with a number of contemporary testimonies.42
But the problem is how many – what percentage are we talking about?
Perhaps it is in part, as already hinted at, a question of chronology. It may be
in fact that many slaves came from far afield in the early days, the Huedan
raiding notwithstanding, but that the situation changed with the destructive
wars provoked by the rise of Dahomey in the 1720s. Dahomey seems indeed
to have raided extensively its own or neighbouring communities, such as the
Mahi. However, we cannot assign percentages, we have no idea of how many
slaves came from remote parts and how many from the Slave Coast itself.43
What we can say is the obvious, that those who came from far away must have
had behind them many weeks, not to say months, of strenuous walking before
they reached the slave marts in the south, passing possibly from hand to hand.
But if many slaves were after all “produced” locally, were wars waged in
order to capture slaves, or were the slaves a by-product of wars made for other
reasons, or both? Apart from war, did some groups organize slave-raiding
expeditions? If so, who were the victims – people living in acephalous
societies, or local rebellious villages, or both? Were regions that are
characterized to-day by very low population densities victims of slave-raiding
(as Kenneth Kelly believes, following Patrick Manning)?44 (Unlikely, in our
opinion.) If so, did warfare and banditry create pervasive violence throughout
the region? Did some or many elders sell members of their own family, as the
Spanish Capuchin missionary Naxara claimed that he witnessed in Allada
already in 1660?45 Actually, during famine times which did occur strangely
enough, close kin were sold.46 We also know that some of the kings were prone
to sell some of their own subjects, including or even especially “wives”, from
time to time.47 In fact, adulterous royal wives and their seducers (or victims),
and even at times the latters’ extended families, faced the worst.48
We know furthermore that those who lost out in power struggles were
certainly sold.49 We know finally, or at least seem to know, that the judicial
system, including possibly witchcraft trials, produced slaves for export.50 On
the system of pawning (debt bondage) there is less certainty.51
What we have in sum are some clues here and there, but nothing in the way
of any easily recognizable pattern.
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Whatever the origin of the slaves, one imagines that there existed several
markets in the region and elsewhere; Robin Law believes so, and with good
reason.52 But the principal one before 1727, as noted, was clearly at Savi, some
14 km from the seashore. And it so happens that we are relatively well
informed about what went on in Savi. It was to Savi that the Europeans went
to buy slaves, and all the Europeans had lodges there from a very early date,
long before the forts were constructed at Ouidah-Glehue, and lodges situated
within the precinct of the vast royal compound.53
The slaves were placed, or “stored”, in an infamous place called a trunk –
another word which has disappeared in the sense implied here – also called
the shackle (or slave hole), a word which has also disappeared. And not
surprisingly, conditions in the trunk were beyond imagination, as they were
later in the “warehouses” in the compound of the ruler of Jakin.54 An
experienced slave trader such as Thomas Phillips, presumably not the most
tender of human beings, often fainted when he bought slaves in the Savi
trunk, because of the smell (this in the 1690s).55 Those who guarded the slaves
were officials of the king of Hueda, commanded by a “captain” of the trunk.
After having been examined by a European surgeon, including their
“privities”, and after the sellers had “liquor’d them well and sleek with palm
oil”, and they had been branded with a hot iron,56 the slaves were driven to
the coast, under the care of another “captain”, also an official of the king of
Hueda. This was, we repeat, a 14 km strenuous and perilous walk which
involved among other things “three fords to pass where the water is up to
the neck”, and a lot of other difficulties.57 The Brandenburger Johann Peter
Oettinger, who accompanied a party of slaves southwards in 1692–93 (as
the Europeans often did), and who obviously had problems with his
conscience, could barely stand the “heart-rending cries” of the women
especially that filled the air, “which often cut me to the quick”, although
there were efforts to drown them with the sound of drums or other noisy
instruments managed by the guards.58 At the end of it all, the slaves were
confronted with the ocean and the surf, presumably for the first time in
their lives, obviously another traumatic experience. On the beach the
Europeans established tents, or occasionally open-air trunks, for the final
inspection and branding of the slaves, if this had not been done before.59 On
the beach also, another “captain” of the king of Hueda was in charge of the
security of the place.60 The locals entrusted with guarding the slaves must
have done a splendid job from the point of view of the Europeans, since we
do not know of any slave revolts on land.
102
After 1727 and the disappearance of Savi the organisation changed

radically. It is true that we know of other trunks elsewhere and later, notably
at Jakin (as noted) and at Ekpe in the east.61 But in Ouidah-Glehue there was
no central trunk, only private prisons in most houses. According to Paul Isert,
a broker criss-crossed the town every morning, going from one trader to
another and asking if slaves had arrived (if yes, a factor would come around
later to buy them). The purchased slaves were then branded with the factor’s
mark, and finally delivered to the fort or the factory which accumulated slaves
at times.62 Since prices were set in advance by the local authorities (but
according to which criteria?), there was no auction, no slave market, the slaves
being delivered as they became available.63
What happened to the not “merchantable” (unsaleable) slaves, those that
the Europeans rejected? Pruneau de Pommegeorge argues that children/babies
under the age of three or four were routinely “thrown to the wolves” (meaning
wild beasts), as he expresses it, and those too old, equally routinely, had their
throats cut64 (this in the 1750s and 1760s). But since Pruneau became a
staunch opponent of the slave trade, one may suspect him of exaggerating.
However, James Houstoun (in the pre-Dahomean era) noted that “when we
throw out our dead slaves on the fields” (no mention of how they died), they
were immediately carried off and devoured by the local beasts (Houstoun
thought tigers).65 And Robert Norris stated laconically in 1788 that “Prisoners
taken in war and not sold are put to death”.66 As for Robin Law, he presents
evidence to the effect that the Dahomeans in their campaigns, at least the one
against Hueda in 1727–28, adopted the practice of killing the wounded, the
too old or the too young, something which was normally done on the
battlefield.67 Then there were the slaves the Dutch confiscated from those Luso-
Brazilian ships which had not complied with the obligations the former
imposed on the latter; many of those slaves were “of such poor quality” that the
captains of the WIC’s slave ships refused to take them; they were simply left to
die.68 We note finally in this context that at Lagos in the 1820s the sickly, old
and infirm were drowned, according to Richard Lander the explorer.69
Again we have no idea of the percentages of the slaves killed as compared
with those who succumbed to the conditions they were confronted with,
including the new diseases the slaves from the interior encountered, against
which they had no immunity.70 Nor have we comparative figures for those
selected for the American ordeal and those who were retained by the local
authorities. The latter found their way to the huge royal estates that
proliferated in Dahomey especially, or became household slaves (the
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enormous royal household included), or were redistributed as gifts, forced to

become prostitutes, recruited as soldiers, or destined to become sacrificial
victims.71
But we must return to the slaves destined for the Americas. And for those
who survived the surf – again we have no idea how many perished, either
because the canoes capsized or because the slaves took advantage of the
situation, so to speak, and committed suicide by jumping overboard72 – and
who arrived aboard the ships, the real waiting time began, especially for the
first to arrive. Here we repeat that the slaves came in small batches, especially
in the epoch of Dahomey: one day one could buy ten slaves, the next day two,
and so on.73 The first slaves to arrive obviously faced the longest waiting time.
The point here is that, according to Bosman, it was cheaper to guard slaves on
board ship than on land.74 However, on the Gold Coast the waiting time was
in the forts which were theoretically “equipped” for that purpose. But even so,
slaves had at times to sleep out in the open air, even in the rainy season, with
the consequences one can imagine.75
To all this we must add that not infrequently, in certain periods, slaves were
transferred from one ship to another while still in the road: the Portuguese in
particular bought slaves from other Europeans instead of buying directly from
the Africans.76 We must also remember that many slave ships had to call at
various places to complete their slave cargoes, with a corresponding
lengthening of the time the slaves had to stay on board.
How long, then, did the waiting-time aboard the ships last for the
firstcomers? It must have varied enormously, but let us say from one to eight
months – although it could last more than a year, with three months being
more or less the average. That is in any case far longer than the Middle Passage
which lasted normally between 50 to 80 days.
Summing up, we arrive at the surprising conclusion that the most
unfortunate had spent between one and two years on board ship before
arriving in the New World.77 That is in theory, since we doubt that many could
survive such a long ordeal.
We know that, logically enough, the bigger the vessels, say, more than 200
tons, the longer the waiting time.78 We also know, or rather seem to know,
that the loading and waiting time increased from the 1750s onward, Africa-
wide, and that it was especially high between 1751 and 1775, for reasons
which remain obscure.79 We know finally that the Europeans were very much
aware of the problem. For as Archibald Dalzel argued in a hearing, “The
mortality arises very much from being detained on the coast, and often from
104
the conditions the slaves are in, when they come on board, from the scarcity
of provisions in the Country”.80 Above all, the longer slaves laid in “the oven-
like hold off the Guinea Coast”, the fewer would be delivered in the
Americas.81 Those conditions determined, we imagine, the death rates on the
Middle Passage.
In many of these matters the Portuguese of Brazil had some advantages
compared to the others. First, their ships were generally smaller; and second,
they had to make far shorter trips. In fact, theirs was a sort of shuttle traffic
between (mainly) Salvador da Bahia and the Slave Coast. But even so, the
authorities complained that too many slaves died because of lack of space
aboard the ships.82 The waiting time could also be deadly for the Europeans;
there were at times simply not enough crew left to man a ship, or nobody fit
to take command.83
If one asks what caused the slaves to die aboard the ships while still at
anchor, or in the forts of the Gold Coast, the answer is disease,
undernourishment – that is, hunger84 – despair, or simply sitting or lying
there.85 Or they starved themselves to death, believing that they would be
eaten otherwise (by the Europeans) and that if they died before that happened,
they would return to their own country in some way or other;86 as has been
pointed out: “the horror of being eaten was not merely the fear of physical
death but the additional dread that the soul of the victim would be consumed
by the eater, extinguishing the survival of the individual in another world”.87
All this happened in a very noisy atmosphere if we are to believe Nigel
Tattersfield, who talks about “the incessant chanting of woe and despair which
rose and fell, but was never hushed, issuing from the slave-hold”.88
It could also happen that the slaves (and crew members) were killed
because the ship they were aboard was blown up or otherwise wrecked,
perhaps because of slave revolts or pirates. Pirate attacks were not frequent but
certainly occurred, for instance in 1683 and 1686,89 and especially between
1718 and 1723. In January 1722 pirates led by the notorious Bartholomew
Roberts blew up a slave ship in the Ouidah-Glehue road (the captain having
refused to pay the ransom demanded), leaving us a heartbreaking description
of slaves clapped in irons trying to save their lives in these shark-infested
waters – “a Cruelty unparallel’d”.90 Or the slaves were caught in the crossfire
between European battleships, whether this happened directly off the coast or
further away.91
As for the revolts, it has been argued that more than half occurred before
the vessels were filled to capacity and began the outward journey. When
105
revolts did break out, the violence was horrific, the success rate minuscule, and
the punishment meted out bestial.92 We leave out the details. In fact, the
period from when the departure approached and to when a ship began to
distance itself from the shore was generally a particularly tense one, since the
slaves seem to have known that once on the open sea they were irremediably
lost.93 Tattersfield adds the morbid detail that packs of sharks dogged the
progress of every departing slave ship and fed upon the discarded bodies.
Sometimes a dead slave was dragged behind the vessel as bait.94
As for Thomas Phillips, he has left us with some interesting details about
the precautions taken by the slavers:
When our slaves are aboard we shackle the men two and two, while we lie in port,
& in sight of their own country… When we come to sea we let them all out of
irons…we have some 30 or 40 gold coast negroes, which we buy…to make guardians
& overseers of the Whydah [Ouidah] negroes, and sleep among them (as spies)
when we constitute a guardian, we give him a cat of nine tails as a badge of his
office, which he is not a little proud of, & will exercise with great authority.95
What Phillips does not say is what happened to those Gold Coast
negroes; did they go with the ship all the way to the Americas or not? And if
they did, what happened to them there? Incidentally, other slaves who also
assisted in the task of surveillance were those females who had been chosen
to serve as sex-slaves.96
***
It was easy to sail from Europe to West Africa thanks to the prevailing currents
and winds (especially the Guinea current) but close to impossible to sail in the
opposite direction. Hence most ships, once they had completed their cargo,
had to drop down to the Equator, and hence to the islands of São Tomé and
Príncipe, before heading westwards to the Americas, catching the south east
trade winds to Brazil or the north west ones to the Caribbean.97 It came in
handy in this context that those two tiny but very fertile Portuguese islands
could offer, abundantly, what the Slave Coast could not, or at least not in
sufficient quantity considering the problem of transport across the surf: wood,
water and victuals of all sorts (drinking water was actually a permanent
problem at Ouidah-Glehue).98 In addition, the islands, and especially
Príncipe, possessed superb natural harbours.99 In fact, the two islands (to
which one may add the small Annobón, even more fertile according to
Bosman),100 constituted a necessary complement to the Slave Coast – the Key
106
to the Guinea trade as one British official put it,101 or the supply base of the
slave trade. It was in a sense the existence of those islands which made possible
the slave trade on the Slave Coast. What is certain is that the Europeans, after
the fatiguing loading and waiting time on the Slave Coast, considered the
islands to be some sort of paradise,102 a paradise they thought it indispensable
to reach as soon as possible, which they usually did after two to three weeks’
sailing.103 On the islands they stayed usually some three weeks, if we are to
believe Stephen Behrendt et al.104 And the slaves? We have no evidence of
slave revolts aboard the ships while in the islands or of massive escapes,
however that silence may be interpreted. What we do have evidence of are
events not directly relevant, that is, of a Danish slave ship which blew up with
more than 800 slaves on board in 1705,105 and ships unfortunate enough to be
caught up in the notorious doldrums around the Equator.106 Once more it
does not take much imagination to guess what happened to the slaves.
That the Portuguese authorities were apparently unable to take advantage
of the strategic position of the islands and to turn them into a thriving
emporium constitutes in our view a historical problem. Even some Portuguese
had difficulties in understanding why the authorities neglected the islands,107
why they functioned de facto as a sort of penal colony.108
After a three weeks stay on average, the slave ships finally embarked upon
the genuine Middle Passage, which, although it too certainly claimed its share
of human lives (which was very much, we repeat, a consequence of the
debilitating waiting and loading time), strikes us as the least difficult stretch
of the ordeal of the slaves109 – that is, if no more revolts occurred and if, in
war-time, no enemy ships appeared on the horizon.110
This is where we leave the slave ships.
***
Those Europeans who were under the impression that more slaves were lost at
Ouidah-Glehue than elsewhere on the coast of Guinea111 probably had a
point. But what we would like to know is how many of, say, a thousand slaves
who entered the trunk at Savi in the pre-1727 era (to take but that example)
actually set foot in the New World after the incredible odyssey they had to go
through? Or perhaps, how many were still alive after the crucial first months
in the Americas, the period of adaptation to the climate? (According to one
source, fully one-fourth of the slaves died after the first few weeks in the
Americas).112 Or if one prefers, how many survived to reach their final
destination,113 which in the Brazilian case could mean a long and strenuous
107
overland journey to the mining regions of the interior.114 Once again, we have
no idea, and it is in our opinion futile even to try to make a so-called educated
guess – apart from the obvious point that quite a few must have survived,
otherwise the whole enterprise would simply have ground to a halt. What we
are dealing with in any case is, we repeat, a possibly unparalleled squandering
of human life. What we are also dealing with is a tremendous challenge
awaiting the scholars devoted to quantitative history.
***
We need to backtrack, and to have a short look at the (rudimentary)
organization of the slave trade on land. If we follow a ship’s captain who
arrived on, for example, the beach south of Ouidah-Glehue, the first thing he
had to do was to ask the local authorities for permission to trade. To obtain
that permission, he had to pay taxes, also called customs, plus more or less
compulsory gifts, the famous dashees (from the Portuguese dação in the
singular) – always excessive according to the Europeans, and obviously an
important source of revenue for the locals.115 If the captain had access to a fort
or a factory, he and his officers could rely on the cooperation of its personnel,
and even lodge there, while the members of the crew spread all over the place.
And since more than ten ships could be at anchor simultaneously in the
Ouidah-Glehue road, it meant a lot of Europeans and hence a lot of activity
and fraternization (we presume, since our sources are close to silent about
what we may call the daily life in the slave-trading centres). Note that the
market in Ouidah-Glehue at least was provided with a fair assortment of
imported European goods for sale in this partially monetized economy.116
After that it was time to discuss prices and to contract for the host of
workers of all categories needed, “les serviteurs de la traite”, as Dieudonné
Rinchon has called them,117 especially porters,118 in this region without
wheeled transport, and of course canoemen, if the captain did not already
have those he needed on board. Indeed, the total African workforce servicing
the slave trade must have been quite considerable. A fair portion of that
workforce was recruited from among the inhabitants of the hamlets or
quarters which had sprung up around the European forts and who usually had
kinsmen among the slaves inside the forts:119 slaves who outnumbered the
Europeans by perhaps 20 to one, if not more. But as noted, these were very
special slaves – some of them were even paid and worked regular hours, from
7 to 11 in the morning, and from 13 to 17 in the afternoon in the case of
about 200 slaves in the French fort in Ouidah-Glehue in the 1760s/70s.120
108
The glimpses we have of the relationship between the Europeans on the one
hand, and on the other the fort slaves, plus the inhabitants of the adjacent
quarters, leave the impression of ambiguity and fear, and of stealing being a
serious problem.121 That said, the fort-slaves and their kinsmen outside
identified at times with the Europeans, even to the point of taking up arms in
their defence, as we shall see.
After all this it was time to decide upon the prices and to start buying
slaves. The first seller was nearly always the king, and custom had it that the
Europeans had to buy all the slaves the king offered, and at the price decided
by him. Who sold the rest of the slaves – that is, did there exist a more or less
autonomous commercial sector? As indicated earlier, after 1727 many
individuals or families had slaves to sell, and sold them directly to the
Europeans. But does that make for a private commercial sector? If it does, the
chances are that that sector was severely controlled and restricted by the
Crown, at least in the era of Dahomey.
It is in any case clear that the local African authorities on the Slave Coast
had “a much greater command of the trade than any other on the coast”.122
109
PART B
CHRONOLOGICAL OVERVIEW
EARLY DAYS TO THE 1720s
1
FOCUS ON THE EUROPEAN SIDE
As noted, in the beginning were the Portuguese – the first Europeans who,
coming from the sea, went on land on the coast of the future Gold Coast, in
1471. They were responsible for integrating Lower Guinea into the wider
world. A globalizing perspective cannot do without them. Furthermore, since
the past of the Slave Coast is not fully comprehensible without a certain
understanding of not only the role of the Europeans but also the relationship
between them, we need an overview of who came when, where and why in the
early days – which is what this section is about.
It was, as also noted, the gold of the Gold Coast that attracted the
Europeans to Lower Guinea, which meant that the future Slave Coast
continued to be, for some time, of peripheral interest.
The Portuguese were granted exclusive rights to Guinea by the Treaty of
Tordesillas with Spain, for which reason the kings of Portugal attributed to
themselves the title of Senhor de Guiné (Lord of Guinea), a title the Portuguese
crown was anxious to give substance to, though it never succeeded.1 The
problem for the Portuguese was that they had little of interest to offer to the
Africans, owing principally to the comparatively poor, underdeveloped state of
the Portuguese handicraft industry – a chronic preoccupation for the rulers in
Lisbon.2 One way to remedy this state of affairs was for the Portuguese to
develop inter-regional African trade with themselves as middlemen, for instance
by buying slaves in the Benin polity and selling them on the Gold Coast.
The Portuguese came to call the coast A Costa da Mina, after their
headquarters, the famous Castelo (castle) de São Jorge da Mina, usually
113
known as Elmina, built in 1482, one of Portugal’s string of fifty or so trading

forts in Africa and Asia.3 Its position was ideal – with its protected bay it
constituted by far the best site on the whole of the coast.4 In addition, it was
situated in the midst of the region with the most maritime activity, thanks to
the Fante canoemen.5
For the Portuguese the Costa da Mina (Mina coast) included the future
Slave Coast to the east,6 a region with which, we repeat, it took a long time to
establish relations. But in 1620 Garcia Mendes Castello Branco noted that
two Portuguese ships sailed from the “kingdom” of Allada (that is, the beach
south of the trading centres of Offra/Jakin) every year laden with slaves, plus
ivory, cotton cloths, food7 and those gemstones called akori or simply beads.8
But every year since when? That is what we do not know.
Robin Law speculates that the scale of the early trade during the period of
Portuguese monopoly (which lasted until 1635 according to him) and the
Portuguese involvement more generally may have been underestimated, and
that the significance of the Dutch entry in the 1630s–40s has been
correspondingly exaggerated. Law argues in fact that the Portuguese exported
until the 1620s about a thousand slaves a year from the Slave Coast,9 a figure
which is certainly not incompatible with those of the Database.
Whatever the case, the Portuguese were the only Europeans on the Lower
Guinea Coast for something like a hundred and twenty years, or at least the
only Europeans who had genuine permanent establishments.
The next Europeans to arrive in number on the Guinea coast were the
Dutch, from the 1590s,10 a decade which saw the beginning of the Dutch
Golden Age.
The aim of the Dutch was not to compete with the Portuguese, but simply
to expel them and to take over their monopolistic position,11 something which
they had succeeded in doing by 1642 (the conquest of Elmina took place in
1637). By then the Portuguese had lost all their establishments on the
mainland. One reason for the Dutch interest must be sought in the fact that
they had succeeded in conquering the north-eastern part (but only that part)
of Brazil in 1630, where they began to establish sugar plantations based on
African servile labour.12
The Dutch had an excellent excuse for attacking the Portuguese possessions
in West Africa and elsewhere. It was in the midst of the eighty-year war of
liberation (1568/1572–1648) that the Dutch waged against their formal
suzerains, the Habsburg kings of Spain.13 And since the latter became also the
kings of Portugal from 1580, the enemies of Spain became the enemies of
114
Portugal as well. But even after Portugal (somewhat miraculously) recovered

its independence in 1640, the Dutch were not in a hurry to end the war. The
Dutch had not completed their conquest of the Portuguese possessions in the
Atlantic coast. But Luanda in Angola, the principal supplier of slaves, and the
island of São Tomé both fell in 1641, although the Dutch hold over the latter
was incomplete.14 After that the Dutch finally agreed to an armistice in 1642.
However, the hard-pressed Portuguese, also at war with Spain (which tried
unsuccessfully to impede the Portuguese secession until 1668), managed
somehow to fight back and to recover all of São Tomé in 1644, north-east
Brazil between 1645 and 1654 and Luanda in 1648 – armistice or no
armistice. But what was irremediably lost were the establishments on the
Guinea coast.15
All this was reflected in the final peace treaty between Portugal and the
Dutch Republic (formally called the United Provinces) in 1662. That treaty,
as well as the armistice twenty years earlier, was interpreted by the Dutch as
implying that the Portuguese had been officially banned from the Guinea
coast.16 The Dutch then clung firmly to the theory that they had by right of
conquest taken over the Portuguese monopoly of the Guinea trade. For
although the Dutch needed, and claimed, freedom of trade and free seas,
mare liberum, in Europe, they always tried to enforce closed seas, mare
clausum, overseas.17
It is important to remember in this context that we are entering into the
era of mercantilism. This meant that the political authorities took a keen
interest in matters economic, in fact tried to submit the economy to their aims
(although often in alliance with whatever bourgeoisie existed). The result was
that commerce and warfare became inseparable,18 meaning that everyone
strove to acquire a monopolistic position, and to eliminate if possible any
competition. Hence what is called armed long-distance trading, one incidental
consequence being a high level of smuggling.19 In fact, if a European nation
built a fort or a trading station in whatever part of the world, that nation felt
entitled to deny access there to the other European nations, if necessarily by
force, on the condition that the local habitants were either too weak or too
little interested to hinder it. Hence, forts and settlements were considered to
be marks of sovereignty and possession.20 Or to put it differently, “Settlements
[were] deemed valuable…as conferring an exclusive right of trade upon the
Power possessing them”.21
But on the Guinea coast the Dutch were unable to curb the interest of
other nations, and notably of the English, who appeared already in 1631–2,
115
in the shape of the newly established Guinea Company.22 They turned out to
be redoubtable adversaries, in Guinea as elsewhere. The English were followed
by the Swedes, the Danes, the Brandenburgers and the French.
As for the relations between the Dutch and the English, it took no less
than a major war, the Second Anglo-Dutch Naval War (de facto 1664–67),
which ended in a sort of draw,23 to persuade both to agree upon some kind of
peaceful coexistence, that is, to give up their claims to monopolistic rights
over the whole region, though not over their respective spheres of interest
within that region.
The exception to the rule is the Slave Coast where no European nation or
trading company was ever able to establish monopolistic rights, even over small
areas – although this was not for not trying. Indeed, the Slave Coast became
from the very outset, and remained, a zone of what we may call free trade.
What happened locally on the Guinea coast was a consequence, and part,
of a significant turning point in world history, the decay of the old-fashioned
Iberian empires which lost their preeminence to the new emerging and more
dynamic – because capitalist-oriented – states of north-west Europe: Britain,
and especially the Dutch Republic. The latter was fast becoming characterized
by what has been called “The First Modern Economy”, to quote a famous and
illustrative book title.24
***
Dutch trading in Guinea came to be united under the formally private West
Indies Company or WIC (Generaele or Geoctroyeerde West-Indische
Compagnie 1621–1791, with monopoly rights 1630–1734/35). The WIC,
which is possibly best known for founding and governing New Amsterdam,
the future New York, between 1623 and 1664, was in a sense the sister
company of the better-known United East India Company or VOC
(Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie, 1602–1798).25 Both belonged to the
first generation of a new type of politico-economic entity, the so-called
chartered companies, which were state-protected, each being de facto the long
arm of its respective government, always a major share-holder. They were in
fact the world’s first joint-stock companies and multinational corporations.
Actually, each represented “a unique combination of commercial and political
power of a kind never seen before”.26 And each was “virtually a state within the
state”.27 However, the WIC, contrary to the VOC, turned out to be “a losing
proposition for almost every year of its existence”.28 And the WIC, although
a commercial enterprise, was, according to Wim Klooster, in practice more of
116
a war machine,29 battling against the Habsburgs but also delivering, in fact
smuggling, slaves into Spanish America. Indeed, after 1645 and their loss of
north-east Brazil, the Dutch succeeded in capturing – formally as sub-
contractors – the traditional Portuguese markets in Spanish America.30
The English followed quickly in the footsteps of the Dutch, and they too
established chartered companies of the VOC-WIC type. But whereas the
WIC was the only Dutch company on the coast from beginning to end, on
the English side there was a succession of such companies.
***
According to A.F.C. Ryder, “Portuguese trade and influence in West Africa
had suffered total eclipse” after 1642.31 But that may perhaps be too harsh an
assessment. After all, the Portuguese managed to hold on to their islands in
the Gulf of Guinea – islands whose central role in the slave trade from the
Slave Coast has already been emphasized – and São Tomé served as a basis for
missionary forays on the coast of Guinea.32 Later it also served, as we shall see,
as the basis for what may be described as politico-military incursions on the
coast organized by the local Portuguese, which it is tempting to call a sort of
São Toméan “sub-imperialism”.
Furthermore, what we may call the Portuguese cultural influence proved
enduring. What was dubbed “Coastal Portuguese”, Portuguese Creole,
continued to be the coastal lingua franca, most notably the trade language; all
the Europeans had to learn it.33 Then there were all the Portuguese words
which had crept into the local languages, the best known being perhaps
“palaver”, from palavra (word) or palavrear (to chat, to discuss). “Palaver”
became in a sense the term for an informal institution designed to settle
quarrels and disputes.34
We can add all the Portuguese place-names, many of which have endured
to the present: Lagos, Porto Novo, Boca del Rio, Volta, to name but a few.
Although Portugal itself had been driven out, Portuguese ships from Brazil
began increasingly to ply the waters of Guinea in the second half of the
seventeenth century. The Luso-Brazilians (the Portuguese of Brazil),35 and
particularly those of Bahia in the north-east, found a very special niche in the
trade of what to them remained the Costa da Mina, a niche based on a
somewhat surprising product, namely tobacco. This was however not any
tobacco, but a tobacco reputed to be of inferior quality, the so-called third-
rate (refugado) tobacco called soca and sweetened with molasses, a sort of
honey-like syrup made from sugarcane.36
117
This third-rate tobacco came nearly exclusively from Cachoeira in inland

Bahia, for centuries the centre of the most important tobacco-growing region
in Brazil,37 but to-day, like Ouidah, another backwater-town where little
testifies to past glory. This tobacco, smoked in pipes,38 became something of
an instant hit, developing in fact into some sort of craze among the people (or
at least the upper social strata) of the Slave Coast,39 and, increasingly also, of
those of the Gold Coast.40 The third-rate Brazilian tobacco remained very
much in demand throughout our period. It is one of those occurrences in the
past which defeats the analytical acumen of the historians. The profits from
the slave trade went up in smoke, literally. There is another irony hidden
here – the tobacco plant grows well on the Slave Coast.41 However, as
mentioned, the locals did not want just any tobacco, and certainly not a
tobacco of superior quality, but exclusively the Brazilian third-grade variant;
a type of tobacco the other Europeans tried time and again to imitate, never
succeeding – the imitations were, we are told, easily detected and rejected by
the Africans.42 From the point of view of the Luso-Brazilians, tobacco solved
their major problem, the fact that they had few products of interest to offer.
Hence the small but rapid Portuguese ships known as sumacas43 became a
familiar sight on the Slave Coast.
How did the Portuguese authorities in Lisbon, and above all the Dutch on
the Guinea coast, react? That an overseas dependency, in this case Brazil,
established direct maritime-commercial relations with a foreign region was
against the principles of mercantilism which held that a colony could only
trade with the mother country. But the authorities in Lisbon bowed to
necessity by granting the necessary licences (alvarás), although obviously they
did so very reluctantly.44 Hence a bilateral trade system was established instead
of the classic triangular one. But the trading link in question did become a
permanent source of irritation to the Portuguese government in Lisbon which
tried repeatedly to organize and to control it, even at some stage to stop it
altogether, especially after Brazilian gold also became an item of that trade in
the first decades of the eighteenth century (gold was discovered in Minas
Gerais around 1695).45 It is noteworthy that the representatives of the
Portuguese Crown in Brazil sided generally with the local planters and traders,
allowing the latter to impose their will in most instances. It is a testimony to
the growing importance of the Mina trade to the Brazilian economy.46
The WIC authorized the Brazilian Mina trade, since it was a source of
revenue to the company, but imposed severe conditions, the principal one
being that the traders brought with them only tobacco and paid a heavy tax
118
(in tobacco) at Elmina before proceeding to the few centres where they were
permitted (by the Dutch) to buy slaves. In addition, the Brazilians were
forbidden to trade with other European nations or to sell European goods.47
In this way the Dutch got their share, and free of charge so to speak, of the
Brazilian third-rate tobacco, a merchandise which turned out to be
increasingly indispensable for the purchase of slaves. The tax, which the WIC
claimed the right to levy throughout its existence, and more generally the
treatment of the Luso-Brazilians on the coast proved to be an endless source
of conflict, a three-cornered conflict in fact, between the Dutch authorities,
the Portuguese Crown, and the Luso-Brazilians – with the fourth party, the
Africans, siding with the last-mentioned. What is certain is that the Luso-
Brazilians always preferred to pay the tax if the alternative was the end of the
Mina trade.48
There was actually a fifth party, the other Europeans, principally the
English, who also wanted (and needed) their share of the third-rate Brazilian
tobacco, and later of gold. Hence they sided, not surprisingly, with the
Portuguese against the Dutch. What we end up with here is another
multidimensional conflict, one which generated very complicating situations
at times, plus incidentally a huge amount of paper – that is, sources.49
It was with the Provizão (Provision) of 12 November 1644, probably linked
to the reconquest of São Tomé, that the Portuguese government for the first
time authorized Bahian ships to sail straight to the Mina coast, by means of
licences. The permission was renewed in 1672, and the number of licences
granted increased considerably from 1681.50 Then, in 1689, the Dutch formally
relaxed their prohibition against the Portuguese, allowing them to trade in
general on the coast, but still on the condition that each Portuguese-Brazilian
ship called first at the WIC headquarters at Elmina and paid the famous 10 per
cent tax called recognitie by the Dutch, and still mostly in tobacco.51 It was, in
sum, in the 1680s that the Mina tobacco trade really took off.
***
We must backtrack to note that as far as the Dutch were concerned, it was
around the time of their capture of Elmina that they began to traffic on the
Slave Coast and to genuinely enter the slave trade. That beginning can
apparently be dated with relative precision to 1636–37 when two vessels
commissioned by the WIC purchased slaves in the Allada/Offra region.52 But
the Dutch presence, in the sense of resident officials, was for some time
discontinuous, with temporary lodges and/or premises occupied seasonally,
119
as with the Portuguese presence earlier.53 In addition to regular trade, the

WIC pursued and captured many Portuguese slave ships at sea, at least before
the armistice of 1642.54
How were the Europeans welcomed on the Slave Coast? Overwhelmingly,
if were are to believe several Dutch documents dating, according to Adam
Jones, from the 1640s or 1650s,55 and referring to Offra. According to the
main one:
When you first come ashore, you are welcomed by at least 1 000 people56, dancing
and playing. There are also the King’s noblemen from all the villages that lie within
his territory. These noblemen bring you with the suite they have with them a good
10 miles inland to where the King is. There you make your report in Portuguese
concerning the trade.57
And there you started paying also. This account all squares rather well with
our slave-trade-by-invitation thesis. The festive dimension seems to have
become something of a tradition, at least in Allada;58 so also do the other
elements mentioned in the manuscripts. First, all the taxes and duties the
Europeans had to pay before being allowed to purchase slaves.59 And second,
the central role of the king who had the first pick of the items the Europeans
had to offer, and who was also the first seller of slaves, at the prices the king
himself fixed.60 This practice has given rise to the debate already alluded to, as
to whether the slave trade was or became a royal monopoly on the African
side. We shall return to that subject later.
Whatever the case, we need to stress that the slave trade on the Slave Coast
was organized in a very different way from what prevailed in other regions. In
Angola, for instance, there existed, we are told,61 authentic slave markets on
more or less neutral ground where the Europeans were relatively free to pick
and choose, not being submitted to the kind of official regulations and
pressure that the sources indicate were the rule on the Slave Coast. The Slave
Coast was always organized in polities which we may call “kingdoms”. And it
was these “kingdoms” and their rulers the Europeans traded with, not more or
less acephalous societies. Hence the necessity to be on as acceptable terms as
possible with whoever held power.62 Note that the organization in kingdoms
implied guarantees for the European traders.
In fact, like all trade, the slave trade too needed a certain level of safety and
predictability – law and order. That may sound surprising given the nature of
the slave trade and the enormous loss of human life it implied. But the fact is
that direct attacks on the slave traders were exceptionally rare on the Slave
120
Coast. The present author knows of only one, the so-called Carlton affair,
when a sloop by that name was attacked in 1686 off Grand Popo and the
captain and the cook killed.63 It is true that we know about other cases too
where European slave traders were killed and even executed. But this was not
necessarily because they were slave traders, rather because they chose the
wrong side in local civil wars or in wars between African rulers, or conspired
against whoever was in power. European and Luso-Brazilian slave traders who
stuck to their trade had a lot to fear from the local physical conditions and
from slave revolts, but less so from the authorities. It may explain in part the
“success” of the Slave Coast. When in certain regions or certain periods those
authorities began acting arbitrarily or “playing tricks” on the traders – as
happened, as we shall see, in the polity of Little Popo-Glidji on the Western
Slave Coast from early on, and in Dahomey in the second half of the
eighteenth century – the slave traders simply went elsewhere. For there was
always elsewhere to go.
***
We need to return to the chronology regarding the arrival of the Europeans.
The first missionaries to set foot on the Slave Coast were some French
Capuchins who stayed at Hueda in 1644; this is the first time, to our
knowledge, that Hueda appears in the sources.64
What were the French Capuchins doing in Hueda in 1644? Their mission
was probably an offshoot of the very intermittent French interest in the
Commendo/Eguafo region on the western Gold Coast from 1638, linked to
the project of Jean-Baptiste Colbert (Louis XIV’s powerful minister), quickly
abandoned, to crush the quasi-monopoly of the Dutch over the gold trade.65
French policy with regard to the Guinea coast was in fact, and continued to
be, highly erratic.
The Capuchins in Hueda do not seem to have achieved anything, and the
chapel they built was rapidly burnt down. Other Capuchin missionaries
arrived more than 15 years later, in January 1660, and in Allada this time –
eleven Spanish Capuchins. They were sent officially by King Philip IV of
Spain (1621–65) who still considered himself to be the king of Portugal.66
They arrived at a moment when the Dutch were probably absent temporarily.
These Spanish Capuchins seemed, and were in a sense, totally out of context.
The mission achieved apparently nothing anyway, and lasted only for a little
more than year, having been actively combated by the returning Dutch. That
being said, the mission is of considerable interest in the internal African
121
context, since the sources it generated throw, as we shall see, an interesting,

not to say intriguing light on a number of relevant subjects.
***
As noted, the English arrived on the Guinea coast in 1631–32. But the English
Civil War (1642–51) curtailed England’s overseas expansion in Africa. There
followed a strange episode in 1657 when the famous East India Company
tried to enter the Guinea trade – it needed bullion for its trade with India,67
and may not have been active on the Slave Coast. Its intervention did not last,
but it was a strange episode, because the shipping lanes between Europe and
Asia avoided the Lower Guinea coast. Since the days of Bartolomeo Dias and
his rounding of the Cape of Good Hope in 1488, and because of the prevailing
winds and currents, the ships stood always far out from the Gulf of Guinea and
in fact close to the Brazilian coast on their way southwards.68
But then, in September 1663, two English ships reached the region of
Allada, where a factory was established.69 The ships were sent by the Company
of Royal Adventurers of England Trading into Africa, a chartered company
created earlier the same year, and described as the most distinguished company
ever to trade out of England, since it was owned by 31 members of the royal
family – the clearest example we have, says Gijs Rommelse, of collaboration
between the Crown and the City.70 Its Director was none other than the Duke
of York, the future King James II (1685–88).71 J.R. Jones argues that it would
be an exaggeration to describe it as an aristocratic treasure hunt,72 implying
that it has been so presented.
At Allada the Dutch tried their best to block the English scheme, but they
were forced to live with it. Here was the beginning of the peculiar situation
which came to characterize the centres of the Slave Coast, with several
European nations present at the same site, and frequent clashes between them.
The presence of the English and the resulting competition led to a somewhat
dramatic rise in the slave trade.73 What we have here is apparently the first
genuine take-off of the slave trade from the Slave Coast.
Did the arrival of the English in Allada cause a major war between
England and the Dutch Republic? Or was it just one of many factors? This
was in any case a period of considerable tension between England and the
Dutch Republic due, in the last instance, to the passing of the first English
Navigation Act in 1651, an act directed very much against the Dutch. It led
to constant frictions between the rival English and Dutch empires of trade
all over the world.
122
The chronology is interesting. Indeed, in May 1664 (that is, eight months
after the English arrived in Allada), an English naval force under the command
of Captain Robert Holmes simply drove out the Dutch from the coast, except
from Elmina Castle (and Allada). The English took over, in particular, the fort
later known as Cape Coast Castle at Fetu,74 situated within sight of Elmina,
and reputedly the best place in Guinea for acquiring gold.75
But the Dutch counter-attack did not take long to come: in early 1665 the
famous Admiral Michiel de Ruyter carried out a highly successful reprisal
raid, sweeping the English out of West African waters, and capturing almost
all the English establishments on the Gold Coast, including their headquarters
at Cormantin (the English had been “beaten to dirt at Guinea”, as Samuel
Pepys put it in his famous Diary).76 But de Ruyter did not try to take Cape
Coast Castle, which then remained English, and became in fact the English
headquarters.77 The English factory at Offra was not eliminated either, being
situated inland and thus outside of the reach of the Dutch cannon. An
interesting detail: the Dutch captured an English ship which carried a letter
of thanks from the Duke of York to the King of Allada, together with various
objects also destined for the same king; they included a brass crown, which
must have been of considerable value, since it ended up on display in the
prestigious Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.78
Whether it was the dispute over trading privileges on the West African
coast that “became the occasion” for,79 or the prelude to, or the cause of the
Second Anglo-Dutch naval war (waged de jure from March 1665 to July
1667), or whether that war was simply the result of English aggression
orchestrated by the Duke of York and his interest group of courtiers and naval
officers, as J.R. Jones argues,80 the events of 1664–67 demonstrated that both
the English and the Dutch considered the forts and factories on the Guinea
coast to be of prime importance.81 But they also showed that it was impossible
to defend those forts and factories against naval forces from Europe82 – except
those of the Slave Coast. The Dutch and the English were thus doomed to
some sort of coexistence on the Guinea coast.
With regard to the Slave Coast, the WIC presumably reaped some short-
term benefits from de Ruyter’s victory. The war of 1665–67 crippled England’s
trade at Allada, it simply stopped.83 Conversely, the Dutch presence and slave
trade must have grown considerably, for we learn that around 1670 the WIC
had a lodge there, so enormous that it looked like a sizeable village.84
But competitors arrived quickly, first the English, who must have returned
after a short while, and second the French. The latter, having failed on the
123
Gold Coast, now tried their luck further east. What happened on 4 January
1670 was that two ships belonging to the new French West Indies Company
(Compagnie des Indes Occidentales) arrived off Offra/Jakin, where there
were five ships already, significantly all Dutch.85 The French West Indies
Company, although formally private, was in reality state-sponsored and state-
owned. This was, then, an official mission designed to break into the Dutch-
dominated slave trade. In fact, those in charge were naval officers, including
the first among them, a certain Louis Delbée (or D’Elbée).86 But the brain
behind it all, and the one in charge of organizing the slave trade, of which the
French had little experience, was a foreigner and a civilian, the fascinating
Heinrich Caerloff. Caerloff ought not to occupy us too much since he is
peripheral to our story, however we may note that Caerloff was probably in
his late thirties in 1670 but already an old hand in the Guinea trade. Born in
Pillau, presently Baltiysk in what is now the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad,
he served with the WIC in many parts of West Africa. After that he switched
to the Swedes, being in fact in charge of the Swedish attempt to gain a
foothold on the Gold Coast. But in 1657 he went over to the Danes and led
the Danish assault against the Swedes in 1658; Sweden and Denmark were at
war at that time, a war which turned out to be a resounding disaster for
Denmark, except – thanks to Caerloff – in Guinea. Finally Caerloff became
naturalised French some time after 1663.87
The Delbée-Caerloff mission was relatively successful, at least in the short
run, and in spite of inevitable strong Dutch opposition. Delbée, after having
consigned to writing his interesting observations on Allada (see the next
chapter), left with some 410 slaves, of whom a hundred died on the Middle
Passage and the rest arrived in the West Indies in a rather miserable state,
owing to the French lack of experience.88 And Caerloff, left behind in Offra/
Jakin, proceeded to establish a French lodge. A second expedition which
arrived in October of the same year was designed to reinforce the French
position. As for the king of Allada, he responded positively, even sending a
certain Matéo Lopez, who could speak Portuguese, as ambassador to France.89
Lopez was in fact granted audience by king Louis XIV himself on 19
December 1670.90 Frustratingly, that embassy has not left anything of interest
in the archives.
However, in 1671–72 all the protagonists came up against very severe
problems, including the king of Allada, whose maritime provinces, Jakin and
possibly also Offra, revolted with the aid of neighbouring Hueda. This led
Caerloff to relocate his lodge to Glehue, the future Ouidah,91 about 30 km.
124
further west. It is at this stage, then, that Ouidah-Glehue and Hueda

genuinely enter our story.
As for the Europeans, they were all to suffer from a major conflagration in
Europe, the so-called French-Dutch, or simply Dutch war of 1672–78.
England under Charles II (1660–85) and France under Louis XIV mounted
in 1672 a concerted effort to crush the Dutch Republic. Part of the war was
fought at sea, and that part is called the Third Anglo-Dutch naval war (1672–
74). The Dutch more than survived, thanks in part to De Ruyter.92
There were no hostilities in African waters this time, but the war meant the
end of the companies which operated on the Guinea coast. However, in the
case of the Dutch and the English, the problems proved to be transitory, and
new, although remodelled companies were shortly established. In the case of
the English, it took the shape of the Royal African Company of England
(hereafter RAC, 1672–1751) which was like its predecessor close to the
Stuarts while they reigned.93 The RAC, which has gone down in history as the
largest single slave-trading business of all time, succeeded in September 1674
in sending its first slave ships to Allada.94 At the same time the English factory,
which had probably been abandoned some years earlier, was reoccupied.95
From then on there was a permanent British presence on the Slave Coast right
up to 1812.
In the case of the Dutch, a new WIC reemerged in 1674. But although it was
a reorganised and rather modest copy of its predecessor, its capital being only 15
per cent of the old WIC, it turned out to be a success for quite some time.96
The third party, the French, were the real losers, disappearing more or less
from the scene until 1702, though with the exception, as we shall see, of some
rather spectacular expeditions from time to time. The Dutch and the British,
although frequently at loggerheads, at times collaborated in order to impede
the French from gaining a foothold on the coast.97 But the Luso-Brazilians
with their tobacco began strongly to make their presence felt, although, as
noted, without the benefit of any permanent establishment. Finally,
Brandenburger-Prussian and Danish companies were also present occasionally
in one way or another, especially the former. There is in fact little doubt that
the Churfürstlich-Afrikanisch-Brandenburgische Compagnie, to quote its full
name, was relatively active at Ouidah-Glehue in the 1680s and 1690s.98
***
All in all, it is clear that the late 1670s mark the real take-off of the Atlantic
slave trade from the Slave Coast. Indeed, and as we have seen, according to the
125
Database the exports from the Bight of Benin/Slave Coast were multiplied by
four in the relevant period (1676–1700), whereas the overall figure for all of
Africa did not even double.
But what is the explanation? It is tempting to link it to another “take-off ”,
that which has been described as “the first global industry” – “New World
sugar production”.99 That “take-off ” is in turn related to the so-called “sugar
revolution”. What happened was that the sugar plantation complex spread
from its original homeland in northeastern Brazil to Barbados,100 and then to
many other Caribbean islands. (Islands – especially small and flat ones like
Barbados – can be “ideal” places for plantations based on slavery, since there
is nowhere for the slaves to escape to). This development was in part due to
the more or less indirect incentives of the WIC. Hence a dramatic surge in the
demand for slaves from Africa, and in fact the emergence of what has been
called the South Atlantic System (the Atlantic slave trade plus the sugar
plantation complex), converting it into what was for the epoch a colossal
economic, and in its essence capitalist, circuit.101 It was a circuit primarily
aimed at satisfying the demand for sugar in northwestern Europe and mainly
there – sugar never really caught on in Southern Europe, or for that matter in
Africa. Possibly it was the supply from America which created the demand in
Europe.102 We note in this context Jan de Vries’ point that “The acceleration
and broadening of the demand for sugar…was anything but inevitable”.103
Sugar, not exactly an indispensable commodity, set the whole system in
motion, thereby contributing powerfully, we repeat, to the economic upsurge
of northwestern Europe. Cotton growing and all that was related to it in
North America came very much later.104
The problem then is one of cause and effect: did the rise of the South
Atlantic System provide the rulers and/or the people of the Slave Coast with,
say, a golden opportunity? Or was it the supply on the Slave Coast which
made possible the sugar revolution and everything that followed?105 Put
differently, was the expansion of the slave trade demand-driven, as Robin Law
implies,106 or was it on the contrary supply-driven, which, in the present
author’s opinion, it is equally or perhaps even more logical to argue? But if so,
how to explain that supply, or in the opposite case, how to explain that the
locals were able to satisfy the demand?
The conclusion is in any case that there exists a strong link between the
sugar revolution in the Caribbean and the tremendous rise in slave exports
from the Slave Coast.
***
126
The slave trade was the only substantial sector of late seventeenth century
English colonial commerce subjected to company organization.107 Hence it
was only logical that those who clamoured for “free trade”, in the sense of
non-monopolistic trade, should target the slave trade and the RAC for
special attention. If we add that the slave trade promised huge gains from the
1680s (a promise not always fulfilled), we can go on to present a new
personage who now entered the scene: the interloper. We are referring to the
freelance traders excluded from the monopolistic charter system who were
nevertheless determined to have their share of the slave trade regardless of
what the official regulations and laws stipulated.108 Hence they advocated
“free trade”. But they were contraband slavers from a formal point of view. It
was certainly not an exclusive English phenomenon; Dutch interlopers
(called lorredraayers) also made their impact felt from an early date.109 As for
the third major protagonist, the Luso-Brazilians, they were not saddled with
this problem – the Portuguese slave trade was and remained “free” in the
sense indicated above.
Both the RAC and the WIC combated the interlopers actively. For
instance, at one stage the Dutch had five heavily armed cruisers on the coast,
the largest one with 32 cannon, to pursue them and also the Luso-Brazilians
who failed to pay the obligatory tax at Elmina.110 One imagines that it drained
the resources of both companies.
It may be nevertheless that the interlopers (that is, free traders) contributed
in the final instance to the “success” of the slave trade. Their great advantage
was that they did not have to worry about the expense of maintaining land
bases. Theirs was in fact what is called ship trade. But they did not have to
worry either about what Willem Bosman, a WIC employee, called the
customs of the land, that is, they did not have to respect the prices the
companies tried to enforce111 – they were in fact accused of driving up the
prices, which they obviously did. For that reason the interlopers were
welcomed with open arms by the local rulers. As the king of Hueda put it,
“those that bring the most & best goods, shall have the most & best slaves”.112
Actually, the interlopers made themselves indispensable for the slave trade
more generally, including the Company trade; they provided the necessary
flexibility. Indeed, when the rigid system of the Companies failed – that is,
when a fort or lodge was left without provisions – one could always turn to
the interlopers.113 More generally speaking, the WIC protected the English
interlopers, and the RAC did the same with the Dutch ones, and so on. This
was especially the case of the personnel in the outer forts and minor posts,
127
who were often left to their own devices and therefore found it at times
expedient to establish trading relations with the interlopers.114
Having mentioned the interlopers, we must also add another group which
constituted a nuisance for the companies, namely the pirates, corsairs and
privateers. The pirates were not exclusively a Caribbean phenomenon then,
contrary to what we are at times led to believe.115 Interlopers, pirates, corsairs,
privateers: the categories seem to have been more or less interchangeable and
it is not always easy to determine who was who (apart from the fact that
corsairs and privateers were in theory official agents of their respective
governments). Whatever the case, we know, as indicated earlier, of quite a few
slave ships lost to pirates. Outside of the Slave Coast properly speaking, the
island of Príncipe was a frequent target.116
***
One obvious conclusion that can be drawn from the above is that on the Slave
Coast at least the Europeans were very much divided among themselves, they
never constituted anything resembling a united front. Actually, the impression
one has is that the competition on the European side was always very severe. All
this was to the advantage of the opposite side. There is then no reason to believe
that the Africans were in any way, let us say, “underpaid” for their slaves.
Actually, given the obviously huge expenses slaving on the very complicated
Slave Coast implied, and the limited profits the Europeans must have derived
from it, one is left to wonder why they bothered at all. Perhaps the ultimate
explanation is non-economic, something to the effect that opting out would
be damaging to a country’s prestige, and worse, would leave the other
European competitors with what was perceived to be too great an advantage.
***
The Africans were in a sense equally divided. For by the time the slave trade
took off once again, Allada became confronted with a competitor and rival,
the neighbouring and tiny polity (“kingdom”) of Hueda, Savi being its palatial
capital (the distance between Savi and Allada town is a mere 30 km). Hueda
was in theory a vassal of Allada, but an increasingly rebellious one.117 However,
behind Allada and Hueda other polities lurked: Dahomey in the immediate
hinterland, Akwamu and especially Oyo further afield. Caught in between
were Eweland and many other regions.
It is time, then, to turn to the African side of the story.
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2
THE AFRICAN SIDE

THE EARLY/LEGENDARY PAST
A team of Danish archaeologists under the direction of Klavs Randsborg has

recently demonstrated that the inland Abomey plateau, the core land of
Dahomey, was settled by what they call “developed” societies from at least the
seventh century BCE, and by “advanced” societies from the seventh century
AD. According to them, the eleventh and twelfth centuries AD represented a
peak period during which a genuine kingdom emerged in the region, a
kingdom they link to the name “Dauma” which figures in this area on some
European maps of the sixteenth century.1 It is clear that the material basis of
this flourishing was metallurgy. The archaeologists have in fact unearthed
traces of ancient iron production on a huge scale, that is, far exceeding local
needs and hence destined in part for export. The relevant area comprises not
only the Abomey plateau but also the region to the south-west, and the oldest
date so far is from the eleventh century AD. But this iron production, which
needed enormous quantities of charcoal, must have depleted whatever there
may have been of forest, and ceased therefore rather abruptly in the late
sixteenth or the early seventeenth century.2
What do we make of these rather spectacular finds, and how do they fit in
with what we know about the past from other sources? Here we must
introduce the town of Tado situated some 40 km west of Abomey, on the
other side of the present-day border between the Republics of Benin and
Togo. Tado, also called Ajatado (or Adjatado), is to-day a rather insignificant
129
village. But there is reason to believe that it was at some stage in the past,
possibly between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, an important
metropolis which held sway, effectively or ritually, over a relatively large area.3
Tado in fact looms large in the local oral traditions, being the town from
which most ethnic groups and relevant dynasties of the Slave Coast claim
descent.4 Those claims must show that it carried prestige to hail from Tado.
But at some stage, the oral traditions tell us, Tado was rocked by severe
convulsions, which led to a number of exoduses and the fall from prominence
of that once presumably mighty town. Tado remains however a near-blank
from an archaeological point of view; those Danish archaeologists were
apparently unable to go as far, presumably because of the border. We do know,
however, thanks to Alexis Adande, that there are or were vestiges of old walls
at Tado. One is supposed to have surrounded the town, and the other the
royal enclosure.5 We also know that Tado is situated only a few kilometres’
distance from some of the known iron-producing sites on the other side of the
modern border. We know too what is most important, that blacksmiths
occupy a central role in the oral traditions referring to Tado.
Given all this, it is tempting to make a hypothesis: first, that the iron-
producing region extended westwards, encircling Tado, and/or that Tado
lorded it over the Abomey plateau (Dauma could be Tado); and second, that
Tado’s fall from prominence is linked to the end of metallurgy on a large scale.
It is in any case difficult to avoid the conclusion that there exists some kind of
link between the discoveries made by the Danish archaeologists and the
traditions concerning Tado. What that link precisely is, only future
archaeological excavations can determine.
***
Before looking into the oral traditions of Tado, we need to know that
blacksmiths were very special people in Africa of old; they were considered
to be expert magicians since they had received the ability to manipulate fire.
But an important group (kindred) of blacksmiths also creates tension; they
have their own divinities and their own “priests” (the “iron-priests”, those
who control the blacksmith shrines), and are therefore not always likely to
respect the ascendancy of an “earth-priest” or an “earth-priest” turned sacred
king. “Iron-priests” may, if their following is numerous, as we presume was
the case in Tado, aspire to power themselves.6 Hence, perhaps, the confusing
traditions of Tado, possibly reflecting the struggle between various groups
for supremacy.
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THE AFRICAN SIDE
According to the traditions collected by Roberto Pazzi, the origin of Tado

was the result of a pact or alliance between three kindreds and three
corresponding neighbourhoods or wards. Two of these wards were inhabited
by indigenous people. But the Alu blacksmiths, reputed to have descended
from heaven, were more “ancient” than the Azanu or Dome, the other
indigenes. The third ward was inhabited by what Pazzi calls the Ayo or Adja
immigrants. There was also a fourth ward, for the traders,7 as befitted a
commercial hub of considerable importance which it is evident Tado must
have been.8
Now, all the versions evolve around the first three groups: the Azanu (the
descendants of Aza, -nu always meaning people), the Alu and the Ayo/Adja.
But they differ as to which group held the kingship and which group or
groups controlled the apparently powerful state council. These then constitute
the main theme of the traditions as we have them.
Since the Alu were blacksmiths, we assume that their head was an “iron-
priest”. But given the fact that the majority of the population (the Azanu and
the Ayo/Adja) were farmers, the next logical step would be for us to go looking
for an “earth-priest”. The most likely candidate is one Togbé-Anyi, who is
presented as the first “king” of Tado. But it so happens that Togbé means
“ancestor” and Anyi, a variant of aï, means “earth”9 – one obvious implication
being that we are not dealing with an individual as such. The next point is that
this Togbé-Anyi bore the title of anyigbafio,10 a title we have already
encountered frequently, and which we have translated as “earth-priest” (as
noted anyi means earth, anyigba means the earth deity and fio or fia means
chief or headman/king). If it means earth-priest, we can imagine that the title
was conserved once the “earth-priest” had become sacred king – if, that is, the
institution of “earth-priest” grew into that of sacred king. But the troubling
point here is that according to one version, the first king, called Togbé-Anyi in
this version too, was a prince from Oyo in Yorubaland, which implies that he
was of the stock of Pazzi’s Ayo.11 As such he was surrounded by a seven-member
council of state composed of the indigenous Azanu. All this implies a “classic”
contrapuntal paramountcy-setup. But if so, what happened to the Alu?
In another version12 we learn that the Alu had to submit to the combined
forces of the Ayo/Adja and the Azanu, the Azanu in this version providing the
king, and in fact preserving the institution of kingship up to the present. So
the Alu were the great losers in this version too? Not quite, since the Pazzi
version has it that the kings of Tado actually allied themselves with those who
controlled the “mysterious power of the forge”.13 Furthermore, and according
131
to Gayibor, the esoteric power of the Alu manifested itself on the occasion of
the enthronement of the kings14 (exactly how we are not told). What is more,
the Alu were considered to be the uterine “uncles” of the king, and as such not
required to approach the king crawling on all fours and covering themselves
with dust like the rest.15 In addition the Alu continued to be all-important as
soothsayers, magicians, sorcerers and so on.16 Although all this may not be
contrapuntal paramountcy in the classical sense of the term, one may be
forgiven for feeling that it does resemble one.
In the last-mentioned version it is therefore the Ayo/Adja who have
disappeared. Actually, in none of the versions is there room for all three
groups. It leads us to the suspicion that the traditions refer to a never-ending
power struggle, implying perhaps that the kingship was not always in the
custody of the same group.
We add for good measure that the apparent successor of the king of Tado,
the head of the village of Tohoun, was referred to in the colonial era as not
only “chef de la terre” (that is, anyigbafio), but also as a priest, and as such as a
rainmaker in charge of fertility cults.17 It was probably the one whom the
French officer D’Albéca encountered in 1895 and whom he presents as a sort
of local pontiff.18
Whatever the case, the kings of Tado are portrayed by Nicoué Gayibor, the
leading authority in these matters, as a typical sacred king.19 Indeed, the
anyigbafio lived secluded in his palace and all (except then the Alu in one
version) were required to prostrate themselves in his presence, since no-one,
not even his wives, could look him in the face. In order to maintain his
magical fluid, the fluid which permitted him to control the occult forces of
nature, his feet could not enter into contact with the soil.
All this is timeless, as befitting oral traditions.
***
We must mention the point made by Suzanne Preston Blier that Tado, apart
from being a place-name, is also a common noun meaning “origins”. The
worrying implication is of course that Tado was not one single place.20 But if
so, why claim foreign origin, if it could be anywhere, and hence not likely to
carry much prestige?
As noted, an upheaval occurred in Tado at some stage, linked to the reign
of a particularly tyrannical king. One group of people revolted, tried to seize
power, but failed in the end and had to flee. They came to be known as the Aja
or Agasuvi. They went southeastwards, but not very far, some 40 km, to the
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THE AFRICAN SIDE
region known as Allada, where they established the polity of that name. But
others moved (at the same time?) some 70 kilometres southwestwards, where
they founded Notsé. From Allada the Aja-Agasuvi branched off in various
directions, establishing especially Dahomey in the north and, somewhat later,
Porto Novo/Hogbonu in the east.
In Notsé (Nuatja) too there are vestiges from the past, in the shape of some
large unfinished walls and a ditch system that enclosed most of the settlement.
There is also a smaller inner wall whose purpose may have been to isolate the
royal domain – a classic pattern in the region. All this indicates that the town
may have been of importance in earlier centuries, as both a religious and an
economic centre.21
As for the institutional setup at Notsé, what the oral traditions, as
presented to us by Nicoué Gayibor and Nii Quarcoopome, have to tell us is
intriguing in the extreme. According to those traditions, Eda, the first king,
was installed by the mawuno, presented as the priest of Mawu (only Mawu,
not Mawu-Liisa) who was also the head of the neighbouring village of Tegbe.
And the people of that village claim that they have always lived there, that is,
since before the arrival of the people from Tado; so they claim indigenous
status. Since the mawuno continued to play possibly the central role in the
enthronement rites of the kings,22 the temptation is obviously great to imagine
the emergence of some sort of contrapuntal paramountcy with the mawuno
in the role of the indigenous “earth-priest”. But the mawuno was, as said, the
priest of Mawu, and the king, after being installed, assumed the title of
mawufia, king of Mawu, along with (once more) that of anyigbafia.23 At this
juncture it is easy to get lost in all sorts of conjectures and speculations – for
instance the possibility that Mawu, later presented as some sort of Supreme
God, may have been originally simply the earth spirit – while forgetting that
loose ends and crooked lines are inevitable in the type of context with which
we are concerned. Whatever the case, what seems beyond doubt is that the
king of Notsé was a typical (secluded) sacred king surrounded by the
inevitable council of state.24
In Notsé too we encounter the archetypical tyrannical king who provoked
an exodus, the fourth one in the official king-list. But in the Notsé case he has
a name, he is called Agokoli (or Agorkoli); a king whom Gayibor has
attempted, it seems to us, to convert into a tragic hero. He was, according to
Gayibor, some sort of revolutionary who tried to transform the Notsé polity
into something resembling a centralized and authentic state – a positive aim
according to Gayibor, who regrets in a sense that Agokoli did not succeed.25
133
As it was, Agokoli failed because of his own excesses, related to the

construction of the walls, and also because he found himself confronted with
a determined conservative opposition. Gayibor’s thesis is that the action of
Agokoli inoculated the Ewes, as it were, against the institution of kingship.26
In order to forestall a repetition of the Agokoli episode, kingship became
rotational, and it was decided that no king could reign more than three years.
At the end of those three years the king died a ritual death, as Gayibor puts it
laconically.27 But if so, we imagine that the task of finding a new king every
three years must have become a rather arduous one, although the fact that the
kingship alternated between several clans28 may perhaps have made the task
somewhat less demanding.
If the Agokoli story has anything to do with what really happened in the
past, and if we are correct in believing that it is all about a king trying to
liberate himself from the straightjacket of sacred kingship, then that story is
reminiscent of cases already referred to, those of Congo, Benin and Oyo. But
if so, the outcome was something close to disaster in all four cases. That being
said, it is interesting to note that the priest-kingship (if that is what it was) of
Notsé has survived more or less to the present, although completely
overshadowed since the beginning of the colonial era by the yovofia, literally
“white man’s chief ”29 – fia again. In fact, even as late as the 1810s the priest-
king of Notsé was still considered to be a great priest throughout the
region30 – but apparently not for very long afterwards.31
There is a small community known as the Adele who live in the mountains
north of Atakpame, outside Eweland – another group of people speaking
Ghana-Togo mountain languages. Pazzi argues that these Adele were the
indigenous inhabitants of the Notsé region from whence they fled.
Nevertheless, each king of Notsé (before or after Agokoli or both?), had to
make, before his enthronement, a three months’ journey to the land of the
Adele in order to be initiated. Pazzi concludes that the voyage northwards
indicates that the kings of Notsé were in a sense subordinate to the Adele.32
What do we make of it?
As for the second part of what Paul Nugent calls the Notsé meta-
narrative,33 the contention that all the Ewe originated from Notsé and that
they spread out over the future Eweland because the region was empty of
people, it is, we repeat, a story to which the modern anthropologists and
historians do not subscribe.
We also repeat, lest anyone should be in doubt, that we do not know to
what extent, if any, anything of the above (and most of the below) relates to
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THE AFRICAN SIDE
what really happened in the past. But the point is that the oral traditions we
have summarized provide us with a magnificent glimpse into the world
outlook and the structuring of the societies of the Slave Coast of old.
***
We now turn to the traditions collected by the first Europeans who interested
themselves in the past of the Slave Coast, namely three Spanish churchmen
who wrote in the seventeenth century. Two of them we have mentioned
fleetingly already, Alonso de Sandoval and Joseph de Naxara ( José de Nájera
in modern Spanish). Sandoval was an unorthodox missionary who worked
among the slaves in Cartagena de Indias (in modern Colombia), a major
hotbed of illicit slave trading,34 from 1605 to his death in 1652. Although he
never went to Africa, he published a book in 1627 in which he assigned to
paper what he had learned from his African interlocutors in Cartagena.35
Naxara on the other hand did go to Africa, he was a member of the
aforementioned Spanish mission to Allada in 1660–61, and he went prepared
since he had read Sandoval.36 The third of our Spanish clerics was Basilio de
Zamora, another of Sandoval’s readers, and high up in the Capuchin order. As
such he had access to material left behind by the 1660–61 mission, although
he himself, like Sandoval, never set foot in Africa.37
The three are agreed that the ruler of the kingdom of Popo (“Reyno de los
Popoes”) was at some time in the past a sort of emperor over the whole region
in the sense that a great many kings paid allegiance to him, including the king
of Allada. The emperor himself lived some seventy “leguas” inland, an
uncomfortable fact, since it means 250 km, far beyond the Slave Coast as
defined in this book (and far beyond Tado). To the east was Fulao, and then
Ardaso, which we identify with, respectively, Foulaen in Tori and Allada (on
the old polity of Tori, see next chapter). And either the king of Fulao/Tori or
the king of Allada (the sources are confusing) had to wage war against the
latter to liberate himself. During this war the emperor of Popo was slain by
one of his two vassals. But the people of Allada and/or Fulao/Tori conserved
a severed hand of the emperor of Popo which became a holy relic for the
victors, the object of a fertility cult.
When did all this happen? According to Naxara, some eight generations
before his time,38 and he wrote in the 1660s – so perhaps around or before
1500. A modern author, Nicoué Gayibor, refers to the above as Allada’s war of
liberation against Popo, and identifies the latter place with present-day Grand
Popo, that is, Hulagan.39 If so, the emperor of Popo could have been none
135
other than the Hulaholu of Hulagan mentioned before. This makes some
sense, considering the position of the Hula as possibly the indigenous people
of the coastal region, and that of the Hulaholu as (still possibly) a ruler of
some importance in earlier times. Furthermore, in Naxara’s time his kingdom
of Popo was certainly the western neighbour of Allada (Fulao/Tori having
become a vassal of Allada) and still a power to be reckoned with. But one of
the problems in this context (there are others) is the name Popo, which seems
to have been unknown to the local population in earlier times.40
Whatever the case, Gayibor believes that Grand Popo experienced a
prolonged period of inexorable decline after its defeat by Fulao/Tori and/or
Allada.41 But if so, as noted, many people of the region, including those of
Aneho and Little Popo, continued to acknowledge at least implicitly the
religious-ritual authority of the “Master of the Lagoon”, that is, the Hulaholu.42
We cannot leave the matter of Allada-Fulao/Tori versus Popo without
mentioning Jakin and Offra, the twin towns which served as Allada’s
commercial hub and which may correspond, as noted, to modern Godomey.
But the relationship between the two is far from clear. Actually, we know very
little about Offra. But Jakin was obviously a genuine principality, and a Hula
principality at that – paying tribute to the king of Allada with loaves of salt,
according to Dalzel.43 Hence it is not surprising that Jakin was a rather unruly
vassal, revolting against Allada in 1671–72, as we have seen, and later often
going its own way. Actually, Jakin must have been one of many Hula groups
or pockets along the coast which made life difficult for the rulers of Allada.
What Offra was exactly, we do not know, but certainly it was a rival of Jakin,
considering the hostility between the two, hostility which explains in turn
why Jakin took part in the destruction of Offra in 1692. That event may have
tilted the balance in favour of Jakin’s ally Hueda in its struggle with Allada.44
***
Allada constitutes the link between the Tado-Notsé and the Popo (or
Sandoval-Naxara-Zamora) stories. But even so, it is not easy to reconcile the
two. We can at least note that the former refers principally to the interior and
the latter to the coast and possibly to an earlier period. What is noteworthy
in any case is that the corpus of oral tradition which began to be committed
to writing in the early colonial period, more than two centuries after the
Spanish mission, is silent about Popo and the Hula. Actually, the Tado-Notsé
narrative had become dominant by then, as people claiming descent from
Tado and Notsé have assimilated the Hula to a considerable extent. The
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THE AFRICAN SIDE
defeat of the “Emperor of Popo” by the king of Allada may be considered to

be paradigmatic-symbolic in this context, whether it actually happened or
not. Indeed, so powerful is the Tado-Notsé narrative that even the Hula
themselves were contaminated and began, according to one author, to claim
such a descent.45
***
The Tado-Notsé narrative implies that some groups of people, small or not,
moved southwards. If so, it may have been because the south was thinly
populated, although the Popo narrative seems to imply the contrary. Or it may
have to do with the arrival of the Europeans and the new plants and new
animals they introduced – in brief, the desire to take part in whatever
opportunities the new situation presented the locals with.46 But in the latter
case we are talking about the sixteenth and even the seventeenth century,
rather late dates.
Finally, it has been speculated recently that the Black Death from 1347
onwards and some of the subsequent plague epidemics may have reached
Guinea, specifically the land of the Akan in present-day Ghana.47 If that is the
case, it may well have affected the Slave Coast too. And if so again, one may
wonder what is the relationship with the findings of the archaeologists and
with the Tado-Notsé narrative. In this case we are at least dealing with
somewhat earlier dates than the ones suggested above.
***
What can be concluded? That the Tado-Notsé narrative is not without a
certain logic, but that the Popo one complicates everything. It is tempting,
therefore, to argue that those Spanish churchmen have got it all wrong. But it
is a temptation we believe should be resisted.
One final problem: was Allada established by people coming from Tado,
or is it much older, as the Popo narrative seems to imply? It is time, then, to
have a closer look at that polity.
137
3
ALLADA, ITS VASSALS AND NEIGHBOURS,

AND THE EUROPEANS
The oral traditions of Allada are, we repeat, difficult to reconcile with the
Popo narrative. Or rather, there are in a sense two sets of Allada traditions.
One constitutes the prologue or introductory chapter, as it were, to the
Dahomean ones, the official Dahomean traditions that is, as enshrined
partially in Le Hérissé’s book1 – the Allada-Dahomey narrative, in sum. Of the
other tradition, only bits and pieces have survived and surface here and there,
thanks in part to the labour of the anthropologist Jacques Lombard.2 (It is
incidentally also difficult to reconcile with the Popo story.)
The reputed four versions or variants of the Allada-Dahomey narrative3
tell basically the same story; a story in which the town of Tado is presented as
the cradle of the dynasties which came to rule Allada, Dahomey and Porto
Novo/Hogbonu respectively. The story begins with a Tado princess named
Aligbonu who bore a son called Agasu with a male leopard (or a spirit in
leopard form – the leopard is always associated with royalty and with power).4
This Agasu became the founding ancestor of a new kindred (clan or lineage)
we have met already, that of the Agasuvi (vi=sons) – the Leopard sib, as the
Herskovits call it.5 Agasu’s son or grandson in turn was Ajahuto (or
Adjahouto).6 Who did exactly what of the two is somewhat obscure. But as
noted, the traditions make it clear that the Agasuvi failed in their attempt to
seize power in Tado. They had to flee, and Ajahuto led them to a country
called Aïzonou-tômè or Aïda-tômè, meaning the land of the Aïzo, also called
Aïda (tô or tômè means place or land).7 There Ajahuto went on to found the
139
polity we know as Allada. And the Agasuvi then became also the Alladahonu,
called after their new ancestral home, Allada, where the remains of Agasu
were buried. Indeed, the king of Allada with his residence at Togudo (east of
the present-day town of Allada) became the agasunon and the ajahutonun,
that is the high priest of the cults of Agasu and Ajahuto, the two royal
ancestors. In a sense the king was Ajahuto.8
What happened then to the indigenous Aïzo? ( aï, it should be recalled,
means earth/land and Aïzo refers always to “owners of the land”/firstcomers,
those who have emerged from holes in the earth as firstcomers often claim to
have done).9 According to the Allada-Dahomey narrative, Ajahuto’s “force”
(“génie”) was so overwhelming that after his death he replaced or supplanted
the vodun Aïda/Aïzo presented as a snake.10 He became thus the vodun of the
earth (tôvodun), accumulating as it were several positions, since he was already
vodun of the royal clan or lineage. The implication here is that the newcomers
could present themselves as, and could claim to be, the new “owners of the
land”.11 It obviously constitutes a gross attempt at manipulation. By
propagating this version, whoever came up with it also tried to justify the
(later) attempt by the Dahomean rulers to eradicate the position of the local
“owners of the land”. Indeed, the general thrust of this and other traditions is
that the Aïzo were few and far between, and the newcomers correspondingly
numerous, after which the former were more or less assimilated by the latter,
and subsequently the Aïzo played only a marginal role. The implication is that
no kind of contrapuntal paramountcy was needed or emerged.
Unsurprisingly, the other (non-official) narrative has a rather different
story to tell. Although it seems to accept the Tado tale, it says the newcomers
acknowledged that the local people had “earth-priests” whose ritual control of
the earth was and remained undisputed.12 One of these was a certain Tè, Teïdo
or Tedo, chief of Davié, who after his death was elevated to the rank of
divinity. As such he became one of a number of divinities of the indigenous
population which continued to be honoured in the Allada of the Ajatadonu.13
There existed in Allada, at least up to the 1970s, a Te Dono presented by
Claude-Hélène Perrot as the priest of Aïzo Tedo, the chief-turned-deity, the
former “Maître du sol”, of whom Te Dono was the direct descendant.14 More
generally, the newcomers did not contest the primacy of the Aïzo, the “maîtres
de terre” (“owners of the land” or “earth-priests”), who continued to be
recruited among them.15
This brings us to the question of contrapuntal paramountcy. There is no
direct irrefutable evidence that it constituted the institutional setup of
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ALLADA, ITS VASSALS AND NEIGHBOURS, AND THE EUROPEANS
Allada. But there is a lot of indirect or circumstantial evidence that points in

that direction.
However, leaving that subject for a while, we wish to summarize what we
know with reasonably certainty about the structure and history of the Alladan
polity more generally, and from other sources. And here the conclusion is
clear: Allada displayed most, possibly all of the ingredients of a polity of the
traditional kind. Among them was a sacred king who lived as a recluse in his
palace, and who governed the metropolitan area, probably with a council, the
rest of the territory being made up of autonomous principalities whose
hereditary rulers paid allegiance to the king.16
Among the vassal polities we have already mentioned the principal ones,
namely Hueda, Jakin and Dahomey – Dahomey is in fact explicitly referred
to by the Spanish sources17 and must thus have been a power of some
importance already in the 1650s/60s. But there were others, notably Tori (or
Tori-Bossito) situated halfway between the town of Allada and the sea, and
Hevie close by. Both clearly have very interesting pasts and equally interesting
structures; “earth-priests” and what look like sacred kings figure prominently,
and there are also traces of contrapuntal paramountcy.18 As for Tori, which
figures prominently, as we have seen, in the Sandoval-Naxara-Zamora Popo
narrative via its (Hula?) “port” of Foulaen or Fulao, it may have been a power
of some importance in the seventeenth century, possibly even lording it over
Grand Popo for some time, and also over Hueda.19 By the time of Willem
Barbot, Tori had actually become completely independent, if we are to
believe him.20
Hevie, which pops up frequently in many contexts, is reputed to have been
the cradle of no less than a whole family of vodun.21 Then there was Apa on
the coast far out east, also a vassal principality,22 which suggests that the king
of Allada controlled (indirectly) the coast for some way eastwards.
Did the rulers of these vassal principalities claim descent from Agasu?
Those of Dahomey certainly did (but from when?), but probably not the
others, in spite of Le Hérissé’s contention that the rulers of Tori too were of
the stock of the Agasuvi;23 it smacks of propaganda. In the case of Jakin for
instance, we are dealing, as noted, with a Hula polity, as reflected in its formal
name, Pla, a variant of Hula (although the polity is referred to generally as
Jakin in our sources, that name is strictly speaking the title of its ruler).24
In any case, what we know of the smaller vassal polities (Tori, Hevie, Apa
and others) is unfortunately much too fragmentary to allow any detailed
reconstruction of their past; we are permitted only a few glimpses.
141
It is probable that the king of Allada in turn paid tribute to the oba (ruler)
of the Edo polity of Benin far to the east.25 We know that Benin expanded
westwards to Lagos in its heyday – Lagos originated as a Benin war-camp –
and possibly beyond.26 Lagos, formally a vassal of Benin up until the colonial
era,27 was already a frontier town full of soldiers in 1603–4, according to some
German visitors in the service of the WIC.28 But it was also an important
regional trading centre even at that early date, as the hub of a vast inland water
system, if we are to believe Sandra Barnes.29
The Benin expansion westwards may have begun very early, according to
Ryder, who presents evidence that already in the 1540s the Oba held prisoner
an ambassador sent to him by the ruler of “Arida”, that is, Allada.30 And
according to the Spanish missionaries, in 1660–61 Benin was the neighbour
of Allada.31 But if so, that situation did not last. The Frenchman Louis Delbée
noted in 1671 that Allada was often at war with Benin and with the Yoruba
kingdom of Oyo far inland.32 If that is correct it suggests that Allada was, by
that time, at the very least an undocile vassal of Benin.
How extensive was Allada’s regional hegemony at its height? It covered
virtually the whole of the Slave Coast, if we are to believe Robert Norris, who
wrote in the 1780s, and who made the possibly extravagant claim that Allada’s
dominance extended from the Volta to Lagos and north to the Lama.33 If so,
it included incidentally the “Kingdom” of Popo.
If we ask next how old Allada was, we run into an unanswerable question,
which is also absurd in a sense. It all depends on our definition of Allada. The
impression we are left with is that on the central Slave Coast (to take only that
example) there existed many centres of considerable antiquity – Allada/Togudo-
Awude, Grand Popo/Hulagan, Tori, Hevie, Tado, Abomey, Kana, Jakin, Savi
and others. Their history is a sort of ebb and flow, one centre rising to
prominence and lording it over the others, or some of the others, before being
superseded by a rival centre, which in turn was superseded by a third such centre,
and so on. Something of the same may also have happened internally, a local
“earth-priest” (or “iron-priest” or “water-priest”, etc.) becoming a sacred king for
a while, while reverting to his former position as primus inter pares when the
material basis for the local sacred kingship evaporated. In this context one
suspects that especially the past of Tori and Hevie is of particular relevance.
***
We must return to the Allada of roughly the second half of the seventeenth
century in order to repeat that on the European side the Dutch were dominant
142
(with a sporadic English presence). But as already pointed out, we have the
episode of the Spanish Capuchin missionaries in 1660–61 and the French
Delbée-Caerloff expedition of 1671–72. Those episodes have left considerable
source material, all the more valuable considering the dearth of Dutch (and
English) material.34 And it so happens that the Spanish and French sources
throw some interesting light on the nature and structure of Allada. As for the
story of the Spanish Capuchins, it is also of interest in its own right, one
reason being that it constitutes an instance where local history blends with
global history.
It is a remarkable fact that the initiative for the Capuchin mission came
from the authorities of Allada, probably the king. The story begins in 1657
when a certain Bans or Vans, accompanied by his servant, arrived in Cartagena
de Indias and presented himself as an ambassador sent by the king of Allada
to the court of King Philip IV of Spain. The local Spanish officials chose to
take him seriously, even though he had no written credentials of any sort.
Hence he was quickly despatched to Spain where he arrived in February 1658
and was soon introduced to the court. He was of course also introduced to the
Catholic version of Christianity, and both Bans and his servant were duly
baptized, Bans becoming Felipe Zapata.35 Philip IV was enthusiastic,36 the
Papacy apparently also. Indeed, the Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide
(usually as simply Propaganda Fide), founded in 1622 to direct missionary
activity, issued a decree dated 4 February 1659 formally establishing the
mission to the Kingdom of Arda (Allada).37 It had become then a serious and
official business, involving quite a few important people, and it was to generate
a lot of correspondence in all directions.38 It was also a mission which was
intended to last, the missionaries being required to send reports every year,
and plans were made to replace those who might die. But even before that, the
preparation for the mission had generated a remarkable text, a catechism of
the Christian religion in Spanish and the (Gbe) language of Allada,39
compiled thanks to the collaboration of Bans/Felipe Zapata, and published
in record time in Madrid in late 1658; this was the earliest written text in any
West African language. It was entitled Doctrina Christiana.40
The eleven missionaries who finally sailed,41 together with Bans/Felipe and
some others, arrived in Allada (at Offra?) on 14 January 1660 after 50 days at
sea, and stayed there for little more than a year (during which time no less
than five of them died);42 we do not know when exactly they left. The
missionaries’ instructions were clear, first to convert the king – in fact, not to
convert anyone before the king.43
143
In the beginning everything went well for the Spaniards, they were
enchanted by the landscape,44 and especially by the hearty welcome they
received in the capital and from the king. What surprised them most was that
they realized that they had come to a very densely populated region, a fact
they thought explained the slave trade – the people of Allada sold their own,
according to the missionaries.45
They had no problem of communication – many people spoke Portuguese46
(“ladinos e inteligentes de nuestra lengua”), among them a group of at least
nominal Christians, although in the manner of the country, that is, polygamous
and abiding by the local customs and rituals47 (“en España, como en España, y en
Arda, como en Arda”48 [Allada] – “when in Rome as the Romans do”, very freely
translated). Nothing of this is really surprising considering the earlier strong
position of the Portuguese, the vicinity of São Tomé, and previous missions to
Warri and Benin (see below for that of Benin). As for the king, he was clearly
eager to convert to Christianity, and even considered himself to have done so
after the missionaries sprinkled him with holy water. In fact, he made the
missionaries understand that his father and predecessor had already thought of
converting but had been prevented from doing so by the “dignitaries”.49
And yet, in spite of all that, everything went wrong after a while. Bans/Vans
relapsed.50 So did also a strange personage who had apparently accompanied
the missionaries from Spain, one who had lived for many years in Spain, and
who even had a wife and children there.51 Worse, relations with the king
soured rapidly; the missionaries, the six who survived, were after a while kept
prisoners in the enormous royal compound forbidden to proselytize and to
teach, and in fact reduced literally to begging. Finally, they were more or less
expelled and had to leave in Dutch ships – the ultimate humiliation.52
The consequences of this short episode, if any, were rather limited. But the
central question is, of course, what lay behind it. The explanation which comes
immediately to mind is that from the Alladan side it was an attempt to
promote trade, to diversify the polity’s external contacts – that is, to break the
Dutch monopoly – and from the Spanish side, an attempt to get a foothold
on the Guinea coast. There is a lot of support for this common sense
interpretation, as it may be called, in the sources. But on the other hand, if
commercial considerations were paramount on the Alladan side, why choose
Spain, a most unlikely trading partner in that part of the world at that time,
why not Portugal, England or even France? And why missionaries?
Let us have a look at the broader picture. First, the Allada mission was not
the first Spanish Capuchin mission in Guinea. It had been preceded by one to
144
the kingdom of Benin in 1651–52, which was also a failure – possibly because
the Spaniards confused Benin with its neighbour to the south, the apparently
Christian Warri-Itsekiri polity. Secondly, as noted, Portugal seceded from the
Spanish crown in 1640, an act which, as the Spaniards tried to impede it, led
to war between the two countries until 1668. The Spanish monarchy was
naturally reluctant to let go of the vast Portuguese overseas empire. One of the
consequences of this situation was that the slave trade to Spanish America via
the famous asiento system – the farming out of that trade through contracts
(asientos) between the Spanish government and private individuals, usually
Portuguese traders – was in a state of limbo, and remained so until 1662–63.53
Spain itself, it should be noted, was formally barred from directly taking part
in the slave trade by the treaty of Tordesillas with Portugal, in force from 1494
to 1750, as that treaty, with papal sanction, placed Africa in the Portuguese
sphere. But Philip IV still considered himself to be the legitimate king of
Portugal, so that the missionaries sent to Allada were instructed to correspond
with the Consejo Supremo de Portugal (Supreme Council for Portuguese
affairs) in Madrid, which continued to function.54 On the other hand,
officially patronizing a mission to Allada, which was after all in the Portuguese
sphere, could lead to all sorts of diplomatic complications. But perhaps not as
long as Philip IV had the support of the Papacy; that is, as long as the
Spaniards did not enter the slave trade directly. Which leads to a third point:
in the conflict between the two Iberian powers, the Papacy sided with Spain,
refusing to recognize Portugal’s independence.
Hence Ryder’s explanation for the first Spanish Capuchin mission (to
Benin) in 1651–52, and which may also be valid for the second one to Allada
in 1660–61: “Spain did all in its power to foment bad relations between
Lisbon and Rome, and tried to derive advantage from the situation by
introducing direct Spanish influence into areas where Portugal had hitherto
asserted exclusive ecclesiastical authority, hoping thereby to win political and
economic as well as spiritual advantages”55 – but not necessarily direct
commercial ones.
The specific situation in the late 1650s should be noted also. In fact, at the
time Bans/Vans arrived in Cartagena de Indias there may have been no Dutch
factory in Allada, implying that the moment was propitious for an anti-Dutch
action. However, the Dutch seem to have hurried to re-establish a new factory
there in 1659/60.56
On the Spanish side this was a particularly crucial moment. Indeed, in
1659 a long war with France (1648–59) came to an end, with the signing of
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what was, for Spain, the humiliating peace of the Pyrenees (7 November
1659). It led incidentally to the stepping up of the war against Portugal, the
last effort to impede the Portuguese secession.57 One suspects that the Allada
mission was some kind of minor pawn in this complicated context, although
in which sense exactly is difficult to determine.
It may be, in sum, that commercial and diplomatic motives were relevant
on both sides. Downright political motives may have been important too on
the Allada side, since the missionaries noted that no less than four important
vassals had rebelled successfully against the king,58 the implication being that
the central authorities in Allada were in dire need of allies.
Nevertheless, the religious dimension strikes us as highly significant. It
was Christian missionaries that the king of Allada wanted, and wanted
seriously. As proof of this, the missionaries learned that since the king was
under the impression that the Vans/Bans embassy would never return, he had
sent a second mission, asking for missionaries once more, an embassy which
only made it to the Canary Islands59 (what happened to it there?). There is
actually no doubt that the king was eager to convert to Christianity. The
trouble was, however, that the king’s perception of Christianity clashed
radically with that of the missionaries. One could of course argue with Robin
Law that the king of Allada, like other local rulers in other circumstances,
credited Christian rituals with practical efficiency, aiming at utilizing them
for worldly aims.60 That, however, may not be all there is to it. In our view the
aim (which could be seen as a worldly one) could have been to do away with
contrapuntal paramountcy.
Here we take as our point of departure the apparent fact that the king was
convinced that the missionaries, and the Christians more generally, were
capable of taming whoever or whatever it was which produced thunder and
especially lightning. Thunder and lightning wrought frequent havoc on the
Slave Coast, especially in the dry season, ranking in effect as one of the main
local scourges.61 If the missionaries were able to liberate them from that
scourge, he, the king, would give them everything they wanted and even put
an end to all local wars.62 Now thunder and lightning were one or several
deities in the world of the locals, including the famous Sakpata of later
accounts. We do not know when thunder and lightning became one or several
personalized deities and whether the name of Sakpata was known to the
people of Allada. But as we have seen, Sakpata, and by extension all the deities
linked to thunder and lightning, were associated with the earth deities, actually
were earth deities. To master thunder and lightning would therefore have
146
important political and religious implications, namely to sap the power-basis

of the indigenous “owners of the land”, hence to do away with the contrapuntal
paramountcy setup which we assume to have characterized Allada.
But after the missionaries had made it clear, first, that they were powerless
to tame the forces of nature; second, that converting to Christianity was a
serious business implying a thorough understanding of the new religion and
therefore a prolonged period of instruction; third, that holy water was to no
avail against demons; and fourth, that Christianity was incompatible with
polygamy (the king had some 2,000 wives); the king changed his mind and
bowed, we presume, to the pressure of the Dutch “heretics” and of his own
grandees. But he did see to it that whatever power, magical or otherwise, that
could be elicited from the missionaries remained out of reach of his subjects.
That the missionaries threatened an armed intervention by the king of Spain if
the king of Allada did not abide by their wishes may not have helped matters.63
In brief, the missionaries were not capable of offering what the king wanted.
As an epilogue to the story, after the failure at Allada three of the
missionaries, Naxara included, tried their luck for a short while in what they
called the kingdom of Popo, which we may identify with Grand Popo.64 This
may have been another fiasco. However, we have in this context, thanks to Ray
Kea, an anecdotal but quite extraordinary story. It is the story of a female slave
called Marotta, later renamed Magdalena, probably born (says Kea) in the
1650s in Grand Popo (could it be in the 1660s?). What was extraordinary
with her was that her father was a Roman Catholic, that she had been baptized
by a Spanish priest, and that she grew up in a Catholic community.
Nevertheless, she was sold into slavery in the 1690s, but later manumitted,
and died as one of the acknowledged leaders of the (Protestant) Moravian
church on the Danish Caribbean island of Saint Thomas.65
***
The Delbée-Caerloff expedition arrived some nine years after the departure of
the Spanish missionaries. And Delbée was fascinated by a personage he called
the “Grand Marabout”.66 “Marabout” in the French literature refers usually to
a Muslim, but in the African context also to non-Muslim clerics or priests of
high standing.67 Delbée’s “Grand Marabout” held clearly a very important
religious position. He was also the second personage of the state, after the
king, and as such he decided not only on matters of religion. He was, in
addition, the only person who was not required to prostrate himself in front
of the king. And Delbée adds: “il se vante d’avoir un commerce particulier avec
147
le diable”68 (he prides himself in having a special relationship with the devil) –
implying, we suppose, that he had privileged access to the supernatural world.
Interestingly, Delbée added that the king was heavily influenced by
Christianity, and that he would have converted to Christianity, had it not
been for his fear of the power of precisely the “Grand Marabout”. Actually, the
king (not necessarily the same as in 1660–61) had spent some time in his
youth in a monastery in São Tomé69 – quite an extraordinary background for
a sacred king.
Would it be too audacious to argue that Delbée’s “Grand Marabout” may
have been the head of the state council? In this context one would have liked
to know more about another local figure, namely the “Great Captain”, who
occupied the first place after royalty in Allada some time later, in 1722:70 a
successor of Delbée’s “Grand Marabout”?
If we now make a rather daring jump to recent, in fact post-colonial times,
we are presented with the aplogan, a personage Claude-Hélène Perrot qualifies
as “Ministre des cultes”, and who plays a leading role in the resurrected Adjahouto
festival in Allada71 (the French re-established the “kingdom” of Allada in 1894
after some 170 years).72 Aplogan “semble avoir partie liée…avec les anciens maîtres
du sol ”73 (seems to be connected to the former “owners of the land”). The fact
that the king and the aplogan mimic a sort of confrontation between the two
induces Perrot to wonder whether it reflects the existence of an old conflict
between the two powers.74 The alternative is of course to imagine that this is a
classic type of festival designed to re-enact the founding of the polity.
Could it be that the “Grand Marabout”, the “Great Captain” and the
aplogan represent the same institution at various periods of time? The
temptation is in any case overwhelming to conclude that Allada was indeed
characterized by a contrapuntal paramountcy.
More generally, the pertinent point about the Spanish mission, the Delbée
mission and the Europeans stationed on the coast may perhaps be that the
locals had realized that there existed a rival world view compared with the
only one known to them till then, a world view which gave some certain ideas.
***
Hueda was, apart from being one of Allada’s original vassals, also its neighbour
to the west. It was a rather Lilliputian polity since it may have measured only
some 50 to 75 km east-west and 35 to 41 km north-south.75 But Hueda, which
enclosed the two towns of Savi and Ouidah, became, we must emphasize, the
central hub of the slave trade in West Africa. As such, it was characterized by
148
a massive European presence; for this reason Hueda ranks as possibly the
best-known of all the precolonial polities of Africa south of the Sahara.
All the European visitors were full of praise for the country. They also
noted that it was prodigiously populated, constituting one great town.76 In
this respect Neil Norman argues that Hueda experienced a rapid and steep
increase in population from about 1600,77 that is, over a period coinciding
roughly with the beginning of the slave trade. Incidentally, an extremely high
population density implies that diseases were more easily transmitted,
including smallpox, one of the main scourges on the Slave Coast78 (and linked
to Sakpata).
As for the local oral traditions, they are as usual concerned with who came
first, and who came later, and from where the latecomers originated. In this last
respect there are at least three versions on offer, one pointing to Yorubaland
and the two others to Tado, but one of them indirectly, via Allada. Indeed,
although Hueda and Allada became close competitors and in fact enemies,
Hueda was for long a vassal of Allada, before gaining effective independence
in the 1680s, although remaining in some sense subordinate to that polity at
the ritual level, owing, we presume, to the Tado link. In fact, every new ruler
of Hueda had to be consecrated by a dignitary sent from Allada.79
But if the rulers, or the ruling clan or lineage of Hueda, came from outside,
we are confronted, once more, with a number of by now well-known
questions. Who were the firstcomers, and did some sort of contrapuntal
paramountcy emerge? As for the firstcomers, they were also Aïzo, according
to Agbo’s traditional Histoire. And they were, once more, suitably few,
implying once more that one could afford to overlook them.80 Hence, again,
there is apparently no trace of contrapuntal paramountcy – but only
apparently so, as we shall see. An obvious question is, whatever happened to
the Hula, who, there is reason to believe, were the indigenes of Ouidah? A
possible answer is that the oral traditions may refer to the metropolitan area
of Savi in particular, which was governed directly by the king. For Hueda,
though Lilliputian, came to be divided into no less than (possibly) 26
provinces, the 25 remaining being in effect autonomous principalities whose
rulers the king of Hueda could not depose;81 one of these was, we dare to
presume, the Hula ruler of Ouidah, incidentally a place where salt-extracting
was and remained an important economic activity even at the height of the
slave trade – in the Hula manner.82 In other words, even Hueda was a polity
of the classic or “traditional” indirect type. It was also “traditional” in the sense
that the rulers of Hueda were, like those of Allada, of the sacred-kingship type
149
(“le roi est respecté comme une divinité ”).83 As such they lived more or less
secluded, and were rarely seen in public; in fact the king went out only twice
a year, and for religious reasons, according to one anonymous source.84 And
those who went to see him, the Europeans excepted, had to do so crawling on
all fours.85 Finally, and as befitting a sacred society, “some of the gains [from
the slave trade were] expended on the veneration of cosmological actors”, as
Neil Norman has put it.86
We need to add a number of details which may be useful when making
comparisons with Dahomey later. We learn for instance that on the death of
a king everything was topsy-turvy and the royal palace was entirely destroyed.87
Justice was suspended, with the result that many people had to arm themselves
in order to avoid being murdered in this period of anarchy. Human sacrifices
were also very much part of the scene, and not only on the death of a king.88
As for the estimates of the number of royal wives, they vary widely, from
200 according to Barbot89 to 3,000 according to Phillips. Phillips adds that
“when ships are in great strait for slaves…[the king] will sell 3 or 400 of his
wives to complete their number”.90 In fact, royal wives and wives of the
dignitaries were sold to the Europeans on the slightest suspicion. It did not
help much that the wives were sacrosanct and as such could not be touched;
for the king, it was in fact part of the problem, as it meant that they could do
as they pleased. However, being sacrosanct they could also be useful as the
executors of the king’s sentences – they stripped and levelled to the ground
the houses of offenders;91 they could also be useful in internecine wars,
separating the warring parties with their great “bastions”.92 But since most
royal wives were condemned to lifelong celibacy, their fate does not strike one
as very enviable. Bosman argues in fact that some (many?) preferred “a speedy
death” to such a miserable life (as wives of the king).93
The extensive polygamy meant sexual imbalance. Small wonder, then, that
prostitution “flourished” in Hueda. The prostitutes paid a tax to the king, and
one of his wives functioned as their captain.94
As for the question of contrapuntal paramountcy, there is the fascinating
figure of the chief priest of Dangbe – Dangbe the snake being the local
tutelary deity or totem or ancestor.95 The snake is a recurrent religious symbol
throughout the world, always linked, as in Hueda,96 to agricultural fertility,
that is, to the earth and hence to the “owners of the land”. If one asks what was
the relationship between Hwesi, the vodun of the earth in Hueda according
to Robin Law,97 and Dangbe, the answer could be something to the effect that
Hwesi/Hwedanu/Hueda is linked in some sense to the word snake, whereas
150
Dan/Dangbe refers to one particular serpent or category of snakes (notice the

ending gbe which means “tongue”).
Following Robin Law again, we argue that the chief priest of Dangbe was
clearly an independent figure rivalling the king in power,98 like the “Grand
Marabout” in Allada – as noted, he was actually referred to precisely as the
grand marabout of Hueda in one source. In fact, the chief priest of Dangbe
was “held in equal reverence with the king himself; nay, sometimes more”, says
Atkins, who wrote in the 1730s.99
In 1688 the king of Hueda discontinued his annual visits to the central
shrine or temple of Dangbe, sending his numerous wives instead, according to
Bosman.100 Why would he do so? If we argue that Hueda was in fact a
contrapuntal paramountcy, the chief priest of Dangbe being, as the
representative of the “owners of the land”, the head of the Council of State, we
can go on to argue that the king’s decision to discontinue his visits to the
shrine represents an attempt to erode the position of the indigenous element.
That being said, what about Hu, the vodun of the sea, relegated officially to
the position of younger brother of Dangbe? Was that position accepted by the
Hula who, we suppose, were especially numerous in Ouidah-Glehue and on
the coast? Or was there a religious opposition between Savi, the domain of
Dangbe, and the south, the domain of Hula, and hence between the Huedanu
and the Hula?101
All this makes sense in the light of what we know about the internal affairs
of Hueda more generally. It was in fact, as we shall see, a polity torn frequently
by internal strife, in which the kings tried time and again to strengthen the
position of the monarchy against whoever it may have been, flirting frequently
with Christianity like many other rulers we have encountered, and for the same
reasons. An alternative worldview rather than the “traditional” one was very
much present in Hueda because of the relatively massive European presence.
***
The (planned) grand alliance between Allada and the French, which we
imagine Caerloff had projected precisely at the time of the real take-off of the
slave trade, never got off the ground. In fact the French were, as noted,
eliminated as a major actor owing to the problems they experienced in Europe.
And the king of Allada ran up against considerable difficulties with some of
his own vassals, particularly those of the maritime provinces. Those provinces,
led by Jakin we presume, revolted repeatedly, often supported by Hueda,102 the
latter succeeding in replacing Allada little by little as the main centre of the
151
slave trade. Allada fought back, at times even with considerable success, one
of the results being a general atmosphere of tension and insecurity
degenerating at times into open warfare. It was a conflict over the control of
the slave trade and hence also of access to European goods. In this conflict the
divided Europeans did their best to make their impact felt in the sense most
favourable to whatever may have been in their interests at any time. But the
European traders and trading companies, always eager to be on the winning
side, had considerable difficulty in deciding who to support. However, in the
end only the Dutch of the WIC remained faithful to Allada, with negative
consequences for their trade.
The antagonism between Hueda and Allada is in one sense difficult to
understand. A look at the map tells us that Hueda was surrounded on two
sides by Allada, on the third by the ocean, and on the fourth by lakes and
rivers. In other words, if most of the slaves sold to the Europeans in Hueda-
Ouidah came from elsewhere, they must have come through Allada. One
apparently obvious conclusion is that the only thing the kings of Allada had
to do to bring Hueda to submission was to close the paths. This they actually
tried to do several times, but always with limited success. Why? Because, it
seems, the king of Allada was disobeyed by his own vassals who preferred to
keep the paths open and to carry on trading with Hueda. If so, it is tempting
to conclude that the rise of Hueda was in part due to a certain disintegration
of the Allada polity. Actually, even the king of Allada himself was at times
induced to divert his supply of slaves to Ouidah.103
Why did Allada’s maritime provinces revolt? For Jakin, a Hula principality,
it was in a sense only logical: the slave trade and the European presence
provided it, we assume, with a golden opportunity to rid itself of the overrule
of the king of Allada. Perhaps there was also a strong Hula element in the
other provinces. So was it a contest of Hula and Hueda against Allada? More
generally, why not keep the profits from the slave trade for oneself instead of
sharing them with a king some distance away in the interior? Actually, one of
the handicaps of the king of Allada was that he resided further inland than his
Huedan counterpart in Savi (40 km, as opposed to 14). And since the kings
of Allada insisted on controlling the slave trade and receiving the Europeans,
it meant several long and strenuous voyages for the latter. Even the Dutch, in
theory staunch allies of the king of Allada, had to admit that the slave trade
was organized in a way which made it exceedingly long and complicated.104 It
may also be that the kings of Allada were too greedy and that the kings of
Hueda “won” because they accepted lower levels of “customs” for permission
152
to trade. If so, Allada simply lost out in the competition.105 But if Allada lost
out, it seems clear that Jakin did not, and continued to be a hub of some
importance in the context of the slave trade.
***
We know nothing about the activities of Caerloff and of the lodge the French
established at Glehue in Hueda in 1672; so we presume that the lodge
disappeared after a short while owing to the difficulties the French experienced
after the war of 1672–74 (see above) in organizing their overseas venture on
a solid footing. Nevertheless, individual French slave traders obviously
remained active in the region.106
By the time the French returned in 1682, the situation had changed
markedly, it had become characterized by intense competition among several
European powers, a competition in which the French lost out. The main
protagonists had now become the English, both the Royal African Company
and interlopers, plus the Portuguese, especially the Portuguese from São
Tomé, and of course the Dutch. The latter, although they were reluctant to
leave Allada, did not neglect Hueda. They were in fact frequently present at
Savi (the exact chronology in respect of the Dutch there is uncertain), but at
Savi only, as we have seen. As for the Portuguese, it seems like they tried, but
failed, in 1680 to construct a fort at Ouidah.107 After that they maintained a
lodge at Savi for a short while (1681–82).108 It has all to do, we believe, with
a strange event, the ephemeral occupation of the Danish fort of Christiansborg
on the Gold Coast (see below) by the Portuguese of São Tomé. So their
offensive came to nothing. Those who did make an impact on the local scene
were instead the Portuguese from Brazil who began to arrive in number.
However, they did not try to establish any land base for the time being.
We need to focus on the English who, according to Robin Law, emerged
for the time being as the “winners” in this competition,109 and especially on
the fascinating figure of Petley Wybourne (Law writes Wyburne), who arrived
in Ouidah as an interloper in 1680–81. Although his relations with the RAC
were originally tortuous,110 he nevertheless ended his career as the Chief
Factor (that is, director or governor) of the RAC establishment in Hueda in
1688, a position he held until his death in February 1690.111 There is a sense
in which the very enterprising Wybourne, who had his own organization and
his own contacts, ought to rank as the pioneer of the European activity in
Glehue/Ouidah and in Hueda generally, forcing the RAC to follow suit and
especially to abandon Allada.112 That happened in 1683, in spite of strong
153
resistance from the “Fidalgo” (ruler) of Offra who did not hesitate to retain
the English stationed there in order to hinder it.113 It even seems possible to
argue that Wybourne was, perhaps together with the king of Hueda, Agbangla
(c.1671–1703), the real founder of Ouidah-Glehue, transforming the village
into a genuine trading entrepôt/mart, and as such the twin of Savi. It may also
be that Wybourne was instrumental in establishing what became the highly
successful commercial policy of the Hueda polity, that of converting Ouidah-
Glehue into a place of free trade for all ships that arrived there.114 Moreover,
Wybourne, originally an interloper, had shown the futility of company trade,
thereby paving the way for the future demise of the RAC.
The lodge built by Wybourne was converted gradually into William’s Fort,
after King William III of Holland, ruler of England and Scotland 1689–1702.
It acquired the reputation of being impregnable. It was built near, rather than
within the indigenous village, as were the two other forts later.115
The Wybourne story does not end with his death. In fact, we are told by
Thomas Phillips, the late-seventeenth-century slave-trader whom we have met
frequently already, that a local “fetishman” who tried to cure an Englishman
knew where Wybourne’s tomb was, and made offerings to Wybourne as if he
were an ancestor,116 as if Wybourne were something like the tutelary deity of
the English fort, or perhaps the deified ancestor of the English, if not the
Europeans in general. Actually, the English fort was considered to be sacred
ground by the local people.117 Whether this was because Wybourne’s tomb
was situated there, or whether it was a sacred ground already, is not clear; all
the European factories were, or became at one stage or another, protected by
native fetishes, the English fort having two, and so-called native fetish
ceremonies were performed regularly.118
But Wybourne and the rise of Glehue-Ouidah notwithstanding, the
Hueda authorities – that is, King Agbangla – were able to impose inland Savi,
the “King’s Town”, the “upper town”, as the place where all transactions
relating to the trade had to take place.119 It was at Savi that there was “an influx
of slaves from all the regions of that country”.120 It remained the rule as long
as the Huedan polity existed, that is until 1727. Hence the European
companies (including the Dutch WIC at times)121 had no choice but to
establish what they called “trading lodges” at Savi, all of them situated within
the series of ditches that marked the boundary of the royal palace complex.
This implied that the Europeans were under the constant gaze of the king and/
or his representatives;122 the palace complex was said in 1719 to constitute
more than one-fourth of the town.123 Incidentally, the lodges at Savi are
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described as very agreeable, all two storeys high with verandas, the Europeans
living on the second floor, and the first floor functioning as a warehouse.124
The European Chief Factors or governors resided then in Savi, leaving
subordinates in charge at Ouidah-Glehue, “the lower town”, even after first the
English and much later the French lodges there were transformed into forts.125
But of course Ouidah-Glehue was where it really happened. However, the
Dutch were never permitted to establish themselves in “the lower town”.126
***
A central personage in the story of the rise of Hueda is the above-mentioned
Agbangla, the first king of that polity revealed to us by the sources. Actually,
we are poorly informed about Agbangla, in the sense that we cannot say
whether he was merely a figurehead or was really responsible for the policy
pursued by Hueda.
Whatever the case, it seems likely that Agbangla came to the throne
through something like a coup d’état, to the detriment of his elder brother,
and thanks to the support of the Europeans, especially the French traders.127
Since this was in the early 1670s, it is tempting to assume that the expression
“French traders” refers to Heinrich Caerloff. In any case, the support offered
by the Europeans implied, according to Bosman, that Agbangla was “sensibly
inclined to favour (them)”.128
Was Agbangla supported by the Europeans because he represented
something like an “anti-traditionalist” party? If so, the next interesting episode
in this context occurred in the central years of 1681–83 and corresponds to a
pattern, and a logic, already familiar to us. Another Capuchin mission, a French
one this time, composed of two persons (Celestin de Bruxelles and Benoît de
Hulst), set sail in 1681, slightly ahead of the re-establishment of the French
lodge, and stayed until some time in 1683. Celestin had been hired and
functioned as chaplain to the new French company, but concentrated on the
local royal court. Agbangla took him under his protection and he was allowed
to instruct the children of the king. The mission met originally with considerable
success since Agbangla as well as some of his chiefs agreed to be baptized.129
But history repeated itself; the day before the baptism the Capuchins’
chapel was burned down and the king lost interest in Christianity, owing, not
surprisingly, to the opposition of the local (pagan) dignitaries and the
European Protestants.130
However, the Celestin-Hulst mission was only the first of several
missions – at least five, all Catholic, three French and two Italian/Portuguese
155
from São Tomé – to arrive in Hueda in the reign of Agbangla and the years
immediately afterwards. Although Agbangla at least always proved himself to
be positively disposed, the result was always the same.131 But the consequence
must have been a notable Christian (Catholic) presence in Hueda. It may be
evidence of “significant internal tensions”, as Robin Law believes.132 Or maybe
it was the Christian presence which provoked that tension.
As for the French, the lodge they established in 1682 never really
prospered. But it continued to exist (possibly not continuously), and was
bolstered by the short visits of a number of official naval expeditions between
1686 and 1701, often accompanied by missionaries. Those expeditions
(usually only one man-of-war) are actually of minor interest to us, since they
were mainly directed towards the neighbouring Gold Coast where France
continued to nourish great plans.133. The French eagerness to establish a
foothold on the Gold Coast was a constant, and one that turned into an
obsession, and a frustrated obsession, as the years and indeed centuries passed
by without any success. But we note that the most famous of the French visits
is the one by the then Lieutenant Jean Baptiste Ducasse (or Du Casse) which
arrived in Glehue on 1 March 1688 during Wybourne’s time,134 and found one
survivor in the French factory.135 During his visit Ducasse accompanied King
Agbangla in the latter’s annual procession to the principal shrine of Dangbe,
the snake deity, donning a leopard’s skin – or so says Bosman.136 It turned out
to be, adds Bosman, Agbangla’s last participation in that annual procession
(Ducasse went on to make a brilliant career in the service of his king).137
The main problem for the French was that they were hampered by Louis
XIV’s aggressive policy in Europe. It led among other things to yet another
war, the long-lasting War of the League of Augsburg, also called the Nine
Years’ War, from September 1688 to September 1697 – France against
England and the Dutch Republic.138 It was a war which proved negative for
the French interests in West Africa, among other places.
***
The Huedan authorities, we observe again, were remarkably successful on the
external front, thanks to their open-door free trade policy. It was a policy not
always to the liking of the Europeans, in the sense that each and every
European nation tried at some stage or another to evict the others. Indeed,
one of the main problems of the Hueda authorities was to prevent infighting
among the Europeans.139 In fact Hueda became the scene of several mini-wars,
as they may be called, between Europeans, as in 1692 when the eight
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Frenchmen and four Englishmen present, plus their respective fort slaves (50
on the English side), began firing at each other (an echo of the war of the
League of Augsburg),140 and once more in 1716.141 It is true that in 1692 the
matter was somewhat more complicated owing to the involvement of a
neighbouring African polity, namely Glidji (see below). In any case, the
African authorities had often to step in as arbitrators.
Those authorities also protected the interlopers against persecution by
companies; the argument of the companies being as usual that if ships’
captains were allowed to deal directly with African suppliers, they were
tempted to offer higher prices in order to expedite their dispatch.142 The
Africans on the other hand wanted as much competition as possible among
the Europeans, and they got it.
***
The remarkable upsurge in the slave trade in especially the 1680s is, as noted,
clearly borne out by the Database. But even without that, the evidence at hand
is eloquent, testifying to the very considerable activity during that decade, and
especially at Ouidah-Glehue. There were frequently seven to eight slave ships
at the same time in the Ouidah road.143 It is also clear that the Europeans’
demand became insatiable, so that it was a seller’s market. Prices increased
perhaps fourfold during the next thirty to forty years or so.144
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4
DAHOMEY AND ITS NEIGHBOURS

EARLY BEGINNINGS AND AFTER
We now turn to the interesting developments which took place in the interior
north of the Lama: the region centred on the Abomey plateau, which had
suffered steep eclipse after the collapse of Tado and the local metallurgy at the
end of the sixteenth or beginning of the seventeenth century. That region
witnessed some time in the (early?) seventeenth century the emergence of a
new polity, that of Dahomey, originally a vassal of Allada. The beginning of
the reign of the one who is usually presented as its first genuine king (aho or
ahosu), Wegbaja, is dated to the 1640s or 1650s – if, that is, he is a genuine
historical personage as opposed to some sort of culture hero.1 (We know of
suspiciously few, indeed only three rulers of Dahomey in the roughly one
hundred years between the 1640s and 1740.)
As for the name Dahomey itself, there are many explanations, but none
that has acquired any degree of consensus among the specialists. We note,
however, at the risk of adding to the confusion (and for whatever it may be
worth), that daho means “great” or “important” and me means “free persons”.
Dahome is indeed a not infrequent spelling.
Even Le Hérissé’s semi-official version of the origins of Dahomey is
explicit: those who founded the new polity were a horde of outlaws (“horde
proscrite”) who settled down among, and succeeded later in lording it over,
people who considered them to be aliens.2 These newcomers have been
presented variously as slave-hunters, condottières (mercenaries), or bandits who
159
thrived on rapine and raiding.3 Whatever the case, all this implies that we are
confronted once more with the type of questions which should be familiar to
us by now.
Among the indigenes, those we call Guedevi, the children of Guede, seem
to have been predominant. Obviously they too, like Aïzo, were said to have
emerged out of the earth itself. And, still unsurprisingly, their leader was,
according to C. Raymond Oké, an aïnon (“earth-priest”) who resided at Kana
and whom Oké even provides with a name, Kpahè or Akpahe.4
Were the Guedevi Yoruba-speakers, as one tradition asserts?5 It is certainly
possible, considering the fact that the area is close to the border between the
Gbe and the Yoruba. But it does smack of propaganda, since the Yoruba came
to assume the role of arch-enemies of the Dahomeans.6
However, the Guedevi may not have been the only indigenes. The sources
refer also to the mysterious Ana – hence, incidentally, the word anato, which
became the word for commoners in Dahomey.7 Then there were the Aziza or
“little folk”, supernatural monkey-like creatures who lived in the forests, and
who look suspiciously like the hobgoblins of European folklore, and who may
relate to quite a remote past (is it permitted to think of the Pygmies in this
context?). They are presented, just like the Pygmies of Equatorial Africa, as the
truly original first “owners of the land”. They are said to have taught men
medicine and to have given them their gods.8
As pointed out repeatedly already, the newcomers did not try to establish
any kind of modus vivendi with the indigenous “earth-priest(s)” of the “owners
of the land”. Quite the contrary, they set out simply to eliminate them, by
either deporting or massacring them or both – or else by assimilating them.
Worse, the rulers of Dahomey appropriated for themselves the title of aïnon.9
Hence no contrapuntal paramountcy emerged, in flagrant denial of what we
may consider to be the rules of the game at the time.
But were the Guedevi really eliminated en masse, as opposed to their
leaders only? Opinions vary. The Herskovitses are in no doubt. They conclude
from local legends, the way we read them, that the majority of the Guedevi
were sold into slavery and that the Dahomean rulers effectuated a genuine
ethnic cleansing.10 Most of the Guedevi apparently ended up in Saint
Domingue (Haiti), where one of the most important families of vodun is said
to be of Guedevi origin.11 But Melville Herskovits notes nevertheless that
there were still clear traces of indigenous people on the Abomey plateau in the
twentieth century. He refers to sibs which claimed descent from people who
came down from the sky or came out of the ground and/or the mountain-
160
sides and had no tohwiyo (founding ancestor), and who claim to have been in
situ before the arrival of the royal clan.12 As for Félix Iroko, he notes the
existence even today of a clan significantly called Aïnon in the Abomey
region, a clan whose members have the gift of healing with their hands,
according to him.13 And Danish archaeologists have encountered villagers
who claim to be descendants of the Guedevi.14
It may be too that many Guedevi fled to the north, to Mahi country, and
especially to Savalou north-west of Dassa-Zoumè, originally a small Yoruba
polity but increasingly Gbe-speaking, and a place where disgruntled people
from the Abomey plateau found refuge from a very early date. We note that
the people of Savalou came to be known as Gbéto, and that their traditions
revolve around a certain Aïnon, presented (unsurprisingly) as “maîtresse du
sol” and Ouo, “maître du sol” (mistress, master of the soil).15
There is furthermore one strange tradition which has it, according to Father
Vicente Pires who was in Dahomey in 1797, that the Guedevi still around were
confined to some sort of ghetto somewhere inside Dahomey.16 Yet another
tradition asserts that a Guedevi prince survived the debacle, and that this
prince and his successors received some sort of ritual payment from the
Dahomean kings. The idea is that the rulers of Dahomey purchased the land
from the Guedevi, a purchase re-enacted periodically, and that this purchase
legitimized their position.17 Actually, the Dahomeans are said to have
purchased regularly “les grands fétiches” (the great deities) of the vanquished
peoples and brought them to Abomey, thus demonstrating their victories on
what we may call the sacred level, and also in order to incorporate the “fétiches”
in a sort of national pantheon.18 Since this comes from Le Hérissé’s semi-
official version, and since the very idea of purchase of land and of rights, not to
mention divinities, can safely be considered to be irreconcilable with the then
local conceptual worldview, it is tempting to conclude that this is a somewhat
puerile attempt at manipulation. Savary’s comment19 that the cults of the “new”
divinities were closely watched certainly makes sense in this respect.
The Dahomeans would perhaps not have become a power to reckon with
had they not been able to eliminate their local rival and eastern neighbour, the
Weme polity. The way they did so certainly strengthens the theory that
Dahomey was a polity of a new and revolutionary kind.
The Weme polity (perhaps another vassal of Allada) was in all likelihood
loosely structured or organized, that is, in the traditional manner.20 According
to the traditions of Dahomey, our main source, the struggle between Weme
and Dahomey turned out to be a fierce and long drawn-out affair. At one stage
161
Weme even succeeded in ravaging Abomey. And at a crucial moment during

the final showdown between the two enemies, the king of Dahomey, Akaba,
suddenly died of smallpox (possibly in 1716). But Akaba’s death was
concealed, and his twin sister, the famous Tassi Hangbe, impersonated him in
order to avoid demoralizing the Dahomean warriors. Finally the Dahomeans
carried the day and routed the Wemenu completely.21 The Dahomeans had
defeated a worthy enemy after having come within a hair’s breadth of
catastrophe; this is the stuff that legends and epic tales are made of.
But the death of Akaba and the victory over the Wemenu possibly sparked
off some sort of succession dispute and civil war, provoked by the fact that
Akaba was followed as king not by one of his sons, but by Agaja, who was
apparently a younger brother of the twins Tassi Hangbe-Akaba.22 But a certain
Agbo Sassa, possibly a son of Akaba and possibly also the legitimate successor,
revolted, supported by Tassi Hangbe. This Tassi Hangbe has fascinated and
divided historians. She appears, in fact, in a number of roles, as regent for
Agbo Sassa (who was too young to rule) and even, in her capacity of twin
sister, as co-ruler with Akaba.23 But then there are those, Robin Law most
notably, who doubt her very existence, suggesting that she is a late invention
since no eighteenth- or nineteenth-century source mentions her.24 But if so,
for what purpose was she invented?25 Whatever the case, there was some sort
of civil war, a great battle said to have been fought between the “two kings of
Foay” (that is, Fon = Dahomey).26 Agaja won, and became the undisputed
lord of Dahomey until his death in 1740. Note that the traditions which refer
to Tassi Hangbe and Agbo Sassa stress the fact that neither was killed; Agbo
Sassa fled and established a small polity somewhere in the north, while Tassi
Hangbe lived out her days in confinement in Abomey.27
If one wonders how Hueda and Allada reacted to all this, the answer is that
this may be the period when Dahomey severed its ties with Allada and tried a
rapprochement with Hueda and with the French at Ouidah-Glehue (the French
fort there dates from 1704) – a sort of alliance directed against Allada (the
anti-Dahomean alliance the king of Allada proposed to Hueda was rejected by
the latter). As for the chronology, we know that the Dahomeans and the French
were on excellent terms by 1715/16, that is, possibly at the time of the defeat of
the Wemenu.28 Does French aid explain the Dahomean victory?
What happened to the Weme polity once it was defeated? The answer is
that it was completely destroyed, erased from the surface of the earth, so to
speak. This became the dominant pattern in the treatment the Dahomeans
meted out to their vanquished enemies. In this context it is especially
162
noteworthy that they tried increasingly to exterminate the vanquished ruling

kindreds/dynasties, down to their last members, if necessary by every ruse or
trick in the book29 (they did not always succeed, as we shall see). After that
they installed a headman of their choice who had no family link with the local
population and who served at the king’s pleasure.30 This is not the way
vanquished polities are treated according to the “traditional” model, which
holds that a defeated entity is always permitted to continue to exist, for
instance as a vassal of the victor.
As for the defeated Wemenu, those who survived, they migrated en masse
south and south-eastwards, towards the vast floodplain formed by the Weme
and So rivers and also towards the land situated on the left bank of the
Weme – regions until then apparently sparsely populated by small groups of
Yoruba- and Gbe-speakers. The migrations were in many instances led by
members of the defeated Weme dynasty who established a number of small
successor-states in the south, notably at Adjohoun and at Dangbo, the latter
village north-east of present-day Porto Novo/Hogbonu. Here the fugitives
felt safe, we are told, since the warriors of Dahomey are traditionally
considered to have been reluctant to cross water because it jeopardized, it was
believed, the “force” they derived from their ancestors.31
What about the people the incoming Wemenu encountered? Those who
cultivated the land lived apparently in small acephalous communities under the
headmanship of “earth-priests” (that is, aïnon). Although the small indigenous
population submitted to the newcomers from the north, the latter
acknowledged their existence and respected the ritual prerogatives of their
aïnon. For instance, in Adjohoun the incoming Weme prince acknowledged
the irremovable rights and prerogatives of the aïnon of the local Yoruba, named
Tosso.32 Roughly the same situation obtained in a number of other localities.33
In other words, the Wemenu abided everywhere by the rules of the game.
The new polities thus created were and remained small, and outside the
mainstream, as it were, of the history of the region. And the local society
remained remarkably egalitarian, according to Paul Pélissier.34 But the
southeastern part of the Slave Coast continued to serve as a refugee zone,
notably after the conquest of Allada by Dahomey in 1724 – a refugee zone
protected in the east by the heavily wooded Sakété plateau.35
***
Since the present author put forward the claim that no “contrapuntal
paramountcy” emerged in Dahomey,36 Edna Bay, Suzanne Preston Blier and
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Robin Law have all argued the opposite. Or to be more precise in the case of
Edna Bay, she contends that the newcomers “did make the kind of ceremonial
accommodations that conquering dynasties typically made in Africa to
recognize the rights of autochtonous peoples”.37 The trouble with that
statement is that contrapuntal paramountcy involves a lot more than merely
“ceremonial accommodations”.
More generally, the argument of Bay, Blier and Law revolves around the
institutions of the agasunon, the ajahutonun and the kpojito. To begin with the
agasunon, he is presented as the priest of the dynastic ancestor of the royal sib
and as such the one who installed the king. As such, also, he was the king’s
ritual superior, at least in theory.38 But if so, this suggests an internal dynastic
cult among the newcomers which in no way relates to the indigenous “owners
of the land”. Furthermore, Maurice Glélé makes it clear first, that the institution
was created by the king of Dahomey, and second, that the agasunon was what
we may call a puppet, and as such completely dependent on the king.39
As for the ajahutonun, who held the traditional title of the kings of Allada,
the office was revived as late as 1740–45. As he was presented as “king” of
Allada, and as such as the one responsible for the supreme cult in honour of
Ajahuto, every new king of Dahomey had to be consecrated by him. Thus
“The kings of Dahomey…secured the traditional legitimacy which could be
conferred only by a king of Allada”, according to Robin Law.40 But Jacques
Lombard has demonstrated the obvious, namely that it was another case of
window-dressing, the ajahutonen being, as the agasunon, a mere puppet. In
fact, in Dahomean Allada the royal governor with the title of akplogan
continued to be the leading local authority.41
Robin Law also refers to the custom that every new king of Dahomey
“bought” his realm (see above). According to him, this “buying” constitutes
another example of contrapuntal paramountcy: a logic we have refuted earlier.
Suzanne Preston Blier for her part contends (as does also Edna Bay) that the
first kpojito, or queen-mother of Dahomey, was a Guedevi, that is, from the
indigenous people of the Abomey plateau.42 This would make her the “mother”
of the royal sib, a situation equivalent, it is suggested, to contrapuntal
paramountcy. But even if we assume that the position of kpojito existed already
in the seventeenth century, and that the first incumbent was a Guedevi, the
origin of the first Queen Mother of Dahomey is not particularly relevant to the
institutional setup of contrapuntal paramountcy as defined earlier.
It is, in sum, difficult to see what the examples put forward by Bay, Preston
and Law have to do with contrapuntal paramountcy. That institutional set-up
164
implies among other things, we repeat, the existence of a more or less powerful
state council composed of heads of autonomous lineages representing in some
sense the “owners of the land”. In fact, there was never, as far as we know,
anything even remotely resembling a state council in Dahomey, only a number
of officials assisting the king. The two leading ones were the migan (the “prime
minister”) and his deputy the meu, holders of offices whose origins and
attributes are far from clear. But what is beyond doubt is that those offices
were not hereditary, at least not in theory, and that their incumbents, like in
fact all royal officials, served at the king’s pleasure. Furthermore, no-one has
ever suggested that they were in any way linked to the indigenous “owners of
the land”.43
***
By refusing to establish contrapuntal paramountcy and by completely
obliterating vanquished polities, the monarchs of Dahomey had apparently
set out on a revolutionary path. But there was more to come. Indeed, to
paraphrase Robin Law again, in Dahomean thought sovereignty came to be
equated with rights of ownership, implying that Dahomey was simply
considered to be the property of the king. Furthermore, since the king
appropriated the title of aïnon for himself and infused it with a new meaning,
the king became the owner of all land, says Law, and in fact also the owner of
everything on the land – that is to say, owner in the modern absolute sense of
the term. One of the logical consequences was that the king could and did
grant land to whoever he wished, grants he could revoke at any time. Those
who lived on the land were in fact conceded only usufructuary rights.44
All this is based on Le Hérissé who stated simply that not even their very
existence “belonged” to the inhabitants of Dahomey – “leur existence même ne
leur appartenait pas”;45 in essence they were all slaves of the king.
What we are confronted with here looks on the surface of it like an attempt
to revolutionize society, to do away with the existing structure. Law has argued
in this context that the traditional kinship-based (and decentralized) political
structure was replaced by a territorially defined and extremely autocratic
system based on effective military force rather than common descent –
implying a transition from a “tribal” system to a territorial state and a process
of militarization.46 Indeed, in Dahomey royal authority was explicitly defined,
says Law, in terms of territory and not consanguinity, and conceived in
patrimonial rather than patriarchal terms. A very “modernizing” approach, in
other words.
165
But what Law refers to may perhaps be best described as the aim of the
rulers. If that is the case, the impression one is left with is that they did not
really succeed – if, that is, they really tried. Put differently, it seems to the
present author as if the early kings of Dahomey either failed to make, or
stopped very short of making, a clean slate of the past. What those kings did,
basically, was, we contend, to manipulate and to subvert, that is, to remodel
the old system from within, but not necessarily to do away with its logic. Or
if one prefers, in their quest for legitimacy the rulers of Dahomey tried to have
it both ways, relying on, while at the same time trying to manipulate, the very
logic of the old order they may have aimed at erasing. We are referring here
especially to the kinship ideology and the central position of religious beliefs.
In this respect the people in power engaged in very extensive and complex
spiritual engineering, leading to a dramatic refiguration of the local religion.
In particular, they tried to reorder the invisible world, that is, to convert the
cult of the royal ancestors, possibly also that of Mawu-Liisa, into the exclusive
focus of the religious life of the locals – incidentally bequeathing to posterity
an absolutely bewildering religious setup. One Dahomean king, Agonglo,
tried in 1789 to cut through it all by adopting Christianity; but it cost him his
life, as will be described later.
Let us proceed by stages: first, Le Hérissé’s “horde proscrite”, once in power,
went about looking for respectable ancestors, and found them in nearby
Allada. Hence the claim that the ruling sib hailed from that of Allada. The
inconvenience of that link was that it implied a relationship of vassalage to
Allada. The second stage consisted therefore in making a direct link to nearby
Tado and to Agasu, and thus bypassing the Alladan connection. In other
words, the members of the ruling sib of Dahomey presented themselves as
Agasuvi, the children of the leopard, who had migrated directly from Tado to
Abomey.47 Dahomey cultivated, for good measure, relations with Tado,48 a
town the Dahomeans never tried to conquer, strangely enough.
Second, deified ancestors of the royal sib were empowered, while other
voduns were ignored or suppressed, in the expectation that their strength
would be diminished.49 Actually, the monarchy tried to suppress the ancestor
cults of the component lineages of Dahomey – that is, to concentrate or
monopolize ritual, and hence also political and judicial power, in the hands of
the monarchy, rupturing the dynastic continuity of the vanquished
communities and depriving them of the supernatural support they would
normally anticipate from a deceased king or lineage head.50 In other words, the
Dahomeans, regardless of whichever lineage they belonged to, were in theory
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henceforth to worship only, or at least primarily, the ancestors of the king. The
king’s ancestors were then supposed to become the ancestors of all the
Dahomeans, the king, as the descendant of the most powerful of the ancestors,
becoming then the undisputed master of all Dahomeans, the “father” as it
were of them all.
Put differently, the monarchs distorted the function and meaning of kin,
transforming “social and kin relations into devices for the exercise and
consolidation of state power”.51 So instead of abolishing the very kinship-
foundation of society, they set about transforming the royal sib, the
Hwegbonu, into a very numerous and hence very powerful one. They
proclaimed that daughters did not relinquish their membership of the clan
upon marrying, a nonsense in a patrilineal society, and that the children of
both sexes of all the members of the royal sib also belonged to that sib52 – the
excuse being that royal blood could not be permitted to flow into other
strains, as Herskovits has expressed it.53 It resulted obviously in an enormous
sib which made up possibly the majority of the population of the capital
Abomey. And all the other kindreds were attached to the monarchy, that is to
the royal sib, but in subordinate positions, a way of undermining their power
and position.54 The logical corollary was to establish a family connection
(“lien de parenté ”) between Agasu and the voduns of the subaltern groups. We
imagine that Agasu, and his earthly representative the king of Dahomey,
became the “father” or “elder brother” in this context: not an unusual
procedure in world history (one thinks of the Chinese emperors in this
context). In any case, Agasu was represented as much the “strongest” of all the
ancestors and all the voduns, the one the others had to submit to.55
Incidentally, the fact that the monarchs felt it necessary to leave the
members of the royal sib idle implied that they came to constitute a parasitic
caste which was a burden on the economic and social resources of the country.56
It is logical in this context that the monarchs should appropriate for
themselves the justice previously in the hands of the kindred-heads. The most
common punishment was, also logically enough, to be removed from one’s kin
and sent as a slave to cultivate one of the royal estates.57
But as we have argued repeatedly, it is not at all certain that the Dahomean
kings achieved what they aimed at. It may be that many Dahomeans came to
internalize the idea that their heads belonged to the king, to paraphrase once
more the title of Robin Law’s famous article – that they were all slaves of the
king. But when Law goes on to argue that the newcomers succeeded “in
winning acceptance of the legitimacy of their rule”,58 we beg to dissent. There
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is in fact ample evidence to the contrary: that the monarchs of Dahomey, by

trying to manipulate the logic of the old society, and hence by accepting that
logic, if even only in part, left themselves open to decisive counterattacks. For
as has been pointed out, Sakpata, the vodun which came to symbolize the old
order, turned out to be a redoubtable enemy, in spite of active persecution.
Sakpata was and remained a focus of opposition to the monarchy, and a
powerful one at that. One consequence was, as Paul Mercier has pointed out,
that no genuine state religion ever emerged in Dahomey,59 the implication
being that religion escaped the complete control of the Dahomean kings – a
very uncomfortable situation in a sacred society. The implication was also that
the monarchy had to institute a system of surveillance of religious practices,60
an unheard-of occurrence in Africa of old.
Rather surprisingly, Edna Bay provides us with considerable ammunition
in this context. She argues in fact (somewhat contradictorily considering her
stance on the problem of contrapuntal paramountcy) that questions of
legitimacy were raised at two levels: the right of the dynasty to rule, and the
right of what she calls the state to establish its authority over kin groups. In
fact, she goes on to point out that signs of unrest and rebellion expressed at
least in part through religious movements and metaphors came to punctuate
the history of the polity.61
We deduce that the Dahomean rulers had little choice but to continue to
resort to terror and attempt to pursue what looks like a totalitarian
programme. In this context it certainly makes sense that the rulers tried, and
in fact largely succeeded, to convert Dahomey into an essentially militaristic
polity. Indeed, as Robin Law has demonstrated, the institutions and ideology
of Dahomey came to be permeated by a military ethos far beyond anything
which had existed previously.62 The outcome was what seems to have been a
uniquely efficient and professionalized military organisation based on a
system of conscription. There was, then, an army which was clearly much
better trained than the mass forces raised in Allada and Whydah. But the
question is whether the army was designed exclusively for external purposes,
or if those who built it also had potential domestic problems in mind. Was
there an early totalitarian polity in eighteenth-century Africa?
To return to the army, it is noteworthy that the inland polity of Dahomey
became a pioneer in the acquisition and use of firearms. This was moreover not
a late development, quite the contrary, since it began already in the reign of the
very first genuine king of Dahomey (the one presented as such by the traditions),
Wegbaja. Moreover, the Dahomeans could use firearms rather efficiently because
168
of their high standards of discipline and drill. But David Ross points out that
they do not seem to have had any concept of rigorous battle training.63
The question is just what impact firearms had on the coast of Guinea. We
note in this context that Robin Law has questioned the efficiency of firearms
at this early stage (“it is possible to argue that too much has been made of the
military impact of firearms”).64 He has also expressed the opinion that the
transition to firearms was a slow process.65 To which we may add Edna Bay’s
point that the arms sold in Africa were at best the weapons of the previous
generation of European armies.66
We are anyway far from the case of Japan where firearms were adopted
immediately following their first appearance in 1543, and the Japanese
succeeded very rapidly in manufacturing them.67 Or is this an unfair
comparison?
It remains nevertheless that the export of firearms to the Gold and Slave
Coasts increased tremendously from the 1660s onwards. In fact, one tentative
estimate has it that some 180,000 guns had found their way to those coasts by
the 1730s.68 They must have made some difference.
Obviously, firearms could come only from the Europeans. This begs the
question of the relationship between inland Dahomey and those Europeans.
But apart from the possible early alliance with the French referred to above, our
sources are remarkably silent on the matter. What we have is only the
archaeological record which indicates stable contacts with the Europeans from
the earliest phases of the Dahomean kingdom.69 However, logic and common
sense tell us, first, that the relations with the Europeans must have been of
prime importance to the Dahomeans; second, that it was likely that Dahomey
would sooner or later try to eliminate the intermediaries between itself and the
coast, that is, Allada and Hueda; and third, that the only way to pay for the
firearms was to sell slaves, implying in turn that Dahomey was committed to
slave-raiding and the slave trade from its very inception. Is this then a classic
case of the guns-slaves cycle (to raid or be raided) dear to some historians?70 We
see in any case, once more, that Akinjogbin’s theory that Dahomey was
opposed to the slave trade does not make much sense. In this context, Davis
Ross’s viewpoint, that Dahomey, having exhausted the slave-producing
potential of the Abomey plateau, turned to the thickly populated but internally
divided southern Aja kingdoms, Allada and Hueda, seems more logical.71
Or is it that the people of the Abomey plateau experienced frequent
periods of drought, as Newbury argues,72 and that they were forced to raid in
search of supplies?
169
Firearms may, anyway, not be the whole story. In fact, Dahomey was
renowned for its excellent iron-smiths who produced iron weaponry and tools
of a high standard. The iron-smiths are said to have had a special relationship
with the monarchy,73 whatever that relationship was. The problem here is that
the god of the iron-smiths was Gu, the local counterpart of Ogun,74 and was
presented occasionally, along with Sakpata et al., as one of the oppositional
voduns in Dahomey.
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5
CONVULSIONS FURTHER WEST
The historical process on the Western (Little) Slave Coast in the 1670s–80s
and later was in large part conditioned by what happened further west, on the
eastern Gold Coast. But the radical changes that region witnessed may in turn
be linked to some extent to occurrences even further west, to the long period
of wars of state formation (or wars described as such by many historians)1
among the Twi-speaking Akan of the Central Gold Coast. The main result was
the emergence in 1701–2 of a genuine regional superpower, that of Asante.
On the eastern Gold Coast, the main antagonists in the 1670s and the
1680s were the two polities of Accra in the south and Akwamu, originally an
inland polity, in the north. Accra, a polity of the Ga-Adangbe, with its capital
at Ayawaso or Great Accra eleven miles inland, was traditionally the central
hub of the gold trade. Hence the three European forts (English, Dutch and
Danish) at Little Accra on the coast (which is the present-day town of Accra).2
As for the ethnically heterogeneous3 but mainly Twi-speaking Akwamu in
the north, it was traditionally an enemy of Denkyira, the leading polity further
west on the Gold Coast. Hence it became early on an ally of Asante,
Denkyira’s rival and eventual successor.4
Between 1677 and 1682 (the chronology is uncertain) Akwamu, for
reasons unknown, invaded and destroyed the old polity of Accra, levelling the
capital Ayawaso to the ground, and becoming thus the first inland polity to
reach the coast.5 But the result was a very complicated situation, due in part
to the fact that Akwamu chose to rule the conquered region indirectly, via the
many local Ga-Adangbe chiefs, the former vassals of the king of Accra who
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had now switched allegiance to that of Akwamu. They turned out to be

unruly, strongly resentful as they were of Akwamu overlordship,6 with the
result that the kings of Akwamu were obliged, or chose, to invade the former
Accra kingdom, Ga-Adangbeland, several times, until at least 1723.7
The Europeans were caught in the middle, especially the Danes, who
miscalculated and sided for too long with the losers, the Ga-Adangbe.8 The
result was that they lost Christiansborg twice, the first time in 1679, strangely
enough to the Portuguese of São Tomé.9 For the latter it was, we suspect, part
of a grand scheme intended to resurrect the Portuguese presence on the coast
and in the last resort to reconquer Elmina10 – witness the previously
mentioned Portuguese attempt on the Slave Coast in the 1680s. Hence
Christiansborg became São Francisco Xavier, and it had an abnormally,
suspiciously large garrison.11 This was in any case the first genuine official
Portuguese foray into the Gold and Slave Coasts since 1642. But the
Portuguese had to give up as soon as 1682, presumably because of Dutch
opposition, and the Danes returned in February 1683.12 The second time the
Danes lost Christiansborg was in June 1693, for one year, when it was
occupied by the Akwamus themselves.13 To the best of our knowledge, this
was the first and only time Africans took over a European fort.
However, the central point about the Akwamu invasions is that they sent
succeeding waves of Ga-Adangbe refugees fleeing eastwards across the Volta
and into the Western Slave Coast. But before investigating some of the
consequences, we must look at what happened inside Akwamu itself in about
1689: a genuine coup d’état according to Ivor Wilks, our principal authority.
Apparently the military leaders succeeded in seizing power from the clan heads,
the abusuahenfo, with the former replacing the latter in the council of state.
Thus a certain Basua, who is presented as the brafo, or commander-in-chief of
the army, became the real head of state in his capacity as regent.14 What does
all this mean? One possible interpretation is that the nature of the Akwamu
polity was radically changed, the Akwamu military leaders rejecting or casting
off, in a sense, the traditional model. Hence Akwamu became similar to
Dahomey later and some of the Congo-Angola polities earlier, that is, a
military polity organized for war, specifically for slave-raiding. In fact, Akwamu
instigated the transformation of the Gold Coast into another Slave Coast.
But Basua the brafo died in 1699, and no further brafo is mentioned. What
happened next? Here the story is somewhat confusing, since Basua is also
referred to as akwamuhene or king of Akwamu.15 He was replaced as
akwamuhene by Ado, but Ado was precisely the akwamuhene from whom Basua
172
had wrested power earlier. If, that is, Wilks, our main source, has got it right.
Could it be, for instance, that there were two Ados? Whatever the case, the Ado
who died in 1702 was in turn succeeded by his brother Akonno.16 And this
Akonno, who died in 1725, was, apart from being a heavy drinker,17 a monarch
who earned himself a terrible reputation, including among the Europeans, as a
predatory ruler who surrounded himself with real bandits. Raiding, slave-
raiding that is, and warfare more generally became in fact a genuine state
enterprise in Akwamu, thanks in part to the huge amount of firearms that the
Danes in particular did not hesitate to sell to that dreaded polity.18
Apart from his reputation, what is interesting about Akonno is that he was
often on the move; he frequently visited, for instance, the European forts at
Little Accra, and even wined and dined there. At one stage Akonno and his
followers stayed at Christiansborg-Osu more than two months, much to the
dismay of the Danes.19 One of them, Johannes Rask, explicitly compared him
with the king of Hueda, since the former “travels wherever he wants to and is
often on campaigns”, whereas the latter “may not travel outside of his houses
or residences”,20 as befitting a genuine sacred king. The conclusion is that the
(we presume) originally sacred kingship of Akwamu had been desacralized
and that Akonno, whoever he may have been, behaved as if he were the head
of a war-band, free of any traditional, including religious, constraints – more
or less in the Dahomean manner.
***
The Akwamu conquest and invasions of the land of the Ga-Adangbe sent, as
noted, successive waves of refugees into the Western (Little) Slave Coast, that
is Eweland. Many had little choice but to support themselves as bandits or as
mercenaries, thus creating a generalized climate of insecurity. Grand Popo
suffered especially,21 and Keta became a hotbed of banditry.22 Among the
victims were quite a few Europeans involved in a number of rather bloody
incidents – incidents of a type that were and continued to be unknown on the
Central Slave Coast.23 Those incidents may also help explain why the slave
trade, and more generally trade with the Europeans, never really took off on
the Western Slave Coast. Hence the dearth of European sources, and a very
uncertain chronology.
But as far as we know, many, possibly most Ga-Adangbe refugees were
assimilated over time by the Ewe. In the case of the Anlo-Ewe, if it is correct
that the defensive confederation they established dates from the 1680s, it
must have been as a response to precisely the fact that they found themselves
173
sandwiched in between the expanding Akwamu and the Ga-Adangbe refugees

who founded Little Popo-Glidji24 (see below). But if so, the confederation
turned out to be a success in the sense that the Anlo-Ewe managed
(apparently) to maintain their independence, at least for the time being.
However, many of the Ga-Adangbe refugees obviously settled down among
the Anlo-Ewe where they are believed to have contributed to improving and
broadening the maritime skills of the latter.25 We also know of a new clan, that
of the Dzevi, which is considered to be of Adangbe origin. That clan is even
credited with imposing a new and important war deity which rose to
prominence in the second half of the eighteenth century.26
The only place where the Ga-Adangbe refugees apparently converted
themselves into genuine conquerors was in the region known today as Aneho
or Little Popo. We say “apparently” because the fact is that the Ga-Adangbe
were linguistically assimilated by the local Gbe-speaking Ewe, the process
giving rise to a new Ewe sub-group (and dialect) that we call Guin.27 The
implication is that the incoming Ga-Adangbe may not have been that
numerous after all. Nevertheless, all the sources are agreed that a conquest did
take place, that the conquerors were led by a deposed prince from Accra and
that they established themselves at Glidji on the northern bank of the lagoon,
some kilometres inland. After which they set about to subjugate, apparently
with violence, the dukowo of the acephalous and reputedly docile Watchi-Ewe,
plus some Hula, especially the Bê.28 In the process they also secured the
allegiance of the headman of the Mina of coastal Aneho,29 and also took the
precaution, according to their traditions, of asking none other than the ruler
of old Tado for a wife. That ruler also obligingly endorsed their installation
and overlordship over a fair slice of territory. The hulaholu of Agbanakin was
ignored in the process.30
This calls for some explanation. There existed a colony of Mina (Fante)
canoemen at Aneho-Little Popo long before the arrival of the Ga-Adangbe/
Guin. This was because of Aneho’s position as the point of trans-shipment of
canoes from the lagoon. The canoes were hauled across the sandspit which
Aneho-Little Popo constituted, then continuing their voyage by sea
westwards, which was possible only in the Harmattan season.31 Coastal
Aneho-Little Popo functioned in short as a way-station where the canoemen
waited for the right season to proceed to the Gold Coast; the opening of the
lagoon at Little Popo-Aneho is not navigable.
Since the original name of Aneho-Little Popo seems to have been Hulavi,
meaning Little Hula, the implication is that there was already a Hula presence
174
there.32 Actually, the Mina-Fante secured the permission of the hulaholu of

Agbanakin and considered themselves to be his vassals. With the rise of Glidji
they changed their allegiance but maintained their very autonomous status.33
In fact the rulers of Little Popo-Glidji had every reason to cajole their vassals
of Little Popo-Aneho since the latter controlled access to the Europeans and
hence to the slave trade.
When was all this? We know that warriors from Glidji under the legendary
Ofori (the leading general under the king) certainly made their impact felt on
the Central Slave Coast from 1692, and that according to the traditions, the
real founder of Glidji was the second king, a certain Foli Bébé, who reigned,
the historians believe, between approximately 1694 and 1727/33 – unless,
that is, several persons/kings hide behind the Foli Bébé of the traditions. Note
that Foli Bébé may not have been of royal blood, and may instead have been
the son of the aforementioned Ofori34 – the result of another coup d’état? (To
avoid any confusion, we refer to the new polity with its inland capital as Little
Popo-Glidji, while Little Popo-Aneho is the original coastal settlement which
became an autonomous vassal entity within that polity).
The inevitable question is whether Little Popo-Glidji came to be
characterized by a contrapuntal paramountcy or not. The evidence is
ambiguous. On the one hand Diedrich Westermann, as interpreted by Nicoué
Gayibor,35 has argued that the king was surrounded by a powerful council of
state. In this council there were four very important members, including the
duto, a title we have suggested earlier is that of the “earth-priest”. And indeed,
in Little Popo-Glidji the duto was, according to the Westermann/Gayibor
version, the “owner of the land” in the ritual sense of the term and as such the
descendant of the first mythical settler.36 But then there are the official
traditions of Little Popo-Glidji (or what are presented as such) which state
flatly that its metropolitan area was empty of people when the newcomers
arrived, implying that there were no “owners of the land” with whom to
establish a modus vivendi. This version is, apart from being incompatible with
the Westermann/Gayibor one, absurd from a linguistic point of view. It is in
addition hotly disputed by the guardians of the traditions of Agbanakin.37 We
conclude that the Glidji version is pure propaganda, something which,
according to Gayibor, even the people of Glidji themselves are uncomfortably
aware of.38
But whether there was a contrapuntal paramountcy or not, we can deduce
from the above that the Ga-Adangbe conquerors were familiar with and
respected the rules of the game, although they tried to manipulate them to
175
their advantage. Hence the reference to Tado and the systematic negligence of
the hulaholu. Little Popo-Glidji was then in a sense a polity of the traditional
kind, but a strangely unfinished or incomplete one, if it can be so described.
Whatever the case, the achievements of the people who conquered Little
Popo-Glidji and surroundings were rather limited. Little Popo-Glidji was and
remained a small second-rate polity poorly structured and lacking in internal
cohesion, owing not only to the conflicting traditions but also to the fact that
Little Popo-Aneho went frequently on its own way. In addition there was the
problem of legitimacy, and in all directions. For if the kings of Little Popo-Glidji
were upstarts, not belonging to the royal dynasty of Accra, and their claim to the
land spurious, then they really had little going for them. Furthermore, if the aim
of the Guin was to dominate or to impose law and order on at least parts of the
Western Slave Coast, they were not very successful. In fact, the Guin themselves
often behaved like bandits and served as mercenaries throughout the region.39
***
We must return further west, to Akwamu, and the chronology, and note that
the new (military?) rulers of that polity acquired a frightful reputation. They
became in fact notorious for their numerous abuses.40
After the conquest of Accra, Akwamu turned both eastwards and north-
north-eastwards.41 In the latter case inland Eweland (Ewedome) was
conquered, at least in part, plus also the Akan polity of Kwahu, finally
subdued in 1710, and Agona, although quite some time later. Eastwards the
first victims were the Ladoku or Lampi with their coastal town of Ningo,
which was directly incorporated into Akwamu. Then came the turn of Ada
(on the Western Slave Coast). Whether Ada’s neighbour to the east, the Anlo
confederation, was genuinely conquered by Akwamu, or simply suffered from
Akwamu raids, the specialists disagree.42 There is also disagreement about
what happened exactly to Keta, the most unruly member of the Anlo
confederation.43 But one of the constants in this region, whether under
Akwamu overrule or not, is the animosity between Ada and Anlo, due
principally to disagreements over fishing rights.44
What we have referred to above is what Sandra Greene calls Akwamu’s
imperial wars, whose aim, according to her, was to control the trade routes
along the coast and between the coast and the interior. Greene adds that
Akwamu’s control waxed and waned during the next two centuries,45 the
implication being that Akwamu never succeeded in stabilizing the region (if,
that is, the Akwamu rulers thought in terms of stabilization).
176
With regard to the Anlo confederation, it is said that the many wars of the
period, and the many defeats that the confederation suffered, led, as noted, to
the emergence of a new deity, a war deity called Nyigble or Nyigbla. But on
closer inspection this Nyigble/Nyigbla turns out to be simply a personified
revelation of Mawu,46 whatever that may mean exactly.
***
The supply of slaves for sale on the Western Slave Coast was and remained
intermittent and unreliable.47 This was in spite of the high hopes the English
especially nourished at one stage, dreaming of developing Little Popo-Aneho
into a counterweight to Ouidah-Glehue.48 But in fact the history of the
European presence on the Western Slave Coast generally turned out to be that
of the establishment and abandonment of ephemeral factories, especially by
the smaller European nations which sought to escape from the intense
competition in the major marts. A relatively lively trade in ivory developed,
but only for a little while.49
Perhaps the main reason was in the final analysis the lack of stability in the
region, the fact that even the two leading polities, Akwamu and Little Popo-
Glidji, were never capable of imposing a minimum of order. Actually, those
two polities fuelled the disorder with their depredations and wars and
contributed also to the image of near-chaos which the modern historian (or
at least this historian) is left with when investigating the rather tortuous
history of the Western Slave Coast.
What was lacking was a great inland polity of the Oyo type; that is, a polity
serving as a stable purveyor and capable of, let us say, regularizing it all, if that
is what Oyo really did. Maybe it is the same role that Asante came to perform
later on the Gold Coast.
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6
THE 1680s–1720s
AN OVERVIEW
In the preceding chapters we have dealt more or less separately with the past
of the polities and historical actors of our region. It is time to connect the
various pieces and to present the reader with a chronologically oriented
overview of the period between the 1680s and all the way to the 1720s – that
is, the first 40–50 years of the epoch when the slave trade was of prime
importance on the coast.
***
On the Central Slave Coast, the main theme in our period on the political
level is the conflict between Hueda – at times a very divided polity – and
Allada, whose internal situation, unfortunately, we are poorly informed about.
Actually, we are dealing with a multi-dimensional conflict, since many other
protagonists also entered the fray, including the Europeans, who in addition
fought among themselves.
The trouble was that conflict degenerated frequently into genuine warfare,
intermittent or not, as for instance between 1688 and 1693.1 But if Willem
Bosman is correct in arguing that the people of Hueda and Allada were rather
unwarlike, the question is, who did the actual fighting? In fact, Bosman
himself provides us with the answer: bandits-mercenaries from the west.2 The
superiority of those mercenaries over the local forces became quickly evident,
according to Robin Law.3
179
As for the Europeans, at least some of them had not yet learned that certain
types of belligerent action, in which they could be permitted to indulge
themselves on the Gold Coast and elsewhere, were out of the question on the
Slave Coast.4 The Dutch were particularly slow learners in this respect.
We start with the Dutch who were established, as noted, at Offra in the
coastal region of Allada, originally the leading trading centre on the Slave
Coast. But the Dutch, as the allies of the king of Allada, often found
themselves in rebel territory, since the maritime provinces, some of them
autonomous principalities, often revolted against their suzerain. Here we must
present a certain Isaac van Hoolwerff who became chief factor at Offra in
1686, replacing Willem de la Palma, a personage we will encounter later on.
Hoolwerff and his superiors at Elmina obviously had great plans, to crush the
maritime provinces and Hueda, thanks, once more, to the recruitment of
bandits-mercenaries from the west. But if the brutal van Hoolwerff won the
first round,5 this attempt at a Gold Coast-type European-sponsored war went
all wrong, since Hoolwerff himself was killed, possibly executed, in 1690, still
in Offra, and the WIC lodge there was burnt down.6
But then, in January 1692 the new polity of Little Popo-Glidji entered the
fray in grand style. Mercenaries commanded by Ofori, the general mentioned
earlier, hired by the king of Allada and hence also by the Dutch, attacked and
destroyed Offra, burning down in the process the lodge the WIC had
reconstructed after the Hoolwerff affair. The Fidalgo (“king”) and principal
men of Offra had to flee to Hueda and the surrounding villages were destroyed
and burnt.7 Indeed, the small region of Offra was and remained totally
devastated and depopulated, according to a later report.8
The fact that Jakin, presented earlier as the twin town and ally of Offra, not
only sided with the king of Allada (and hence with the Dutch) but even took
an active part in the destruction of Offra is, on the surface, somewhat
surprising. Perhaps the Hula of Jakin had no choice, or perhaps they tried to
avoid the same fate as their neighbours. Or this was a golden opportunity to
get rid of a rival? Whatever the case, there is a sense in which the mini-polity
of Jakin came into its own after 1692–93. But Jakin’s position must have been,
and must have remained, rather precarious.
The next target for Ofori and his men was Hueda and Ouidah-Glehue, no
less. In this they met originally with success, since they were able to occupy
Ouidah-Glehue for 25 days some time in October/November 1692, burning
down the French factory there, but not the English one.9 Marching
northwards, they came within a mile of Savi, laying waste a great part of the
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THE 1680s–1720s
country. But then they had, all of a sudden, to abandon their campaign,
strangely enough for lack of ammunition – or so says Bosman.10
Ofori’s withdrawal left relations between Allada and Hueda in a state of
effective stalemate. Hostilities between the two petered out into a sort of
phoney war, but with the paths remaining open most of the time.11
In sum, the events of 1690–93 proved disastrous to the Dutch and the
French. Thomas Phillips, who met the French factor and his deputy in 1693–
4, noted that they were dejected and poor, “having no livelihood but from the
king’s bounty”.12 It changed somehow, we imagine, only with the arrival of one
of those short occasional missions the French were in a sense known for, that
of the Chevalier D’Amon or Damon which stayed in Ouidah/Hueda from 11
December 1698 to 31 January 1699.13
But the Dutch fared even worse. Their position, as the so-called allies of
Ofori, became untenable; evicted from Offra, they also had to abandon the
factory they had maintained at Savi.14 They were allowed to return only ten
years later. In fact, 1693 is presented as a sort of pivotal year in the fortunes of
the WIC on the Guinea coast. From then on its revenues sank sharply, never
really to recover.15
It is true that Willem Bosman, second-in-command at Elmina, tried to sort
out matters with the Hueda authorities during various visits between 1697
and 1699, with limited success. In fact Bosman, faithful to the rough
behaviour which had become the trade-mark of the Dutch on the Guinea
coast (and elsewhere),16 attempted in 1697 a sort of mini-coup against the
English. What Bosman did was simply to hire “Mina Blacks” (Ga-Adangbe
mercenaries again) in order to seize the acting English director, a sergeant, and
to destroy the English factory, the sergeant barely escaping with his life.17
Bosman obviously failed; equally obviously, there is no trace of the incident in
his book.
Did Akwamu take part in the 1692–93 war? Apparently both sides
solicited Akwamu’s intervention, paying vast amounts.18 But although the
English director of James Fort in Accra reported that trade there had come to
a standstill because all the people of the region, and especially the Akwamus,
had gone to fight in Hueda19 (on both sides?), there is in the final analysis little
evidence of any direct Akwamu intervention. That being said, the belligerents
considered Akwamu a power to be reckoned with, the Dutch in particular,
who were able to secure a treaty with that polity at that very time, in 1693.
The treaty, which regulated conditions principally in the Accra region, is said
also to have confirmed the Dutch as middlemen with regard to an alliance
181
between Hueda and Akwamu which one presumes came into existence.20
Hence the always intriguing Dutch assumed in a sense two roles, as both allies
and foes of Hueda, trying to ride two horses as it were.
The English tried something of the same. On the one hand, they negotiated
with Ofori for military assistance against the French (the War of the League
of Augsburg again) – another European mini-war in the making; Agbangla of
Hueda considered those negotiations to be treacherous, since Ofori was his
enemy.21 But on the other hand, at one stage (in 1691) the English intervened
on the side of Hueda by landing “40 fully armed Mina slaves [mercenaries?]
& 3 field-guns” at Offra itself.22 However, it did not save the English chief
factor John Wortley (the successor of Wybourne) from being arrested and
deported in April 1692.23 Agbangla had thus taught the European a lesson and
had indicated clearly that there were limits beyond which the Europeans were
not allowed to trespass. The lesson was not lost on the English, who emerged
in fact as the great beneficiaries of the 1692–93 war on the European side.
Indeed, the English of the RAC could take advantage of the fact that slaves
turned out to be “very plenty” the following year, so that the slave ships did
not have to stay for more than four to five weeks to complete their cargoes –
an exceptionally short time24.
As for Ofori and his men, after the fiasco at Hueda, they tried their luck in
the west, turning against the Adangme immigrants in Keta. But here they were
even less successful, since Ofori was killed in December 1693 or January
1694.25 Next, the Ga-Adangbe refugees (called “Alampoes”) who controlled
Keta struck back, attacking and destroying Little Popo, meaning presumably
the “kingdom” of Glidji. However, Ofori’s successor, also called Ofori (Ofori
Bembeneen), possibly identical with the Folo Bébé or second king of Glidji
mentioned earlier, was able to rout the “Alampoes” and to recover Little Popo–
or what was left of it – in February 1695.26 One notes the ease with which
villages, towns and forts were destroyed and, in particular, quickly rebuilt.
In the meantime, in 1694, Anlo allied itself with Hueda in a military
confrontation with, strangely enough, Grand Popo-Hulagan (and at a time
when the powers in between, Keta and Little Popo-Glidji, continued to be
occupied with their own war).27 But another version has it that “Alampoes”
from Keta besieged Grand Popo, in support of, or on behalf of, the Hueda
king.28 We even know that the Huedans received assistance and ammunition
from French ships (for reasons unknown). In any case, the people of Grand
Popo succeeded in repulsing the assailants after a siege lasting a month,29 not
a minor feat for a small polity such as Grand Popo. In brief, this Huedan
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THE 1680s–1720s
attempt at expansion, if that is what it was, failed. Hueda did not try again, so
that Grand Popo-Hulagan maintained its independence.
***
After a few years’ apparent lull, what happened in 1698–99 was that Oyo, in
conjunction with Hueda, sent its mighty cavalry against Allada, where it
committed, it is said, a great slaughter, thus establishing Oyo’s ferocious
reputation.30 But was it really a devastating invasion or was it merely a punitive
raid? And more generally, what was it all about? To chastise a rebellious vassal,
if that is what the king of Allada was, or to force the king of Allada to become
a vassal? Or was it to force Allada to keep the paths open and to stop
interfering with the movement of the slave caravans from the north? The truth
is once more that we do not know. The only thing we can say for certain is that
it demonstrates that Oyo took, or continued to take, a keen interest in the
affairs of the Slave Coast and that what had happened must have weakened
Allada and strengthened Hueda. Our guess is that the Oyo intervention
helped to expand the slave trade in and from Hueda, explaining why King
Agbangla, incidentally a great lover of sedans,31 had “grown very haughty and
proud since Whidah [Ouidah] has been attended with so many ships”.32 As a
result, the slave trade was “almost ruined” from the European point of view,
implying that too many ships arrived on the coast.33
Then there came a new round in 1700 in the constant antagonism between
Little Popo-Glidji and the Ga-Adangme “Alampoes” of Keta. This time the
former were victorious since the latter were driven out of Keta. In fact the
whole population of Keta fled.34
Then, in mid-February 1702 “the king of Aqvambu [Akwamu]
unexpectedly rose up with all his might & expelled the whole population of
the country, beginning a mile from here [i.e. Christiansborg fort at Accra] &
pursuing them as far as…Aguina [Anloga?] on the Slave Coast”.35 This was
apparently a new stage of what we have referred to earlier as Akwamu’s imperial
expansion. The Anlo confederacy was overrun, plus Keta, plus also Little-
Popo/Glidji. Its king had to flee once more, to Allada this time. Finally, the
Akwamu army arrived in Hueda in May 1702, a rather long way from home
(note that there is no mention of Grand Popo-Agbanakin in this account).
This time there is no doubt; Akwamu was or had become the ally of Hueda,
the riches of Hueda having proved irresistible, we suppose. At Hueda, where
the Akwamus rested for a few weeks, the local authorities urged them to
continue eastwards, in the direction of Jakin and Allada. But the Akwamus did
183
exactly the opposite, they retreated westwards. Rumour had it that Denkyira
and Akyem, as enemies of the new polity of Asante (established in 1701–2)
and therefore also of Akwamu, were preparing an attack on the Akwamu
heartland.36 Hence the retreat, which may also have been caused by the fact
that Akwamuhene Ado was terminally ill; he died in fact shortly afterwards.37
But did the Akwamus return home more or less empty-handed or not? On
this subject disagreement is, surprisingly enough, close to total among the
specialists. On the one hand, Sandra Greene and Ivor Wilks argue that the rulers
of Akwamu succeeded in incorporating the Slave Coast up to Ouidah-Glehue
into their polity, Anlo included, and that Hueda became a tribute paying vassal
of Akwamu, remaining so until 1727.38 But on the other, as noted, D.E.K.
Amenumey denies flatly that Akwamu ever ruled over Anlo.39 And Silke
Strickrodt and Robin Law doubt very much that Hueda became in any way a
subordinate of Akwamu. It may be that the alliance between the two polities
was maintained, for which reason Hueda solicited military assistance repeatedly
from its ally. But the fact is that no such direct assistance was ever forthcoming.40
As for Little Popo-Glidji, another victim of Akwamu in 1702, it seems very
much as if it was able to re-establish itself (miraculously?) as an independent
polity quickly, continuing in fact to hire out mercenaries in all directions. By
1717 it had even recovered control over Keta.41 But the rulers of Little Popo-
Glidji continued to “put tricks upon all (the Captains)”,42 which did not help
the slave trade.
Can we detect behind all these events an attempt on behalf of Lilliputian
Hueda to construct some sort of grand coalition composed of Oyo, Akwamu
and the English of the RAC, possibly also Jakin, against Allada and Little
Popo-Glidji?
***
To backtrack slightly, the situation which emerged after 1693 with only the
English effectively present on shore may not have been to the liking of the
Huedans. But although the English were permitted to transform their factory-
lodge at Ouidah-Glehue into a genuine fort43 (were the local authorities looking
for a shelter in case of an emergency?), the Huedans probably welcomed the
(timid) French return in 1698–99 (the D’Amon expedition) with some relief.
It is significant in this respect that the Huedan authorities invited, at this
very time in 1698, a company of Luso-Portuguese merchants to establish a
factory. But the initiative failed because of the negative attitude of the
Portuguese crown, more than ever opposed to the Mina trade because of the
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THE 1680s–1720s
problem of contraband and the vexations inflicted by the Dutch.44 One may
classify it as another episode in the infighting between the authorities in
Lisbon and their supposed subordinates in Salvador da Bahia.
***
Also in 1698, a minor revolution took place in the organization of England’s
African venture. Parliament passed the so-called “ten per cent act”, implying
the abolition of the Royal African Company’s legal monopoly of the English
slave trade. England’s trade to Africa was then formally thrown open to private
traders. The interlopers became the “ten-per cent” traders – they had to pay a
ten per cent tax on the merchandise they departed with, for the upkeep of the
RAC forts and lodges.45
The measure may not have amounted to much at the practical level – most
interlopers turned ten per cent traders objected to it anyway, since it implied
that they lost their free-rider benefits.46 In addition, the RAC fought back on
the Slave Coast, via another charm offensive directed at the Hueda authorities,
promising to enlarge its trade and to increase the number of white people
stationed there, also establishing a regular monthly postal service with Cape
Coast Castle,47 the message being that the Huedans did not need to trade with
anyone else.48 The Huedans may not have taken the hint, the African
authorities being always in favour of maximum competition on the European
side, and hence siding always with the interlopers.
In any case, the “ten per cent act” lapsed in 1712, which meant that the
British slave trade had been totally deregulated (but also that there was, for
long, no money for the upkeep of the forts).49 The French and the Dutch did
not go quite as far, but to some extent liberalised their respective slave trades
anyway in the next decades (the details are very complicated and in any case
unnecessary for our purpose).50
What is clear, then, is that 1698 inaugurated a new era, the beginning of
the slow process of retreat from monopoly and adoption of free trade. In the
long run it meant that the forts and lodges became, if not obsolete, even less
important than what they had been earlier. However, all the relevant European
nations decided to keep them – to the relief of the modern historians. But the
problem was how to pay for their upkeep, and the solutions varied. Usually,
and logically, the Crown and/or the traders had, directly or indirectly, to foot
the bill.51 The independent traders, however they were organized, and
whichever private company they belonged to, were much less interested in
internal African affairs, and hence much less prone to dabble in them, than the
185
representatives of the chartered companies. All they wanted was to do their

trade as quickly as possible and leave it at that. The implication is that the
independent traders were precisely that, independent – vis-à-vis both the
African authorities and the European ones.
***
In the case of the Slave Coast it is clear that the competition among the
Europeans increased considerably, owing not only to the ten per cent traders but
also to the massive arrival of the French from 1704 and the increased presence
of the Luso-Portuguese from about 1706. They drove up the prices quite
spectacularly.52 It is symptomatic that the Danes complained (in 1713) about
what they called “shameful” – meaning much too high – prices.53 Actually, the
demand exceeded the supply to such an extent that many ships had to leave the
Ouidah roads empty-handed.54 It had become very much a sellers’ market.
***
The arrival of the French is indirectly linked to a major event on the
international scene, the accession to the Spanish throne in 1700 of one of Louis
XIV’s grandsons, Philip V. This dynastic change presented the other European
nations with the worrying prospect of a powerful joint French-Spanish realm,
with France in the leading role. It led to the outbreak in 1702 of what many
historians consider to be the first genuine world war, the War of the Spanish
Succession (1702–13/14), which pitted Spain and especially France against
most of the rest, led by England, Great Britain from 1707, a country set on the
road to being a superpower thanks to its successes in that war.55
The French-Spanish rapprochement implied among other things that the
French were granted the Spanish asiento for ten years (1703–13).56 In a sense
it forced the French authorities to get involved in the slave trade, and they had
to start, if not from scratch, at least from a position of inferiority compared
with the other slave-trading nations.57 During those ten years the French were
supposed to deliver 36,000 or 48,000 “pièces d’Inde” (“piezas de India”)58 to
the Spanish territories in America. Their problem was where to find all those
slaves and how to pay for them. The French suffered to some extent from the
same problem as the Portuguese: they had not much to offer owing to their
deficient industries. They had therefore to purchase a fair amount of the
merchandise they needed for the slave trade in more or less hostile places such
as the Dutch Republic and Hamburg59 – not very advantageous for the
national economy. The French did however come up with a trump card after
186
THE 1680s–1720s
a while, cheap brandy60 – although rum from the British colonies became
rapidly a tough competitor.61
The French started out by simply robbing slaves from the others, and
especially the British. In this they were far from unsuccessful.62 But the French
realized that they had to involve themselves directly in the slave trade and on
a relatively grand scale. The obvious place to choose was Ouidah-Glehue in
Hueda. The French asiento turned out to be a fiasco,63 in the sense that the
French managed to deliver only some 13,000 slaves (pièces d’Inde) into
Spanish America.64 However, for our purpose the central point is that the
asiento implied that the French had to catapult themselves to centre stage on
the Slave Coast in 1704.
But given the outbreak of the War of the Spanish Succession, would not the
French have to deliver and to win battles against the English and the Dutch in
order to attain their aim? It is at this stage that the Hueda authorities came to
their rescue. Hueda forced the English, the French and the Dutch – the Dutch
had made a discreet return to Savi some months earlier65 – to sign on 25 April
1703 a formal treaty guaranteeing the neutrality of the port of Ouidah-Glehue,
the famous Treaty of Neutrality in the history of the Slave Coast.66 On the face
of it, it meant merely the formalizing of what had always been the policy of
Hueda and also of Allada. But the formalization was important enough. In the
preamble the king declared his determination to maintain “a firm and durable
peace throughout his entire realm”. The king also threatened to decapitate
whoever dared to trouble the neutrality of the Ouidah-Glehue road (Europeans
included). All the captains who arrived in the roads had to sign the treaty.67
Originally stipulated to last for the duration of the war, it remained in fact in
force for some 91 years, until 1794, when it became an indirect casualty of the
French Revolution, as we shall see. As a result, Ouidah-Glehue acquired quickly
the reputation of a sort of safe haven, the only place along the whole Guinea
coast where ships from all nations could trade in safety, independently of
whichever war went on among European powers elsewhere.68 It implied among
other things the rapid development of the town of Ouidah-Glehue, the “lower
town” (as opposed to Savi, the “upper town”). In brief, the case of Ouidah-
Glehue illustrates the general point made by Wim Klooster, that in the Atlantic
world “The neutral ports, open to flags of all nation, thrived in seasons of war”.69
***
But shortly after the signing of the treaty, the Huedans made life difficult for
themselves. The old king Agbangla died in August 1703, all his wives were
187
sold to the Europeans (a very unusual occurrence, we suppose), and the –

perhaps inevitable – succession dispute degenerated into a full-scale civil war
in which the eldest son who had been passed over succeeded in recruiting an
army in Allada, whose support (maybe counterproductive) he secured.70
Finally a youngster by the name of Aisan or Amar/Amat ascended the throne.
He was obviously the candidate of the English of the RAC, who, we note
again, still held a preponderant position at that time. Was the installation of
Amar the price the grandees had to pay for the support of the RAC? Or was
it also in the interest of those grandees to put a feeble king on the throne after
the probably energetic Agbangla?71
But the problem was that the king of Allada, although the enemy of Hueda,
continued nevertheless to be considered its ritual overlord, for reasons which
remain obscure. This implied that Alladan officials had to “make customs” for
the deceased king Agbangla and also had to enthrone the new king.72 But the
king of Allada refused to play his part, logically enough, with – one imagines –
negative consequences for the legitimacy of Amar. The seeds of internal
discord had been sown in Hueda.
***
Next came the massive arrival of the French, in two waves, and obviously against
strong opposition from the English of the RAC and the Dutch of the WIC.73
But naturally the Huedans ignored the English and Dutch recriminations.
The first French wave was a direct consequence of the evacuation of Assini
(or Issiny) in July 1703, the last and only French foothold on the Gold Coast
(strictly speaking, on the Ivory Coast), in turn a direct consequence of the
outbreak of the War of the Spanish Succession.74 The Danes especially feared
that the French fleet (four or five men-of-war and three merchant vessels)
would attack them on its way eastwards.75 But the French sailed directly to
Ouidah-Glehue, where they prepared for battle. So did the ships already there.
However, after having been informed about the Treaty of Neutrality signed
the previous April, all sides desisted.76 The Treaty had overcome its first and
most decisive test.77
Obviously the French ships moved on from Ouidah-Glehue, but some of
the personnel remained. Then came the second wave, a squadron under the
command of a former corsaire (privateer) by the name of Jean Doublet,
temporarily in the service of the Company of the Asiento, the new name of
the Company of Guinea. The squadron, which included a number of enemy
ships seized to the west, and which must therefore have been an imposing
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THE 1680s–1720s
sight, arrived at Ouidah-Glehue on 27 September 1704, and stayed until 15

November. It was an official military expedition designed to take as many
enemy ships as possible as prizes (except in the Ouidah-Glehue roads, where
the Treaty of Neutrality prohibited this); to transport slaves to the Americas;
and to establish a fort at Ouidah-Glehue.78
The French were lavishly treated by the Huedan authorities, the king
included, who during a spectacular dinner offered to them was partially
hidden in an alcove, as befitted a sacred king. The French were in particular
impressed by a certain Captain Assou who, apart from speaking French rather
well (“parle joliment français”)79 and being the brother of the great priest (the
grand marabout in Doublet’s terminology), looked to the French like the
power behind the throne. In brief, the Doublet mission was a resounding
success: for the Huedans, who had acquired a genuine counterweight against
the English (and the Dutch), and also for the French, whose fort was
constructed in record time (two months) by more than 400 workers called out
by the king. It was named Saint Louis de Gregoy (Gregoy being a French
version of Glehue), it was equipped with cannon taken from a captured Dutch
ship, and it became renowned for its enormous garden outside its gates.80
The Doublet mission was also a success in the sense that it left with more
than a thousand slaves. But most perished en route. One of the ships caught
fire off Cape Lopez and sank, leaving us with another heart-breaking
description of slaves in chains trying desperately to save their lives; another
met a similar fate in the Caribbean.81
But the French fort got off to a depressing start, since the second official
mission which arrived on 13 February 1706 found it in a disorderly state, the
director having been murdered by the surgeon, with the chaplain playing some
sort of central but undefined role. Incidentally, after leaving Ouidah-Glehue
the warship went to Príncipe, where it bombarded and captured the Portuguese
fort. But as for the murderer, he managed to get away to Martinique.82
***
The year 1704 also saw the arrival in Ouidah-Glehue of other foreigners, but
from the north this time, namely two so-called “Male”, a word which refers to
Muslim traders, possibly Hausa in this case. But theirs was a terrible fate –
they were simply executed, the locals believing them to be spies for Allada.83
However, other Male traders followed in their footsteps, opening the eyes of
the Huedan authorities to the opportunities these newcomers represented; as
a consequence they changed their attitude, guaranteeing the traders’
189
security.84 Regrettably we are poorly informed about the early phase of this
link with the north.
The conflict between Allada and Hueda, which had become a constant,
flared up again in July 1705, when Allada declared closed all the roads leading
to Ouidah-Glehue. This amounted to a declaration of war, and war did in fact
erupt some time later, Akwamu supporting Hueda indirectly, some historians
believe, by recruiting Anlo troops to fight against Allada.85 The immediate
result was that the supply of slaves fell off.86
The always intriguing Dutch seem to have been in part responsible. Having
tried, as noted, to persuade the Huedans to expel the French, the Dutch
sought a second rapprochement with Allada in April 1705. What exactly the
Dutch – or rather the Dutch Governor (“General”) at Elmina, Willem de la
Palma – had in mind, apart from trying to marginalize the French and
English,87 and how they thought to achieve it, is far from clear. What is clear
is that de la Palma, a heavy drinker, threw away whatever it was he aimed at by
most undiplomatic behaviour, even provoking an open revolt among his own
subordinates. De la Palma, apparently disgusted with the course of events,
died in late 1705, after which, in a sort of fitting epilogue, the Dutch lodge at
Savi was entirely ruined by fire some time in 1706,88 although it was rebuilt
later. But the Huedan authorities had become wary of the Dutch, so that they
were never permitted to build a fort at Ouidah-Glehue.89
We have mentioned all this because it illustrates the point made by van
Dantzig that the Central Slave Coast had become a hotbed of intrigue among
the Europeans, with everybody wanting to expel everybody else.90 But it also
illustrates once more a point made already, that the rough behaviour that often
characterized the Europeans on the Gold Coast turned out to be
counterproductive on the Slave Coast.
Finally, the intrigues of the Dutch may have signalled to the authorities of
Allada that the position of the Europeans was not unshakeable and that a
return to Allada was a distinct possibility. But for the time being the war
between Hueda and Allada petered out, ending in a sort of unsatisfactory
stalemate for both sides.91 Allada continued nevertheless to impose blockades
of Hueda, but, as noted, those blockades always turned out to be inefficient,
sabotaged as they were by the king’s own vassals.
***
Next came the Luso-Brazilians and the Brazilian gold which arrived in
Ouidah-Glehue for the first time in 1706.92 Gold deposits had been
190
THE 1680s–1720s
discovered in the Minas Gerais region in the interior of southern Brazil in the
1690s. But although there was a formal ban on exporting gold to any region
outside of the Portuguese empire (it was even made a capital offence from
1723),93 a thriving contraband developed nevertheless with considerable
quantities of gold finding their way to the Guinea coast, especially to Ouidah-
Glehue.94 So it was that Richard Willis, the local chief factor of the RAC,
received in 1707 orders to trade gold for slaves,95 and the other Europeans
followed suit rapidly. So also, and perhaps somewhat more surprisingly, did
the local Africans. This was at a time when the gold deposits on the Gold
Coast were in the process of becoming exhausted.
Gold and third-grade tobacco proved to be an irresistible combination
which propelled the Luso-Brazilians to centre-stage.96 It triggered intense
competition among the others to provide the Luso-Brazilians with slaves in
exchange for tobacco and especially for gold; the Europeans, and especially
the British, tried in the process to control this new gold trade, something the
Luso-Brazilians did not allow to happen.97 But the latter also bought slaves
directly and with considerable success. The result of all this was that the Luso-
Brazilians could pick and choose as they wished, going away with the “best”
ones. Indeed, “gold slaves” or “Portuguese slaves” became a concept, referring
to the most sought after slaves, males in their early twenties, physically strong
and with no defects – that is, top quality slaves.98 Hence “to procure a cargo
of choice Negros”, to use an expression encountered frequently in the English
sources,99 became close to impossible for the others.100
The authorities in Lisbon looked with increasing mercantilist alarm upon
the large quantities of gold and tobacco which private traders from Brazil sent
to the Costa da Mina in order to purchase slaves,101 plus in fact a lot of
European merchandise, bought often with high-quality tobacco this time
(plus sugar); these European goods were then imported illegally into Brazil.
The Costa da Mina became thus a centre of contraband trade for the Luso-
Brazilians, and the Mina trade developed into one of prime economic
importance for the region of Bahia especially.102
The increasingly severe competition fuelled the climate of intrigue, leading
in fact to a round of spectacular, not to say burlesque rows among the
Europeans (the Luso-Brazilians excluded), culminating with the expulsion of
various European chief factors/governors, especially in 1715.103 Amusing to
read about, they testify to the extreme degree of discord among the Europeans,
even inside each camp, the superiors quarrelling with their subordinates.
***
191
But before that Hueda was rocked by a severe succession crisis in 1708, when
king Aisan-Amar died, possibly poisoned, on 8 October 1708, after a reign of
only five years.104 The new king, Huffon, was a minor about 13 years old, and
as such apparently not suited to execute some of the rituals incumbent upon
the king.105 In addition he too, like his predecessor, had to do without the
ritual blessing of the relevant Allada officials. The result was some sort of short
civil war, prompting the Europeans to land troops (in fact perhaps sailors from
the ships in the roads) to protect their fellow-countrymen; but they did not
take part in the fighting.106
Was Huffon, like his two predecessors, imposed by the Europeans, as some
authors have surmised? But if so, which Europeans and for which purpose? Or
was there an attempt by the leading headmen of the realm, Captain Assou
included, to weaken the central authorities?107
In 1712 the still very young Huffon (or Captain Assou) embarked on what
amounted to a genuine revolution, to sidestep the traditional hereditary chiefs
in favour of people of his own making.108 The temptation is great to interpret
it as an attempt of those in charge in Hueda to change radically the very basis
of the power of the kingship – something, we have suggested, that Agbangla
too may have tried. But “the common people were divided”, as Snelgrave
remarked,109 which meant that the outcome was internal strife, not to say civil
war, with the traditional chiefs appealing for assistance to Huffon’s formal
overlord, the king of Allada. The civil war may have lasted until 1715, with the
result, it is said, that royal power more or less collapsed.110
This constituted a golden opportunity for Allada, which was able to impose
an unexpectedly effective blockade in February 1714, with the result that
Hueda, that is to say Huffon and his mercenaries from Little Popo-Glidji, went
to war in April the same year, leading to a sharp drop in trade.111 But Huffon’s
army is said to have suffered a particularly humiliating defeat in April 1717.112
It was at this precise moment that, as we have seen, Dahomey began to
dabble in the affairs of the coast. Having made itself independent of Allada
(the traditional date for this, as noted, being 1715), and sought to ally itself
with Hueda, Dahomey made finally (apparently) common cause with its
former suzerain Allada in 1717.113 Hence the prospects of the Huedans began
to look rather bleak; they had been defeated in war and they were probably
facing a formidable alliance between Allada and Dahomey.
But the Huedans were saved by a stroke of good luck, if the death of the old
king of Allada in July 1717 can be called that (we know only that he died very
old, not even his name has come down to us). This meant, as usual, a prolonged
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THE 1680s–1720s
ceremonial-ritual cycle, and hence a halt to all belligerency. And then the
succession was disputed between two brothers, Soso (or Sozo), who finally won
(1717–24), and Hussar.114
Now both sides seemed apparently ready for a rapprochement. The new
king of Allada, Soso, certainly played his part, since he agreed to crown king
Huffon of Hueda (now of age) as tradition commanded – and the paths were
reopened. As a consequence, in January 1718 Soso sent his officials to Hueda
to “make custom” for the deceased kings Agbangla and Amar,115 thus ending
the state of dangerous ritual emergency under which the people of Hueda had
lived ever since the death of king Agbangla in 1703.
One may surmise that what happened in 1717–18 had the potential of
heralding a new era in the history of the Central Slave Coast. But it was not
to be. In fact, for reasons unknown, relations soured once more, and very
quickly so; the Alladan blockade of Hueda was revived before the end of
1718. At that time Dahomey had problems of its own – if, that is, the civil war
which we have referred to earlier did in fact take place around that time. The
blockade was maintained for the next six years, until the destruction of Allada
itself in 1724.116 Yet we cannot talk of going back to square one, since the
Huedans had succeeded in “normalizing” their ritual-religious situation,
which was perhaps their principal aim.
But the internal problems continued in both polities. In Hueda the by now
universally hated Huffon made, if we are to believe the Europeans, a bid for
absolute power in the early 1720s, thereby setting aside and even alienating
the “new men” he himself had brought to power some years earlier.117 What
came out of it we do not know for certain, but probably nothing positive,
since according to a French source from 1722 Huffon even asked the king of
Allada, of all people, for troops against his own people.118 As for Allada, its
king had to face a revolt by some of his subjects in 1722.119
Then, in January 1724, that same king, Soso, died suddenly after a short
reign of only seven years. It led to yet another succession dispute, with a
certain Hussar, possibly the same as the defeated candidate in 1717, in the role
of the leading claimant. But Hussar committed what turned out to be a major
tragic blunder, that of soliciting in his favour the intervention of Allada’s
northern neighbour Dahomey.120
***
How did the slave trade get into this unpropitious situation? As can be deduced
from the Database, it was not at all negatively affected, quite the contrary – it
193
was possibly fuelled by the troubles and wars presented above. What changes
we note have to do with the distribution among the participating nations.
About the mid-1710s some 18–19,000 slaves were exported annually from
Ouidah-Glehue, according to a contemporary source (figures slightly higher
than those of the Database). What was new was that the Luso-Brazilians now
rivalled and possibly surpassed the British, the share of each being 6–7,000
slaves, whereas the share of the French had probably declined to 5–6,000, and
that of the Dutch had plummeted to 1,500. This implied that some 12 to 14
ships often moored in the Ouidah-Glehue roads at the same time and that 35
arrived every month.121
The decline of the French share may perhaps be ascribed to the end in
1713/14 of the War of the Spanish Succession, a war which had not gone well
for the French; in particular they lost the Spanish asiento to the English in May
1713. After that the Compagnie de l’Asiente went bankrupt, the Crown having
to take over, while the superiors in France accused the drastically reduced staff
on the spot of debauchery and all sorts of scandals (that reduction, incidentally,
was compensated by a steep increase in the number of fort slaves.122) Under the
new Compagnie des Indes which took over the totality of France’s colonial
interests in the Atlantic world in 1720, the situation does not seem to have
improved markedly.123 The perennial problem of the French was that they had
no forts on the Gold Coast and therefore no easy access to canoemen, the
French officials complaining that the canoemen worked for them only when
they had nothing else to do, or when they felt like it.124
As for the Luso-Brazilians, the problems with the Dutch continued and
even escalated, at least apparently. We cannot be sure because it is difficult to
see clearly in this instance, the abundant sources notwithstanding, since there
was a considerable difference between what went on at the top, the
governmental level – the Portuguese authorities becoming increasingly
vehement and menacing in their protests,125 – and what went on locally on the
coast. There the Luso-Brazilians had considerable success, as noted, and,
according to the Dutch sources, the collection of the 10 per cent tax from the
Luso-Brazilians became somewhat lax in the 1710s and especially in the
1720s.126 But although lax, its mere existence proved increasingly obnoxious
to the Portuguese crown in particular.127
The increasing importance of the Luso-Brazilians was made concrete and
visible in 1721 with the beginning of the construction of their fort in Ouidah-
Glehue, the third such fort, very close to the two others (the three forts were
located about 300 metres from one another, and practically in a straight
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THE 1680s–1720s
line128). It is significant that the man in charge on the spot, José Torres,
received the necessary go-ahead from the Count of Sabugoza, the Portuguese
Viceroy in Salvador da Bahia (1720–35), who acted more or less on his own –
in spite of Torres’ dubious reputation, which Sabugoza apparently chose to
ignore.129 Clearly Torres and Sabugoza represented the Bahian commercial
interests in direct opposition to the authorities in Lisbon which had tried for
years to persuade the Bahian traders to take their trade elsewhere. It is also
significant that the Portuguese fort which emerged somewhat slowly from the
ground,130 in spite of strong English and French opposition and downright
sabotage on behalf of the Dutch, but with the enthusiastic support of
Huffon,131 was put de facto under the authority of the viceroy in Salvador da
Bahia.132 And as with the other forts in Ouidah-Glehue, an indigenous
quarter (Docomè) grew up rapidly around this one too;133 the forts, like the
castles of the Middle Ages in Europe, attracted people.134
The Portuguese also showed their teeth in January 1724 when a Portuguese
battleship shot to pieces a Dutch frigate off Elmina. It was supposed to be the
beginning of a plan of reprisals, but one which never really got off the ground.135
As for the fort, later known as São João Baptista (St John the Baptist), it
certainly made a difference to the Portuguese position. This was shown by the
complaints of others to the effect that the Portuguese now made the law in
Ouidah-Glehue.136
Above all, the construction of a third fort in Ouidah-Glehue consolidated
that place as the leading slave mart in the region, a position that had been
seriously threatened in the second half of the 1710s. The supposed breakdown
of central power in Hueda, mentioned above, had led the Europeans to begin
thinking about getting out of Hueda, that is, returning to Jakin and Allada
and establishing factories in other parts of the coast, such as Little Popo-
Aneho. They did so in fact, repeatedly, although temporarily, and without
getting to the point of constructing forts.137 The trouble was that the Western
Slave Coast continued to be characterized by near-chaotic conditions, due
primarily to the depredations of Akwamu;138 and that in Allada the king did
it all wrong from the European point of view. He doubled the customs duties
in 1718, while at the same time enforcing more strictly the requirement for
European captains to travel to the Alladan capital far in the inland to trade,
which resulted in greatly increased costs.139 According to the modern
historians Isaac Akinjogbin and Robin Law both the kings of Allada and
Hueda in fact attempted to shore up royal control of the slave trade, possibly
trying to make it a royal monopoly, and in particular to exclude the hinterland
195
traders from direct contact with the Europeans, to make the Huedans and
Alladans into obligatory middlemen140 – to the detriment of Dahomey among
others. But although Law argues that Allada had partially recovered its
position by 1718,141 that did not last, for in the end it looks very much as if
Hueda and Ouidah-Glehue maintained their position. Apart from the
construction of the Portuguese forts, we have all the complaints about the
insolence of Huffon, about his enormous wealth, and about all the ships
which arrived in the Ouidah-Glehue road, “spoiling” the trade (that is,
provoking too much competition);142 those complaints indicate that the
Europeans certainly did not have it their own way.
***
We cannot leave Hueda and Ouidah-Glehue in the 1710s and the 1720s
without returning to the subject of the pirates who for a short while
represented a serious menace. It began in 1719 when some 5–600 pirates,
most having been expelled from the Bahamas, descended on West Africa,
establishing bases in Sierra Leone and on Annobón, and seizing some 47 slave
ships according to the official figures, but probably more, mostly in 1719.143
Piracy is said to have disrupted trade severely at Ouidah-Glehue in the
relevant period, provoking incidentally a rapprochement between Huffon and
the European directors.144 The Portuguese were afraid the pirates might try to
seize São Tomé.145 As related earlier, the pirates were protagonists in a
particularly nasty episode in the Ouidah-Glehue roads in January 1722 which
resulted in the loss of many hundred lives.
But the European powers reacted relatively quickly, the British dispatched
warships, and the Dutch WIC sent its local cruisers in pursuit of the pirates.146
By February 1722 it was already over, the pirates having been decisively
defeated in battle and most of them captured (only by the British). The
epilogue was a spectacular trial at Cape Coast Castle, the largest trial of pirates
ever held, which began at the end of March 1722. The Court was remarkable
for its leniency since of the 160 or so individuals brought to trial, only 52 were
sent to the gallows147 (in trials involving the charge of piracy, normally
defendants were either condemned to death or acquitted). Note the central
role of Surgeon-Lieutenant John Atkins in this affair, the very same man who
went on to write a book which ranks, as we have seen, as one of the main
sources for the history of that coast.148 After 1722 the British appear to have
occasionally sent men-of-war to the coast of Guinea to keep it free of pirates.149
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PART C
CHRONOLOGICAL OVERVIEW
THE 1720s–1850/51
1
THE DRAMATIC AND DECISIVE 1720s
In March 1724 Apocalypse descended upon the people of the metropolitan

area of the old polity of Allada. Warriors of Dahomey routed the local army
completely on 30 March, carrying out in the process a massive carnage,
something probably unheard of until then on the Slave Coast. “Had it rain’d
blood, it could not have lain thicker on the ground” was how an unwilling
European eyewitness with the uncommon name of Bulfinch Lambe described
it.1 This massacre, a form of what we may call ostentatious brutality,2 marked
a real caesura in the history of the Slave Coast – the beginning of the most
spectacular, most dramatic and certainly most bloody phase in the history of
that coast. It was a phase, moreover, which saw a major reshaping of the map,
since three of the leading protagonists of the previous era disappeared: Allada
(in 1724–6), Hueda (in 1727–30/33) and Akwamu (in 1730) – although in
the latter case some sort of small successor polity survived east of the river
Volta, as an exclusively Slave Coast polity. Allada, Hueda and Akwamu were
followed by the Hula polity of Jakin in 1732. From then on the scene was
dominated by the new leading power of the Slave Coast, and the conqueror
of three of the four polities mentioned above – Dahomey – at the cost of a
tremendous number of human lives. But the Dahomean assaults did not go
uncontested, the Dahomeans encountering stiff opposition in many instances,
both internally and externally. There is in any case no question that the history
of the Slave Coast gravitates from the 1720s onwards around Dahomey.
There is a nearly perfect coincidence in time between these events and what
happened on the neighbouring Gold Coast. After the death of the first king
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of Asante, Asantehene Osei Tutu, on the battlefield in 1717, and after a period
of interregnum and internal strife, the second Asantehene, Opoku Ware (died
1750), was able to stabilize the situation and to embark upon a very successful
expansionist policy, but as far as we know not in the excessively brutal
Dahomean manner; Asante eventually became possibly larger than present-
day Ghana.3
Were king Agaja of Dahomey and his successor Tegbesu inspired by the
example of their contemporary Opoku Ware? If so, they did not, in spite of
Agaja’s several conquests, get anywhere near the achievements (if so they can
be described) of the latter – the “traditional” ways of Asante proved to be
much more efficient both internally and externally than the “revolutionary”
ones of Dahomey. That is in part because the rulers of Asante never had to
grapple with the problem which always bedevilled their Dahomean
counterparts, the problem of legitimacy.
***
The backdrop to what happened in 1724 in Allada concerned an internal
conflict which we presume ran deep, and which was personified by the king
Soso or Sozo, the one who had tried a rapprochement with Hueda, and his
brother Hussar, the losing pretender in 1717. Hussar’s party seems to have
included the “Great Captain” or “Constable”, the highest-ranking dignitary
after the king, and as such possibly the successor to Delbée’s “Grand
Marabout”, plus several “governors” (that is, crown vassals).4 The details are far
from clear, one possibility being that Sozo died suddenly in January 1724, and
that the election of his son (name unknown) was contested by Hussar. The
other (less likely) possibility is that Hussar rose in rebellion against Sozo. But
the essential point seems to be in any case that the Dahomean attack
originated in a sense as a mercenary venture, the Dahomeans having been
hired to support the claims of Hussar. But the victorious Dahomeans betrayed
their “employer” since they put a son of Soso (another son?) on the throne
instead. After ensuring that the new king paid homage to Agaja, thus
converting the former into a puppet of the latter, the main bulk of the
Dahomean army went home.5
What happened exactly in 1724? Was it the beginning of the conquest of
Allada? Or was it a one-time intervention or a raid which because of its
success gave Agaja the idea to conquer Allada? The long-term consequences
of 1724 are in any case not in doubt; the mortally wounded Allada was
finally conquered, in 1726, and in fact annexed, that is, swallowed up by
200
Dahomey and erased from the map as a separate entity. And all the
subordinate principalities,6 having at first simply changed overlord, were
equally wiped out in the end, with the temporary exception of Jakin; and
their rulers were replaced by Dahomean nominees who owed their
allegiance exclusively to Agaja,7 in the usual Dahomean manner. The
Dahomeans demonstrated in fact once more that they had no intention of
respecting the indirect-rule model. But how long did it all take, and how
many mopping-up actions were necessary? The chronology is far from clear
in this respect.
The exception was, as noted, coastal Jakin, whose ruler made his submission
to Agaja in April 1724.8 The Jakin polity was permitted to continue to exist as
an autonomous, if not virtually independent entity, and took over from
Ouidah-Glehue (that is, recovered more or less its old position) as the leading
trade slaving centre.9 As such it was to play an important role on the local
scene for a while.
Incidentally, some sort of tourism occurred in 1724, since many Dahomeans
went to see south of Jakin what they had never seen before: the ocean.10
As for the many Alladans who fled to Hueda, quite a few were either sold
as slaves or left to die from hunger, accused as they were of having killed snakes
belonging to the species the Huedans considered to be their totem animal.11
What about the few Europeans (we do not know how many) who were
present in Allada on 30 March 1724? They were taken prisoners, but all but one
were quickly liberated. The one exception was the above-mentioned Bulfinch
Lambe who found himself confined to Abomey, the first European to set foot
on the Dahomean capital, possibly the first on Dahomean soil generally.
Lambe was a special case. As a RAC employee stationed at Jakin, he had
been “panyarred” – another of those words which have disappeared from
current English; that is, he had been seized in 1722 by the king of Allada to
enforce the payment of a debt that king Soso claimed the RAC owed him (the
RAC had reopened a lodge in Jakin in July 1722). And since the RAC did
nothing, Lambe languished in captivity in Allada until he passed into the
custody of Agaja,12 together with at least one Luso-Brazilian mulatto (Luso-
Brazilian mulattoes pop up everywhere in the history of the Slave Coast, but
always in minor roles). Since furthermore (according to Dalzel) “Agaja
considered having white men about him a great addition to his grandeur”,13 it
became the role of Lambe to sit next to the king whenever he appeared in
public: “When (the King) comes out in Publick, the Portuguese and I are
call’d to sit all day in the sun”. But Lambe added that Agaja “pays us pretty well
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for it”;14 in fact Lambe was quite lavishly treated by his captors. We shall
return to Lambe’s life, worthy of a film.
***
On 14 April 1726 the redoubtable cavalry of Oyo descended all of a sudden
on Dahomey, inflicting an apparently shattering defeat; Abomey is reported
to have been burned, and Agaja and Dahomey were believed to have been
finished off15 (incidentally, this was a defeat by cavalry dependent upon
imported horses, from the north, of infantry equipped with imported muskets,
from the south).16 One who seems to have tried to take advantage of the
situation was Hussar, the eternal pretender to the throne of Allada, who may
even have succeeded in reoccupying Allada for a while, and who even
contemplated marching against Dahomey itself.17
But to cut a long (and complicated) story short, the strange fact (we
consider it so) is that both Agaja and Dahomey survived the debacle,
re-emerging more or less unscathed after the Oyo cavalry had been forced to
retreat. The outcome was finally a sort of treaty between Oyo and Dahomey; a
treaty according to which Agaja submitted to Oyo, and accepted to pay a
tribute, but on condition that Oyo gave the Dahomeans a free hand in Allada.18
Dahomey thus ceased formally to be an independent polity in 1726 and
became instead, still formally, a vassal of Oyo. But although Dahomey
remained a vassal of Oyo all the way to 1818, the treaty of 1726 proved in
reality to be no more than an unsteady and short-lived truce.
Here a long digression is necessary in order to confront problems which
the historians have grappled with for a long time. The Oyo invasion of April
1726 turned out to be but the first of a number of such invasions (exactly how
many is not clear). And each time the scenario of 1726 repeated itself; that is,
the Dahomeans were defeated, after which the Oyo cavalry retreated, and
then the Dahomeans re-emerged from their hiding, carrying on as usual, as it
were.19 The question is why Oyo was unable to fully wipe out Dahomey, why
its cavalry always had to retreat after a short while, and what Oyo was up to
more generally. But the question is also, and perhaps above all, how the
Dahomeans survived.
With regard to Oyo we encounter an annoying blank: we know nothing
about the motivations and aims of the Oyo rulers. As Robin Law has put it:
“The motives behind [the] Oyo intervention can only be surmised”. And he
went on to speculate that “The rulers of Oyo may simply have grasped the
opportunity presented by the local conflicts in the south-west to strengthen
202
their influence in the area”. Or perhaps, “The Dahomian conquest of the coast
threatened the commercial interests of Oyo” so that “the alafin [king of Oyo]
intervened in order to keep open the slave-trade ports for the Oyo traders”.20
If so, this was nothing new, since, as we have noted earlier, Oyo had probably
intervened in the south already in the seventeenth century.
It is also possible that there were pre-emptive strikes, of a sort, on behalf of
Oyo; that Dahomey, the new aggressive and militaristic polity which had
emerged in the south-west, and which obviously did not respect the rules of
the game, preoccupied the Alafin and his men. If so, was Oyo the guardian of
the traditional order threatened by Dahomey?
But why were all the invasions of Dahomey followed by as many retreats,
why was Oyo unable or unwilling to conquer Dahomey – in spite of the fact
that Oyo’s manpower advantage over Dahomey was overwhelming, according
to Stanley Alpern?21 It may have had to do first, and simply, with the
considerable distance between metropolitan Oyo and Dahomey, and the many
rivers that had to be crossed in between; and second, with the fact that the
people of Dahomey were Fon (Gbe-speakers) and not Yoruba and therefore
unlikely to acquiesce gracefully, over time, in Oyo rule, indirect or otherwise.
Then there is the problem of the Oyo cavalry, a cavalry relying incidentally on
archery and not firearms, and accompanied also by archers on foot.22 Here the
problem is, to return to a theme evoked in the Introduction, the danger
represented to horses by trypanosomiasis and the tsetse fly, its vector.
Trypanosomiasis is basically a phenomenon of regions covered by rain forest,
but it is no stranger to the savanna, at least not to the most humid parts. In fact,
the further southwards one gets from the tsetse-free area in northern Yorubaland
(situated largely inside the Oyo empire), the greater the danger to horses.23 This
tallies with what we know about horses generally on the Slave Coast in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries – that they were few, uniformly small, and
not bred locally.24 One consequence was that no-one ever thought in terms of
cavalry on that coast. The point here is that the Oyo cavalry was at risk even in
the Abomey region, since it was not entirely free of the tsetse fly; the cavalry had
in any case to avoid the rainy seasons, when little or no fodder was available.
We may add that cavalry is not always, or by definition, superior to infantry;
especially not if the infantry is, contrary to the opposing cavalry, equipped with
firearms and artillery. Dahomey did have firearms, but no artillery. No-one was
ever capable of mounting genuine artillery on the Slave Coast.
In this context John Thornton has argued that the Dahomean army
responded to the Oyo challenge by adopting a close order of fighting,
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appropriate for dealing with cavalry-using forces, and in constructing field

fortifications.25 This is the kind of statement which leaves the impression that we
really know these things. But the heart of the matter is first, that Dahomey only
defeated Oyo once, at the very end, when its cavalry was probably no longer
operative; and second, that Oyo may not have had the means, or dreaded the
consequences, of any prolonged military activity in the south – something
which Agaja knew, so that he opted for his famous delaying tactic. Incidentally,
the Oyo menace may explain in part why Agaja was apparently bent on
conquering the southern Slave Coast. It meant that he and his people had
somewhere to go in case of a major onslaught, namely south of the Lama, since
to cross that area was impossible for horsemen; to go around it also involved
huge practical problems, as it meant much larger rivers to cross than further
north. It may be of significance in this context that Agaja moved, in 1730, his
secular capital from Abomey to Allada, in fact a new Allada, some three km
away, on the other side of the river Auté.26 But of course, the change of capital
was also charged with mythical-religious symbolism, the Agasuvi having come
home, in a sense, to the place where Agasu, their mythical ancestor, was buried
(the direct link between Tado and Abomey had not yet been established).
As for the Dahomeans’ ability to survive the Oyo onslaughts, the standard
explanation has been that they disappeared into the bush while waiting for the
Oyo cavalry to retreat. But we now have an alternative or supplementary
explanation, and a much more convincing one, thanks to the earlier-
mentioned team of Danish archaeologists led by Klavs Randsborg and Inga
Merkyte. It is that the population simply disappeared underground. Indeed,
the Randsborg-Merkyte team has dug out a number of so-called caves (“sous-
terrains”), in their words beautifully carved and spacious subterranean caves,
more than a thousand of which have been located so far.27 The Danish team
believes that there may be no less than between 8,000 and 16,000 of them, and
exclusively on the Abomey plateau. The soil of that plateau makes the ground
very suitable for durable subterranean structures. The archaeologists add that
the town of Abomey was already surrounded by a deep and wide moat from
the mid-seventeenth century.28
***
We must return to the chronological account and note the obvious, namely
that the retreat of Oyo freed Agaja’s hand and left Hussar and his men in a
dramatic situation. In brief, Agaja had no problems in reconquering (or
conquering) Allada, massacring Hussar and his men and completing the
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destruction of Allada in May 1726. This time no puppet ruler was installed;
Allada was annexed. The English slave trader William Snelgrave reported
seeing “A great ruin’d town” in 1727.29 Snelgrave, who journeyed from Jakin
to Allada, “saw the remains of towns and villages, with a great quantity of
(human) bones strewed about the fields”, and in the King’s camp in the capital
heaps of dead men’s heads, those of the 4,000 or so Alladans reported to have
been sacrificed by the Dahomeans to their gods.30 One interesting detail is
that Agaja, whose countenance much impressed Snelgrave, told him that he
was resolved to encourage trade.31
In May/June 1726 Bulfinch Lambe was “dismissed by the King of
(Dahomey, but) in a very handsome manner”, as the English director put it,32
and allowed to return to Hueda. He returned, according to his account, with
a letter containing an unequivocal message: Agaja had every intention of
conquering Hueda. What was more, Agaja expected the Europeans to remain
neutral: “When I send my forces against Whidah [Hueda]…I shall give
orders…to take care not to hurt any of the white men, in goods or persons, if
they keep in their Fort & Factory. But if they come in a warlike manner…”.33
Can we deduce that the Huedans and the Europeans had been duly
forewarned? The trouble is that Jeremy Tinker, the then RAC director in
Hueda, testified later in London that Lambe never showed him any letter
from Agaja (or was Lambe too resentful against the RAC to do so?). This is
the main reason why the British authorities concluded that the letter Lambe
presented to them in 1731 was a forgery, that is, written not by Agaja but by
Lambe himself – a conclusion Robin Law disagrees with. We shall return later
to the extraordinary adventures of Lambe and the famous letter. But for the
moment we must note that Lambe left Ouidah-Glehue after only three
months and was thus spared the spectacle of another Dahomean massacre.
Note also that Lambe did not mention Oyo’s attack on Dahomey on 14 April
1726, an attack we suppose he had witnessed.
However, whether the letter existed or not, did Lambe not have any useful
information to share with the people in Hueda, whether European, Luso-
Brazilian or African? And did not the rise of Dahomey, and especially what
had happened in Allada in 1724 and 1726, constitute a warning serious
enough? But if so, it was not heeded; no attempt was made to set aside
internal discord and present a united front against the new external enemy –
if, that is, Dahomey was perceived as such.
Actually, it looks as if Hueda was already in the midst of a process of more
or less complete disintegration with civil war. There was possibly one such
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war in 1725, and if not a general civil war, at least a several days’ fight with
many dead in April 1726, coinciding with Oyo’s assault on Dahomey.34 Then,
an unmistakeable sign, one vassal of the king of Hueda, the aplogan of the
border principality of Gome, simply changed sides during the second half of
1726, severing his ties with the king of Hueda and instead paying allegiance
to Agaja.35
But the authorities of Hueda remained unmoved; it is even said that the
king and his leading dignitary Captain Assou laughed at the rumours of a
Dahomean invasion36 (so there were such rumours). How to explain their
attitude? Did they have an unlimited faith in their tutelary deity the snake?
Or did they believe they could hire enough mercenaries to defeat Dahomey?
Or did they believe that Oyo, and possibly also Akwamu, or both, would
come to their rescue? As a final possibility, the always intriguing Dutch had
promised in November 1726 assistance from Elmina in case of an emergency,
on the condition that the king of Hueda agreed to demolish the Portuguese
fort and allow them to build a proper lodge at Ouidah-Glehue.37 Whether the
king of Hueda really did so promise is not certain, our sources are somewhat
ambiguous. But as we shall see, there certainly were Huedans who believed
that the Dutch had promised their help.
***
Robin Law’s account of the Dahomean conquest of Hueda and the shoreline
of the Central Slave Coast38 makes clear that it turned out to be a long
drawn-out affair which lasted until 1730, 1733, 1745 or even to 1775, if not
later, depending on one’s definition – if, that is, what happened in 1727 was
really the beginning of a determined intention on the part of Agaja to
conquer Hueda.
Whatever the case, and whether expected or not, the Dahomean assault on
Savi, the capital of Hueda, occurred on 9 March 1727.39 And the same
devastation which had taken place in Allada in 1724 and in 1726 was now
repeated; the town and the surroundings were laid waste with great, and once
more ostentatious, brutality.40 The assault claimed some 5,000 dead and
10–11,000 prisoners according to the testimony of the Luso-Brazilian
Director Francisco Pereyra Mendes,41 for what that may be worth. The same
Pereyra Mendes argues that Agaja told him that he, the king of Dahomey,
certainly wanted to trade with the Europeans, and that he had decided to
conquer Allada and Hueda because the rulers of those two polities prevented
him from doing so.42 This strikes us as a more logical motive for the conquest
206
of the coast than the one forwarded by Akinjogbin, that Dahomey conquered
the coast in order to put an end to the slave trade.
In brief, the Huedan army had been soundly defeated, in spite of the
contention made by a French observer that it was far more numerous than the
opposing forces. But the Huedans (or the hired mercenaries) declined to fight,
according to him.43
The European lodges in Savi did not escape the destruction, and were burnt
to the ground, never to be rebuilt again. Of the Europeans present, some 38
were made prisoners and taken to Allada where Agaja resided. However, they
were released relatively quickly, after three weeks’ captivity in rather inhuman
conditions, according to themselves. But five Dutchmen, after being freed by
the Dahomeans, were then taken prisoner by the Huedans, because the WIC
had not honoured its promise to aid Hueda – according to the Huedans. The
Dutch arrived finally at Keta on 2 April aboard a Portuguese ship, more dead
than alive.44 Hendrik Hertogh, the Director in Hueda and already an old
hand in the Guinea trade, was not among the five; he had escaped to Jakin.
Actually, not all the Europeans in Savi were taken prisoner in March 1727.
In the middle of the chaos many managed to escape to Ouidah-Glehue, and
even to the nine ships moored in the Ouidah-Glehue roads at that time,45
incidentally leaving behind a considerable quantity of trade goods.46 Most of
the ships left in a hurry. But in one ship the slaves, who believed (we suppose)
that their hour of liberation had arrived, staged a revolt, with a tragic
outcome – no-one came to their rescue, and 30 of them were killed.47 We add
in this context the story of an English ship which arrived shortly afterwards,
and which decided to stay instead of going to Jakin. It had great success, since
people were in starving conditions, selling servants and children etc. in order
to buy food from Grand Popo – or so says William Snelgrave.48
After the assault on Savi, one version has it that the Dahomeans then
moved south to Ouidah-Glehue, laying siege to the European forts49 and
actually demolishing (more or less?) the Portuguese one, possibly as a warning.
But the siege of the two others and especially the French fort (where many
Europeans had taken refuge) was lifted after only a few days;50 this was what
was left of the French fort, since it had been severely damaged, or burnt down,
by an accidental fire, presumably in January-February 1727, and still not
repaired completely at the end of February (the French “useing all possible
Expedition to get it repaired”).51 What happened next, in April, was that the
main part of the Dahomean army simply withdrew, not only from Ouidah-
Glehue, which was left by implication under the authority of the European
207
forts, but also from Hueda generally, leaving apparently only a small garrison
at Savi.52
The explanation provided by Snelgrave is that the Dahomean army had to
be despatched against Tofo, to the north in Allada, presumably because the
people of Tofo had attacked a Dahomean (slave) caravan. Snelgrave tells us
that the campaign against Tofo was entirely successful, since it yielded 1,800
captives, 400 of whom were promptly sacrificed in a ceremony at Allada
witnessed by the same Snelgrave.53 But if the people of Tofo had embarked
upon such an action, it was obviously because they thought they could get
away with it. And if so, the whole affair alerts us to the possibility that
Dahomey’s hold over the region which had constituted Allada was still
tenuous, that the Dahomeans were perhaps overstretched, that they simply
had not the resources and the manpower necessary to pacify Allada, let alone
to genuinely conquer Hueda in addition. And in the background Oyo
continued to lurk.
***
All this lends credit to what a Danish observer in Accra suggested, that what
the Dahomeans had carried out was merely a raid, that what interested them
was to secure as high a ransom as possible from the Huedans.54 It may be
significant in this context that the Dahomeans allowed, or were unable to
hinder, the exodus of a very considerable part of the Huedan population.
Among those who escaped were, even more significantly, the king himself, and
most of the leading dignitaries, Captain Assou included, the very people
capable of paying a ransom – and the very people the Dahomeans would have
sought out in the first place if their aim had really been to conquer. It is true
that the exiled Huedans had to regroup, especially in the difficult and more or
less wetland region to the west, where in theory the Dahomean army was at a
considerable disadvantage.55 But there are indications that many of them
considered it to be a temporary inconvenience and expected to return to their
land soon. In other words, the Huedans may have believed that they had lost
a battle, but not the war.56 If so, they were not altogether wrong, since a war,
which it is tempting to call either the Huedan Three-Years’ or even the
Huedan Seven Years’ War (1727–30/34), was actually the result of the
Dahomean attack on 9 March 1727.
Since our sources are occasionally confusing about the details (while some
are truly bloodcurdling),57 we concentrate on the central theme, which is clear
enough, namely that the (presumably unofficial) alliance between the exiled
208
Huedans and Oyo several times enabled the former to reoccupy not only
Ouidah-Glehue beach but also more or less the whole of Hueda, Savi
included, especially at the beginning of 1730, and even to start reconstructing
their land at some stage.58 All this happened, obviously, with the connivance
of the Europeans in Ouidah-Glehue who dreaded the Dahomeans and hoped
for the return of their old trading partners, the Huedans.59 But to repeat, each
time the Oyo cavalry had to retreat after a while from Dahomey, leaving the
Dahomeans a free hand in the south. The hostilities did not preclude
occasional negotiations; at one stage Agaja even offered Huffon to return to
Savi, but as a vassal of his.60
The Europeans found themselves caught in a very uncomfortable in-the-
middle position, due in part to the fact that their forts and their cannon had
acquired all of a sudden a vital importance in this war between Africans. Even
more vital had become the control of Ouidah-Glehue beach and hence of the
slave trade. On top of it all this was intrigue time, even inside the forts,
especially the French one.61 Many Europeans feared for their lives and braced
themselves for the worst.62 In fact, the European community was to pay a high
price in lives. It began with the French director Houdoyer Dupetitval who was
captured by the Huedans, accused of siding with the Dahomeans. He died in
captivity or was killed by the same Huedans, actually betrayed by one of his
own subordinates, a certain Étienne Gallot, whom the Huedans then installed
as the new director; Gallot was forced to flee soon afterwards but managed
somehow to return to France.63 In this process the French fort was blown up,
somewhat accidentally, leaving a great many of the occupants, who happened
to be exiled Huedans, dead. As for Dupetitval’s English colleague Charles
Testefolle, he was accused by the Dahomeans of betraying their cause and
tortured and executed.64 Also a Portuguese official by the name of Simão
Cardoso was killed, by the Huedans this time.65
Both directors were quickly replaced and reinforcements sent, and the
French fort in particular was repaired.66 The Europeans and Luso-Brazilians
had then no intention of abandoning Ouidah-Glehue, war or no war. The
slave trade was too important. In addition, Agaja encouraged them; he went
out of his way, time and again (but after the Testefolle affair), to assure the
Europeans that he meant them no harm, that in fact he had every intention of
collaborating closely with them.67 At one stage he even went as far as to
threaten with the death penalty anyone who molested the Europeans in any
way.68 Agaja’s attitude does not strike one as characteristic of someone bent on
ending the slave trade. The same may be said of his appointment in September
209
1728 of three chiefs to act as liaison officers with the forts, and especially to
levy customs from them.69 They were replaced in 1733 by one official, the
tegan, title later changed to yovogan (unless tegan was a name), literally the
chief of the white men, governor of Ouidah-Glehue and in fact of coastal
Dahomey, and as such a sort of viceroy. The establishment of this institution
is generally taken to imply more effective Dahomean control over Ouidah-
Glehue.70 But it should be noted that most Slave Coast polities had this
institution, called yevuga among the Ewe.71
Once more a pertinent question is, given the turbulence of the period,
what happened with the slave trade. And the answer is, as we have seen from
the Database, that the period 1726–30 marked an all-time high – for reasons
all too obvious. It was then very much business as usual. However, the next
five years were marked by a steep decline, never to be reversed.
Were there other peoples or groups involved in the war? It seems as if the
Mahi, the northern neighbours of Dahomey living in a hilly region difficult
to conquer, and organized into a loose confederacy, assisted the Oyos.72 As for
the exiled Huedans, they obviously had contacts with Hendrik Hertogh, the
WIC Director who had come to dominate the scene in Jakin, and with Little
Popo-Glidji. But if so, nothing concrete came out of those contacts.
What we can risk arguing on the other hand, and more generally, is that
what happened in 1724–27 and afterwards sent shock-waves throughout the
whole region, implying the spread of disorder and banditry with many paths
closed – it might be seen as a general breakdown of law and order, resulting
even in the sacking and burning of minor European factories, such as the
WIC’s at Keta in August 1731.73 In this field the Ge of Little Popo-Glidji seem
to have been particularly notorious – banditry may even have amounted to a
state-sponsored enterprise among them, according to one modern historian.74
***
What changed the situation radically in 1730 was that Oyo opted out, at least
for the time being. The result was two more or less formal treaties, thanks
apparently to the efforts of the third fort director, the Luso-Brazilian João
Basilio, who was actually a Frenchman.75 The treaty between Dahomey and
Oyo contained, it seems, basically the same provisions as the truce-armistice
of 1726: Dahomey became, or continued to be a vassal of Oyo and as such had
to pay from now on a huge humiliating tribute, including in people, the
ayogban (load), so called by the Dahomeans.76 But the counterpart was peace
and a free hand in the south, that is, no more wars on two fronts. In the second
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treaty of August 1730, between Dahomey and the Europeans, the latter
promised to give no more support to the exiled Huedans – a promise they
were not always able or willing to keep. But this left the exiled Huedans out in
the cold, especially since the third treaty which the Europeans had hoped for,
between Dahomey and the exiled Huedans, never materialized, simply
because Agaja was not interested.77 The implication was that the exiled
Huedans from now on considered the Europeans as their enemies, and were
bent on expelling them.78 The exiled Huedans in fact reacted furiously to the
European-Dahomean rapprochement, launching a number of raids on
Ouidah-Glehue beach between at least May and August 1731, and later. On
one occasion six Europeans were killed.79 As usual, the Europeans were caught
in the middle.80 The exiled Huedans also concluded, we presume, that they
needed a new and solid territorial basis. In short, they turned against their
erstwhile ally Grand Popo and tried simply to conquer that polity between
1731 and 1733; but in this they do not seem to have been successful.81
The exiled Huedans were also seriously weakened by the deaths of both
Captain Assou, the soul of the resistance, and the king himself, Huffon, still
not forty years old, in June-August 1733. Huffon’s death triggered off a
succession dispute, which in turn made a group of exiled Huedans submit to
Agaja. The latter even installed a sort of Huedan puppet-king in Savi in 1734,
with the obvious hope of enticing more Huedans to return “home”. But it
turned out to be a fiasco. Anyway, in 1734 Agaja virtually finished off what
was left of the Huedans, with what seems like the active assistance of the
French who had clearly decided to opt for what they expected to be the
winning side.82
But the exiled Huedans, or what was left of them, did gain a territorial base
of sorts in the end; they established a small polity in the loosely organized
region west of Lake Ahémé, at modern Houeyogbe, just 30 km northwest of
Savi.83 And they continued, in spite of everything, to pose a threat to the
Dahomeans, resorting increasingly to genuine guerrilla warfare. Or were the
exiled Huedans of the sources actually warriors from Little Popo-Glidji?
What is certain, though, is that Agaja had consolidated his position, and
that the conquest of what had been Hueda had become irreversible. But it was
by now a thoroughly devastated region.84 For the time being the Dahomeans
had anyway nothing to fear from Oyo, which seems to have been immersed in
problems of its own, as the removal of three Alafins in quick succession over
the next years seems to show.85
***
211
Had the decision of Oyo to opt out in 1730 anything to do with the demise
of Akwamu on the Gold Coast, possibly Oyo’s de facto ally? It is tempting to
believe so. For that demise all sources agree about the cause – the increasingly
sinister reputation of Akwamu. The list of grievances is a rather long one,
including the illegal enslavement of freemen and the terrorizing actions of
bands of “rascals” and robber barons inside Akwamu itself, whether at the
instigation or with the connivance of the Akwamuhene and his men.86
The revolt began among the Ga of Little Accra in January 1728.87
According to one version, the one who took the initiative was a certain Amu,
the local Akwamu governor and a member of the royal family. As usual, the
Europeans were caught in the middle, not knowing what to do. The Danes bet
once more on the loser, Akwamu, with the result that Christiansborg was
blockaded between mid-September 1729 and January 1730.88
But the decisive event was the intervention of the neighbouring polity of
Akyem in May 1730, with the tacit support of Asante.89 The end result was
the defeat and fall of Akwamu in September, described by Fynn as “one of the
most decisive victories in Gold Coast History”.90
But some members of the royal lineage of Akwamu, together with their
clients and followers, managed to escape east of the Volta and to subdue many
inland Ewe communities, Peki notably.91 The de facto leader was none other
than Amu, the one who revolted in Accra in 1728 and who had by now
changed sides.92 This New Akwamu, as it is often called – often in alliance
with Anlo on the coast, a former vassal of “Old” Akwamu – proved to be an
enduring entity, dominating many inland Ewe dukowo for the next hundred
years or so.93
Incidentally, the collapse of “Old” Akwamu paved the way for the
beginning of timid Danish expansion eastwards into the Slave Coast. Indeed,
New Akwamu agreed in November 1731 to formally relinquish its authority
over the Ada area at the mouth of the river Volta for a substantial payment in
goods. It was a payment made by the Danes on behalf of the Ada in return for
a Danish trading monopoly over the area.94
***
If we now ask why the Dahomeans began expanding southwards, a summary
of the possible motives (some already noted) may be as follows: they had run
out of raiding grounds, and therefore considered the thickly populated south
to be a promising alternative. Or they were thinking of opting for a middleman
role.95 Or perhaps, as the Danes believed, the Dahomeans had been
212
systematically robbed by the Huedans on their return trips to Abomey.96 Or

else the Dahomeans needed a place to go, a safe haven south of the Lama, in
case of a genuine and successful onslaught by Oyo. Or, alternatively, they
needed to secure direct and guaranteed access to the Europeans, and hence to
the source of firearms – simply to eliminate the coastal intermediaries, as
Akwamu had done some time earlier, and to appropriate for themselves the
riches of Hueda. Perhaps all these reasons are pertinent.
***
At this point it is necessary to take leave from the affairs of the Slave Coast for
a while and to move to a very different place, namely the Court of St. James’s
in London. On 7 May 1731 (Old style) George II, King of Great Britain and
Ireland (1727–60), received in audience Bulfinch Lambe, the one who
witnessed the Dahomean assault on Allada in 1724. In the audience Lambe
was accompanied by a certain Adomo Tomo, known as Captain Tom, a native
of Jakin.97 The obvious question is what this was all about, and the answer is
that the two presented themselves as, and were believed to be, the ambassadors
of the king of Dahomey, and were fêted as such in London:98 ambassadors of
a little-known kingdom but a suitably exotic one.
That it had taken the two more than four years to travel from Ouidah-
Glehue to London, with numerous adventures on the way, was something
no-one seemed to have paid attention to. It is by all accounts an extraordinary
story with many ramifications, which it is difficult to summarize quickly. But
since it has already been told, at least partially, in a number of publications, we
can afford to move to what matters for our purpose, namely the letter allegedly
dictated by king Agaja which the two carried with them. Was it genuine, and if
so, what is the relevance of its content? The authorities in London took the
matter most seriously and organized hearings in which people with first-hand
knowledge of the Slave Coast, already mentioned in this work – notably
William Snelgrave and above all Jeremy Tinker, the governor of Williams Fort
at the time of Lambe’s return to Ouidah-Glehue in 1726 – took part. And
Tinker made the point which to the present author seems conclusive, that if the
letter was genuine, why did Lambe and everybody else, Agaja included, keep
quiet about it until 1731?99 Robin Law has reached, as we have seen, the
opposite conclusion. Nevertheless, Law’s central point, that the content of the
letter is in the final analysis of rather limited interest anyway, seems to us most
pertinent. For in the letter Agaja merely stated his wish to see agricultural
plantations established in Africa. But there is nothing in the letter which
213
indicates that Agaja considered plantations as an alternative to the slave trade

and that he wanted to put an end to that trade. Quite the contrary, in fact: “to
carry on a flourishing trade between us, there neither will nor shall be any want
of slaves”, wrote Agaja or Lambe.100 However, a long line of authors, from John
Atkins to I.A. Akinjogbin, via Basil Davidson and others, has interpreted it as
implying that Agaja actually wanted to put an end to the slave trade. Here,
then, we have the origin of the myth that Agaja was opposed to, and in fact
tried to abolish the slave trade, a myth based on one phrase in a letter which
may not even be genuine; a myth which ignores moreover all the declarations
Agaja made in the opposite sense, including one in the very same letter. Worse,
the myth simply ignores the course of events. But myths never die.
The broader, although counter-factual question is whether establishing
plantations in Africa, that is, employing the slaves locally instead of
transporting them to America, could have been a feasible alternative. The first
answer is that the African solution was tried to some extent; the plantation
system originated in fact on the islands off the coast of Africa, especially São
Tomé,101 before “migrating” to the Americas. But although the Europeans
thought at times about establishing plantations on the African mainland,
none of the projects in that sense ever came to fruition. The reason may be
that the Europeans were totally in control in America, but certainly not in
Africa. Obviously, in Africa the slaves could run away much more easily than
in America. Put differently, the Atlantic Ocean constituted simply a gigantic
natural moat behind which the plantation sector based on slavery was
relatively safe. And it is certain also that the European powers did not want
products from Africa to enter into competition with the products of their
American colonies.102
214
2
AFTERMATH AND GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS
Having reached the 1730s, we return to the events on the Slave Coast. The
question is whether it is possible to detect any long-term trends behind all the
skirmishes, battles, plots and intrigues of all sorts during that decade. The first
possibility is that the Dahomean “revolutionary-predatory” model was already
running out of steam. The second is the restructuring and small-scale societies
of the Eastern Slave Coast, until then loosely organized.
With regard to the first trend, it is clear that by the 1730s the days of easy
surprise victories for Dahomey were already over. The Dahomeans had
showed their hand – they had demonstrated that, in the words of Robin Law,
they continued to operate as large-scale bandits rather than empire-builders,
seeking to plunder rather than to consolidate, to enslave or kill rather than to
subjugate and absorb.1 Hence, those who felt menaced by Dahomey now
knew all too well what was in store for them, especially the ruling elites. They
had basically two options, to flee or to fight to the bitter end. A third option,
to submit and to become a tribute-paying autonomous vassal, was one that
Dahomey did not contemplate. The fact of not respecting the rules of the
game was beginning to prove counterproductive.
A proof of sorts is that Agaja failed to expand further. In the north the
Mahi put up a stiff enough resistance to force Agaja to give up his attempt to
conquer them, after his army is reputed to have suffered tremendous casualties
(this in 1731–32). It was an outcome which is said to have dealt a severe blow
to Agaja’s prestige2 and which blocked the expansion of Dahomey northwards.
Worse, the first cracks (that we know of ) in the structure of Dahomey itself
215
appeared. A disgruntled son of Agaja deserted with, it is said, some 4,000

warriors. They joined the Weme successor-polity at Dangbo far in the south-
east, thereby joining also, possibly, the anti-Dahomean alliance that Hendrik
Hertogh, the WIC official, tried to organize from Jakin.3
More quarrels and cracks followed. In June 1733 Agaja ordered the
execution of a certain Possu (a title?), described as one of the highest ranking
officers of the army. This Possu had planned to flee to Savalu in the north, a
village or town which was to become the favourite place of exile for disgruntled
Abomey dignitaries who managed to escape.4 Then, possibly in 1735, no less an
official than the Mehu (the third personage of the polity) revolted.5 His destiny
is unknown, but can easily be guessed at. It may have been at the same time that
another, and possibly large, section of the Dahomean army deserted, led by a
certain Ashangmo. Strictly speaking, we are certain only of the desertion of
Ashangmo (or Shampo);6 but since he was, although a mercenary, high up in
the military hierarchy, it is unlikely that he fled alone. To understand what this
was all about, we must know that Agaja, owing in part to the terrible losses his
army had endured, had recruited large numbers of mercenaries, including some
from Little Popo-Glidji and including Ashangmo, who belonged in fact to the
local royal sib. He improved his situation shortly afterwards to become
(possibly) the third and the by far most reputed king of that polity.
Agaja sent a large detachment in pursuit of the fugitives, but it was cut to
pieces at Keta in 1737, in part thanks to the surprisingly self-sacrificing
attitude of the Dutch director of the local fort7 (if it was a genuine fort – its
existence does not appear in any of the other sources the present author has
had access to). Since the Dahomean attempt at revenge at the end of 1738 or
the beginning of 1739 also failed,8 we can argue that the Dahomeans suffered
a resounding setback, which may help explain the state of near-civil war in
Dahomey, which Law believes he has detected at that moment.9 One possible
indication of the seriousness of the matter is that Agaja risked imperilling his
relations with the Portuguese by throwing into prison the previously
mentioned director João Basilio, accused of aiding Ashangmo. Agaja also
blamed Basilio for the shortage of gold, since according to Agaja Basilio had
attempted to persuade the Luso-Brazilian captains to sell gold exclusively to
him – that is, to establish a monopoly.10 Basilio remained in detention for
some eleven months in quite appalling conditions.11 It is significant that the
authorities in Salvador da Bahia and Lisbon did nothing. But Basilio was
reinstated in the end, and with honour.12 Pierre Verger’s theory13 is that Basilio
fell victim to the intrigues of fellow-Luso-Brazilian Francisco Nunes, Agaja’s
216
secretary, whose ambition it was to take over as director, something which he

succeeded in doing for a while under Tegbesu, as will be described later.
If what happened in 1737–39 was also an attempt by the Dahomeans to
expand westwards, it can only be described as a fiasco. What is also certain is
that the 1737–39 events were the beginning of a genuine war between
Dahomey and Little Popo-Glidji, a war which was to last for some 58 years, to
1795. What happened in 1737–39 also paved the way for the Danes at Keta.
As for Ashangmo, after becoming king, he made the mistake of
blackmailing and threatening the crew of a French slave ship in February
1738.14 In fact, Ashangmo’s commercial acumen turned out to be on a par
with that of his predecessors, he was often accused of swindling and offending
(“vexer”) the ship captains, which caused the Europeans and the Luso-
Brazilians to remain reluctant to trade at Little Popo.15
***
We must step slightly back in time and note that Agaja was somewhat more
successful with regard to Jakin, although his victory turned out to be, in a sense,
a Pyrrhic one. In this context we encounter once more Hendrik Hertogh
(originally Herzog, he was born German), one of the few Europeans who has
played a central role in the history of the Slave Coast. Hertogh, after having fled
from Hueda (in time), as noted, was responsible for setting up, or expanding,
the WIC lodge in Jakin, where the Dutch had been preceded or were joined by
the English and the Luso-Brazilians, who however both remained present in
Ouidah-Glehue as well. The Luso-Brazilians even began to erect a fort at Jakin,
but this was in ruins already by the autumn of 1731.16
At Jakin Hertogh, who clearly dreamed of a monopolistic position, turned
out to be quite a success, especially as a slave trader, and “with God’s blessing”,
as one official report put it.17 Hertogh’s success was in fact such that the
central WIC authorities in the Netherlands made him de facto independent of
the director-general at Elmina ( Jan Pranger) – with the title of governor, a
title very high up in the WIC hierarchy.18 He was even put in charge (in 1735)
of relations with Benin and the ivory trade there which the Dutch wished to
continue, but had to abandon two years later.19 All this implies, among other
things, that the Dutch were henceforth divided among themselves, Pranger at
Elmina advocating a rapprochement with Agaja, and indeed negotiating with
him, while Hertogh tried to promote a vast anti-Dahomean alliance in
collaboration with the king of Jakin, and including the exiled Huedans20 – all
with the active connivance of the central WIC authorities in the Netherlands.
217
Hertogh was also central in what we may call the mini-war between the
WIC and the Portuguese (including the Luso-Brazilians) at that time, even at
Jakin itself, the Portuguese having become all too powerful for the taste of the
Dutch while they no longer accepted the treatment the Dutch meted out to
them.21 But as usual the Portuguese were also divided among themselves, the
Portuguese Crown doing its best to stop the Luso-Brazilians’ trade with the
Costa da Mina, especially the contraband in gold, believing this would deal a
shattering blow to the Dutch; while the Crown’s own representatives in Brazil,
allied with the local traders and in fact with the Dahomeans, sabotaged the
official Portuguese policy and Portuguese laws – as usual. The Luso-Brazilians
could, thanks to their tobacco, procure not only slaves but also all sorts of
European goods, and goods much cheaper than the merchandise imported
from Portugal.22 Still, the stagnation and decline in the Luso-Brazilian slave
trade in the 1730s seem quite evident, considering the complaints of the Luso-
Brazilian officials.23 Perhaps the Luso-Brazilians preferred to charter English
ships which transported the slaves for them.24
This was, incidentally, roughly at the same time (1728–31) as the relations
between the RAC and the WIC reached a very low ebb, the two being virtually
at war, according to Johannes Postma.25 We repeat in this context that the RAC
had lost its monopoly in 1712, and the WIC suffered the same fate in 1731–
34.26 But the difference was that whereas the RAC disappeared altogether (in
1750), the WIC did not. Indeed, it maintained certain privileges, in particular
its unique position in the trade with the Luso-Brazilians; Dutch free traders
were not allowed to trade with ships from Brazil.27
But the main theme of the epoch is the antagonism between Agaja and
Hertogh, the latter ranking as the most serious opponent of the former. And
according to Agaja (as reported by the Luso-Brazilians), Hertogh tried to
assassinate him at least four times.28 That, we imagine, was why Agaja struck
out against tiny Jakin in his usual manner in April 1732, just after the Mahi
setback; he staged major carnage, as well as taking some 4,500 prisoners,
including 20 or so Europeans. But Agaja failed to exploit his opportunity
enough, since both Hertogh and the king of Jakin got away, fleeing eastward.29
Not so Hertogh’s five or six Dutch subordinates (not to mention his African
ones), who were caught and, unlike the other Europeans, not released
immediately, but only a year later30 (Hertogh was not quite a Captain of the
grand tradition31). It is significant, considering the atmosphere in the Dutch
camp, that the WIC employee sent from Elmina who secured the release of
the prisoners, and who then managed to re-establish the factory at Jakin, was
218
dismissed because he was unwilling or unable to collaborate with Hertogh, as

he had been ordered to do by his superiors in the Netherlands.32
Before pursuing the Hertogh story, we must note that 1732 was not quite
the end of Jakin as a commercial hub. Hence the second attack in November
1734 to persuade the Europeans to relocate to Ouidah-Glehue, where Agaja
wanted to concentrate the slave trade. The last to comply were the Luso-
Brazilians in 1738, after which Jakin disappeared from the map.33
The conquest of Jakin may be considered to be the best-known of a number
of mopping-up actions against the former vassals of the former kings of Allada
and Hueda; the best-known because Europeans were involved. We know of a
few others, like one against Gome with its ruler, the aplogan, the one who
seceded from Hueda in 1726. His territory was burned in December 1733,
although the aplogan himself narrowly escaped, and burnt a second time the
next year.34
As for the obviously very enterprising Hertogh, he had no problem in
re-emerging as a central figure wherever he took up residence, whether in
Apa35 (1732–36) or in what became Badagry (from 1736), and always
strongly backed by his superiors in the Netherlands. Actually Hertogh, under
his local name of Huntokonu, ranks simply as the founder of Badagry (more
correctly Agbadarigi), a town which came to be settled by refugees from many
parts, and hence acquired a distinctly cosmopolitan character.36 And of course,
when in 1737 Hertogh set up a factory at Epe (Ekpe on modern maps, some
22 km east of Jakin), precisely the place to which the former king of Jakin and
his followers had fled in 1732, establishing there a sort of successor polity,37
Hertogh’s factory turned out to be quite a success, rivalling Ouidah-Glehue.38
As one fellow Dutchman put it, Hertogh acted as a sort of independent prince
or ruler,39 possibly in a Kiplingian (The Man who would be King) sense.
But as a genuine African prince in a war zone Hertogh had to assume the
risks of that position. So in the end Agaja caught up with him; Hertogh was
assassinated in Badagry on 29 April 1738 – at the behest of Agaja we are told,
but, significantly, by a disgruntled refugee from Hueda, in fact a member of the
former ruling sib of Hueda whom Hertogh had declined to make chief or king.40
After that the WIC and the Dutch simply faded away from the Slave Coast.
***
Clearly, Hendrik Hertogh’s grand coalition never got off the ground. Was it
because it was made up of too many “has-beens”? Or did commercial jealousies
and competing claims to political sovereignty ruin Hertogh’s efforts, as Robin
219
Law suggests?41 Or were the Danes closer to the mark when they argued,
already in 1732, that Hertogh had “played the false god among the Blacks” –
implying that he was something of an impostor?42 It is true that Hertogh came
forward with some quite extravagant suggestions, including one to bribe
Asante “to come down to fight Dahomme [Dahomey])”. It provoked
(naturally) the sarcasm of the increasingly anti-Hertogh Dutch of Elmina.43
A third possibility may be that Hertogh was primarily interested in
promoting the slave trade, as well as his own fortune and his own career, and
that the alleged grand alliance was merely a sort of window-dressing in this
context. But if so, the possibly over-confident Hertogh paid the highest prize
in the end, in one sense a somewhat redeeming exit.
***
The founding of Badagry in the east, and more generally the action of
Hertogh, heralded a new general trend: the emergence of articulated polities
on the Eastern Slave Coast. It is in this context significant that the rule of the
first king of the future leading polity in the east, Hogbonu (Porto Novo),44 is
usually dated to the 1730s.45 The king in question, Te-Agbanlin, claimed to
hail from Allada,46 and hence the new polity was also called simply Allada,
and in fact was considered to be the successor-state to Allada.47 The
implication is that those who established Porto-Novo were refugees from the
west, which may well have been the case. If so, Porto Novo ought to have been
characterized by some sort of contrapuntal paramountcy, which is not certain,
but cannot be excluded48 (the local traditions are highly ambiguous, and no
genuinely serious recent studies exist). It is, for instance, possible that the king
could be asked to commit suicide.49 More certainly, the reigns of the local
kings were uniformly short, brothers succeeding brothers in what is called
succession in Z.50 Actually, central royal authority was so weak that one
European visitor claimed that he discerned none at all.51 Porto-Novo, in sum,
was not a polity of the Dahomean kind.
The rise of the new polities and commercial centres in the east played into
the hands of Oyo, which was looking for outlets to the Atlantic beyond the
reach of Dahomey.
***
It is time to focus on a major internal development in Dahomey, the
emergence of what turned out to be a regular feature of the life of that polity
throughout its existence: a several weeks long annual ritual “festival” called
220
xwetanu (also written xuetanu or huetanu etc.),52 and known to the Europeans
as the “Annual Customs”. Xwetanu means literally “Yearly Head Business”,
according to Law.53 It acquired rapidly a sinister reputation due to the part
called the “Watering of the Graves” of the royal ancestors, the “watering”
being effected with blood from sacrificial victims. If we follow Robin Law, the
first ever “Annual Customs” were celebrated in January 1733, and with the
three fort directors in attendance.54 In fact, the presence of the Directors came
to be required, they had to travel to Abomey at least once every year – actually
the only time they were allowed to travel outside Ouidah-Glehue – and to
stay in Abomey for 18–20 days.55 Hence we are well informed about the
Customs.56 If one asks why there was this compulsory European/Luso-
Brazilian attendance, the answer is first that it was a source of prestige for the
king (recall Bulfinch Lambe in 1724–26), and secondly that it was part of the
Dahomean monarchy’s attempt to redefine the relationship with the
Europeans and the Luso-Brazilians. Briefly stated, Agaja and his successors
decided, unilaterally, that the fort directors were their subordinates; but as
subordinates, though high-ranking ones, they had to pay tribute. Thus the fort
Directors were subjected to the king’s jurisdiction, as opposed to benefiting
from some sort of extra-territoriality. In fact, the kings of Dahomey dismissed
and expelled directors not to their liking, as the kings of Hueda had done
before them, but also tried at times to appoint their successors,57 something
their Huedan predecessors had never attempted. All the foreigners were also
closely watched.58 In fact, the Dahomeans began early on to monitor the
activities of the expatriates, progressively restricting their movements, in the
end not even allowing them to move freely between the forts and the ships.
Actually, the Europeans and the Luso-Brazilians came increasingly to look
like genuine hostages in their forts, which were, we repeat once more, inland
forts. As a result, leaving eighteenth-century Ouidah-Glehue undetected
became close to impossible.59 Finally, the three directors were formally
required to operate as heads of the African quarters which had emerged
around the forts, that is, to be responsible to the king for their good behaviour.
Needless to add, the Europeans and the Luso-Brazilians on the coast, like
their superiors at home, never acquiesced formally in any of this. But they
found it convenient to play along, up to a point: that is, they served, or
pretended to serve, two masters. It turned out to be, unsurprisingly, a rather
complicated task.
It is important to understand what all this means: that in Dahomey the
expatriates functioned under conditions which were unheard of on the rest of
221
the Guinea coast, if not the coast of Africa generally. Actually, the present
author is not aware of a comparable situation anywhere else in the European
presence in the non-European world during the relevant centuries.
The trouble was, however, that the Dahomeans did not have the means to
fully apply their policy. Perhaps it could have worked if the Europeans and the
Luso-Brazilians had had no alternative or if the Dahomeans had been able to
control genuinely the whole of the Slave Coast. But they were not so able. As
it was, the slave trade from Dahomey dwindled slowly but steadily over the
years, for the benefit of the rising trading centres of the Eastern Slave Coast;
centres actively supported, if not controlled, by Oyo.
***
After this long digression, we need to return to the “Annual Customs” and to
argue that to force the three directors to travel and to attend jointly was also
a way of trying to smooth out whatever discrepancies may have existed
between them. It was necessary, or became in fact imperative, for the
Dahomean kings to avoid any serious problems not with, but among the
directors, a rather complicated task at times.
Along with the three fort directors and their entourages, a host of other
people were required to attend the “Annual Customs”,60 actually all the
dignitaries and all the family heads of all of Dahomey – all those who paid
taxes, the prostitutes included.
The sinister reputation of the “Annual Customs” is, we repeat, linked to the
human sacrifices, the watering of the graves with human blood, considered to
constitute the necessary periodic reinforcement of the link with the ancestors.
This brings us to the general question of human sacrifice in Dahomey and
elsewhere in West Africa. An in-depth treatment of the subject is beyond the
scope of the present work. We content ourselves therefore with referring to
what looks like some sort of consensus among the historians, namely that
human sacrifice was common and widespread throughout the region in the
precolonial era, especially in relation to funerals of prominent persons, but
that the practice attained quite unprecedented levels in Dahomey – where it
was performed in part under the gaze of the Europeans.61 However, the
“Annual Customs” claimed only a proportionally limited number of victims,
if that can be said about 20 to 60 or so victims.62 But human sacrifice seems to
have become virtually an everyday occurrence in Dahomey; it was part of
daily life, so to speak.63 The Europeans and the Luso-Brazilians were forced to
watch only a minor part of the killings, the public ones.64 They were also
222
invited to participate as executioners – apparently an honour – but as far as

we know, no-one ever accepted,65 which we may consider fortunate.
What was the logic behind human sacrifice? To show that the king’s
ancestors were different from those of commoners? Or to provide the dead
with a retinue in the after-life, or send messengers to the royal ancestors in
order to inform them about what went on in the world of the living? In the
last-mentioned case one may reasonably wonder, within the very logic of the
local religions, if there were not other ways of communicating with the
ancestors. There certainly were, as we have in fact seen earlier. The final
explanation we can think of is that human sacrifices served simply, or were
thought to reinforce, the prestige of those in power.
But human sacrifices were only one part of the “Annual Customs”. This was
also a gigantic coming-together which included the exchange of gifts, the
payment of taxes, all sorts of reporting about conditions outside the capital, a
lot of “palavers” and of course the celebration of military successes (the
Dahomean army was by definition always victorious). It involved in addition,
and perhaps above all, the distribution of huge quantities of goods from the
famous platform. It was finally an occasion during which the monarch
distributed wives (recall the sexual imbalance characteristic of the local
societies), and of course also slaves, to deserving subjects.
What then were the “Annual Customs” about, in the final instance? In
Edna Bay’s interpretation, they were in a sense nothing new. In its religious
nucleus such a ritual was performed each year by every lineage. However, at
the level of the monarchy, the “Annual Customs” imitated but also violated
the meaning of ceremonies in honour of the ancestors. Moreover, by requiring
the compulsory representation of all tax-payers, the monarchy used the
ceremonial cycle as an integrative device for the polity. Actually, the message
of the Customs was that the well-being of the royal line and the well-being of
the kingdom were synonymous.66 Or in more direct language, it was an
attempt at manipulation on the part of the monarchy, that is, the glorification
of the king, the royal sib and the royal ancestors.
Note that there is nowhere any trace in Dahomey of any ritualized
rebellion, a useful safety-valve known from many polities.67 Was it deemed too
dangerous by the kings of Dahomey?
But apart from the “Annual Customs”, there were also the “Grand
Customs” (ahosu tanu – ahosu meaning king, but also clan), much more
infrequent, celebrated only once in each reign. They were lavish ceremonies in
honour of the king’s immediate predecessor – the final funeral for the
223
deceased monarch as it were, and the final installation ceremony of his

successor. They took place at least 18 months after a monarch’s death, and only
after the new king had demonstrated his command of both visible and
supernatural sources of power.68 If we are to believe two European observers,
some eight to nine hundred people were sacrificed after the death of Tegbesu
in 1774,69 and some 1,500 after the death of his successor, Kpengla, in 1789.70
But since no European ever attended the “Grand Customs”, the question is
whether we can trust those observers.
***
The new Dahomean regime was certainly not to the liking of the Europeans.71
One can easily understand why, considering all the bloodshed, and considering
also Agaja’s insistence on more rigorous control of trade conditions. The
problem too was that the Dahomeans took only a limited interest in the
middleman trade, the implication being that the supply of slaves became
exclusively dependent upon the Dahomeans’ own slave-capturing activities,
and vulnerable therefore to any downturn in their military fortunes. The
problem was finally, for the English, French and Dutch, that Agaja
demonstrated a clear preference for payment in gold (for reasons unknown),
and hence for the Luso-Brazilians.72 The French in particular continued to
hope to take over as middlemen between the Luso-Brazilians and the Africans,
selling to the former the merchandise they needed to buy slaves for from the
latter, in exchange for tobacco and gold.73
Agaja passed away in May or June 1740.74 What to think of him? Gayibor
states that he died entirely worn down by his setbacks and disappointments.75
David Ross argues that under Agaja Dahomey had been less a functioning
state (we prefer the word polity) than a mobile military band and that the
establishment of a permanent administration of the conquered territories was
seriously undertaken only under his successor.76 But the institution of the
“Annual Customs” indicates that the first rudiments of the elaborate
ceremonial life and administrative control which, according to Edna Bay,
came to characterize the polity by the nineteenth century77 were in fact
established during the reign of Agaja. As for Akinjogbin, he argues simply that
Dahomey had to be rebuilt almost from nothing after the death of Agaja,78 an
assertion which strikes us as somewhat exaggerated.
224
3
NEAR DISASTER
THE FIRST YEARS OF THE TEGBESU ERA
After Agaja the conqueror, Tegbesu the consolidator and organizer? This is
one possible way of presenting the history of Dahomey and of the Slave Coast
in the eighteenth century. What seems reasonably clear is that Agaja’s
conquests generated quite severe problems and tensions, which is why
Tegbesu found himself in 1740 at the helm of a polity on the brink of
implosion on the internal front and faced with a number of formidable
enemies on the external one.
Tegbesu reacted by resorting to very heavy-handed methods, including
recurrent expropriations and even executions of his own dignitaries.1 Actually,
it seems possible to argue that Tegbesu established something akin to a regime
of terror, converting Dahomey into the closest thing seen in pre-colonial
Africa to a “totalitarian” polity complete with a secret police.2 (We are aware
that the “totalitarian” concept, in the way it is usually defined, may not sit well
with Africa of old, which is why we use it in inverted commas).
One could argue that Tegbesu’s course of action implied admission of his
failure to tackle the monarchy’s two basic problems. The first was that of
legitimacy, including how to reconcile conquerors and conquered. The latter,
the people of the region we may call southern Ajaland, remained clearly
hostile.3 It does not seem to have helped in this respect that Tegbesu tried to
settle Ouidah-Gleue (and old Hueda more generally?) with loyal people from
the Abomey plateau.4
225
The second problem was that Tegbesu, as the ruler of a polity based on a
warrior-ethos, was under an obligation to extend the boundaries of Dahomey,
that is, to conquer new territory, something neither he nor his first three
successors were really able to do. Tegbesu managed to launch raids eastwards,
some of them fairly successful,5 and to make incursions into the hilly Mahi
country in the north. But that was as far as it went. Actually Tegbesu started
a war against the Mahi which was to last for some 15–20 years, if not longer.6
However, although Tegbesu failed to subdue the Mahis,7 the latter became
important suppliers of slaves through Dahomey.8 They assumed, then, the
double role of both perpetrators and victims, a strange but not unusual
combination in the era of the slave trade.9 It was only much later, during the
second half of the reign of king Gezo (1818–58), that Dahomey finally
managed for a while to live up to its self-proclaimed ethos.
Tegbesu, then, found himself confronted with an impressive array of
enemies, both internal and external, as well as some quite serious structural
problems. On the external front Tegbesu was faced with a formidable alliance
of Oyo and the exiled Huedans (both having been resuscitated in a sense), and
especially the Ge polity of Little Popo-Glidji under its energetic king
Ashangmo, now a major power in the region. And on the internal front
Tegbesu had to deal with widespread unrest, if not real open revolt. This at a
time when the slave trade and the revenue derived from it had declined and
relations with the Europeans had become problematic.
Yet for all that, the era of Tegbesu may be considered Dahomey’s classic
age. Furthermore, it could perhaps be argued that Tegbesu, by the very fact of
emerging in a sense victorious in the end, and regardless of the price, had
demonstrated that he possessed the necessary “luck” or “force” (mana); that
he had, in sum, the blessing of the gods – a legitimacy of sorts?
Such is the general picture. The problems begin when we try to fill in the
details: the link or relationship between them is not always clear; for instance
what is cause and what is effect, and who was allied with whom. Hence the
difficulty, indeed impossibility, of constructing a coherent narrative in which
all the (known) details fall into place.
***
But to begin at the beginning: Agaja’s death triggered off what looks like
something akin to a civil war between some of his sons. One of them, possibly
the eldest and legitimate heir, by the name of Aghidisu, was proclaimed king
in Allada. But he was rapidly challenged by another son, the one we know as
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NEAR DISASTER
Tegbesu. And although it is said that Aghidisu had the support of Oyo, he lost
out, but only after three years of infighting, according to Le Hérissé.10 In the
end (in 1743?), Aghidisu was dumped into the ocean (royal blood could not
be spilled). His many followers, including quite a few royal princes, suffered a
similar fate.11
Was this the usual succession quarrel, or was something more afoot? There
is the somewhat troubling fact that Aghidisu was proclaimed king in Allada,
then the secular capital (Abomey being always the religious capital). If we add
that Tegbesu moved the secular capital back to Abomey in September or
October 1743,12 at a decidedly inauspicious moment (and after obtaining,
significantly or strangely enough, the permission of Oyo), one may begin to
wonder whether some sort of regional-conceptual opposition was involved,
and if so whether Allada represented the old pre-Dahomean order ready to
re-emerge, and Abomey the opposite.
If so, the question also is whether there is a link between, on the one hand,
Aghidisu and his cause and on the other, the disaffection of the people and the
challenge to the monarchy apparently characteristic of Tegbesu’s reign, possibly
also the succeeding ones. This disaffection was led by the followers of local
religious cults. It has been noted by many scholars,13 among them Edna Bay,
who argues that there was a broad resurgence of cults, related not surprisingly
to Sakpata and more generally to the old “masters of the land”.14 She thus
admits implicitly that the accommodations previously made, still according to
her, with the local “owners of the land” did not function (the present author
believes, as already stated, that no such accommodation was ever made).
The next question is whether there is a link between the developments just
mentioned and the fact that Tegbesu had to confront a major external onslaught
in 1743, that is, the year in which we presume that Aghidisu was decisively
defeated. It is tempting to answer in the affirmative, although the precise nature
of that link eludes us. We refer in any case to the alliance between Oyo,
Ashangmo’s Ge polity of Little Popo-Glidji and the exiled Huedans, as well as,
possibly, Aghidisu and his followers. As before, and as usual, Oyo attacked the
Dahomean heartland, the Abomey plateau, from the north, whereas the others
concentrated on the south, that is, Ouidah and its surroundings, a region they
were able to occupy, although only for some three months.15
The onslaught was repelled in the end, the familiar pattern from the 1720s
repeating itself; that is, Oyo withdrew after a short while, later giving up
altogether (in 1747 or 1748), thus leaving Dahomey once more a free hand in
the south. However, it did not stop the Ge and the exiled Huedans from
227
returning to the offensive time and again, already later in 1743, and after a
four-year lull in August 1747, when most of the Dahomean forces stationed
in the south were driven out, but again only for a while.16 Many more raids or
onslaughts followed. The assailants came often close to victory, but never more
than close.
Here we have yet another example of the surprising inability of the enemies
of Dahomey to coordinate their efforts effectively, an inability already evident
in the epoch of Hertogh and earlier. That being said, it is tempting to argue,
and to conclude, that Dahomey came very close to total destruction in 1743.
***
Why did Oyo once again take the offensive against Dahomey after a very long
lull? The answer seems to be that the hard-pressed Agaja had ignored his
tributary obligations during his final years, as his successor, whether Aghidisu
or Tegbesu, also did. The Dahomeans could get away with it owing to the
somewhat troubled state of affairs inside Oyo in the late 1730s and first years
of the 1740s. But a new and energetic Alafin by the name of Onisile17 was not
prepared to tolerate the Dahomean affront; hence the attack in 1743. And of
course, Tegbesu had in the long run no choice but to accede to most of Oyo’s
demands. The result was a new peace treaty between the two in 1747 or 1748,
with very stiff terms for the Dahomeans – a considerable annual tribute.
However, it was a compromise peace, because Oyo had once more been unable
to inflict a decisive defeat on the Dahomean forces.18 It turned out to be the
last such treaty. Some years later, beginning possibly in 1754, new and very
severe cracks appeared in the Oyo edifice.
As for the exiled Huedans, how to explain what we may call their
resurrection after the severe defeats of the 1730s? The answer could be that it
was a result of Tegbesu’s emerging reign of terror. There are in fact some passing
hints here and there to the effect that many of Tegbesu’s subjects preferred the
precarious life of the exiled Huedans to the dangers at home. The ranks of the
exiled Huedans seem in any case to have swelled, encouraging them to take up
again their raiding activities, with, we imagine, some hope of success given their
powerful allies plus the perturbed state of affairs inside Dahomey.
As for the rise to prominence of Little Popo-Glidji, we can do no more
than ascribe it to Ashangmo’s personal qualities, as well as his earlier military
successes against Dahomey. What is certain in any case is that Little Popo-
Glidji played for a while a central role in the history of both the Central and
the Western Slave Coast.
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NEAR DISASTER
The Europeans were, as usual, caught in the middle. Although none were
killed this time, the events resulted in the expulsion of all three directors, the
French and Luso-Brazilian ones in 1743, and their English colleague in 1745.
The French director was accused of refusing asylum to the defeated Dahomean
forces,19 and the Luso-Brazilian one of collaborating with Dahomey’s enemies.
As for the English director, what happened is somewhat more obscure; he
seems to have fallen victim to some sort of mutiny by his African employees,
but apparently instigated by Tegbesu.20 The case of the Luso-Brazilian director,
who was still João Basilio, is the most dramatic and most significant one. It is
said that Tegbesu wanted to execute him, but was prevented from doing so
through the intervention of the new French director Jacques Levet. Instead he
was thrown into jail for the second time, together with some of his subordinates
(24 June 1743), and they were left to linger in jail for four months, then
emerging more dead than alive.21 After that they were deported. But back in
Salvador da Bahia Basilio was again thrown into prison, for obscure reasons,
and in prison he died, on 8 May 1744.22 The result of this treatment of Basilio
at the hand of the Brazilian authorities was that they experienced thereafter
great difficulties in recruiting personnel for Ouidah-Glehue.23
Less than a month after Basilio’s arrest, on 26 July 1743 the Dahomeans
stormed the Portuguese fort and levelled it to the ground with, as it turned
out, many exiled Huedans inside.24 Their presence was, we imagine, proof to
the Dahomeans of Basilio’s connivance with the assailants (the alternative
explanation is that the few remaining Portuguese had been forced at pistol-
point to let them in). It is true that the Dahomeans repented quickly and
promised to rebuild the fort, something they took their time in doing, if they
ever completed the task. If we add that the earlier mentioned Luso-Brazilian
adventurer Francisco Nunes succeeded in taking possession of the fort (or
what was left of it) on 20 March 1746 and to remain in possession of it for
some eight months, with the obvious acquiescence of Tegbesu,25 one can easily
understand that the Portuguese authorities had had enough and ruminated
about how to punish the king of Dahomey, this “barbarian kinglet” (bárbaro
régulo) – but (naturally) without jeopardizing the slave trade. They came,
unsurprisingly, to the conclusion that it was not possible.26 However,
Dahomey’s “otherness” and its heavy militarization were becoming
increasingly counterproductive. It was more and more clear that the slave
traders no longer enjoyed the relative security and well-functioning
organization which characterized the days of the Huedan polity. The
Europeans and the Luso-Brazilians were bound to begin to look elsewhere.
229
But the Dahomeans did try to come to terms with the Luso-Brazilians, and
in a rather spectacular way, by sending an embassy to the Viceroy in Salvador
da Bahia, an embassy which arrived on 29 June1750 and stayed for no less
than nine and a half months, at the expense of the Portuguese Crown. The
details vary from source to source, but it seems that the embassy was composed
of two to three officials and a considerable number of servants, plus or
including four ten-year old girls (slaves?), some of whom ended up serving in
the chambers of the Queen of Portugal. The embassy was correctly received
and lodged in the facilities of the Jesuits. But the Portuguese officials made it
clear to the Dahomeans the resentment the destruction of the Portuguese fort
had provoked in them, and that future relations between Portugal and the
Dahomeans depended on the latter’s ability to restore the Portuguese fort to
its former state.27 However, the Portuguese authorities quickly backed down
from their tough stance. Indeed, already the next year a worried king of
Portugal impressed upon his viceroy in Brazil the necessity to maintain cordial
relations with the king of Dahomey in order to preserve the fort in
Ouidah-Glehue.28
What was the Dahomean embassy all about? Probably to try to persuade
the Portuguese authorities to revoke their famous decree of 1743, a decree we
shall return to very shortly.
But before that we must note that the problems with the Dutch at Elmina
continued. In fact, the treatment the Dutch meted out to the Luso-Brazilians
shocked even the other Europeans, especially the French. In Brazil the traders
heading for the Costa da Mina had to swear that they would not land at
Elmina, and that they would pay nothing to the Dutch. But to little avail. In
fact, the complaints of the Portuguese authorities against the violence suffered
by their subjects at the hand of the Dutch (and the British) became a constant.29
The Dahomeans’ extreme reaction in the Portuguese case provides us with
an introduction to the policy of Tegbesu with regard to the slave trade and the
Europeans. Tegbesu’s ire was probably provoked in part by the falling off of
the Luso-Brazilian trade, which was in turn due, still in part, to the decree the
Portuguese authorities had issued in the eventful year of 1743. The decree
restricted the number of ships permitted to go to the Costa da Mina each year
to 24; in addition, the ships had to sail in groups in strict rotation and at
intervals of three months. Whatever the logic of this measure – it resulted in
a sort of monopoly operated by only a few traders – the aim seems to have
been to control and also to limit the Mina trade, and above all perhaps to
protect the ships under the Portuguese flag against the Dutch.30 But to
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Tegbesu it represented clearly an intolerable attempt by Dahomey’s leading

trading partner to restrict the competition among the participants in the slave
trade.31 It may not have been to the liking of the other Europeans either, as
they still needed Brazilian gold and especially tobacco with which to pay for
the slaves.32
But more generally, what we discern here is the culture clash which came
increasingly to characterize the relations between the Dahomeans and the
Europeans, and which was perhaps rooted in Dahomey’s very special warrior
ethos. Briefly stated, it looks as if Tegbesu was intent on establishing a pure
command economy33 in which the Europeans, as his subordinates, were
supposed to obey his orders, even in matters exclusively economic, and not
orders coming from whoever it might be far away on the other side of the
ocean. In fact, Tegbesu even tried to appoint his own men as directors, when
he had servile European renegades at hand. Moreover, Tegbesu, who was
obviously a stranger to any kind of what we may call rational economic logic,
seems to have believed that one way of compensating for the declining revenue
was by bullying the local Europeans and squeezing out of them as much as
possible; obviously a very counterproductive line of conduct in the long run.
Above all, Tegbesu seems to have believed that the European directors had it
in their power to direct the slave ships to wherever they pleased, and thus to
see to it that the European ships trafficked only at Ouidah-Glehue.34 Tegbesu
had clearly not understood that all the European slave traders were, after the
end of the monopolistic companies, independent traders who did not depend
in any way on the directors of the forts. The Dahomeans also tried to eliminate
the new centres out east by raiding, or even better by trying to destroy them,
as had been done with Jakin earlier. But in this the Dahomeans singularly
failed.
Here we are back once more to the perennial question of how the slave
trade was organized on the African side, whether or not we are dealing with a
royal or state monopoly of overseas trade in Dahomey. But whatever the
relevant definitions, the obvious point is that the overseas trade was tightly
controlled by the monarchy, and that the traders, whatever their formal
position, were closely watched and supposed to obey the royal will;35 the
commercial profession was considered (naturally) to be ignoble by the
Dahomean warrior elite.36
However, the Dahomeans did worry if, for instance, it transpired that the
Europeans contemplated establishing new posts, or moving elsewhere, as for
instance with the French plans to attempt (once more) an installation at
231
Anomabo-Amoku on the Gold Coast in the early 1750s, after being evicted
from there at least twice already;37 or when it was feared that hostility among
the Europeans would prove prejudicial to trade. When the mid-century
sequence of wars erupted between Great Britain and France, the king of
Dahomey asked the local British director to write to his king “to be Friends
with France”.38 And later, during the Seven Years’ War (1756–63), the same
king donated a cow to each fort “to desire [in the words of the British
director] all the whitemen to live in friendship and let all palavers [disputes]
die…to desire the English Captains would not mollest the French, desiring
that all the gentlemen would eat together and be friends”.39 In fact, war or no
war, the three directors apparently dined and wined together once every
month. There was also dining and wining with ships’ officers, especially those
of warships, more or less irrespective of nationality.40
The Seven Years’ War did actually see some limited warlike actions in
Guinean waters, the French attacking. This happened especially in 1756–57,
when the French sent a squadron of four ships under the famous Guy-François
de Kersaint which arrived at Ouidah-Glehue on 4 February 1757 after
capturing eleven English ships, sinking three and taking more than 1,200
slaves. But de Kersaint failed to capture Cape Coast Castle, although there
were six British dead, the French suffering three casualties. It is significant that
the squadron could not stay at Ouidah-Glehue for lack of food; it had to
move on to the island of Príncipe.41 As for the British, they are reported to
have sent two battleships every year to protect the slave trade.42 Did any of
them encounter French men-of-war? Then in January 1762 the French sent a
frigate to Guinea where it burned and sank all the English slave ships it came
across,43 with the consequences one can imagine for the slaves on board.
Finally, there were also privateers who managed to wreak some havoc.44
Incidentally, according to the French (and according to a logic familiar to
us), the British tried to persuade Tegbesu to come down on their side, to expel
the French – that is, to end the free-trade status of Ouidah-Glehue. According
to the French, the Dahomeans had to threaten to blow up William’s Fort to
make the British desist.45
As for the Luso-Brazilians, the system formally established in 1743 was
abolished in March 1756, indicating a return to what we may call free trade.
There was however an important condition, one very much disliked by the
Dahomeans: the ships had to be small, and there was supposed to be only one
ship under the Portuguese flag at any time in the Ouidah-Glehue roads. Many
Portuguese captains probably avoided Ouidah-Glehue as a consequence,46
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going out east instead. Naturally, Tegbesu was furious. And equally naturally,
the then Portuguese director was given three days to decamp and to leave the
fort (what was left of it) in the hands of the storekeeper. Equally naturally, the
ex-director, once back in Salvador da Bahia, experienced problems with the
Brazilian authorities who accused him of abandoning his post, in fact
suspecting him of having mounted the whole affair in order to get away from
Ouidah-Glehue.47 After the Basilio story Ouidah-Glehue was no longer a
sought-after destination, quite the contrary. It did not help that at least five
more directors were expelled over the next years.48 This trend was not confined
to the Portuguese; on the British side, serving at William’s Fort under Lionel
Abson came to be considered a punishment for misbehaviour.49 Still, the
Luso-Brazilians continued to dominate the local commercial scene – “the
Portuguese run away with all the trade here”,50 Brazilian tobacco remaining
the commanding article.
The formal return to complete free trade occurred only in 1778, after the
fall of the Marquis of Pombal, the de facto ruler of Portugal from 1756 to
1777, and as a result of a very heated debate over the organization of the Mina
trade, a trade which continued to be vital to the Brazilians.51
One way of bullying the Europeans was to demand ever more gifts (dashee),
including gifts for quite extravagant reasons.52 We cannot go too much into
the details (or offer any kind of statistics). But some extracts from the
Account-book of William’s Fort provide us with at least some of the flavour
of the epoch: “Gave in a dashee [gift] to…Vice-Roy [the yovogan] on his
receiving advice of a victory…by one of the King’s generals over some inland
country… Gave a maintenance & dispatch to the king’s messenger that came
down to shew us the rebels head which he had cut off… Gave in a dashee to
the king on his killing a rebel by sending down his head – the other forts doing
the like”.53 (How the Europeans reacted to the sending of cut-off heads is not
recorded – it occurred with some frequency throughout the history of the
European presence.)54 In addition, “the Vice-Roy & caboceers [local
dignitaries] came [often] to dance & play before the fort”, also occurrences
which required dashee by the Europeans.55
The general impression is that this was a period when the European
presence was progressively reduced, when the forts were beginning to fall
apart from lack of repair, and when an unhealthy climate crept into the
European camp.56 Probably those on the spot found it expedient to function
to some extent according to the Dahomeans’ culture, that is as African
dignitaries, while the authorities in Europe looked the other way. A close to
233
perfect example of a European director to the liking of the Dahomeans was

Lionel Abson, the English Director 1770–1803, actually the last de facto
English director, with his plurality of African wives. John Adams described
him as “more an [sic] Dahomean than a European”.57
In sum, the Dahomeans, without measuring the counterproductive effects
of their policy, and without actually wanting it, provoked the slow
disentanglement of the Europeans, the British going out west and the Luso-
Brazilians out east. After the demise of the Royal African Company of
England in 1750–51, the upkeep of the forts was in charge of the earlier
mentioned Company of Merchants Trading in Africa, a so-called regulating
company, that is, a company which did not do any trading on its own – it was
de facto a government agency subsisting thanks to parliamentary grants.58 It
came to be known as the African Company, and is therefore confused at times
with the Royal African Company.
That leaves the French, who had nowhere else to go (after their attempts at
Annamabo had failed), and so clung on, taking slowly over from the Luso-
Brazilians as the leading nation in Ouidah-Glehue.59 It may be symbolic that
in 1767 the French fort was removed from the authority of the Compagnie
des Indes and placed directly under that of the Crown: The Ministry of the
Navy and the Colonies.60 We see then that on the European side the respective
governments increasingly took charge of the affairs on the Slave Coast.
The forts often caught fire, by accident, in this period, especially the British
one, which was nearly reduced to ashes several times. What is noteworthy is
that all hands always took part in extinguishing the fires and in the
rebuilding – the French, the Luso-Brazilians and the African townspeople,
whether ordered to do so or not by the king of Dahomey.61
***
After this long digression, we return to the main track and to Tegbesu’s regime
of terror, or at least that part of it we know about, since it was witnessed more
or less by the Europeans. Given the flimsy nature of the evidence, and the
unreliable chronological framework, we can do no more than to highlight
certain episodes and trends.
Possibly the most spectacular, and certainly the best documented such
episode was the execution in 1746 of either all the black merchants or all the
official traders in Ouidah-Glehue, apparently because they had become too
rich for the taste of Tegbesu, and were therefore perceived as a threat to the
monarchy.62 Whatever the details of the affair, and the exact status of the
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NEAR DISASTER
victims, it is obvious that such heavy-handed action was not conducive to a

favourable business climate, or for that matter to the emergence of a proto-
capitalist mercantile sector. Such an emergence was obviously out of the
question anyway in Tegbesu’s Dahomey.
Another aspect of the terror was what looks like a thorough purge in the
higher echelons of the state apparatus, especially in the military establishment –
a great many army officers were also executed. We note more generally that
William Devaynes, director of William’s Fort three times and for 12 years
altogether between 1747 and 1763 (he was aged 17 in 1747), testified in 1788
to the semi-official African Committee of the Company of Merchants Trading
in Africa that he did “not recollect that any of the King’s Great Officers during
the time he was there, died a natural death”.63 This was admittedly 25 years after
he left Dahomey. But it is corroborated by quite a few contemporary documents,
many in fact signed by the same Devaynes.64 The main victims, or the victims we
are best informed about (again, because the Europeans were in a sense witnesses)
were the successive holders of the office of tegan/yovogan, an office which,
because of the power it wielded, clearly invited corruption. It began with the
yovogan appointed in possibly 1743, who revolted two years later. His
peculiarity was that he was a eunuch, something which did not stop him from
having, we are told, a great many beautiful wives, who were in addition very
devoted to him since he allowed them to do as they pleased. That eunuch, by the
name of Tanga,65 planned to seize the English fort and then to proclaim himself
king of Ouidah-Glehue (or Hueda?). But in this he failed, owing in part to the
determined stance of the English director Isaac Gregory. In the end, Tanga was
killed and all his wives decided to die with him – according to Robert Norris,
our main source, who wrote in the 1770s,66 many years after the actual events
(those who consider the story about his wives too good to be true may have a
point since, as Robin Law has tartly noted, “it lacks explicit coronation from
other sources”).67 As for Isaac Gregory, the director of William’s fort between
1739 and 1745, he had to face several attacks. The first was in the early 1740s
when an attempt was made on the English fort, leading to the stabbing to death,
by Dahomeans, of a canoeman and a seaman inside the fort.68 Then came the
Tanga affair. Finally, and as already noted, at the end of 1745 the British fort’s
African garrison mutinied, with the result that Gregory was expelled.69
One may wonder what was the link between Tanga and the other actors of
this period, including Aghidisu, the exiled Huedans and their allies. It can be
noted for instance that the Tanga affair took place in 1745 and the execution
of all the official traders the following year.
235
Tanga became the first of a long list of yovogans executed, no less than five
or six between 1743 and 1763; they were executed generally, it is argued, on
the basis of unproved allegations.70 The execution of the incumbent yovogan
in 1755 was to the satisfaction of all the whites and all the Africans, if we are
to believe a French source.71 After that, Tegbesu seems to have tried to reduce
the power of the yovogan through the creation of offices that took over some
of his competences.72
The year 1754 also witnessed the revolts of the vassal kings of Tori and
Ajara or Ajirrah,73 a fact which demonstrates that what we may call the
consolidation of the conquered territories had not yet been completed. Tori
was a tiny but well-known polity of considerable antiquity74 and a renowned
religious centre, reasons for which, we suppose, the Dahomeans had permitted
it to subsist as an autonomous polity; we have no other references to Ajara.
We note that many of the executions referred to so far, especially of the
merchants and the yovogans, took place in Ouidah-Glehue. This is one of the
reasons why Edna Bay believes that the terror was especially ferocious in that
town. She concludes, logically, that the governing elite in Abomey had
difficulties in controlling the recently conquered Ouidah (in fact old
Hueda?) and that the relationship between the capital and the main trading
centre in the south was and remained problematic, thus reinforcing a point
made above already. In this context she argues, credibly, that the people of
the latter were contemptuous of the “northerners”.75 But again, the question
is the link between those who were executed and all the other actors in this
turbulent period.
As a conclusion, one may wonder, as did the French, how Tegbesu was able
to get away with it all. Indeed, the French believed at one stage that Tegbesu
was digging his own grave.76 But that did not turn out to be the case.
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4
MORE ABOUT THE TEGBESU ERA
Tegbesu carried out what might be called more constructive measures, in

particular efforts to legitimate the monarchy’s position by trying to manipulate
the ideological-religious sphere. In this context we note in particular the
institution of an organized cult of Mawu-Liisa, the Supreme Deity, a cult
Tegbesu tried to link to the monarchy. The idea was presumably to present the
Dahomean hierarchy with the monarch on top as the logical replica of the
supranatural world, which was now an ordered world, with an active Mawu-
Liisa at the summit – a “creator couple…that mirrored the rulers in the land
of the visible”.1
More generally, the ruling elite attempted to “convince” the Dahomeans
that the monarch and his ancestors were much more efficient in providing
people with the necessary supranatural protection than the divinities
associated with the “owners of the land” and related matters.
The second aspect which needs to be mentioned, already mentioned
earlier, is the importance of the direct link with Tado and Agasu, with Agasu
linked directly from Tado to Abomey – skipping the Allada connexion, and
thus establishing a more direct connection with the presumably very powerful
founding ancestor. Tegbesu (or his successor Kpengla) even built temples for
Agasu along the fictional “migrational path” from Tado to Abomey.2
But this did not stop Tegbesu, somewhat contradictorily, from reviving the
cult of Ajahuto in Allada in 1740–45. Indeed, an ajahutonun, a “king” of
Allada and as such the supreme priest of the cult of Ajahuto, was installed
(Ajahuto was the mythical son or grandson of Agasu). It may even be that
237
every new king of Dahomey had to be consecrated by the ajahutonun.3 “The

kings of Dahomey thereby secured the traditional legitimacy which could be
conferred only by a king of Allada”,4 argues Robin Law. But we repeat what
Jacques Lombard has made clear, that in this case, as in that of the agasunon
mentioned earlier, it was mere window-dressing.
There were other inventions as well, especially at the level of ancestor
worship. What we end up with in any case is an increasingly syncretic, not to
say labyrinthine official religion; a religion whose at times obscure logic
escapes in part the present author, as one suspects it also escaped in part many
of the Dahomeans of the time.5
In addition, Tegbesu seems to have tried to adopt some of the outer
trappings of traditional sacred kingship. For instance, whereas Agaja had been
constantly on the move, Tegbesu attempted to isolate himself from public view,
in order to distance himself and to mystify the kingship. It became also
customary, when approaching the king, to crawl on all fours covering oneself
with dust in the classic tradition.6 And it was said that the king’s mana resided
in his hair and nails, a virtually universal archetype linked to sacred kingship.7
We note finally that according to Maurice Glélé the king had to submit himself
to a purification ceremony, a so-called ritual bath, during which a child of 6–7
years old served as scapegoat, and as such “disappeared” afterwards.8
With regard to the Muslim traders coming from the north, the evidence is
somewhat contradictory. It is argued on the one hand that they were now
fêted by the king as his guests, the king being eager to secure the service of
Muslim clerics for their magical-religious acumen.9 But on the other hand Le
Hérissé tells us that Muslims were generally forbidden to enter Dahomey
except as slaves.10
Was Tegbesu successful in his attempt at manipulating the religious-
ideological sphere? As we shall see, probably not.
***
On a practical level, Tegbesu issued in 1746, the year of the executions of the
traders, a proclamation declaring “the paths open and free to all traders” to come
to Ouidah-Glehue.11 It was a proclamation reaffirmed frequently throughout
the years. This was perhaps an attempt to change radically Dahomey’s approach
to the slave trade. For the 1746 proclamation implied the admission of failure of
what we may call the Dahomean model, that is, the predatory one – the
admission, in sum, that raids and warfare were not the only, not even an
adequate means of procuring slaves in the long run. What was necessary was a
238
return to the pre-1724/1727 system when the Slave Coast served principally as
an intermediary. This apparently happened to some extent.12
But the trouble with Tegbesu’s new policy was that there were attempts to
prevent the hinterland traders from travelling to the coast to deal directly with
the Europeans,13 and that the main inland supplier, Oyo, had no confidence
in Dahomey, as we shall see.
Tegbesu also made (somewhat contradictorily, considering his general
policy) a gesture in the direction of the Europeans, by substantially reducing
the rates they had to pay to trade, obviously in the hope of stemming the
desertion of the slavers.14 According to David Ross the result was what he has
called Ouidah’s mid-century prosperity; but if so, Ross adds that it lasted only
to the end of the 1760s.15
***
In the south the trail of violence, the raids of the Ge and the exiled Huedans,
continued. There was possibly one raid in 1749 and certainly at least six more
in the 1750s,16 one in November 1755 being particularly disastrous to the
Dahomeans and the Europeans (of whom four were taken prisoner).17 That
was after Tegbesu had tried, in 1754–55, a most unusual stratagem:
propagating the false news that he had committed suicide, in order to entice
his external enemies to take advantage of the interim always following a king’s
death to attack, the Dahomeans having prepared an ambush.18 But as far as we
know, none of those enemies made any move.
However, a most serious and perhaps decisive attack took place on 12–13
July 1763. Although our sources are (as usual) somewhat contradictory, what
seems to have happened was that first the local Dahomean forces were worsted
on the 12th, the survivors taking refuge in the French fort where Pruneau de
Pommegeorge was in command; and then the French and British forts opened
fire with the cannon that still functioned (the Portuguese fort may have had
none). This was apparently enough to stall the assailants until the next day, the
13th, when a considerable body of the Dahomean army arrived swiftly on the
horizon to rescue the besieged Europeans, who felt they had come close to
total disaster (“a deux doigts”, as Pruneau expressed it19). So this was a joint
French-British-Dahomean military victory over the exiled Huedans and their
allies, certainly a historical first in the annals of the Slave Coast.20
The defeat of the exiled Huedans notwithstanding, Pruneau was of the
opinion that Tegbesu’s cruelty and his looting of his own people had so
weakened his position that his days were numbered. Indeed, Pruneau thought
239
it was inevitable that the exiled Huedans would recover their land one day
soon.21 But Pruneau, like other observers before him (see above), was proved
wrong in the end.
July 1763 turned out to be an unmitigated disaster for the exiled Huedans
and the Ge, with the result that the latter, who were also experiencing
problems in the west, began to opt out. They agreed in fact to peace treaties
with Dahomey in 1769 and 1772, short-lived certainly, but nevertheless
highly significant. It is also significant that the initiative came from Tegbesu
and that the successive British Directors (Dalzel and Abson) served as
go-betweens.22
On the other hand, the 1763 disaster was, surprisingly enough, not the end
of the quite incredibly resilient exiled Huedans. In fact their raiding continued
(but perhaps less and less destructively), eleven times between 1767 and 1781
according to Akinjogbin (but probably more), the Dahomeans being unable
to check the danger.23 In 1770 the assailants made no less than four incursions,
burning every canoe on the beach and at times carrying away Europeans,24
who we suppose had to be ransomed.
What were the exiled Huedans (and the Ge to the extent that they
participated) trying to do now that they had probably no more hope of
reconquering old Hueda? Obviously to ruin the slave trade, not because of any
abolitionist fervour, but to strike a blow at a vital source of income for
Dahomey and especially for the monarchy. For a decline in the slave trade
threatened the celebration of the very expensive Annual Customs, and the
Customs were considered indispensable for whatever legitimacy the monarchy
enjoyed – or so believes, for instance, William Argyle.25 However, one could
perhaps equally well argue that the exiled Huedans and their allies had by now
been converted into a gang of brigands without any precise political aims.
The near-definitive end of the exiled Huedans came, it can be argued, in
1774–75, at the time of the death of Tegbesu (in May 1774), and the accession
of his successor Kpengla. The king of the exiled Huedans also died, a death
which triggered yet another of those incomprehensible succession disputes.
One of the contestants petitioned Kpengla for assistance, strange as it may
sound, with the final result easily imaginable:26 briefly, a repeat performance
of 1734. Even so, it was not quite the end of the exiled Huedans, since we
know of several raids in 1781,27 though none after that date.
There remained the increasingly weakened Little Popo-Glidji which
continued to pose a threat of sorts until 1795.
***
240
What was Dahomean society like in the eighteenth century? We have a

number of general characteristics and descriptions to which we now turn. But
the problem is that we (and often also the authors from whom they have been
borrowed) cannot determine always if they apply to the eighteenth century or
the next one or both. We have in any case decided to include them in the
present chapter, for reasons of convenience, while repeating that their
chronological anchoring remains imprecise.
If we begin at the centre, we encounter the enormous royal compound,
called the Simboji palace, which an English visitor during the last years of
Tegbesu’s reign described as having the appearance of an assemblage of farm-
yards.28 What is left of it at present, now the Museum of Abomey, has still that
appearance. What has disappeared since are all the human skulls which lined
the palace walls (that earth mixed with blood from sacrificial victims was used
to build those walls29 is another matter). Of particular importance were the
preserved skulls of defeated enemy chiefs or kings – they “played an important
role in the transmission of traditional history, since each skull served as a
memento of the campaign in which it was taken”.30
The activities inside the compound were deliberately shrouded in secrecy,
says Edna Bay.31 Those who genuinely resided there were the king and his very
numerous dependants, principally his “wives”, the ahosi, five to eight thousand
of them in the nineteenth century (in theory, all female inhabitants of the
polity were at the pleasure of the King).32 The ahosi made up about 15 per cent
of Abomey’s total population, according to Edna Bay whom we continue to
follow here;33 Abomey may have had 24,000 inhabitants and Kana 15,000
(Ouidah-Glehue something in between) in the 1770s. Few of the “wives” were
wives in the usual sense of the term – at least a quarter (we suspect more) were
in fact warriors composing the royal bodyguard, who came to be known by the
Europeans as Amazons. Since they could not divorce, the choice they had was
between celibacy or adultery, and adultery was punishable with death. Small
wonder then that we have some chilling stories of girls preferring death by
suicide to the destiny of royal wives.34 If we add that all dignitaries, whether in
Dahomey or in Allada and Hueda earlier, or anywhere else on the Slave and
Gold Coasts for that matter, had a profusion of wives, the next question is
what was the status and condition of women in general? From the point of
view of modern sensibilities it can only be described as abject, as many
observers have argued.35 The widespread practice of polygamy continued
incidentally to produce a very skewed sex balance, which in turn meant that
“low-ranking men were deprived of access to resources, and specifically to
241
women”,36 which meant in turn that prostitution proliferated. It was

inexpensive and organized more or less by the monarchy as a royal monopoly.
But the prostitutes, who were as a general rule war captives, had to pay a heavy
annual tax.37
What about the spectacular story of Norris that the death of a king
provoked a tremendous bloodbath, the ahosi in particular beginning to
massacre each other and continuing to do so until the successor had taken
possession of the palace?38 As far as we know, it is confirmed only by Dalzel and
Dunglas,39 not necessarily independent sources in this context, but is flatly
denied by Maurice Glélé.40 On the other hand, given the pent-up frustration
which we imagine characterized life inside the palace, some sort of common
hysteria unleashed by the death of a king does not sound altogether implausible.
***
Turning now to the administration, the highly centralized Dahomey presents us
with a pyramidal multi-tiered hierarchy,41 with provincial chiefs (avogan),
district and village chiefs (togan and tohosu), plus ward chiefs; the village and
ward chief being local people, but very closely watched,42 those higher up being
royal appointees. To make the king’s command known throughout his realm,
Tegbesu established in possibly 1745 the institution of royal messengers, the
famous “halfheads” (legede in the local tongue), so called because half of their
heads were shaved, thus making them easily recognizable. The model was the
equally famous ilari of Oyo.43 Each halfhead carried a baton, called recade (from
the Portuguese recado, “message”), likened to a tomahawk by Stanley Alpern.44
The presence of a recade was equivalent to the presence of the king himself.45
The halfheads were men who had distinguished themselves in battle. As such
they wore around their necks strings of the teeth of those enemies they had
killed with their own hands. The halfheads were “never permitted to walk, but
(had to) run at full speed, and (were) relieved at certain distances on the road,
by relays of others”.46 “In delivering…the King’s word, the messenger as well as all
those around him fall prostrate on the ground & cover their heads with dust, or
with mud if it rains; so that they often display very hideous figures”.47
In addition there were what Obichere calls “intelligence officers” by the
name of gninouhon, “spies”, located all over the kingdom48 – the secret police
we have referred to earlier.
We repeat that there was no Council of State, and in fact nothing
resembling any system of checks and balances, implying that the king
wielded unlimited power. Indeed, all wealth in the kingdom was said to
242
belong to the king, his subjects enjoying only its temporary use. Hence, at
the death of a dignitary, headman or chief of family, for example, his wealth
reverted to the king, who, according to the official version presented by Le
Hérissé, restored it to the heir, levying only a fictitious duty.49 But Robin
Law’s contention that the king took three-quarters50 strikes one as much
more credible. The king had, among other things, to provide sustenance to
his enormous sib, whose members did nothing and were therefore a very
onerous charge for the polity.51
Actually, many contemporary observers and modern scholars have come to
the conclusion that the inhabitants of Dahomey were all slaves of the king – at
least in theory. As they were slaves, the king could dispose of them at will: “My
head belongs to the king”, to quote the title of a Robin Law article we have
referred to frequently already, which is in turn an utterance by a servant of the
eighteenth century slave trader Robert Norris.52 In fact, not only his head, but
also his whole body, his property, his will, his everything.53
What we observe seems to have a distinctly totalitarian flavour. It may be
relevant in this context to evoke the bocio amulets and sculptures. Whatever
the chronological context of the bocio art and its diffusion, anyone who has
perused, if only superficially, the art historian Suzanne Preston Blier’s
magnificent book on the subject,54 and contemplated its many photos, must
have been deeply impressed and disturbed by those grotesque, or one might
say deliberately provocative and horrid, but at the same time elaborate and
sophisticated, works of art which convey tension and anxiety almost to an
unbearable degree. They are (to continue to paraphrase Ms Blier) truly objects
of fury whose counteraesthetic power literally hits the beholder – the result of
a collective trauma which a non-literate society expressed in its own very
peculiar way. Regardless of how widespread or significant the bocio objects
may have been, or when they began to be made, one suspects that Blier is
correct in attributing them to “state-induced or supported violence”.55
Is it possible to be more specific? Although Suzanne Blier is reluctant to do
so (“these forms remain…unknowable, resistant to interpretation”56), she
provides us nevertheless with some relevant clues. She notes in fact that the
bocio are “closely identified with vodun power, religious tenets, and
philosophy – (that is) the derivation of the powers which actuate the bo/bocio
arts are ascribed to vodun such as Legba, the Earth gods (that is, Sakpata et al.
once again), and, most importantly, to the earlier mentioned ‘little folk’ – the
aziza, of the forest”.57 In a word, they challenge the status quo,58 that is, the
monarchy, and hence the system established by Agaja and Tegbesu.
243
What we end up with here is, we suspect, a deeply split Dahomey in which
the official ideology of the monarchy was actively challenged and combated
by what we presume to be important sections of the population.
***
Moving to the Eastern Slave Coast, we note that Oyo began some time in the
eighteenth century to establish a sort of thin territorial corridor east of the
Yewa river all the way down to Porto Novo and Badagry, both places situated
at a distance of a nine-days journey from metropolitan Oyo.59 It permitted the
Oyo traders to travel all the way to the coast, and in fact, given the attitude of
the local rulers, to establish direct relations with the Europeans.60 To the
authorities of Porto Novo especially, this development implied riches and also
protection against Dahomey, all at the price of a modest tribute to Oyo.61
Since we do not really know what happened in and to Badagry after the
Hertogh affair, we can go on to note that as far as Porto Novo and its coastal
beach “port” of Seme (actually on the coast this time) are concerned, the
pioneers on the European side were the Luso-Brazilians. In fact, although the
sources are not very eloquent, it seems that the first to open up direct trade
with Porto Novo some time in the late 1750s was a shadowy figure by the
name of João de Oliveira,62 a freed slave from Brazil.63 According to Robin
Law, with the Portuguese there also arrived the first Yoruba Muslims.64
Oliveira was soon followed by “other slave traders anxious to escape the tight
control that the king of Dahomey was attempting to impose on the commerce
at Ouidah”.65 It is claimed that what contributed to the success of the eastern
ports was the surprising thirty per cent lower loading time compared with
Ouidah-Glehue66 (because of fewer regulations?).
What is certain is that the slave trade from the Porto Novo region soared, and
that from Ouidah-Glehue declined correspondingly;67 and that there was a close
alliance between Oyo, Porto Novo and the Luso-Brazilians. A token of the
alliance between the latter two was the fact that as early as 1774–75 the king of
Porto Novo asked the Portuguese to establish a fort in his dominions (it may
have been in 1775, since the throne of Porto Novo is reputed to have been vacant
for a full ten years between 1765 and 177568). But although the authorities in
Salvador da Bahia were favourable, nothing came of it.69 In fact, no forts were ever
constructed in the eastern area, proof that they were not needed in the slave trade.
We note finally that the people of the Porto Novo region, although
probably of a rather heterogeneous origin, coalesced into a new ethnic group,
the Gbe-speaking Gun or Egun.70
244
Porto Novo was accompanied, or possibly preceded, by other polities such

as Ekpe/Epe-Ketonou, Badagry (both of Hertoghian fame) and especially
Lagos (Awori in Yoruba),71 where the first recorded loading of slaves is dated
to 1765, according to Sandra Barnes.72 In fact, a slaving port was established
at Lagos in the 1760s, when Oba Akinsemoyin (reigned c.1760 to 1775)
invited (we repeat: invited) slave traders from Porto Novo to settle there.73
The question is how all this fits in with what we know about the internal
evolution of Oyo, an internal evolution which presaged momentous changes
in Yorubaland and by consequence also on the Slave Coast. The way we
interpret the evidence presented by Samuel Johnson, Robin Law and I.A.
Akinjogbin74 is that the internal institutional set-up, the local variant of
contrapuntal paramountcy, simply broke down, at least temporarily. What
happened was that the oyo mesi, the state council and especially its head, the
Basorun Gaha, forced the suicide of two successive Alafins, and then assumed
effective power for some twenty years (c. 1754–74).75 Although the
institution itself was not (perhaps could not be) abolished, three more Alafins
were ordered to commit suicide by the oyo mesi and Gaha. However, the
fourth, by the name of Abiodun, managed to stage a coup (or counter-coup),
deposing and executing Gaha, but again without abolishing the relevant
institution, that of the basorun this time.76 Possibly it was under Abiodun that
the slave trade from Oyo via the Eastern Slave Coast really took off.
The consequences of these internal upheavals (Law insists that they were
exclusively internal) were probably a radical weakening of Oyo’s might, more
concretely the decline of what was the cornerstone of that might, namely the
famous but very expensive cavalry. Actually it disappeared altogether at some
undetermined time during the last decades of the eighteenth century and the
first of the following one.77 It obviously presaged the slow agony and final fall
of Oyo itself, an event we will turn to.
***
We now move to the Western Slave Coast and neighbouring regions, where
the picture is complicated in the extreme. We can begin by enumerating the
leading protagonists. In the middle there was the Anlo confederacy and its ally
in the north, New Akwamu, which controlled a fair slice of inland Eweland.
But among the member-polities of the Anlo confederacy was unruly Keta
which often went its own ways and whose excruciatingly intricate past can
defeat even the most obstinate of historians. Anlo/Keta was flanked to the
east by Little Popo-Glidji, and to the west by the Ada of the mouth of the
245
river Volta. Ada had in turn a special and close relationship with the Danes of
Christiansborg at Accra. The Ada and the Danes, plus Agave or Agavedji
north of Keta, became, in a sense logically, the allies of Little Popo-Glidji
against Anlo/Keta.
The Danes embarked in this period on an expansionist policy, a regional
imperialist drive of sorts – something rather uncommon among the Europeans
on the coast of Guinea. What made that drive possible was Akyem’s very lax
overlordship since 1730 over the eastern Gold Coast, leaving the indigenous
Ga-Adangbe more or less to their own devices. And since Ga-Adangbe society
had by then reverted to what we presume was its original acephalous state,78
the result was a sort of power-vacuum which in turn facilitated the
expansionist designs of the Danes along the coast eastwards in the direction
of the River Volta and the Ada, and beyond, and in spite of English and above
all Dutch opposition.79 The strip of coast between Accra and the Volta estuary,
and beyond, attained some importance owing mainly to the revival of
Akwamu power in the hinterland (that is, New Akwamu) and the presumably
intensive exploitation by New Akwamu of the slave and ivory resources of the
Ewe Krepi and their neighbours.
Little Popo-Glidji under Ashangbo was able in 1741, with the collaboration
of the Danes, to defeat Anlo/Keta. Keta was in fact occupied and Anlo proper
was forced to accept a subordinate position. Significantly enough, Anlo had to
accept a Danish monopoly over trade which among other things established a
ceiling for the rates at which the Anlo could sell slaves to the Danes.80 But since
the Anlo landscape has been described as a smuggler’s paradise,81 one may
reasonably wonder how efficient that monopoly was.
A complicating factor was Asante’s defeat of a certain number of southern
Akan polities, Akyem very much included, in March 1742.82 It allowed Asante
to reach the sea for the first time, to invade the Eastern Gold Coast and to lay
siege to the European forts, leaving the Europeans, the Danes included, with
little choice but to accede to the Asante demands.83 From then on the
Europeans had to pay rent to the Asantehene in Kumasi as the new overlord
of the Eastern Gold Coast, a region which then became formally part of ever-
expanding Asante. But Asante too contented itself with a lax, even absentee
overlordship for the next fifteen years or so,84 implying that little changed on
the ground, and hence that the Ga-Adangbe had simply changed overlords.
However, if Asante reached the coast, it also reached the River Volta,
meaning contact with New Akwamu on the other bank. In fact New Akwamu
acknowledged Asante overlordship, possibly in 1744, in return for the latter’s
246
support, an alliance which cowed completely the indigenous Krepi Ewe, we

are told.85 Asante emerged thus as a potential enemy of Little Popo-Glidji, the
Ada and the Danes. It complicated matters for the Danes, who were at the
same time, in a sense, vassals of the same Asante, in the latter’s capacity as
overlord of Accra and the European forts there.
As if this were not enough, Akyem, although defeated and having become
a tributary polity of Asante, was able to revolt against its overlord and even to
emerge as an actor of its own on the Western Slave Coast scene86 – and
obviously as an ally of Little Popo-Glidji, the Ada and the Danes.
Was there also a battle between Asante and either Oyo or Dahomey, possibly
in 1764? The case is far from clear-cut. But if there was (what were they fighting
over?), it seems to have been an isolated event with negligible consequences.87
It would not serve any useful purpose to relate in detail all the skirmishes,
battles and wars between the protagonists, especially Ada and Anlo,88 in the
relevant period – plus some changes of alliance. But what was the situation
when the smoke began to lift (partially) in the mid-1770s? The most
noteworthy difference was that Little Popo-Glidji, whose great king
Ashangmo passed away in the late 1760s or early 1770s, had lost out on the
Western Slave Coast, as it was also in the process of doing further east, and
had begun its slow descent into insignificance.89 But this did not stop the
Danes establishing a lodge at Little Popo in 1772.90
As for Akyem, after a show of strength in 1767–70, when its army marched
as far east as Little Popo-Glidji, thereafter it disappeared completely from the
Slave Coast scene.91 Ada and Agave too were among the losers, in spite of an
early success, thanks in part to Danish support, during the so-called
Nonobewa war of 1750–51. But Ada suffered a major defeat in February
1769, when the Danes avoided coming to the rescue of their old ally.92
However, the Danes, who had in a sense betted on the wrong side (as usual),
managed somehow to overcome their apparent handicap, as we shall see.
That leaves us with the “victor”, namely the Anlo confederacy which also
Keta now joined (or rejoined) after recovering its independence from Little
Popo-Glidji in 1772.93 According to Sandra Greene, Anlo’s victory was achieved
thanks to, or was accompanied by, a major internal religious-conceptual
revolution, the rise of an apparently new divinity, a war divinity in fact, by the
name of Nyigba or Nyigbla. We say apparently because the same Sandra Greene
has defined Nyigba as a new separate conception or personified revelation of the
Supreme Being, namely Mawu.94
***
247
Tegbesu died in May 1774, in the same year as the coup against basorun Gaha,
while in the world at large, in the same year the American Revolution really
got under way. It was, then, the beginning of the Age of the Atlantic
Revolutions; revolutions which were bound to have a profound impact upon
the questions of slave trade and slavery and hence upon the affairs of the
Slave Coast.
248
5
CONTINUATION
We begin by noting, as a curiosity of sorts in the larger context, that the

American Revolution (1765/74–1783) led to fears among the British in
Guinea of American privateers and suspicion that the rebels might be supplied
with gunpowder from that coast. The result was a certain British naval
military presence and activity in Guinean waters.1 The war in North America
had also a direct and negative effect on the British (but only the British) slave
trade, that is, on the slave traders, as the Database makes clear.
As for the American Declaration of Independence of 1776, a naive reader
may be excused for finding it absolutely incompatible with both the slave trade
and slavery (“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created
equal…”). The same can be said of another famous declaration of another
revolution, the French Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen
on 26 August 1789 (not to mention the revolutionary motto of Liberté,
Égalité, Fraternité). But as is well known, that conclusion was not commonly
drawn then. On the other hand, those declarations indicate that something
was afoot in the Western world, which was after all the world of the
Enlightenment. And Revolutionary France did at long last, more than four
years after the outbreak of the Revolution and the issuing of the Declaration
of the Rights of Man, get around to abolishing the slave trade and slavery, on
4 February 1794. Revolutionary France also proceeded immediately to
combat that trade actively, including military action extending to the Slave
Coast. But Napoleon Bonaparte (ruler 1799–1814/15) decided upon the
opposite course and re-legalized both the slave trade and slavery in 1802. At
249
an early stage Revolutionary France lost control of the American slave islands,
including Saint-Domingue, where the slaves liberated themselves, starting
with the famous revolt of 1791; the formal abolition of slavery in 1794 had
then no practical consequences. But the slave trade was another matter.2
As it was, it fell to a nation which came to struggle against both the
American and French Revolutions, Great Britain, to enact the first concrete
measure against the slave trade. The Dolben Act (after Sir William Dolben)
of 1788 restricted the number of slaves that could be carried on British slave
ships.3 Then in May 1789 William Wilberforce enacted an historical first,
when he began moving resolutions condemning the slave trade in the House
of Commons; an initiative which had no possibility of prospering then4 (it
was then that one of Wilberforce’s opponents read aloud the earlier
mentioned Agaja-Lambe letter from 1726). But only three years later the
House of Commons voted a bill to abolish the slave trade, a bill which was,
however, defeated in the House of Lords. Nevertheless, the campaign initiated
in 1789 did achieve its aim in the end, in 1807, when the British slave trade
was outlawed. By then Denmark, or Denmark-Norway, had already abolished
the slave trade, in 1792, but with the proviso that it should enter into effect
only ten years later (1 January 1803). But the local Danes on the coast refused
to enforce the law, which was binding only for the direct subjects of the
Danish Crown and ships flying the Danish colours anyway. The illegal Danish
slave trade continued at least until the 1830s, if not longer.5
In view of all this a well-informed observer of the international scene at the
end of the eighteenth century might well have concluded that the tide was
turning, that the days of the slave trade, and even of slavery, were numbered.
He would have been right of course. But what he might perhaps not have
foreseen was that it would take a hundred years and an extraordinarily
complicated itinerary – a spiral path full of detours and disappointments, as
it has been expressed6 – to eradicate the evil legally in the Western world: that
is, if we consider the Dolben Act of 1788 as the first step, and Brazil’s effective
abolition of slavery in 1888 as the end, with 1807 as the pivotal date.
***
The developments in the Western world for the time being (during the period
covered in this chapter, 1774–97) had, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, no
impact whatsoever on the Transatlantic slave trade. Quite the contrary in fact,
since according to the global figures of the Database, that trade experienced
an all-time high between 1776 and 1800, 1786–96 being the top ten-year
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CONTINUATION
period. Hence Wilberforce and his allies assaulted a trade which was
prospering as never before.
Within that general situation, however, the slave trade from the Slave
Coast experienced a slight absolute and a somewhat more marked relative
decline. But there is reason to believe that the decline was particularly steep
on the Central Slave Coast, as opposed to the Eastern Slave Coast, where the
slave trade actually soared. Since the steep decline on the Central Slave Coast
corresponds to the beginning of the end of the European and Luso-Brazilian
presence – the abandonment of the forts (see below) – it is tempting to
postulate a connection. But that temptation should be resisted. The
fundamental cause was clearly the continuing erratic, not to say absurd, policy
of the Dahomean rulers.
***
In the case of Dahomey the 23 years which followed the death of Tegbesu are
not easy to define or to categorize. But the expression “more of the same” comes
to mind. The “totalitarian” Dahomean regime continued frequently to find itself
on the defensive, apparently suffering from a severe defeat at the hands of Oyo
in early 1779. We say apparently, because that supposed defeat is mentioned
only in one source.7 But if it did happen, it helps to explain what occurred later
the same year: the king of Dahomey was permitted (he had then to ask for
permission) by the local British director Lionel Abson to send a messenger all
the way to Cape Coast Castle, “in order to lay a state of his wants before the
[British] Governor”.8 However, whatever those wants were, apart from being
obviously very much needed, this strange Dahomean initiative led to nothing,
according to Akinjogbin.9 But it is tempting to postulate a link between this
episode and the fact that Dahomey seems to have experienced the next year (in
1780) a genuine famine, certainly not a frequent phenomenon on the coast.10
However, if famine there was, we have unfortunately no details about it. But two
years later, in 1782, a great scarcity of provisions was reported – “had it not been
for the wild…spontaneous productions of the woods, half of the country would
have starved”, if we are to believe Archibald Dalzel and Lionel Abson.11 And in
1788 an epidemic (of smallpox?) claimed untold victims.12
These, then, are some of the ingredients of the crisis which Dahomey
experienced from the 1770s onwards, according to some contemporary
observers13 and some later historians.14 Another problem was that the two
kings we are concerned with here, Kpengla and Agonglo, were, as rulers of a
polity imbued with a warrior ethos, utterly unable to conquer any new territory.
251
Worse, Kpengla’s raiding parties were often defeated,15 although they are
reported to have reached as far as Ketu in 1789.16 An early exception to that
rule was the destruction of the small polity of Ekpe/Epe, the successor of Jakin,
in 1778. But Ekpe/Epe seems to have risen again shortly afterwards, now with
Ketonu as its centre and as a tributary to Porto Novo.17 As it was, the
Dahomeans had great difficulties in acquiring the necessary slaves, according
to a French source. Indeed, the same source argues that the king began to sell
his own subjects in the 1770s.18
On the external front Dahomey was reduced at times to the position of a
mere agent of the will of Oyo, to castigate Oyo’s recalcitrant vassals when Oyo
so ordered (see below). And Kpengla died in April 1789 of the smallpox19
(related to the epidemic in 1788, perhaps), the redoubtable arm of Sakpata,
the oppositional vodun.
But all was not uniformly bleak for the Dahomeans. To begin with, the
evident decline of Oyo carried hopes for the future for Dahomey, while at the
same time boding ill for Oyo’s protégés on the Eastern Slave Coast.
Furthermore, although the slave trade continued to decline, there were
moments when it recovered somehow. And the earlier mentioned return of
the Luso-Brazilians to complete free trade in 1778, with the intensified
competition among them that it meant, was certainly good news to Dahomey.
There were also signs of more contacts with the interior, resulting among
other things in a timid diversification of the economy. For instance, by the end
of the eighteenth century a sizeable community of so-called “royal” Muslim
clients and artisans (working especially in leather tanning and dyeing) had
been established at Abomey and Kana.20
The influx of northern Muslims (Malés) from Hausaland in particular had
also a religious dimension. For the Dahomean rulers, always on the lookout for
supranatural support, petitioned the Malés to pray to their god for Dahomean
success. And Islamic amulets, typically consisting of or incorporating written
verses from the Quran, enjoyed considerable popularity.21
***
If one asks if there was any attempt to alter the direction staked out by Agaja
and Tegbesu, the answer is that there was: king Agonglo’s intention at the very
end of the period to convert to Christianity. But it cost him his life, as we shall
see, provoking what looks like a coup d’état and a lot of bloodshed.
It is in any case difficult to agree with Robin Law when he argues that “the
Dahomians clearly had by [the 1770s] won the consent of many of the
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conquered to the legitimacy of their rule”.22 Linda Heywood and John

Thornton seem to be of the same opinion in a somewhat ambiguous
contribution, but then they add an interesting twist which points clearly in
the opposite direction. They note that the kingdom of Kongo lived on in the
memories of the slaves in America who came from there – many slave societies
elected a king of Kongo23 – but the slaves originating from the Slave Coast
were reluctant to identify with the Kingdom of Dahomey; no “king of
Dahomey” is known from among the slaves in America.24
***
As for the details, we begin this time with the region least involved in the slave
trade, the Western Slave Coast, where we have already noted that a quite
unusual development was taking place: the rise of what may be described as a
European power of sorts, the Danes at Christiansborg. And this European
power staged something quite unheard-of on the coast, outright military
aggression against an African polity, namely Anlo, the leading polity of the
region. If it failed in the end, it was not because of African resistance, but
because the other Europeans, and especially the British, had the means to
persuade the government in Copenhagen to repudiate its local representatives.
The background was the previously noted rise of the Anlo confederacy to
a position of prominence. And Anlo succeeded in solidifying its newfound
position by a number of successful campaigns between 1774 and 1781 against
especially Little Popo-Glidji and Ada, plus other lower Volta riverain
communities. Ada was simply destroyed in 1776.25 In this situation the losers
appealed to their old allies the Danes, arguing that the Danes had to protect
them with a fortification, otherwise they would seek help from another
nation. That other nation could only have been the Dutch of the WIC,26 but
the Dutch were virtually eliminated for a while in the 1780s, by the British,
because of the war Great Britain declared on the Dutch Republic in December
1780, blaming the Dutch for becoming much too intimate with the American
rebels. What resulted is often called the Fourth Anglo-Dutch Naval War
(1780–84), a war which turned out to be an unmitigated disaster for the
Dutch.27 The war was also fought in Guinean waters (it should be remarked
that since the days of Samuel Pepys the African facet of wars between
European powers is generally treated cavalierly, if at all, in the historical
literature). Briefly, the British drove the Dutch from all their positions on the
coast, except Elmina. In particular, in April 1782 the British destroyed the
Dutch fort Crevecoeur at Accra, with the result that the Dutch lodges to the
253
east had to be abandoned. Since the British were not particularly interested in
that region, this gave the Danes a free hand.28 And it so happened that the
Danes, who adopted a suitably neutral stance during the Anglo-Dutch
contention, actually leaning on the English side, had clearly expansionist
designs. At least the new Danish Governor, Jens Adolph Kiøge (1780–88),
had such designs. In fact, and to anticipate later discussion, under Kiøge the
Danes established four new forts, including two on the Slave Coast, if we
count Ada (in addition to the two earlier ones on the Gold Coast), plus a
number of lodges. All this apparently led to a considerable upsurge in the
Danish slave trade.29
It all began in earnest in October 1783 when the Danes constructed Fort
Kongensten at Ada to support the Ada polity, or what was left of it, against
Anlo. “The Adas were heartily pleased” with the construction of Kongensten,
says Isert, since now they had a safe refuge in case of attack.30 It was the prelude
to the so-called Sagbadre war from February to June 1784,31 a blatant war of
aggression, the Danes organizing an expeditionary force of some 2,000 Africans
which marched against Anlo, plus an imposing contingent from Little Popo-
Glidji32 (Gayibor calls it “la guerre anlo-danoise”).33 Only three Danes actually
took part in the military operations, Governor Kiøge himself, a sergeant, and
the famous Paul Erdmann Isert mentioned earlier, whose book contains all the
necessary details.34 On the other side we note that New Akwamu as well as
Keta, that very special member of the Anlo confederacy, decided to remain
neutral.35 As for mighty Asante, our sources are silent, implying that Asante
remained aloof. The reason may be that the death of Asantehene Osei Kwadwo
in 1777 triggered off a civil war which lasted until the 1790s. Osei Kwadwo was
succeeded by a minor, Osei Kwame, and the regency of the Queen-Mother
provoked strong negative internal reactions, according to John Fynn.36
Isert’s testimony leaves no doubt that the Sagbadre war was fought with
great cruelty, claiming a considerable number of casualties. Anlo, and
especially the capital Anlogan, was devastated.37 The excuse of the Danes, the
way we read Isert, is that they lost control of their troops.
The war ended with a complete victory for Ada, the Danes and their allies,
in spite of indirect British aid to Anlo.38 As a result the Danes, who had
already tried earlier to control Anlo’s trade, imposed what one may call an
economic protectorate on Anlo, prohibiting the local people from trading
with other European nations. But this new Danish trade monopoly was
probably no more effective than the previous one.39 In addition, the Danes
compelled the people of Keta, who (as noted) had remained ostensibly
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neutral, to accept the construction (from June 1784) of a fort, Fort

Prindsensten, in their midst. It was, as is often pointed out, the only fort ever
erected on the Guinea coast against the will of the local population. It could
be done because the king of Little Popo-Glidji took upon himself the task of
protector of the fort and in fact of governor of Keta;40 in other words, Keta
was occupied once more by Little Popo-Glidji. However, the Danish hold of
the area was and remained shaky – precisely because the Danish involvement
in African affairs did not have the favour of the local people.41
It is probable that the Danes nourished a much grander design. The central
character here is Paul Isert. Shortly after the end of the Sagbadre war he went
to Ouidah and stayed there for some five months, from November 1784 to
April 1785, as the head of a sort of factory.42 Although Isert himself is not very
eloquent about what he was doing in Dahomey,43 the British were probably
correct in believing that something serious was afoot,44 especially since there
are hints that the Danes had also their eyes set on regions even further east,
Porto Novo in particular,45 where the “Lagoon War” (see below) had just
ended with Porto Novo (and Dahomey) on the winning side.
But whatever the Danish designs were, they were cut short by developments
on the international scene. The American War of Independence ended for
practical purposes in April 1783, and the war between Great Britain and the
Dutch Republic in May 1784; this meant the return of the Dutch (and the
British) to the Guinean scene, both uncomfortable with the Danish
expansionism.46 And as a sign of the times, in 1785 some leading dignitaries
in Little Popo-Glidji asked the British to establish a factory in their polity to
protect them against the Danes.47
In fact, the determined joint opposition of the Dutch and the British to the
Danish designs, plus the resistance of the locals, meant that the whole Danish
set-up fell rapidly apart. The details are again somewhat obscure. But there is
no question that the situation on the ground deteriorated quickly for the
Danes between 1786 and 1790. Several Danish lodges were destroyed, trade
in the Keta-Popo area came to a standstill and individual Danes were attacked,
one even killed.48 Worse, the death of the king of Little Popo-Glidji in 1788
led to the usual succession dispute, the Danes supporting (again) the losing
party,49 with the negative consequences one can imagine.
There followed a quite spectacular (and frankly incomprehensible) change
of alliances, the Danes allying themselves with Anlo (plus New Akwamu)
against Little Popo-Glidji, and the latter emerging as the new enemy.50 There
also followed a new round of skirmishes, including the so-called Keta war in
255
1792, the outcome of which was that Anlo and the Danes lost, principally to
Little-Popo and its allies, actively supported by both the British and the
Dutch.51 In this context we note that the Danes crossed a red line by appealing
to successive African polities, namely Akyem, Asante, Akwamu and even
Dahomey, to intervene militarily in their favour, an absolute historical first.
No one did intervene, of course, but the Dutch and the British were
outraged.52 It fell to Archibald Dalzel, now governor of Cape Coast Castle
and of the British establishments, temporarily in alliance with the Dutch,53 to
initiate the diplomatic activity which led in the end to the recall of the very
belligerent Danish governor, Andreas Riegelsen Biørn (1789–93), followed
by the effective retreat of the Danes from the land to the east, that is, the final
collapse of the Danes’ grand scheme. However, Anlo and its neighbours
continued, strangely enough, to be considered part of the Danish sphere of
influence, and the Danish-Anlo alliance was maintained in a sense, possibly
because of Anlo’s fears of Little Popo-Glidji.54
***
Kpengla began his reign by announcing his intention to liberate Dahomey
from Oyo,55 and by celebrating the defeat and death of the last effective king
of the exiled Huedans. But Kpengla got nowhere with Oyo, and in fact Oyo
demanded more tribute, and Kpengla had no choice but to give in.56 It has
been argued that Kpengla tried to establish Dahomey in a middleman
position. But if so, that attempt may not have lasted very long (depending on
one’s definition of what a middleman position implies57). What seems certain
in any case is that the Dahomean monarchy’s commercial acumen had not
improved in any way. In fact, Kpengla sought even greater regulation of trade;
he established fixed (that is, artificially high) prices; he and his agents resorted
to compulsory purchases, that is, confiscations; he expelled all foreigners
except those of Oyo, and he enacted a number of other oppressive restrictions,
the whole amounting to an attempt to establish a monopoly of trade.58 Such
actions, added to European wars and the French anti-slavery measures, as well
as the severe surveillance and very limited freedom of movement to which the
Europeans continued to be subjected,59 inevitably had negative consequences.
But there was a measure which pointed in the opposite direction – the
granting of the status of caboceers (chiefs or dignitaries) to the traders in
Dahomey in 1779.60
Kpengla’s role as an auxiliary of Oyo came into evidence with the so-called
“Lagoon War” between 1780 and 1784 (coinciding with the Fourth Anglo-
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CONTINUATION
Dutch naval war on the international scene). It was, as usual, a complicated

affair in which it is easy to get lost in the details. But as far as this author has
been able to ascertain, what we may call Oyo’s “imperial” system on the
Eastern Slave Coast broke down. Oyo’s local vassals began to quarrel among
themselves, and some even with Oyo itself:61 Badagry, Ketu, Porto Novo,
Ketonu, the Weme successor polities (not directly involved in the slave trade)
and also finally Lagos with its famous war canoes,62 although that polity was
still formally a vassal of Benin. The disputes may have had something to do
with the increased revenue from the slave trade, as well as conflicting
pretentions to local hegemony. In particular, the fact that Porto Novo had
become possibly the leading centre of the slave trade on the whole of the Slave
Coast in the 1780s63 provoked the enmity of the others, Badagry especially,
which became Porto Novo’s irreconcilable enemy. In this situation Oyo
enlisted the assistance of some of its vassals, Dahomey most notably – perhaps
Kpengla was more than happy to comply. The result was that the Weme
successor polities, plus Badagry and Ketonu, were defeated, the latter two
being destroyed outright in the process.64 Lagos, which had taken part on
Oyo’s side, emerged considerably reinforced. As for Porto Novo, although also
among the winners, it seems nevertheless to have been left in a somewhat
fragile position, and for that reason looked for, or intensified its search for
European allies, the French in particular, possibly also the Danes. Note that by
then a colourful local trader by the name of Tamata, but better known as
Monsieur Pierre, had become its de facto ruler.65 Monsieur Pierre, a Hausa by
origin, was in a sense the first of a new brand of people who was to put their
mark on the Slave Coast.
As for Oyo, it suffered at the same time as the “Lagoon War” a severe reverse
in the north; the Bariba freed themselves from Oyo overrule in July 1783. Oyo’s
apparent attempt to reverse the situation, by attacking the Bariba polity of
Kaiama, ended in disaster for the attackers.66 It certainly boded ill for the future.
Oyo had been weakened and Dahomey strengthened. This new balance of
forces may be said to be reflected in the apparent fact that the tribute
Dahomey had to pay to Oyo was substantially reduced in 1784 (unless this
was simply an expression of gratitude for Dahomey’s assistance in the “Lagoon
War”). Dahomey was also strengthened because the slave trade from Ouidah
revived somewhat, owing, we imagine, to the Lagoon War, but also to the
timid return of British ships now that both the war against the Dutch and the
war in America had ended.67 In addition, the Luso-Brazilian trade on the
Costa da Mina in general continued to be considerable, thanks to the
257
continuing success of the third-rate tobacco,68 and also thanks, as noted, to the
dissolution of the WIC, in 1791. That dissolution meant, we repeat, the
formal end of the ten per cent tax imposed on the Luso-Brazilians.
The French slave trade from Ouidah expanded too,69 the French having
discovered that it was possible to acquire the third-rate Brazilian tobacco
directly in Lisbon by bribing the local officials there.70 To give an idea, in 1787
eight ships flying the Portuguese colours, three French but only one British,
traded for slaves at Ouidah.71 However, the French were being increasingly
attracted to Porto Novo-Seme, while continuing incidentally also to be
interested in the Gold Coast.72 On the latter coast, the French finally
succeeded in 1786 to establish a permanent lodge, at the site of Amoko
between Anomabo and Winneba,73 and placed under the authority of the
director of Ouidah (why the British allowed it this time we do not know).
That director was between 1786 and 1789 the famous Monsieur Gourg (so
referred to in the sources, we do not know his first name), a one-armed war
veteran. Incidentally, to send a one-armed ex-officer to the Slave Coast, that
is, to a region where tradition has it that all headmen and rulers were supposed
to be without physical blemish, does not strike one as particularly fortunate.
As noted, the rulers of Porto Novo had come to realize that they could no
longer count on the protection of Oyo. Instead they turned to the French,
asking for the construction of no less than three forts.74 That led the French
authorities, those in Versailles that is, plus the slave-traders of La Rochelle in
particular to begin to toy with rather grand plans for the future. The idea
seems to have been to transform Porto Novo into a dependency of France, or
at the very least some sort of central base for French activity in the whole of
the Bight of Benin, with ramifications both eastwards and westwards. The
idea seems also to have been to abandon Ouidah altogether in the process.75
Monsieur Gourg, who was originally opposed to those plans, thought
nevertheless in terms of an alliance between the French, Oyo, Porto Novo and
Little Popo-Glidji against Dahomey, complete with an embargo on the trade
at Ouidah76 – regardless of the Luso-Brazilians.
However, all that was counting without Kpengla and his heavy-handed
methods, which paid off for once. What happened was that Kpengla decided
to act on his own, that is, without the permission of Oyo. So he staged in July
1787 a massive attack not on Porto Novo as such, but on the Europeans,
principally the French, in Seme, Porto Novo’s beach “port”, some 60 km east
of Ouidah.77 It was very much in line with Dahomey’s policy of trying to
eliminate the competitors of Ouidah physically. The attack on Seme implies
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CONTINUATION
that the Dahomeans had got used to what was earlier off limits to them: the
very watery landscape out east. At the time of the assault there were eleven
French ships in the roads, and a few Luso-Brazilian ones, but no British –
which indicates clearly that Porto Novo had far surpassed Ouidah as a centre
for the slave trade (by comparison with the 12 ships which called at Ouidah
during the whole of 1787, see above). The Dahomeans took as prisoners 14
Frenchmen and one Luso-Brazilian, as well as some 80 canoemen from the
Gold Coast and of course an unknown number of slaves. Many of the
prisoners were sent inland and treated harshly.78 Monsieur Gourg had a very
difficult time ransoming them, especially since the ship-owners were reluctant
to pay their share.79 Whether he succeeded completely and exactly how many
died, we do not know. What we do seem to know is first, that the French did
not consider what had happened as quite the end of the game, and second,
that peace certainly did not return to the Eastern Slave Coast; the Dahomeans
carried out a second raid against Porto Novo-Seme in 1791,80 this time
apparently with the permission of Oyo, while Badagry was destroyed once
more, in 1793, by Lagos in fact, possibly with the assistance of Porto Novo.81
But the long-term consequences are clear – first, the French scheme fell apart,
and second, the alarmed authorities of Porto Novo understood that they
could not count on the French either and had therefore to come to terms with
Dahomey, which they did to some extent82 (the details are obscure). As for the
Dahomean authorities, they felt entitled to take as hostages crew members of
any slavers or canoes they could lay their hands on which they suspected of
having avoided Ouidah at one stage or another, or were driven ashore in
Dahomey; this was called piracy by the British. And also as usual, the ship-
owners were reluctant to pay the ransoms demanded.83
By then, in order to drive home their point, the Dahomeans expelled
Monsieur Gourg, together with the fort’s surgeon, in November 1789 (shortly
after the accession of Agonglo). According to Lionel Abson, an eye-witness in
a sense, they were severely mistreated in the process, that is, “bound and
carried…to the beach, where [Gourg] was obliged to remain all night [no
mention of the surgeon], exposed to the mosquitos and sand flies, till five
o’clock next morning, when he was thrown into a canoe”.84 Both Gourg and
the surgeon survived, thanks possibly to the British at Cape Coast Castle,85
but their ordeal was, we presume, not lost on the others.
What may have irked in particular the Dahomeans in the case of Monsieur
Gourg was that he represented obviously a new type of director, personifying an
attempt by the superior authorities in Europe to choose directors less subservient
259
to the Dahomeans than, for instance, Gourg’s notoriously lax predecessor

Ollivier de Montaguère (director 1775–86)86 or the Briton Lionel Abson, or for
that matter the Luso-Brazilians.87 As for Abson, he was accused in this period of
“shameful and scandalous negligence”, no less, by his superiors,88 – but,
significantly, not replaced. The question is if he could have been replaced, if the
Dahomeans would have permitted it, and the likely answer is no.
Gourg’s exit meant in reality that the French presence had lapsed. It is true
that the fort’s storekeeper, Deniau de la Garenne, took over as acting director.
But he spent the next eight years as a sort of hostage of the Dahomeans before
being able to leave89 (no director was permitted to leave as long as his successor
had not arrived, unless, that is, one was expelled). Anyway, Gourg’s departure
was followed by the French Revolution, by the first abolition of the French
slave trade in 1794, and finally, and symbolically, by the surrender (to the
British) of the last and sole Frenchman in Amoko in 1804.90 It meant that
from then on the Luso-Brazilians had it all to themselves.
But the Dahomean action aroused the ire of Oyo, certainly a decaying power
by then but still one to be reckoned with. In fact, it is believed that the Alafin
managed to force Kpengla to share at least the spoils of the 1787 raid with him.91
In addition, the Oyos either devastated or occupied or conquered Mahi country
in early 1788, neither of which Dahomey had ever really been able to do.92 What
exactly happened in 1788 is (as so often) far from clear. But if conquest there
was, it is not certain what Oyo rule involved. What is certain is that the presence
of Oyo in Dahomey’s very backyard was perceived by the Dahomeans as
potentially threatening – it provoked panic, if we are to believe the French and
Abson,93 perhaps precisely the effect Oyo had been pursuing, dissuading
Dahomey from following the example of the Bariba. It seems also that Oyo
explicitly forbade Dahomey from trying to conquer Porto Novo and the Eastern
Slave Coast.94 But Kpengla’s action paid off, at least in the short term, in the
sense that the slave trade from Porto Novo did slow down, whereas that from
Ouidah surged somewhat and continued to remain at a reasonably high level
during the first years of the reign of Agonglo.95 But the problems remained, that
is, the tolls and impediments of all sorts that had been put in place.96 The end
result was that the epicentre of the slave trade moved further east, to Lagos.
***
We need to focus on the year 1789, that is the year of the beginning of the
French Revolution, and locally that of the deaths of Kpengla of Dahomey and
Abiodun of Oyo (in the latter case the presumed year).
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CONTINUATION
Abiodun, the man who overthrew Basorun Gana, and is generally

presented as the last strong Alafin of Oyo, was poisoned in possibly April
1789. His successor Awole was overthrown and had to commit suicide in
1796 (again, the presumed date). The reason may have been the revolt of
Nupe, the second vassal of Oyo (after Bariba) to secede. In fact Nupe not only
revolted but also defeated Oyo in war, and was able to impose a tribute on its
former overlord97 – Dahomey becoming thus an indirect tributary of far-away
Nupe. After which two further Alafins suffered the same fate as Awole,
possibly in the space of one year. After that the province of Ilorin revolted in
its turn.98 It was at long last the real beginning of the final agony of Oyo, but
an agony which took an excruciatingly long time. What is remarkable is that
the warrior-polity of Dahomey was utterly unable to follow the examples of
Bariba and Nupe and end its vassalage of the now radically weakened Oyo.
As for Kpengla, who died, as noted, of smallpox – another blow to the
monarchy – he was followed by his son Agonglo, a young man in his early
twenties. But his reign turned out to be the shortest of all the Dahomean
kings, a mere eight years.99
Although Agonglo began his reign by expelling Monsieur Gourg, he is
usually presented in a comparatively favourable light.100 That is, he is credited
with having removed some, but apparently only some, of the oppressive
restrictions imposed on the traders, including the internal trading community
in Dahomey itself which was beginning to emerge – somewhat miraculously,
one is tempted to add.101
What complicated matters for Agonglo was the complete volte-face of
Revolutionary France, which not only abolished the slave trade in 1794 but
also decided to combat it, sending in the autumn of 1794 a squadron of no less
than six ships and 1,040 crew to the coast of West Africa (this was after the
beginning of the war with Great Britain in 1793). After sweeping the coast
between Sierra Leone and Grand Popo, a long stretch, the French squadron
attacked the ships in the Ouidah roads, capturing all the slavers there (all
apparently Luso-Brazilians). The Dahomeans protested, seized all the forts
and confined the few European staff still within the fort walls. Next, over
three days (6–8 December 1794), the squadron took eight Luso-Brazilian
slavers between Ouidah and Porto Novo.102 The usual question is what
happened to the slaves on board; there is no mention of this squadron or of
Ouidah in the standard works on the French Revolution the present author is
familiar with. The French had thus put an end to the position of Ouidah as a
free trade centre open to all, and they were to return in 1797.
261
As for Agonglo’s efforts to procure slaves and to demonstrate that he was a

worthy successor of Agaja, raiding Mahi country and eastwards as usual, they
were at best only moderately successful, also as usual103 (was there any Oyo
presence?). But Agonglo did meet with success in relation to Little Popo-
Glidji. After he opened the hostilities in 1793, according to Nicoué
Gayibor,104 Little Popo-Glidji then attacked Grand Popo (which now
re-emerges once more in the sources) and Dahomey in 1795, but apparently
was soundly defeated at a place called Adame, the king of Little Popo-Glidji
himself being among the casualties. It is said that this was the end of the war
between Little Popo-Glidji which had begun some 58 years earlier, in 1737.105
It may be, as Silke Strickrodt has argued,106 that the consequences were not in
any way dramatic for Dahomey in the short run. But 1795 was the beginning
of the end of the polity we have called Little Popo-Glidji (or Genyi), that is,
the end of one of Dahomey’s main enemies.
Here we must pause for a moment and note that the next year, in 1796, the
Dahomean army was, according to Yves Person, virtually annihilated by the
acephalous Watchi Ewe, the neighbours and possibly vassals of Little Popo-
Glidji.107 The problem with Person’s contention is that it is not corroborated
(nor for that matter refuted) by any other source and so ought perhaps not to
be taken into consideration. On the other hand, if Person is correct, it throws
a sharp light on the weakness of Dahomey; it helps to explain Agonglo’s fate,
plus the fact that Dahomey was never able to expand westwards, even after the
weakening of Little Popo-Glidji.
But to return to 1795, it was also the year when a second Dahomean
embassy was sent to Brazil, an embassy which also travelled all the way to
Portugal. The embassy, which was away for no less than two years, has left
abundant sources, but as usual one-sided.108 They are also ambiguous since
some of them seem to imply that the embassy was in part the result of obscure
intrigues among the few Portuguese in Ouidah. There is, however, little doubt
that the aim of the Dahomeans was, as before, to persuade the Luso-Brazilians
to trade exclusively with Dahomey, and more generally to step up their
commercial activity at Ouidah. There is, furthermore, no doubt that the
authorities in Brazil had no intention of acceding to the Dahomean demands.
The whole mission, and especially the behaviour of the ambassadors, left their
hosts with a starkly negative impression of Dahomey and the Dahomeans. But
what is interesting is what happened in Dahomey as a consequence of this
mission. On their return trip the Dahomeans were accompanied by the new
Portuguese director and notably by two missionaries, Vicente Ferreira Pires
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CONTINUATION
and Cypriano Pires Sardinha. Their task, as set out by the Prince-Regent of
Portugal, the future João VI, was to convert the king of Dahomey and his
entourage to Christianity. They arrived in Ouidah on 8 April 1797.
The two missionaries were, according to the account of Pires, our only
genuine (reliable?) source,109 received by Agonglo with what sounds like
enthusiasm. In fact, like many rulers on the Slave Coast before him, Agonglo
expressed his desire to convert to Christianity. If it is correct, as Edna Bay
believes, that Agonglo had already established a shrine in his palace in honour
of Christianity, a shrine attended by a “wife” of his reputed to be of Afro-
Dutch ancestry,110 then Agonglo’s attitude begins to make some sense.
Anyway, Agonglo received the two priests in audience for apparently the
second time on 23 April 1797, an audience during which he expressed his
desire to convert on the spot.111 But eight days later, on 1 May, he was dead,
murdered by one of his “wives”. It was part of a genuine coup, but was opposed
by a counter-coup by Agonglo’s “party” which prevailed in the end.112 It was
all accompanied, according to Pires, by scenes of horror which the same Pires
has described in frightening detail.113
But if the leading figures on Agonglo’s side “won”, the Christianity element
disappeared out of sight. The new king was a younger son of Agonglo, known
as Adandozan. He must have been a teenager at that time, possibly about 15
years old, which suggests that others ruled in his name.
His companion having died, Pires was able to leave on 29 October 1797 in
the middle of another French attack. In the confusion the last (acting) French
director, and the last Frenchman around, the previously mentioned Deniau de
la Garenne, managed to get on board one of the French warships and to
escape – or so says Pires. But the problem is that we know that Deniau left on
17–20 August, whatever this chronological confusion may mean.114
What is in any case interesting is that Pires left with three letters for the
Portuguese authorities ostensibly dictated by Adandozan. But only one is
believed to reflect Adandozan’s will and wishes (or the will and wishes of
whoever ruled in his name), the other two being inventions of Pires. That
third letter is a very large shopping-list of all that Adandozan wanted. And
Adandozan wanted quite a lot. How would he pay for it all? As usual, with
slaves, even good slaves (boms captivos).115 Many of the losers in this power
struggle were sold to the slave-traders, including a royal princess by the name
of Agontime, of whom more in the next chapter.
***
263
How to conclude? Perhaps with the impression of a rather fluid situation, in

which whoever wielded power in Dahomey did not really control the course
of events, contrary to what had been the case to some extent under Agaja and
Tegbesu. Or one might suggest that this was a regime unable to change a very
counterproductive policy, a regime whose principal aim seems to have been
simply to survive. But if so, we will have to admit that the regime proved,
when all is said and done, surprisingly resilient – a resilience that is in a sense
hard to explain. It survived at what price, paid by whom?
264
6
THE LONG GOODBYE
It is tempting to conclude, on the basis of what has been argued in the preceding
chapter, that by the turn of the century the slave trade and slavery were doomed,
Napoleon Bonaparte notwithstanding, and whatever the Database and the
statistics may tell. It is true that the Revolutionary and Napoleonic wars
contributed to the delaying of the inevitable. Resistance there certainly was also,
including a number of rearguard actions, some on a grand scale and some long-
lasting. But in the end they were just that: rearguard actions.
If one asks about the deeper causes of this sea change, the present author is
among the possibly naive historians who believe (as opposed to knowing) that
it was all about ending an anomaly, a protuberance of sorts, within what is
often called Western (Christian) Civilization.1 Or put differently, in the case
of especially Great Britain, the emerging superpower of the nineteenth
century, and the champion of what goes under the names of liberalism and
human rights, the gulf between the officially proclaimed ideals and the
practice of the slave trade and slavery had become unbearably wide. It is in any
case tolerably clear that Britain, once a leading slave trading nation, did not
stand to benefit from its outlawing, not to mention the abolition of slavery,
quite the contrary.2 The word “econocide” has indeed been used. Put
differently, if Great Britain stood for Liberal Capitalism, a point had been
reached where in one specific field the two components of that expression had
become incompatible. At that crossroad and in that specific field Britain chose
liberalism, sacrificing capitalism.
265
There is however a theory that the humanitarians convinced the capitalists

that abolition would be good for business in the (very) long run (never mind
the not-so-short run). The argument is that slavery is in the final analysis
incompatible with capitalism, for the simple reason that capitalism needs
consumers and slaves consume very little.3 Is this too recherché to be
convincing? But perhaps there were, let us say more or genuinely “powerful
economic forces” (in the Marxist sense) at work behind the disintegration of
the slave system? However, if so, those forces are “extremely difficult to
ascertain clearly”, as Franklin W. Knight, a believer in that theory, once
admitted. He added that “there is no longer a consensus as to why slavery
ended during the nineteenth century”.4 That consensus will elude us, we
believe, as long as Knight and co. keep searching for those same forces.
We repeat and stress the distinction between the abolition of the slave trade
on the one hand and slavery on the other, the latter being formally outside the
scope of the present work. The abolition of the slave trade always came first,
that of slavery much later. For instance, Great Britain outlawed the slave trade
in 1807, but slavery only in 1833; the United States also outlawed the slave
trade in 1807 but slavery in 1865; and France abolished the slave trade a
second time in 1818 but slavery in 1848 (Denmark also abolished slavery in
1848, or more correctly, was forced to do so because of a successful slave revolt
in that year5). In addition there is often a considerable time-lag between the
de jure and the de facto abolition of the slave trade, in the Brazilian case no less
than 19 years (1831 and 1850 respectively).6
Those who thought that the abolition of the slave trade would inevitably
lead to the more or less rapid disappearance of slavery overlooked one
fundamental point: a slave population, if treated relatively leniently as was the
case in the US (thanks to the relatively less onerous labour requirements of
cotton compared with sugar-cane), could continue indefinitely. We all know
what it took to abolish slavery in the US.
***
The first three decades or so of the nineteenth century constitute, somewhat
paradoxically, the least known period in the recent past of the Slave Coast
covered in this work.7 The reason is clear enough: the permanent European/
Luso-Brazilian presence on land was progressively reduced, and came to a
complete end by 1812 at the latest. The Europeans/Luso-Brazilians
abandoned their forts at Ouidah, much to the disapproval of the Dahomean
authorities (there remained the Danish fort Prindsensten at Keta, but a fort
266
THE LONG GOODBYE
whose irrelevance had already become manifest). Hence our principal

informants about the affairs of the Slave Coast disappeared from the scene.
There is no way around that handicap, which means that any kind of in-depth
analysis is even more hazardous for this period than for the earlier one. We
have then little choice but to remain at a rather superficial level, and to take
refuge at times in some well-known global trends.
The dearth of sources is especially annoying because the period we are
entering presents us with an intriguing enigma already referred to, the reign
and especially the deposition, possibly in 1818, of king Adandozan of
Dahomey. The strange point is that Adandozan was not killed, and in fact was
permitted to live out his days in apparent tranquillity.8 An ex-king living thus
is, as far as the present author is aware, a very rare figure indeed in the history
of Sub-Saharan Africa. In this respect we have to lament the fact that our
research has not resulted in any significant breakthrough, and does not permit
us to come up with any convincing explanation.
But to return to the theme of Europeans as residents, and to anticipate:
they did return to Ouidah, in the 1840s. The “new” Europeans were, however,
not government employees or slave traders, but missionaries and especially
private merchants engaged in what is usually called “legitimate trade”. It is true
that officials (although mostly non-resident) also made their appearance after
a while, but officials whose mission was to try to persuade the Dahomeans to
put an end to the slave trade and human sacrifice. In the meantime all the
European slave trading nations had outlawed the slave trade. So had the
American ones, except that in the case of Brazil (independent from 1822) the
formal outlawing of the slave trade (in 1831) was a measure no-one respected,
or even had to respect, given the openly pro-slave trade attitude of the
authorities; the same was the case with Spain. The wider point is that the
formal outlawing of the slave trade did not mean the end of that ignominious
trade. Indeed, the legal slave trade was replaced by what we may call
smuggling, usually referred to as the illegal slave trade.9
The international community split over the issue of the slave trade. On the
one hand there were those, especially Great Britain, but also increasingly
France after the end of the Napoleonic wars, Denmark and other European
nations, which were determined to put an end to the slave trade. And on the
other those equally determined to carry on with that trade, the Luso-
Brazilians in particular, as well as Spain (because of Cuba and Puerto Rico),
plus for a while the slave states of the southern USA; and, last but not least,
many peoples and/or rulers in Africa, the Slave Coast very much included. So
267
although it is reasonable to hypothesize that British abolition may have caused

severe economic dislocation at least in the short run,10 the continuous
existence of both a demand for slaves and a supply meant opportunities for
those willing to carry on with the slave trade.
Why were the Luso-Brazilians especially determined to do so, whatever the
rest of the world might think or say and also regardless of whatever laws and
treaties they may have signed? And why did the British display initially,
although only initially, considerable leniency in their case – even agreeing to
a treaty with the Portuguese in 1810 which actually opened the way for the
continuation of the slave trade from Ouidah? According to that treaty the
Portuguese agreed officially to abandon the slave trade in areas outside its
claimed dominions on the African coast, except at Ouidah.11
Here it should be recalled that Portugal is Britain’s oldest ally, and that the
Portuguese court and government, faced with an imminent French invasion,
fled in the autumn of 1807 to Brazil, Portugal’s main overseas possession,
where they remained right up to July 1821, despite the liberation of Portugal
in March 1811 and the end of the Napoleonic wars in 1814–15.12 As a
Portuguese statesman once put it, “without Brazil Portugal is an insignificant
power”.13 The Portuguese crown was then in dire straits from 1807 onwards,
a fact which may explain a good deal. But it had long been the policy of the
local authorities to facilitate the slave trade, including with the Costa da Mina,
as much as possible14 (that the share of slaves imported from that coast
declined steadily compared with the total amount of slaves imported to Brazil
from Africa generally is another matter). The Portuguese court and
government, once installed in Rio de Janeiro in March 1808, simply continued
the same policy. Those in command in Brazil, whether Portuguese or later
Brazilians, stressed time and again, and in no uncertain terms, that slavery and
hence the slave trade were absolutely essential to the economy and
development of the land.15 Perhaps understandable during the Napoleonic
wars, this article of faith, in our opinion absurd and never really justified,
began to make less and less sense afterwards. Hence, since it was decided to
rely basically on slavery, little effort was made to attract genuine free settlers
from Europe.
As for the British authorities, they were left after 1807–8 with the task of
enforcing the new legislation, that is, to put an effective end to the participation,
directly or indirectly, by British subjects in the slave trade. To that effect
Parliament enacted increasingly restrictive laws, especially the famous Felony
Act of 14 May 1811 (no Briton could assist vessels in the slave trade), and
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THE LONG GOODBYE
closed all possible loopholes, of which there were originally a good many.16 To
that effect also the British government organized from 1810 the equally famous
West African squadron (often called the Anti-Slave Trade squadron), designed
to seize British ships suspected of slave-trading.17 But at the same time British
diplomacy began to try to persuade, pressure, bully or threaten other nations
to abolish the slave trade and especially to sign treaties allowing the British
men-of-war to search and seize the ships of those nations if they carried slaves,
or (from 1839) even if they were simply equipped to carry slaves; the latter
measure was a severe blow to the illicit trade.18 It is a story in which the guns of
the Royal Navy hovered increasingly in the background, thanks in the last
analysis to the British taxpayer. For instance, the British more or less forced the
Portuguese government (still in Rio de Janeiro) to sign a second treaty in
January 1815, a treaty according to which the Portuguese slave trade was
banned north of the Equator, Ouidah included this time, from 1817.19 They
also tried to persuade the local African rulers to end the slave trade, with no
success at all in the case of Dahomey and the Slave Coast (the West African
squadron got nowhere at Ouidah, that very special place20).
This action did not end the slave trade, but it drove it underground, so to
speak. Or one might say that the slave trade continued with the difference that
it had become illegal from a European and American de jure point of view, but
not from a de facto one, and certainly not from an African one. That is, the
slave trade went rapidly from something close to respectability to widespread
opprobrium, and those who continued the practice were considered
increasingly as little better than criminals. Thus theirs became an increasingly
risky business. The situation changed, only in 1850, though the change then
was radical, as we shall see.
***
Was the illegal slave trade from the Slave Coast/Bight of Benin a success? The
British thought so and long despaired of being able to stop it.21 But the figures
tell a somewhat different story. It is true that the Slave Coast/Bight of Benin
exported up to five hundred thousand slaves during the half-century between
1800 and 185022 (though this included the last years of the legitimate slave
trade), a fairly “respectable” figure. But it was only one-seventh of the African
total during that period, and, of course, far behind the figures of the “golden
era” (1701–30). Note that of those five hundred thousand slaves or so, about
75 per cent went to Brazil and 20 per cent to the Spanish islands of the
Caribbean. As for the ports of embarkation, we note the continuing rise of
269
Lagos and the corresponding depressed state of affairs on the Central Slave
Coast.23 (With regard to the slave trade from the Western Slave Coast,
principally Anlo, our ignorance is close to total.) As for the profits, the British
believed that those of the slave traders were substantial.24 Maybe they were,
but at the macroeconomic level the picture looks somewhat different. Indeed,
according to recent research, prices, which had risen steadily since the 1760s,
experienced a sudden collapse after the British abolition in 1807–8, and
recovered only from about 1846, that is, at the very end.25
The question one feels like asking in this context, and especially in the case
of the Central Slave Coast and Dahomey, is whether it was really worth it. A
possible answer is that it was a faute-de-mieux situation – the local elite was
unable to come up with an alternative, slave trade and raiding being in a sense
their raison d’être. The only other possibility was the export of palm-oil, but
that only began in the late 1830s. Can we deduce that the Dahomey of
especially Adandozan was an impoverished polity confronted with a rather
complicated situation?
***
The global context until 1814/15 was that of the French Revolutionary and
Napoleonic wars. And as usual with regard to wars between European powers,
the fighting which took place in Guinean waters has not attracted the
attention of the historians. We know however that the French targeted the
Portuguese in 1799–1800. In fact the island of Príncipe was occupied for a
month (29 December 1799 to 30 January 1800), and the French captured and
burned an unknown number of Portuguese ships on the Costa da Mina.26 The
perennial question is whether there were slaves on board, and, if so, what
happened to them.
We also know about a number of naval skirmishes between the French and
the British between 1803 and 1806. In fact, the British complained about the
“very extensive and ruinous Depredations” committed upon the African trade
by French privateers.27 The more global consequences of all this activity seem,
however, to have been rather limited, since neither nation was heavily involved
in the slave trade at that time.28
***
On the local scene, we recall that the last acting French director fled rather
precipitately in 1797. He argued, following an already familiar pattern, that it
was the only way he could leave, since according to him the king of Dahomey
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THE LONG GOODBYE
would never have given him permission to depart.29 The fort was left in the
custody of a local person described as a free mulatto.
The French were followed by the Luso-Brazilians who simply gave up their
fort in 1805 after the expulsion of no less than four directors in quick
succession between 1797 and 1804, the Dahomean way of protesting against
the sharp drop in the Portuguese trade. In 1805 the incumbent director died
and was not replaced.30 But the Portuguese Prince-Regent pressed for the
reoccupation of the fort of Ouidah even as late as 1816,31 and the Portuguese
never gave up their claim to the fort.
The British were the last to depart. Here we must return to the case of
Lionel Abson, who died in June 1803. As he had become a Dahomean chief,
that is, considered as such by the Dahomean authorities, the king seized his
estate, including his (local) wives and children. Among the latter was his well-
known daughter Sally, who was taken to the royal seraglio, very much against
her will. There she became, according to a visiting Briton who met her, “a prey
to grief, (reason for which she) sunk broken hearted to the grave”.32
Since the British hauled down the flag only in 1812,33 the question is what
became of William’s Fort after Abson’s death and especially after the abolition
of the British slave trade in 1807–8. Actually, the authorities at Cape Coast
Castle alleged in February 1807 that there was no longer any genuine British
fort at Ouidah.34 The fort seems to have been converted into a sort of penal
colony.35 Anyway, the few Britons present, perhaps intermittently, did not
indulge in any trade and endured, generally speaking, a “subjection utterly
disgraceful to the English flag”.36 But perhaps those stationed there took part in
the great civilizing scheme A.G. Hopkins has argued the British tried to put into
practice with the abolition of the slave trade,37 that is, to convince the Dahomean
authorities to focus on agriculture instead of raids and the slave trade.
We repeat that the abandonment of the forts had nothing to do as such
with the effective end of the slave trade which occurred roughly half a century
later. It did not imply either, we also repeat, that the Dahomean authorities
desired the Europeans and Luso-Brazilians to leave or to sever their ties with
them. The impression the sources convey is in fact exactly the opposite. Hence
for instance the two embassies Dahomey sent to Brazil as late as 1805 and
1811 (the third and fourth altogether); they were no more successful than the
earlier ones. It is also significant that after the Euro-American withdrawal the
Dahomeans tried at times to persuade or force Europeans who chanced to pass
by, so to speak, to take over as directors and/or to reoccupy the forts38 (the rest
of the time local people with some connection with the Europeans served as
271
“directors”). It seems in fact that the forts were maintained, as was also the
fiction that the European presence continued.39
What is certain is that Dahomey did not feel like going it alone, so to
speak, once the Europeans and Luso-Brazilians had departed, and felt it
impossible to take over the organization and administration of the slave
trade, actually a much more complicated trade now that it had become
illegal. Hence the emergence of a new category of people which did the job,
but probably at a far higher price than what the Europeans had exacted; a
new category of brokers, what we may call anything from merchant princes
to mafia bosses. These were people like the previously mentioned Monsieur
Pierre in Porto Novo, possibly the prototype, and above all Francisco Félix
de Souza, known as the Chacha, a personal nickname which became a title,40
in Ouidah. De Souza, who probably had a rather murky past, was perhaps the
brother of the last official Portuguese director, and may have begun his career
as the de facto director after the death of his brother in 1805, before setting
out on his own.41 A group of people helped found a community called
Brazilians, though quite a few were actually of French or Spanish origin
(Monsieur Pierre was of course neither French nor Brazilian). That the
Brazilian connection carried prestige, we see from the fact that the French
Ollivier family changed its name to Oliveira.42 These Brazilians, generally
mulattos, also included former slaves returning from Brazil; they developed
a very peculiar and original culture which set them apart from the Africans
and the Europeans.43
***
The teenager Adandozan became nominal king of Dahomey in 1797; a
regency seems to have ruled in his name until about 1804.44 Adandozan was,
as noted, the one who has been left out from what we may call the official
king-list of Dahomey, and continues to be so left out (as not even a casual
visitor to the region can fail to notice since that list is on display everywhere).
It is a list which conveys the impression that the Dahomean throne was vacant
between 1797 and 1818. But Adandozan does figure in the oral traditions,
including in the ones collected by Auguste Le Hérissé. Those traditions
represent Adandozan as something like the quintessential cruel and evil king,
accused of the most heinous atrocities and cruelties one can imagine. But he
was also considered to be a great magician, if not a sorcerer, who could cast
spells45 – to the extent that it was reported to be perilous even to pronounce
his name, even up to the 1970s,46 if not later.
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THE LONG GOODBYE
The modern historian cannot exclude the possibility that there is some
grain of truth in the accusations levied against Adandozan. But they are so
massive and so one-sided that one may be excused for being somewhat
sceptical,47 especially since the historian is familiar with the well-known
archetypical tyrannical kings in the past of Africa, as in the Tado and Notsé
narratives. And is it true that, as the traditions insinuate, Adandozan was not
very successful in war? If so, this was a sort of supreme sin for a king of a
warrior polity. But if so also, Adandozan’s two, possibly three, predecessors
were equally unsuccessful. Why did they not suffer the same opprobrium?
Then there is the fact that Adandozan was unable, although he tried, to
end Dahomey’s status as a tribute-paying vassal of the by now tottering Oyo48
(it would be a long totter, however). But again, his predecessors had been
equally unsuccessful.
Now, if Adandozan was and still is depicted in a most negative way, perhaps
much more negative than the facts warrant, the question is why, and the
answer is far from obvious. However, if we consider Adandozan as the classic
scapegoat, one consequence is that his predecessors, and especially his
immediate successor Gezo, necessarily appear in a much more favourable
light. More generally, if one is left with the impression that Adandozan, by
perhaps pushing the system established by Agaja and Tegbesu to its uttermost
logical and/or absurd end, including a very active secret police,49 took upon
himself all the evil which the collectivity we may call the kings of Dahomey
may be charged with, he then exonerated the others to some extent. His
successor Gezo in particular needed all the favourable light he could get, being
a distant relative of Adandozan50 and as such not really legitimate, and seizing
power through a coup d’état, presumably in 1818 (“presumably”, because, as
noted, we are far from certain about the precise date of the coup; there was no
Father Pires present this time).
Another question is, why was Adandozan simply deposed, but not killed?51
Was it to avoid turning Adandozan into a martyr – if so, why? Or was it to
avoid for as long as possible Adandozan, the magician, being converted into a
genuine vodun? There are those who argue that Adandozan became a vodun
in life, and that in fact he never died.52 It is in any case clear that the magical
aura surrounding Adandozan needs to be explored.
***
So what did Adandozan do exactly? He seems to have tried what one may
describe as the usual methods, that is, first to raid the neighbouring Mahi
273
country, but with, as always, limited success (the question here is again what
was exactly Oyo’s relationship with the Mahi); second, to disrupt the trade of
the neighbouring ports, that is, to raid Badagry and Porto Novo, and hence to
force the slave traders to concentrate on Ouidah (in this he was somewhat
more successful); third, to send missions to Brazil and Portugal; and fourth,
to liberate Dahomey from the tutelage of Oyo. But then there is a fifth point
hinted at by certain historians – that Adandozan tried to impose some
genuinely revolutionary changes, that he was in fact an innovative king,
desiring to break with the traditional slave trade.53 In this context one may
note that Yves Person has argued that Adandozan inaugurated in 1808 a sort
of grand harvest festival, the implication being that he tried, encouraged
possibly by the British, to convert Dahomey into a polity focusing on
agriculture. But if so, he was again unsuccessful, according to Person.54 To this
we must add Adandozan’s clearly tortuous relations with the Brazilians, and
especially with the future Chacha.
If these speculations come anywhere near the truth – they, including the
works of Person and Elisée Soumonni, are based on somewhat flimsy
evidence – then Gezo’s coup against Adandozan begins to make some sense,
since it led to a reversal of the latter’s presumed policy.
With regard to the first point above, many Mahi had to seek refuge in the
region of Atakpamé.55 As for the second point, it is clear that there was
intermittent warfare between Dahomey and Porto Novo during at least the
first half of Adandozan’s reign. It is also clear that the aggressor was at times
Porto Novo.56 However, the rulers of Porto Novo came to the conclusion that
the best way to stop the Dahomean raids was perhaps not to fight but to dig,
that is, to eliminate the short strip of land at present-day Cotonou which
blocked the opening of the lagoon to the sea and permitted the Dahomean
raiding parties to move out east. To this effect they even asked the authorities
in Brazil to send out an engineer. But as with so many other local initiatives,
nothing came of this.57 That said, the conflict between Dahomey and Porto
Novo was finally to the advantage of the slave trading polities further east,
Lagos especially.
Regarding the embassies to Brazil and Portugal, the central fact about
them is that as usual the Dahomeans achieved nothing. Since Adandozan
had expelled several directors, he suffered from a severe problem of
credibility vis-à-vis the Luso-Brazilian authorities. Anyway, what the
Dahomeans wanted, that the Portuguese should trade only at Ouidah, was
again roundly rejected.
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THE LONG GOODBYE
The abundant sources for the two embassies, especially the one in 1805,58
contain some astonishing details. First, Adandozan tried to entice the
Portuguese by arguing that there were gold mines in his realm, gold mines
which had so far remained a secret, but which he was now prepared to exploit
for the benefit of the Portuguese. The Luso-Brazilians did not believe him,
and for good reason.
Second, whoever penned the letter destined for the Luso-Brazilian
authorities added a few sentences of his own in which he described Adandozan
as a cruel man. He also stated that he had been a captive for no less than 23
years – that is, since 1782 – and finished by saying that he dared not go on for
fear of awaking suspicions. So much for the faith we can put in letters penned
by Europeans and Luso-Brazilians (compare the case of Bulfinch Lambe
mentioned earlier). But here one asks oneself what happened to the unknown
person who penned the letter. How many Luso-Brazilian captives were there
really in Abomey, and were they ever liberated? We doubt that they were,
considering the attitude of the Luso-Brazilian authorities in these matters.
Third, Adandozan, presumably in order to demonstrate that he was serious,
made a point of indicating to the Luso-Brazilian authorities the number of
people he had sacrificed in order to assure the success of the embassies, and
also in order to inform his ancestors about what was going on. It may not have
cut any ice with the addressees.
Fourth, the interpreter of the embassy was a certain Innocencio Marquès,
a Brazilian mulatto and a slave trader at Porto Novo whom the Dahomeans
had captured during one of their raids eastwards. Although he had sworn to
return to Dahomey, he remained in Bahia where he became a militia captain
and a sort of counsellor for the affairs of the Costa da Mina.
We note finally that Dahomey was not the only African polity to send an
embassy to Brazil in this period. Lagos did the same in 1807–8, an embassy
described by Pierre Verger as absurd59 (and not even mentioned by Kristin
Mann). But here also there are some interesting details. First the ambassador
of Lagos offered a Pygmy as a gift to the Portuguese Prince-Regent,
presumably a Pygmy slave (what happened to him or her?). The second detail
worth mentioning is that the ship which carried the ambassadors from Lagos
on the return trip was captured first by the French and then by the British
(this was the epoch of the Napoleonic Wars) and forced to return to Salvador
da Bahia before heading for the Slave Coast a second time.
The third Slave Coast polity which sent an embassy to Brazil was Porto
Novo. Its embassy arrived in Salvador da Bahia in December 1810 and thus
275
coincided with the fourth Dahomean one which arrived in January 1811, and
was still there in September 1812.60 The Brazilian authorities considered the
coincidence of the two embassies as embarrassing, as they pursued mutually
incompatible aims.61 In any case, 1811–12 marks the last direct contact
between the polities of the Slave Coast and the authorities in Brazil.
***
If all this suggests a rather negative trend in the internal developments of
Dahomey in this period, we can add two factors which we believe point in the
same direction. The first is the frightening bocio art referred to earlier, which
there is reason to believe flourished in this period. The second is that famine
seems to have struck in 1809–10, and the country experienced a number of
natural disasters to 1812. There is, in addition, the cryptic but possibly
revealing statement made by Herskovits that Sakpata and the Sakpata priests
were quite simply expelled from Abomey by Adandozan.62 To expel a deity is
obviously an impossible task. But the point here is that, as we have argued
repeatedly, Sakpata was considered to represent a threat to royal authority.
Hence the deity’s “expulsion” may be interpreted as a new round in the
struggle between the monarchy and its opponents. Or put differently, the
perennial problem of the monarchy’s legitimacy resurfaced once again.
In this context we need to mention some strange and cryptic hints made
by Maurice Glélé.63 He argues that under Adandozan the descendants of a
certain Awesu Dokonou, until then integrated into the ranks of the
conquerors (that is, the supporters of the monarchy), had begun to detach
themselves from Abomey and instead made allegiance to a certain Josu, chief
of Munyon in the suburb of Abomey. That is all Glélé has to say. And of course
we have really no idea who Awesu Dokonou and Josu were or represented. But
we note that Glélé gives the impression that Josu was some sort of autonomous
prince or vassal close to the very centre of the polity. However, assuming that
Glélé can be trusted, it is tempting to argue that what he has to say points in
the same direction as the expulsion of Sakpata and its priests: to severe cracks
in the very fabric of Dahomey. This may correspond with Edna Bay’s
evaluation of nineteenth-century Dahomey in general, that “In retrospect, one
senses a certain desperation at the center, a fear that control was being lost…
the monarchy was responding to the decline of resources by moving toward
greater coercion”.64 If so, it all began under Adandozan, if not earlier. But if so
also, were the heavy-handed methods of Adandozan indispensable for
maintaining the Dahomean regime?
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THE LONG GOODBYE
When was Adandozan dethroned? The conventionally given date is 1818.

But as noted, that date is quite uncertain. It may have been earlier or (more
probably) later. But what we do know is first that it was a genuine coup, second
that the new king, Gezo, belonged to another lineage than the one which had
provided Dahomey with its kings until then,65 and third that the Chacha
played a leading, possibly determining role – he financed the coup.66 Gezo was
in other words a usurper, and in fact doubly so if one considers, as we do, that
the legitimacy of the very monarchy was dubious. As for the Chacha, since he
owed his position to the withdrawal of the Europeans and the Luso-Brazilians,
one may reasonably wonder if a coup such as this could have been possible if
the forts had remained operative. The counterfactual argument is then that if
Adandozan had adopted a less counterproductive policy towards the Europeans
and the Luso-Brazilians he might have saved his throne. We assume here that
the new brokers, the Brazilians, had, unlike their predecessors, no scruples in
intervening directly in the internal affairs of Dahomey.
The final point in this context is that the active support of the Chacha may
have given Gezo little choice but to carry on with, and in fact to opt for, the
illegal slave trade.
***
On the Western Slave Coast the situation had been changed by the defeat of
Little Popo-Glidji in 1795 and the de facto withdrawal of the Danes. This
implied the “liberation” of Anlo and Keta, the two having established peace at
long last in 1802. The situation was modified once more from 1807 when
Asante on the neighbouring Gold Coast (also opposed to the ending of the
slave trade67) embarked upon a new round of expansion, this time southwards,
at the expense of the coastal Fante especially. This was reminiscent of the
Dahomean southward drive of 1724–27. By 1817 the Asante had annihilated
all resistance, its overlordship being recognized all the way to the River Volta,
but possibly not beyond.68 However, the polities of the Western Slave Coast,
Ada and New Akwamu plus Anlo-Keta and Little Popo-Glidji, were or
became clients or vassals to varying degrees of Asante. The question is to what
degree. Both New Akwamu and Anlo, but especially the first, were, we learn,
firmly within the orbit of Asante, having lent assistance and collaborated in
the crushing of the Fante. As for little Ada and its riverain neighbours, mighty
Asante does not seem to have succeeded in subduing them,69 if indeed Asante
really tried. Regarding Little Popo-Glidji, by now seriously weakened but too
far away, opinions vary.70
277
As for Anlo, having “freed” itself from Little Popo-Glidji and the Danes,
and now enjoying the protection of Asante, it attracted a number of traders of
various origins who established close relations with the local authorities.71 The
result was an era of prosperity based on the illegal slave trade which its ally
New Akwamu fuelled. Anlo continued in fact to be the leading slave trading
polity (if not the only one) on the Western Slave Coast, and remained so until
the 1860s. Hence it found itself pitted against first the Danes (theoretically
overlords until 1850, but legally obliged to combat the slave trade since 1803)
and then the British.72
Regarding Little Popo-Glidji, the defeat at the battle of Adame in 1795
heralded the disintegration of that polity. That disintegration was in a sense
written into the very fabric of the polity. The central monarchy had been
completely discredited because of the defeat at Adame.73 Hence the
autonomous town of Aneho, the genuine Little Popo, distanced itself more
and more from Glidji. But in Aneho itself tension rose between the two
leading clans, the one that traditionally wielded power and a new one on the
rise known under the name of Lawson, and linked to the trade with the
Europeans and the Luso-Brazilians. In fact, the heads of that clan belonged to
the same category as Monsieur Pierre in Porto Novo and the Chacha and the
Brazilians in Ouidah, the new merchant-princes. The difference is that the
Lawson clan was clearly of indigenous origin, although claiming close ties to
the Europeans, as the name suggests. But the result of it all was some sort of
civil war which meant the end of the polity of Little Popo-Glidji as it had
been known till then.74
***
On the Eastern Slave Coast this period saw the continuing rise to prominence
of the previously insignificant Lagos. Lagos shared with the two other leading
polities, Porto Novo and Badagry, three significant features. The first was a
weak monarchy (none at all for most of the time in Badagry) and one torn by
internal strife, especially in Lagos from at least the mid-eighteenth century75
(perhaps because no genuine contrapuntal paramountcy had been allowed to
emerge); this was very far from the “totalitarian” model of Dahomey.
Secondly, there were, as noted, no European or Luso-Brazilian forts, and
Badagry and especially Lagos did without any non-indigenous brokers. And
thirdly, they all opted for the illegal slave trade.
As for Lagos, its slave exports soared dramatically between 1786 and 1790,
owing probably to the “Lagoon War” of 1780–84 and its sequels. But then it
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THE LONG GOODBYE
returned to a much more modest level between 1784 and 1801, before soaring
to unprecedented heights during the next fifty years, dwarfing Badagry and
Porto Novo and also Ouidah, in spite of all the internal conflicts. In addition
to the elements already mentioned (such as the counterproductive policy of
Dahomey) to explain it all, we must not forget Lagos’s very position, too far
to the east for the army of Dahomey, and in any case inaccessible, situated on
an island in the vast Lagos lagoon.
Then, in about 1811–12 or about 1817, depending on one’s definition,
the notorious Yoruba wars erupted. They came to fuel powerfully the illegal
slave trade.
***
It is time to investigate briefly a famous and fascinating myth from the reign
of Gezo, namely that of Agontime. She was a royal princess belonging to
Agonglo’s family, that is, to the losing party in the power struggle in 1797. For
that reason she was sold into slavery. But it so happened that Gezo chose as his
kpojito (“queen-mother”) a woman with precisely the same name, Agontime,
said to have returned from overseas. Was she the same woman? That is, had
she been found by one of the search parties ostensibly sent to the New World
by Gezo to bring home someone who was, it is claimed, none other than his
old wetnurse? The modern historian is suitably sceptical, although he does
know of examples of members of the royal sib who were redeemed after
spending years as slaves in the Americas.76 But perhaps the central point about
Agontime is, as Edna Bay has argued, that she became, as a high-ranking
individual sold out of Dahomey at the time of Adandozan’s succession, an
emblem of opposition to the same Adandozan, and in the process contributed
to legitimate Gezo’s usurpation. To the believers she was in fact living proof of
Adandozan’s excesses since members of the royal sib were, they argued, not
supposed to be sold into slavery.77 However, as Edna Bay has also pointed out,
“being traded overseas was one of several documented punishments for losers
in political struggles at court”.78
Another prominent figure in the reign of Gezo, and much more famous, is
of course the Chacha. If we ask what exactly was his role or position after the
coup, the answer is that it is far from clear, the relatively large literature about
him notwithstanding. The problem begins already with his title, the Chacha,
that is, the first Chacha – a nickname converted into a title, but a title with
very unclear attributes. However, let us follow David Ross who argues that de
Souza was made a Dahomean chief, was given the monopoly of the sale of
279
slaves from Ouidah, and was put in charge of, or controlled all Dahomean
relations with the Europeans. In fact, Ross alludes to the “monarch’s
dependence on an outsider”, something he considers to be “a new development
in Fon politics”.79 All of this is rather vague, however, as Ross himself admits.
What then about the Chacha’s relations with the Brazilian community in
Dahomey, a community he is considered to have founded in some way, but
which became genuinely prominent only after 1835, according to Elisée
Soumonni?80 The date here refers to the great urban revolt among the slaves
in Salvador da Bahia in Brazil which goes under the name of Malês (that is,
Muslim-inspired).81 Many of the rebels caught were forced to leave Brazil and
several ended up on the Slave Coast, some even as slave traders.82 That former
slaves became active in the slave trade is a fact which should not surprise us by
now, we have seen that the past is full of examples of this.
So was the Chacha, besides being by far the most important slave trader,
the head, unofficial or otherwise, of the local Brazilians? And/or was he some
sort of Viceroy of Ouidah, as the title of a well-known novel implies?83 Was
he also the power behind the throne, with Gezo in some sense his hostage?
If so, does it explain why Dahomey stuck to the illegal slave trade to the end?
Or was it the other way around, was the Chacha a mere useful subordinate of
Gezo? Was furthermore the Chacha a sort of ruffian, godfather or nabob, as
portrayed by among others Captain Canot,84 himself not a very commendable
individual? And if so, can we risk arguing that we are in the world of
organized crime?
The first Chacha is presented on the one hand as a gentleman, or a tropical
fidalgo, with exquisite manners,85 and on the other as a ruthless, insensitive
slave trader with many vices – he had some 302 wives according to Elisée
Soumonni86 – and who turned out in the end to be a rather poor businessman
(he was probably illiterate). He died in fact heavily in debt (in 1849), possibly
courtesy of the British anti-slave trade squadron.87 Hence, and although de
Souza was followed by one of his sons, the position of the Chacha seems to
have lost progressively much of its importance and relevance, whatever it was.
This may also have been due to the rise of other Brazilian traders to
prominence88 – the emergence of a genuine merchant community, and an
affluent one, according to Robin Law.89 If so, does this mean that Gezo was in
the process of liberating himself from the grip of the Chachas, assuming that
he had been in such a grip, and does it explain the fact that Gezo put an end
after the 1840s to the relatively liberal tax regime the Ouidah merchant
community had, according to Robin Law, enjoyed under him until then?90
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THE LONG GOODBYE
What we can say for certain, and as a conclusion, is that the Chacha
personified the illegal slave trade; a trade without which the Chacha and his
likes would have been inconceivable.
***
We must move backwards in time once more, to the accession of Gezo the
usurper. It looked as if it might herald in a new era for Dahomey, because the
very conditions that determined the life and existence of the polity were being
profoundly modified, and positively so, seen from the point of view of the
Dahomean elite.
First, Dahomey’s old local enemy Little Popo-Glidji entered, as noted, into
a process of disintegration, a process more or less complete by 1834. Aneho had
become by then a completely independent mini-polity under the Lawsons.91
Second, and obviously more fundamental, the Yoruba wars, which erupted
some time in the 1810s,92 resulted in the long-expected collapse of Oyo. They
were completed in possibly 1836–37, with the abandonment of the old capital
of Oyo Ile. Gezo and Dahomey had their share in all this, defeating the Oyo
army twice in 1823.93 This was certainly not a major feat, considering the
weakness of that army by then. But Gezo did free Dahomey from its vassalage
to Oyo, a fact which may explain Gezo’s position in the traditions as
Dahomey’s most revered king (along with Agaja).94 And Dahomey could
begin raiding again.
The disappearance first of Little Popo-Glidji and later of the Oyo empire
meant that Dahomey had no longer any serious external enemies. The collapse
of Oyo and the long period of warfare which was the result in Yorubaland meant
in addition a huge number of refugees and war prisoners, fuelling the slave trade,
and not only at Lagos.95 Hence the external slave trade experienced a clear
recovery (again mostly on the Eastern Slave Coast) all the way to 1850/51,
when it virtually stopped all of a sudden, as the Database makes very clear.
The removal of Dahomey’s enemies opened the way to the first significant
aggrandisement of Dahomey since the days of Agaja. Although the
chronology is unclear, it may have begun with the occupation of what we have
presented earlier as the Adja-Mono plateau west of Lake Ahémé, which had
strangely enough remained independent until then.96 It continued with the
subjugation of most of Mahi country and of Sabe, a Yoruba polity close by.97
And further east both Ketu and Porto Novo, which could no longer count on
the protection of Oyo, were forced to come to terms with Dahomey, although
they did manage to conserve their autonomy.98 Porto Novo, which probably
281
fell away from Oyo even before 1823, had to wage war with Badagry for many
years, until 1830.99
Third, the economy and especially the external trade of Dahomey were
diversified. In addition to slaves, Dahomey and in fact the whole of the Slave
Coast began to export a mundane vegetable oil derived from a palm fruit
which grew wild in the region. This was palm oil, for which there turned out
to be a considerable demand in Europe.100 Its export, however, began in earnest
relatively late, in 1838, after Gezo had been king for quite some time. It was
then that the Gold Coast-based mulatto merchant Thomas Hutton opened a
factory for the oil trade at Ouidah, reoccupying in the process the old William’s
Fort, although only temporarily.101 Hutton was followed in 1842 by the French
firm of Victor Régis of Marseille which set up shop in the French fort, the
second of the forts thus to be reoccupied102 (the firm also lent for some time
what may be called “a helping hand” to the slave traders103). The Régis firm
turned out to be the most active European commercial presence in the place.
In the minds of many Europeans palm oil was supposed to represent an
alternative to the illegal slave trade; it was “legitimate”. Recent research has
made clear, however, that the locals did not perceive the two branches of the
export-economy as antagonistic or mutually exclusive, but rather as
complementary. Indeed, the leading slave-traders also took up palm oil
production and export. As for the production part, the question is whether and
to what extent slave labour was involved – that is, whether genuine plantations
emerged – or whether most of the oil was processed by independent small-scale
producers. The question is also the role of the monarchy in all this, whether and
to what extent the monarchy was able to benefit from the income from this
new resource. The way we interpret the existing literature is that it was not
necessarily a question of either-or, but of both, the problem being the relative
importance of the respective alternatives. But palm-oil could only be produced
on or close to the coast because of the problem of transport.104 And on the
import side, the nations involved in the oil trade, principally Britain and
France, could boast much more advanced economies than those of Spain-Cuba
and Portugal-Brazil, and had therefore more to offer than the countries
involved in the illegal slave trade:105 a new variant of an old story. It should be
noted finally, and most importantly, that the collection and selling of the palm
oil, by its very nature, did not and could not provoke any fundamental change
in the organization of economic production.
In addition to the palm oil traders, a stream of visitors, especially British,
also arrived, after 1843. Among them were missionaries (well received as
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THE LONG GOODBYE
always),106 explorers, and government officials, the latter sent to persuade

Dahomey to end the slave trade.107 Those visitors have left abundant sources,
many of them even wrote books – the exotic nature of Dahomey continued
to intrigue and attract readers. We have in short a considerable number of
eye-witness accounts. Hence, the history of nineteenth-century Dahomey
from the second half of the 1840s is well known.
Conditions were in short favourable for Dahomey. But the Dahomean
leaders seem to have been unable to genuinely benefit from this new situation.
In fact, when Dahomey was brought to the test, it signally failed. The main
problem was the tremendously fragile foundation of the illegal slave trade as
one of the main pillars of the Dahomean economy. It was dramatically
demonstrated once the British began to put genuine pressure on the demand
side. Indeed, in 1850 the British, by threatening to bombard Brazilian ports,
gave the Brazilian authorities no choice but to enact at long last effective
legislation against the slave trade. A law voted by the Brazilian Congress on 4
September 1850 defined the import of slaves to Brazil as an act of piracy and,
as such, punishable with death.108 The illegal slave trade to Brazil collapsed
almost immediately. With that collapse our story ends, in a sense.
***
To return to a theme evoked above, the present historian may be excused for
wondering what would have happened, or rather would not have happened,
had Great Britain not decided to launch what may be considered to be a
veritable crusade against the slave trade. What if one had left everything to the
market forces? After all, Africans were determined to continue supplying
slaves, and the Brazilians in particular equally determined to import those
same slaves. But this was a field in which the British government, certainly a
capitalist one, was prepared to infringe on all existing international
conventions and laws, and to use violence or at least the threat thereof, to stop
the law of supply and demand from functioning. We repeat that it was in the
end the demand which was eliminated, not the supply.
In order to underscore their point, the British blockaded at various
moments in 1851–52 the coast of the Bight of Benin, including that of
Dahomey, and bombarded Lagos in December 1851. The consequence was
the establishment of a de facto protectorate over the latter polity, with the
result that all the slave traders fled.109 It heralded the beginning of the colonial
era. But Dahomey, which could not be touched by sea, hung on, thus
becoming the last stronghold of the illegal slave trade on the Guinea coast, as
283
it tried to benefit from the fact that the (small) Spanish-Cuban market still
remained open, although not for long (to 1862 or a little later).110 In
conclusion, Dahomey persisted doggedly, stubbornly, with the slave trade, and
to the very bitter end.
More surprising, Dahomey, as the quintessential warrior polity, was unable
to take advantage of the golden opportunity for easy conquest which the
Yoruba wars presented it with, that is, to establish itself as the dominant polity
in the wider area. In fact, out of the chaos in Yorubaland there arose in the
1820s and 1830s two new polities, the result of the regrouping of refugees,
namely Ibadan and especially Abeokuta. Neither was, as far as we know,
particularly well articulated or structured, although both benefited from the
indirect support of the British;111 and neither was particularly militarized or
militaristic. Yet the upstart polity of Abeokuta proved to be far too formidable
for Dahomey. It began in 1844 when Abeokuta forces ambushed successfully
an important Dahomean military detachment. And it continued in March
1851 and March 1864 (in the latter year under Gezo’s successor Glélé) when
Abeokuta inflicted on Dahomey two resounding and humiliating defeats.112
To Gezo, who sought to legitimize his usurpation by presenting himself as a
successful warrior king, reasserting in the process the Dahomean militaristic
values,113 the defeat of 1851 must have been a major blow, occurring as it did
at the same time as the collapse of the illegal slave trade.
On the internal front Gezo is said to have tried to put through “an
economic and political revolution which might have made Dahomey a model
of what, in English eyes, an African state ought to have been”.114 But if so, that
attempted revolution, which was not at all evident to the British authorities
of the time (nor is it evident to the present author), also failed. One may call
attention in this context to the readiness with which the historians attribute
reforming intentions to successive Dahomean kings. As it is, Gezo is
principally known for the doubling of “inside” and “outside” officials,115 a
measure the historians are not certain how to interpret. It is tempting,
however, to argue that it is a sign of a king who did not feel altogether safe,
fearing perhaps the same fate as Adandozan, and who, by making the
government machine somewhat more collective (and outsized), tried to avoid
any undesired concentration of power. It is in any case tempting to relate this
doubling to the dramatic growth of the unproductive palace population.116
If we are correct in diagnosing a certain feeling of insecurity (as suggested
by the comments of Edna Bay above), that feeling may also explain the many
ritual innovations associated with Gezo, amounting to more spiritual
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THE LONG GOODBYE
engineering. They led to a significant extension of the ceremonial cycle, an

extension which proved in turn negative to commerce in Edna Bay’s view.117
We note in this context especially the new emphasis on the increasingly
popular Fa geomancy and the corresponding elevation of Fa diviners
(bokonon) to central political positions. The other innovations consisted in
enhancing once again the importance of the ancestor cult, in order, says Edna
Bay, to weaken once again the appeal of the so-called popular vodun, that is,
Sakpata and Hevioso.118 It should be noted in this context that Gezo could
not honour his predecessor Adandozan with the usual elaborate funeral
ceremonies, for the very simple reason that Adandozan was still alive119 (it is
even possible that he outlived Gezo who passed away in 1858, perhaps killed
by his own120 if he too did not fall victim to Sakpata’s smallpox121). What the
above indicates in any case is that Sakpata was still very much around, in spite
of its “expulsion” under Adandozan. In fact, Gezo too “banned” the cult of
Sakpata.122 But more generally, why ritual innovations if the existing rituals
functioned well? Obviously they did not, and we deduce that Gezo continued
to be beset by the perennial problem of legitimacy.
Gezo, always on the lookout for supernatural support like all Dahomean
kings, obtained a number of Christian religious statues, and with great
ceremony installed them in a specially constructed house. It is said that Gezo
attributed his success against Oyo to those statues.123 What happened then to
the Muslim influence noted earlier?
It is also believed that Gezo streamlined the military structure, reorganizing
the famous female guard, the Amazons,124 and considerably increasing the
standing army (if that is what it was).
***
If the testimony of European visitors in the 1840s is anything to go by, very
little if anything had changed in Dahomey by then (unless we suffer from an
optical illusion, in the sense that those testimonies either colour or constitute
the basis for our perception of Dahomey also in earlier times). For instance,
Blaise Brue, the local agent of the Régis company, incidentally invested
solemnly with the command of the French fort and the adjoining village by
none other than Gezo himself in May 1843,125 maintained that the Dahomean
regime was of the despotic kind, the king having the right of life and death
over his subjects (“droit de vie & de mort sur ses sujets”), and that the custom
of human sacrifice continued unabated. In fact, Brue noted the oppressive
display of human skulls virtually everywhere.126
285
Then there is Brodie Cruickshank, a British official, who visited Dahomey

in 1848. Cruickshank echoed earlier writers by describing Dahomey, or at
least the region of Kana (he wrote Canna), as nothing less than a “beautiful
Eden”, endowed with what he qualified as “a superior system of agriculture”.
He was especially impressed by the (probably recently constructed127) royal
road between Kana and Abomey, and noticed also the “most respectable
appearance” of the royal palaces. But then there were the skulls to be seen
everywhere. And the general atmosphere was one of “fanaticism and blind
obeyance” in this “very despotic and extremely warlike” land.128
The observant Cruickshank added that “Nothing prevents an increase of
wealth among the people but the King’s policy in seizing upon the property
of deceased persons – it renders (the ordinary Dahomean) contented with the
simple supply of his few wants”.129 The moral was that there was no incentive
to work.
***
It remains for us to say a few words about the Western (Little) Slave Coast,
where the general trend noticed in the preceding chapter was the ending of
external interference. One cause was the previously mentioned disintegration
of Little Popo-Glidji, which obviously affected the Western Slave Coast as
well. Another, equally external cause was the beginning of the confrontation
on the Gold Coast between on the one hand Asante, weakened by the end of
the slave trade, and on the other the British and their allies the Fante. After the
Crown assumed direct control of the forts in 1821 (only until 1828, but again,
and permanently, from 1843, thus heralding in the colonial era on that coast),
the stage was set in 1823 for the first of the four Anglo-Asante wars which
eventually spelled the end of Asante. Hence Asante’s indirect and ill-defined
dominance of the Western Slave Coast came to an end.130 The main
beneficiaries were the inland Ewe and the main loser New Akwamu. First,
New Akwamu liberated itself from Asante, even fighting against Asante on
the side of the British; but secondly, the inland Ewe polities (dukowo) united
under the leadership of Peki and waged what it is tempting to call a successful
wars of liberation against New Akwamu between 1829 and 1834. After which
New Akwamu, which had at one stage appealed to the Danes for assistance,
disappeared from the scene.131 This does not seem to have affected the Anlo
confederacy in any negative way, however. Indeed, Anlo continued to practice
the illegal slave trade to the very end; among the victims were not infrequently
its own inhabitants.132
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THE LONG GOODBYE
We note finally that Anlo had become by then a thoroughly maritime-

oriented polity. It was reflected in a subtle ongoing religious change, the god
of the sea Yewe, the local variant of Hu, became ever more important,
appealing especially to the many foreigners who had settled in the polity, to
the detriment of Nyigble associated with the Awoamefia. In short, there was a
religious transition to the maritime world.133
***
As we have noted, the fight against the illegal slave trade turned out to be the
prelude to the colonial era on the coast of Guinea. Indeed, although
Dahomey – or what was left of it – fell to French (and not British) invaders
only in 1892–94 (and Asante to the British only in 1896), the writing on the
wall was clear for everyone to see already by the 1850s, if not earlier.
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EPILOGUE
The main themes evoked in this work, especially the one summarized in its
very title, plus the themes of the origins and nature of the Dahomean polity,
and the conclusions they have generated, have been stated – we hope – with
sufficient clarity. They do not need therefore to be further elaborated upon in
the following. But they lead us to reflections of a theoretical-global character.
In this day and age of Global History, in which Africa appears as the
marginalized “loser” in a sense (it is mostly about the so-called Western world
and Asia), the balance has to be corrected, which is what we have had in mind
when writing this work. Can we in fact imagine the modern world without
the consequences of slavery and the slave trade? And what would that trade
have been without that small place we call the Slave Coast?
We have also tried to show that, apart from Dahomey and possibly
Akwamu, the polities of the Slave Coast were in no way unique, but very
similar to many polities elsewhere in the world before and outside the regions
where so-called revealed religions came to dominate. Even the exception to
the rule, the militaristic-“totalitarian” Dahomey (plus Akwamu), is of course
no exception at all in a broader comparative context. Hence the Slave Coast,
and West Africa south of the Sahara more generally, ought to constitute a
fertile ground for comparative studies. The study of the past of that region
alerts us in particular to the central role of what we may call religion in
so-called “pagan” societies. The word “pagan” may shock but is not used, we
repeat, in any pejorative sense, only for lack of a suitable alternative – such
terms as the often-used “ethnic religions” strike us as inadequate, if not
289
misleading. So we are dealing with that we call sacred (“pagan”) societies, as

defined earlier in this work. It is the world of Mother-Earth, of ritual “control”
of the land, of earth-priests, of kindreds or sibs, of sacred kingship, of
contrapuntal paramountcy, of mana, of ritual king-slaying, and so on.
If pressed, we would be inclined to argue that the sacred societies
constituted for very long the norm in the past of humanity. In fact, we believe
that one way of conceptualizing a very fair slice of that past is to argue for a
dichotomy between, on the one hand, the sacred “pagan” societies, and on the
other, societies in which forces pointing in a quite different direction were at
work: forces which would lead in the long run to a growth economy,
secularization, industrialization and so on – though this dichotomy does leave
us, we readily admit, with a very large rest-category, including notably most of
the Graeco-Roman world of Antiquity. There is anyway no question about
who “won”, or who is in the process of “winning”, since the sacred “pagan”
societies are fast disappearing from the surface of the earth. Actually, they
began to disappear very early in what is called the West, the Muslim world
included, that is, the part of the world where the science of history emerged.
For that reason they have remained to a considerable extent outside the gaze
of historians.1 Or put differently, most historians are familiar with the
exception, the West, not necessarily with the rule.
We think, furthermore, that the revealed religions, by propagating a linear
concept of time and also, in the case of Christianity especially, by postulating
an incipient distinction between the secular and religious spheres (“Render
unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are
God’s”2), contributed powerfully in the long run, and somewhat paradoxically,
to the marginalization of the sacred – once what we may perhaps call the
sacred-totalitarian-fundamentalist pretensions of the medieval Catholic
church had been definitively defeated by the men and women of the
Renaissance, by Martin Luther and a few others, and by the Enlightenment,
which left as legacy a diversity of more or less irreconcilable truth claims. In
the case of Africa, and singularly in the case of the region and the period
studied above, we have unveiled several attempts at breaking out of the
straightjacket that one may consider, or some have considered, the sacred
societies to constitute. One such attempt may have been made in Dahomey,
whether consciously or not. But if so, it failed, since the rulers of Dahomey
were unable to come up with a genuinely functioning alternative – if they ever
really tried – relying finally on little more than brute force, the result being
that they found themselves saddled with an unresolvable problem of
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EPILOGUE
legitimacy. Hence the increasingly militaristic and “totalitarian” deviation of

the Dahomean regime (whether or not the case of Dahomey really fits the
usual definitions of “totalitarianism” is a moot but irrelevant point in this
context). If so, we cannot exclude, incidentally, the possibility that the
imperialist conquest in the 1890s, whatever its excesses, was perceived as some
sort of liberation by the people of the Slave Coast. Casimir Agbo certainly
hints as much in the case of Ouidah.3
But how does the slave trade fit into all this? We must note that the first
polities which entered the slave trade, Allada and Hueda, were of the
“traditionalist” (sacred-“pagan”) kind. What Dahomey did was simply to
break into, and to take over, an already well-established trade. Actually,
Dahomey almost “spoiled” it all through its lack of commercial acumen. But
more to the point, sacred societies are also kinship-type societies, and, as
noted, in that kind of society whoever belongs to another kindred than one’s
own does not count for very much. Besides, the slave trade proved to be the
easy way out, the easy way to procure a number of desired goods, many of
them generating prestige, including in the religious sense, without
jeopardizing the basic structure of the society and its world outlook (this is
not to deny the strain provoked by the slave trade on that structure and that
world-view). There is, in sum, something non-revolutionary, something deeply
conservative about the slave trade on the supply-side; nothing in the way of
radical changes in what the Marxists call the mode of production. The point
is that the slave trade, including the capture of slaves, belongs in the final
instance to the most basic and “primitive” of all economic activities, that of
hunting and gathering. Or if one prefers, it is based on the extraction of what
we may presumptuously call “natural resources”. And as is well known, the
extraction of, and especially dependency on, such resources can be very
perilous in the long run.
That being said, the present author has to admit that the slave trade, that
most absurd of the occurrences in the past, belongs in his mind to the same
category as many central events and occurrences which the same author would
be grateful if someone could explain satisfactorily to him. Among them are
the Greek “miracle” (the first genuinely massive breakout from the sacred
[“pagan”] societies model), the emergence of revealed religions, the rise and
especially the fall of the Roman Empire,4 the First World War, the rapid
Nazification of Germany after January 1933, the Spanish Civil War of 1936–
39 – the latter two being personal, not to say existentialist problems – and so
on. We believe we know a lot about those events or occurrences, and others,
291
and we believe we also understand to a considerable extent what they were all
about. But as for genuinely explaining them, there is always something
missing, an element which eludes us, the question which surfaces after the last
answer one has been able to come up with. The conclusion is that history
cannot explain what it is supposed to explain, namely the past. But perhaps we
are asking for too much.
In this context we feel like adding a point which has become embarrassingly
clear to us, and which is reflected, we believe, in the preceding chapters: how
hopelessly little we really know, when all is said and done, about the past of
the Slave Coast. And what we do know, or at least what the present author has
tried to demonstrate, clashes uncomfortably often with the seductive concepts
and theories elaborated by impatient historians eager, very understandably, to
incorporate the past of the Slave Coast into more general contexts, theoretical
or otherwise.
So what is left? Perhaps something called insight…
***
A personal note: in the late 1980s whoever drove along the narrow and (in
theory) tarred road along the coast between Lomé in Togo and Cotonou in
the present-day Republic of Benin could easily have missed the town of
Ouidah. Only a rather worn road-sign which had fallen down indicated
where one had to turn to the right. However, once the centre of the town
was reached, the conclusion which imposed itself upon the visitor was that
the town was a melancholy, not to say depressing one, belonging to the
infamous “hole-in-the-middle-of-nowhere” category. There was, even with
the best of intentions, nothing of interest to be seen. The town was, to be
quite honest, rather repulsive. What I witnessed was the result of many
decades of decay and neglect. As for the access to the beach it was impossible
with a car, there were simply no roads. I made it down to the seaside after a
terrible ride on a rented motorcycle – all that sand – including across a
bridge of sorts over the lagoon. It was an overwhelming experience to
wander absolutely alone along that enormous beach, and contemplate the
mighty Atlantic (no boats on the horizon), while trying to imagine the
unimaginable, the sufferings and deaths of so many fellow-humans on that
precise spot not so long ago.
Crossing the Atlantic some time later, I had the opportunity to travel to the
famed town of Salvador da Bahia de todos os Santos (to quote its full name)
in the traditionally poor north-eastern part of Brazil. Salvador’s close relations
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EPILOGUE
with the coast of West Africa have been an important theme in this work.
Salvador and its bay are the centre of a region called the Recôncavo. And on
the other side of that bay, some way inland, I visited another equally
melancholy backwater-town: Cachoeira (present population: less than
40,000), known principally today – according to Wikipedia – as the centre of
candomblé, a so-called Afro-Brazilian religion, and capoeira, a dance and
martial art. Yet those two backwater-towns, Cachoeira and Ouidah, were
intimately linked in the past, since most of the famous third-class rejected or
refugado tobacco consumed on the Slave Coast came from the region of
Cachoeira (B.J. Barickman tells us that Cachoeira prospered well into the
nineteenth century but then declined precipitously, along with tobacco5). The
question is why – why some regions prospered in the past but were later
turned into backwaters, while others experienced exactly the opposite. I
believe I know some of the answers. All the same, contemplating first Ouidah
and then Cachoeira in the 1980s can only be described as an impacting,
thought-provoking experience.
The next and last time I visited Ouidah was some twenty years later (by
then Cachoeira was out of my reach). In the meantime the town had changed
radically, and for the better. There had in particular been erected, with the
financial assistance of various international organizations, some
monuments – one even imposing, and on the beach itself – which were
supposed to indicate that this was indeed a major centre of the slave trade (it
is no longer possible to be alone on that beach now complete with a hotel
and restaurants). But the aim seems to have been principally to attract what
is called “ethnic tourism” in the wake of the “finding-one’s-roots” movement
triggered by Alex Haley’s famous Roots.6 And the problem is that the direct
relationship between those monuments and the historical reality they are
supposed to symbolize is unfortunately very spurious.7 It is all the more
embarrassing since at the same time a Slave Route Project with clear
intellectual ambitions was launched.8
To quote Elisée Soumonni, a native son who has appeared frequently in the
preceding pages, “The not always explicitly avowed intention of [it all] is to
generate revenue through external assistance and to stimulate the development
of tourist activities”.9 The so-called first voodoo (and not vodu) festival
organized in 200410 was part of the same tourist offensive.
But the “ethnic tourism” has not really taken off, so that the monuments
had already by the time I contemplated them a certain worn-out aspect,
suffering obviously from poor maintenance.
293
The problem is that the majority of slaves from the Slave Coast were
exported to Brazil and the French islands, and the descendants of slaves in
those parts of the New World do not yet have the same purchasing power as
those of the US. And although the Slave Coast was by far the leading epicentre
of the slave trade in West Africa, and is to-day probably one of the safest places
on the continent, the Afro-Americans of the US head for Ghana, the former
Gold Coast, and Senegal, believing rightly or wrongly that that is where their
ancestors came from, not for the Slave Coast (the historians only know that
relatively few slaves ended up in British North America, later the US –
possibly about 6 per cent of the total). It is telling in this context that
President Obama himself chose to go, during his two visits to West Africa, to
Ghana and Senegal, not to Benin-Togo and the Slave Coast. The two former
places display what the latter does not: old buildings – forts, European forts
that is, and on the sea-shore – which to the layman constitute concrete
evidence of the slave trade.
294
pp. [xiii–2]
NOTES
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
1. Portuguese orthography has changed frequently in the last centuries.
2. See the preceding footnote.
3. England did not adopt the Gregorian calendar from 1582 until 1751, by which time
the old Julian calendar lagged 10 days behind the Gregorian one. In addition, the
civil year officially began on 25 March rather than on 1 January.
INTRODUCTION
1. Unless otherwise indicated, all figures and dates with regard to the slave trade are
from the monumental Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade Database, Emory University,
National Endowment for the Humanities, and the W.E.B. Du Bois Institute,
University of Harvard (http://www.slavevoyages.org/tast/assessment/estimates.
faces. Retrieved at various times since December 2011). The scholars responsible are
David Eltis, David Richardson, Stephen D. Behrendt, and Manolo Florentino.
A version destined for a larger audience is David Eltis and David Richardson,
Atlas of the Transatlantic Slave Trade (Yale University Press, 2010)
2. According to Robin Law, Ouidah. The Social History of a West African Slaving ‘Port’
1727–1892 (Ohio University Press and Oxford, James Currey, 2004a). The book is
in fact dedicated “To the memory of the more than one million enslaved Africans
who passed through Ouidah on their way to slavery in the Americas or death in the
Middle Passage”.
3. Justly Watson, “A Report on the Survey of William’s Fort Whydah [Ouidah]”, 1755
(NA, CO 267/11).
4. “Un triple barre de brisants épouvantables”, E. Bouët-Willaumez, Commerce et traite
des noirs aux côtes occidentales d’Afrique. 1er janvier 1848 (Paris, 1848; reprinted
Geneva, 1978), 122; “trois rouleaux de barre”, Simone Berbain, Le comptoir français
de Juda (Ouidah) au XVIIIe siècle. Études sur la traite des noirs au golfe de Guinée
(Dakar, IFAN, 1942), 70, referring to Joseph Crassous’ experience in 1772–74.
295
NOTES p. [2]
See also, for instance, Robert Harms, The Diligent: A Voyage through the Worlds
of the Slave Trade (New York, 2002), 199 (based on an unpublished manuscript by
the slave trader Robert Durand from 1731–32); and “Relation du Royaume de Judas
en Guinée. De son gouvernement, des moeurs de ses habitants, de leur Religion. Et
du Negoce qui s’y fait”, ca. 1715 (CAOM-DFC, carton 75, doc.104).
5. In addition to the above: Père Dieudonné Rinchon, Pierre-Ignace-Liévin Van Alstein,
capitaine négrier. Gand 1733-Nantes 1793 (Dakar, IFAN, 1964), 339; Robert Norris,
Memoirs of the Reign of Bossa Ahádee, King of Dahomey. To which are Added, the
Author’s Journey to Abomey, the Capital; and a Short Account of the African Slave
Trade (1789, reprinted London [Frank Cass] 1968), 61-2.
6. See, for instance, Barbot on Guinea. The Writings of Jean Barbot on West Africa 1678–
1712, 2 volumes, P.E.H. Hair, Adam Jones and Robin Law (eds) (London [The
Hakluyt Society], 1992), 631; J.A. Skertchly, Dahomey as it is (London, Chapman
and Hall, 1874), 7; Antoine Edmé Pruneau de Pommegeorge, PDP, Description de
la Nigritie (Amsterdam and Paris, Chez Maradan, 1789), 199; Law (2004a), 135.
7. See, for instance, letters from Whydah [Ouidah] in March 1687 signed John Carter,
in Robin Law (ed.), Further Correspondence of the Royal African Company of England
Relating to the ‘Slave Coast’. Selected Documents from Ms. Rawlinson C.745–747 in
the Bodleian Library, Oxford (African Studies Program, Univ. of Wisconsin-Madison,
1992a), 45; and in Robin Law (ed.), The English in West Africa, 1691–1699. The Local
Correspondence of the Royal African Company of England 1681–1699, Part 3 (Oxford
University Press/British Academy, 2006), 340-41. See also William (Willem) Bosman,
A New and Accurate Description of the Coast of Guinea (first published in Dutch in
1704; new English edition London [Frank Cass], 1967), 337; William Smith, A New
Voyage to Guinea (1744, reprinted [Routledge] 1967), 166-7.
A certain Jean Papineau became famous because he survived miraculously a ten-
hour stint in the sea, possibly because he had a long knife with him. See Captain John
Adams, Remarks on the Country extending from Cape Palmas to the River Congo
(London, 1823, reprinted 1966), 57-60.
8. Patrick Manning, Slavery, Colonialism and Economic Growth in Dahomey, 1640–
1960 (Cambridge University Press, 1982), 332.
9. See, for instance, Law (2004a), 18; and “Mémoire de Jacques Proa, dit Proa des îles”,
1806, 94 (AD-Charente Maritime, La Rochelle, 4J2318).
Even so, ships must have been driven ashore during storms especially. One
spectacular episode in 1705, in which a ship was smashed to pieces, is recorded in
Nigel Tattersfield, The Forgotten Trade. Comprising the Log of the “Daniel and Henry”
of 1700 and Accounts of the Slave Trade from the Minor Ports of England, 1698–1725
(London, Jonathan Cape, 1991), 105-7.
10. In addition to the ones already cited, cf. for instance “Inspection”, 1755 (NA,
T70/176); John M’Leod, A Voyage to Africa. With Some Accounts of the Manners and
Customs of the Dahomian People (1820, reprinted London [Frank Cass] 1971), 7-8;
N***, Voyage aux côtes de Guinée et en Amerique (Amsterdam, 1719), 57; J.F.
Landolphe, Mémoires du Capitaine Landolphe rédigés sur son manuscript par J.S.
Quesné (2 vols., Paris,1823), II, 27-8; Richard F. Burton, Wanderings in West Africa,
from Liverpool to Fernando Po, vol. II (London, Dover Publications, 1863), 189.
296
p. [3] NOTES
Note finally what the official Western Coast of Africa, published by the
Hydrographer of the Navy, counselled in 1849: “nothing ought to induce an attempt
to land anywhere [on the Slave Coast] in other than local canoes and surf boats,
and even these require much skill in handling” (12th edition published in London
1967 under the title Africa Pilot, and prepared by Lieut. Commander J.F. Gruning,
vol. I, 472).
There is a particularly vivid description in Frederick E. Forbes, Dahomey and the
Dahomans. Being the Journals of Two Missions to the King of Dahomey and Residence
at his Capital in the years 1849 and 1850 (London, Longman etc., 1851), vol.I, 11-14
& 45; vol.II, 127-9, 200-1.
11. André Guilcher, “La région côtière du Bas-Dahomey occidental. Étude de géographie
physique et humaine appliquée”, Bulletin de l’IFAN, série B, vol. XXI, 3-4 (1959),
357-424 (386-7).
12. Excellent description in “Mémoire pour servir d’Instruction au Directeur qui me
succedera au comptoire de Juda, par Mr. Gourg” 1791 (CAOM-DFC, carton 75,
doc. 118). Published under the title Ancien mémoire sur le Dahomey in Mémorial de
l’artillerie de Marine, vol. XX (1892), 747-76. See also Thomas Phillips, “A Journal
of a Voyage Made in the Hannibal of London, Ann. 1693,1694 (etc)”, in Awnsham
Churchill and John Churchill (eds), Collection of Voyages & Travels, vol. VI (1732),
171-239 (214); Law (2004a), 26.
There are some splendid illustrations, in a cartoon of all places, one actually based
in part on genuine primary sources: François Bourgeon, Le Comptoir de Juda (vol.
3 of Les Passagers du Vent) ( Jacques Glénat, Grenoble, 1981).
13. See, for example, Smith (1744/1967), 169; Alexandre L. D’Albéca, one of the first
colonial administrators in the region: “Voyage au pays des Éoués”, I, Le Tour du
Monde, no. 8, 23.2.1895, 85-92 (88). Pruneau (1789), 170. Les hamacaires, i.e. those
who transported the hammocks, were considered to be the aristocracy among the
porters.
14. Although trypanosomiasis is basically a phenomenon of regions covered by rain
forest, the Slave Coast was and is not free of it. In fact, the closer one gets to the coast,
the more the tsetse fly becomes numerous. (Information deduced from a superficial
perusal of the relevant websites of the World Health Organization.)
For an interesting historical angling, see A. Norman Klein, “Toward a New
understanding of Akan origins”, Africa, 2, 66 (1996), 248-73.
15. Pruneau (1789), Description, 242-4.
16. See, for instance, Journal du Corsaire Jean Doublet, Lieutenant de frégate sous Louis
XIV, edited by Charles Bréard (Paris 1883), 253; Vicente Ferreira Pires and Clado
Ribeiro de Lessa (ed.), Crônica de uma Embaixada Luso-Brasileira à Costa d’África
em fins do século XVIII, incluindo o texto da Viagem de África em o Reino de Daomé
escrita pelo Padre Vicente Ferreira Pires no ano de 1800 e até o presente inédita (São
Paulo, 1957), 26-8; Skertchly (1874), 5.
17. Reported in Johannes Rask, En kort og sandferdig reisebeskrivelse til og fra Guinea
(Trondhjem [Trondheim], 1754). English version by Selena Axelrod Winsnes: Two
Views from Christiansborg Castle, vol. I, A Brief and Truthful Description of a Journey
to and from Guinea (Accra, Sub-Saharan Publishers, 2009), 49.
297
NOTES pp. [3–4]
18. Kenneth G. Kelly, “Using Historically Informed Archaeology: Seventeenth and

Eighteenth Century Hueda/European Interaction on the Coast of Bénin”, Journal
of Archaeological Method and Theory, vol. 4, nos. 3/4 (1997), 353-66.
19. It has been completely dwarfed by the rise of a number of new towns, Cotonou in
particular.
No one seems to know for certain how many people live in Ouidah at present.
The estimates range widely, from 25,000 to 90,000. In the 1860s the British believed
that the town had about 25,000 inhabitants (Rear Admiral Henry Keppel to the
Secretary of the Admiralty, 16.7.1860; NA, ADM/123/183).
20. Its destiny is curious. After the French conquest, it became a Portuguese enclave, in
fact the world’s smallest colony, since it measured little more than two hectares. It
was annexed by the Republic of Dahomey, now Benin, on 1 August 1962, without
any resistance. It was converted into a museum in 1967. See Edmundo Correia Lopes,
São João Batista de Ajudá (Lisbon, Edições Cosmos, Coll. Cadernos coloniais no.58,
1939); J. Anacoreta Correia, “O forte português de Ajudá na Costa do Benim
(subsídios para a sua historia)”, Boletim da Sociedade de Geografia de Lisboa, ser. 180a
7.12.1996, 23-86.
On the Portuguese fort generally, see also Pierre Verger, Le Fort St. Jean-Baptiste
d’Ajuda (Mémoire de l’Institut de Recherches Appliquées du Dahomey, 1966).
The French fort was razed to the ground in 1908, much to the chagrin of the
local population, if we are to believe Casimir Agbo dit Alidji, Histoire de Ouidah du
XVIe au XXe siècle (printed in Avignon, 1959), 25 & 300. As for the English fort, it
rather faded away over the years (Law, 2004a, 33).
21. Point discussed in Finn Fuglestad, “Le questionnement du ‘port’ de Ouidah (Côte
des Esclaves)”, in Øystein Rian, Finn Erhard Johannessen, Øystein Sørensen and Finn
Fuglestad (eds), Revolusjon og resonnement. Festskrift [Festschrift] til Kåre Tønnesson
på 70-årsdagen den 1. januar 1996 (Oslo 1995), 125-36.
22. Law talks of the “conventional image of a land cut off from the sea”; Robin Law,
“Between the Sea and the Lagoons: The Interaction of Maritime and Inland
Navigation on the Precolonial Slave Coast”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXIX, 2
(1989a), 209-37 (209). See also Jean-Pierre Chauveau, “Une histoire maritime
africaine est-elle possible? Historiographie et histoire de la navigation et de la pêche
africaine à la côte occidentale depuis le XVe siècle”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXVI,
1-2 (1986), 173-235.
There were, then, no local “navigational nurseries” in John Hargreaves’ felicitous
expression. Quoted in Emmanuel Kwaku Akyeampong, Between the Sea & the
Lagoon. An Eco-social History of the Anlo of Southeastern Ghana, c.1850 to Recent
Times (Ohio University Press/James Currey, Oxford 2001), 30.
23. Landolphe said in 1786 (p. 28): “en considérant cette foule de difficultés pour arriver
au pays des noirs, n’est on pas tenté de croire que la nature a voulu les soustraire à
l’esclavage des Blancs?”
24. Joseph E. Inikori, “The Unmeasured Hazards of the Atlantic Slave Trade: Sources,
Causes and Historiographical Implications”, in Doudou Diène (ed.), From Chains
to Bonds. The Slave Trade Revisited (Paris/UNESCO and New York/Oxford,
Berghahn, 2001), 22-35.
298
pp. [5–6] NOTES
25. To be correct, we must add that there was at times a fourth (small) fort, at Keta in
the west, the short-lasting Dutch one of Singelenburg to 1737, and the Danish fort
of Prindsensten erected in 1784, of which ruins are still visible to-day. But those forts
were always of quite marginal relevance in the broader picture. Note that Keta is
situated on a reef of soft rock and constitutes as such some sort of exception on the
Slave Coast. Cf. A.W. Lawrence, Trade Castles & Forts of West Africa (London,
Jonathan Cape, 1963), 364.
Another late Danish fort, at Ada, was situated right on the border between the
Slave and Gold Coasts.
26. Watson’s report from 1755, op. cit; Adams (1823/1966), 51. Here is an early
description of the English fort: “100 yards square, 21 good guns mounted- a trench
20 foot deep & 18 foot wide, commonly guarded with about 20 white men & 100
gromettoes [=slaves?]”. Charles Davenant, Reflections upon the Constitution and
Management of the Trade to Africa (etc.) (London 1709), part 2, 34.
27. This at the beginning of the nineteenth century (13 Dutch, 9 or 10 English and 3
Danish forts). There were, in addition, about 20 other trading stations. Cf. Ivor Wilks,
“The Mossi and Akan states, 1400 to 1800”, in J.F. Ade Ajayi and Michael Crowder
(eds), History of West Africa, vol. one (third ed., Harlow/Essex, Longman, 1985),
465-502; based on J.D. Fage, “A New Check List of the Forts and Castles of Ghana”,
Transactions of the Historical Society of Ghana, IV (1959).
There was one fort every 10 to 15 miles, according to Rebecca Shumway, The
Fante and the Transatlantic Slave Trade (University of Rochester Press, 2011a), 3.
28. Cf. among others: John Atkins (Surgeon in the Royal Navy), A Voyage to Guinea,
Brasil, and the West Indies; in His Majesty’s Ships, the Swallow and Weymouth (1735,
new impression London [F. Cass, 1970), 172; Abraham Du Port from Whydah
[Ouidah], 12.11.1727 [O.s.], in Robin Law (ed.), Correspondence of the Royal African
Company’s Chief Merchants at Cabo Corso Castle with William’s Fort, Whydah, and
the Little Popo Factory, 1717–1728. An Annotated Transcription of Ms. Francklin
1055/1 in the Bedfordshire County Record Office (African Studies Program, University
of Wisconsin-Madison, 1991), 12; M’Leod (1820/1967), 14-15.
29. Ibid., 14-16; Bourgeon (1981), 57-8; based on authentic archival documents, in
particular “Deux plans de Juda, avec commentaires, par l’Abbé Bullet, 1776” (AN,
C6-27, d.11).
30 A good example is found in Accounts-William’s Fort Nov-Dec.1752 (NA, T70/1158).
31. Law (2004a), 163; Harms (2002), 158.
32. Tattersfield (1991), 81. For instance, the English clung to the belief that in the larger
sense they were essential for the preservation of their interests in Africa. K.G. Davies,
The Royal African Company (London, Longmans etc., 1957), 262.
Says Rebecca Shumway (referring only to the Gold Coast forts): “The forts had
to do with reasons that made more sense in the broader context of European empire
building in the Atlantic than in the local context of Guinea” (Shumway [2011a], 62).
33. Albert van Dantzig, Les Hollandais sur la Côte de Guinée à l’époque de l’essor de
l’Ashanti et du Dahomey 1680–1740 (Paris, SFHOM, 1980).
34. There is a good example in a letter signed E. Jackline, Whydah [Ouidah], 13.10.1692
[O.s.] in Law (1992a), 55.
299
NOTES pp. [6–7]
35. Peter C.W. Gutkind, “The Canoemen of the Gold Coast (Ghana). A Survey and an
Exploration in Precolonial Labour History”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXIX, 3-4
(1989), 339-76; Jane Martin, “Krumen ‘down the coast’: Liberian Migrants on the
West African Coast in the 19th and 20th Centuries”, International Journal of African
Historical Studies, 18, 3 (1985), 401-23; Akyeampong (2001), 30.
The most recent works on Fante are those of Rebecca Shumway (2011), and
Rebecca Shumway, “The Fante Shrine of Nananom Mpow and the Atlantic Slave
Trade in Southern Ghana”, International Journal of African Historical Studies, 44, 1
(2011b), 27-44; and Robin Law, “The Government of Fante in the Seventeenth
Century”, Journal of African History, 54, 1 (2013), 31-51. Neither refers to the
canoemen.
36. Phillips (1732), 228 ; Johann Peter Oettinger’s account from 1692–93 in Adam
Jones (ed.), Brandenburg Sources for West African History 1680–1700 (Stuttgart/
Wiesbaden, 1985), 189.
37. The correct present Portuguese spelling is remadores. The relationship between the
Europeans and the canoemen constitutes a frequently recurring theme in the sources.
38. “Relation du Royaume de Judas en Guinée” (op. cit.); Letter from Whydah [Ouidah]
24.12.1729/30 [O.s.] (NA T70/1466); Phillips (1732), 228; Law (1989), 226-7;
Rincon (1964), 338.
39. Even the British Methodist missionary Freeman’s horse in 1843. Thomas Birch
Freeman, Journal of Various Visits to the Kingdoms of Ashanti, Aku, and Dahomi, in
Western Africa (London, second ed. 1844, third ed., 1968), 242.
40. “Bom sera que vão confesados com os olhos serados, e o Credo na boca” – not easy
to translate, but the gist of it is that one should be at peace with the Almighty, and
profess one’s faith in Him before confronting the surf. Jozé Antonio Caldas, “Noticia
geral de toda esta capitania da Bahia desde o seu descobrimiento até o prezente anno
de 1759” [i.e. written in 1759], Revista do Instituto Geographico e Historico da Bahia,
57 (1931), 287-315 (301).
41. No statistics are available. Our own list of individual cases is a very long one, but does
not lead us anywhere.
42. See documents reproduced in Robin Law (ed.), The English in West Africa, 1685–
1688. The Local Correspondence of the Royal African Company of England, 1681–
1699, Part 2 (Oxford University Press/British Academy, 2001a), 339-43; and Law
(1992a), 43 & 429.
43. “On every occasion a fetish man, covered from head to foot with gris-gris stands in
the boat invoking the spirit of the waters to be propitious & quell the raging of the
sea (on reaching the shore) thanks are immediately returned to the water-divinity”.
James Fawckner, Narrative of Captain James Fawckner’s Travels to the Coast of Benin,
West Africa (London 1837),120. See also Richard Lander, Records of Captain
Clapperton’s Last Expedition to Africa (London, 1830, 2nd ed. 1967), vol. I, 42; Paul
Isert, Letters on West Africa and the Slave Trade. Paul Erdmann Isert’s Journey to
Guinea and the Caribbean Islands in Columbia (1788), Selena Winsnes (ed.) and
trans. (British Academy/Oxford University Press, 1992), 28; Réflexions sur Juda,
par le sieur De Chenevert et l’abbé Bulet, à Juda [Ouidah] le 1.6.1776, 12 (CAOM-
DFC, carton 75, doc. 111); Akyeampong (2001), 108; Bosman (1704/1967), 368a.
300
pp. [7–9] NOTES
From all this we learn that rough seas were attributed to the sea goddess (Hu),
considered to be the meanest of the divinities.
44. See, for instance, “Journal de navigation du sieur Joseph Crassous de Médeuil,
Lieutenant en premier ‘Le Roy Dahomey’1772-74” (AM La Rochelle, série EE,
carton 282-3).
45. Law (1989), 228-9; Journal kept at Christiansborg 23.12.1698-1.9.1703, in Ole
Justesen (ed.), Danish Sources for the History of Ghana 1657–1754, 2 volumes
(Copenhagen 2005), 128-9.
46. Inspired by Robin Law, “West Africa’s Discovery of the Atlantic”, International Journal
of African Historical Studies, 44, 1 (2011), 1-25.
47. Phillips (1732), 228. Or as a Frenchman noted, one had to treat the canoemen well,
for disgruntled canoemen were not above “losing” merchandise and slaves in the
surf: “Mémoire concernant la Compagnie de Judas”, 1722 (AN C6-25).
48. Pires (1957), 138.
49. David Eltis, Economic Growth and the Ending of the Transatlantic Slave Trade (Oxford
University Press, 1987), 92 & 162; and by the same author, The Rise of African Slavery
in the Americas (Cambridge University Press, 2000), 149 & 182-3.
50. For a general overview, see Robin Law, The Slave Coast of West Africa 1550–1750.
The Impact of the Atlantic Slave Trade on an African Society (Oxford University Press,
1991b).
51. “Réflexions sur Juda” 1776 (op.cit.), 12; Law (1989), 211.
52. Olfert Dapper, Description de l’Afrique (Amsterdam, 1686), 306 [Originally published
in Dutch under the title Naureurige Beschrijvinge der Afrikaenesche Gewesten (etc)
(Amsterdam 1668)] (the French translation of Dapper has an unfavourable
reputation, but it is the only version I have had access too); Silke Strickrodt, “Afro-
European Trade Relations on the Western Slave Coast, 16th to 19th centuries”
(unpublished PhD thesis, University of Stirling, 2003), 129ff (Strickrodt’s thesis has
been superseded recently by her book on the same subject: Afro-European Trade in
the Atlantic World: The Western Slave Coast, c.1550–c.1885, published by James
Currey in early 2015. But it appeared after the completion of the present work).
See also Bouët-Willaumez (1848/1978), 123.
53. On Anlo, see Akyeampong (2001).
54. That is, 21 years before Columbus crossed the Atlantic. Note that Columbus made
at least one voyage, possibly more, to the Guinea coast, to São Jorge da Mina, present-
day Elmina, in the 1480s. P.E.H. Hair, “Columbus from Guinea to America”, History
in Africa, 17 (1990), 113-29.
55. But the latter sold out between 1717 and 1720 according to Albert van Dantzig and
Barbara Priddy, A Short History of the Forts and Castles of Ghana (Accra, 1971), 37-9.
It was in 1603 that the Elector of Brandenburg acquired Prussia, and in 1701 that
he took the title of king of Prussia.
56. They were eliminated very early on, by the Danes in fact. See György Nováky,
Handelskompanier och kompanihandel. Svenska Afrikakompaniet 1649–1663. En
studie i feodal handel (Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Uppsala, 1990). Summarized
in György Nováky, “Small Company and the Gold Coast: the Swedish African
Company, 1650–1663”, Itinerario, 16, 1 (1992), 57-76.
301
NOTES pp. [9–10]
57. On the forts in general, see Lawrence (1963); Dantzig and Priddy (1971).
58. See for instance, letter signed E.N. Boris et al., 14.11.1739 ( Justesen [2005], 558);
Isert (1788/1992).
59. On the Danish activity in Guinea, the leading work is Per O. Hernæs, Slaves, Danes,
and African Coast Society. The Danish Slave Trade from West Africa and Afro-Danish
Relations on the Eighteenth-Century Gold Coast (Department of History, University
of Trondheim, 1995). An older but still useful work is Georg Nørregaard, Guldkysten.
De danske etablissementer i Guinea (København [Copenhagen] 2nd ed. 1968) [the
English translation is reputed unreliable].
60. Paul Roussier (ed.), L’établissement d’Issiny 1687-1702. Voyages de Ducasse, Tibierge
et d’Amon à la côte de Guinée publiés pour la première fois et suivis de la Relation du
Voyage du Royaume d’Issiny du P. Godefroy Loyer (Paris 1935); Gérard Chouin,
Eguafo: un royaume africain ‘au coeur françois’ (1637–1688). Mutations socio-
économiques et politique européenne d’un État de la Côte de l’Or (Ghana) au XVIIe
siècle (Paris, AFERA éd., 1998), esp. 166-9; Shumway (2011a), 45-6.
61. The main work on the Portuguese on the coast of Guinea remains Pierre Verger, Flux
et reflux de la traite des nègres entre le Golfe de Bénin et Bahia de Todos os Santos du
XVIIe au XIXe siècle (Paris/The Hague, Mouton, 1968).
62. “Description nautique de la Côte d’Afrique etc.”, no date, but probably 1780s (AN
Marine, 2/JJ/95); Robert Smith, “The Canoe in West African History”, Journal of
African History, XI, 4 (1970), 515-33; Africa Pilot (1967), 452; Lawrence (1963), 30.
At Elmina, the oldest and largest European fort, landing could be effected in
ship’s boats.
63. In addition to the above, see Hans Christian Monrad’s testimony from his stay on
the Gold Coast between 1805 and 1809, published in 1822. English version by
Selena Axelrod Winsnes in Two views from Christiansborg Castle, vol. II: A Description
of the Guinea Coast and its Inhabitants (Accra, Sub-Saharan Publishers, 2009), 103
& 242.
64. Africa Pilot (1967), 450-51; “Description nautique” (op. cit.).
65. Ludewig Ferdinand Rømer, A Reliable Account of the Coast of Guinea (1760), Selena
Axelrod Winsnes (ed.) and trans. (British Academy/Oxford University Press, 2000);
192; Africa Pilot, (1967), 441; Bouët-Willaumez (1848/1978), 122.
66. Erick Tilleman, En kort og enfoldig beretning om det landskab Guinea og dets
beskaffenhed (1697). A Short and Simple Account of the Country Guinea and its
Nature; Selena Axelrod Winsnes (ed.) and trans. (University of Wisconsin-Madison,
1994), 34.
67. The main work on Benin is A.F.C. Ryder, Benin and the Europeans 1485–1897
(London, Longmans, 1969).
68. Armando Cortesão and A. Teixeira da Mota, Portugaliae Monumenta Cartographica,
vol. II (Lisbon, 1960), 212.
69. Duarte Pacheco Pereira, Esmeraldo de Situ Orbis, George H.T. Kimble (ed.) and
trans. (London, The Hakluyt Society 1937; first published in 1892, but probably
written in 1505–8). See J.D. Fage, “A Commentary on Duarte Pacheco Pereira’s
Account of the Lower Guinea Coastlands in his Esmeraldo de Situ Orbis, and on
Some Other Early Accounts”, History in Africa, 7 (1980), 47-80 (65); A.F.C. Ryder,
302
pp. [10–12] NOTES
“Dutch Trade on the Nigerian Coast during the Seventeenth Century”, Journal of
the Historical Society of Nigeria, III, 3 (1966), 195-210 (196).
70. The first time some of the story appeared in print may have been in Blaise Brue,
“Voyage fait en 1843 dans le royaume de Dahomey”, Revue Coloniale, VII (1845),
55-68; except that Brue argued that the first Europeans were Frenchmen, not
Portuguese. Brue was followed by Sir Richard F. Burton, A Mission to Gelele, King of
Dahomey (etc) (second ed. 1864; new ed. with an Introduction and Notes by C.W.
Newbury; London [Routledge and Kegan Paul], 1966), vol. II, 297 (this time the
Portuguese were the first); and then by a host of other writers, especially Portuguese.
See for instance Pupo Correia, “Subsídios para a história de S. João Baptista de Ajudá.
A chegada dos Portugueses ao Dahomey”, O Mundo Português, VI, 63 (1939), 105-
7. The story was enshrined as part of the local tradition in Agbo (1959), 15, 48, 67,
132 & 194.
See Robin Law’s extensive treatment and interpretation of the subject in Ouidah
(2004a), 14, 21-2, 93-4 & 106.
We note finally that, although some locals became divinities, the first Portuguese
did not. This may be considered to be somewhat strange, since according to Sandra
Barnes the “conventional pattern for dealing with extraordinary ideas, culture heroes,
or anomalies in nature was to deify them”. See her “Introduction: The Many Faces
of Ogun”, in the book edited by her, Africa’s Ogun: Old World and New (Indiana
University Press, 1989), 5.
71. Édouard Foà, Le Dahomey (Paris 1895), 224; Paul Marty, “Études sur l’Islam au
Dahomey”, Revue du Monde Musulman, LX (1925), 109-88 (129). Note that Kpatè
and Kpassè, the king of Hueda at the time of the event according to the traditions,
even had streets named after them in the colonial era (Agbo [1959], 298-9).
72. Underlined in Dapper (1686), 304.
For a quick overview, see Colleen E. Kriger, “‘Guinea cloth’. Production and
Consumption of Cotton Textiles in West Africa before and during the Atlantic Slave
Trade”, in Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarath (eds), The Spinning World. A
Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200–1850 (Oxford University Press, 2009),
105-26.
Cotton was apparently a commodity produced and prized also in Dahomey
much later.
73. “Description des Roiaumes ou l’on fait le commerce en Afrique, avec le Journal du
voyage fait en Guinée avec trois vaisseaux du Roy; Le Capitaine du vaisseau “La
Tempête” [i.e. Du Casse and hence from 1687–88] (AN Marine 3/JJ/252).
74. The same applies to the Gold Coast, where “the native population...did not appreciate
the philanthropy of the abolition act” of 1807. Eveline C. Martin, The British West
African Settlements 1750–1821. A Study in Local Administration (London, Longmans
etc., 1927), 152.
75. J.D. Fage, “Slaves and Society in Western Africa, c.1445–c.1700”, Journal of African
History, 21, 3 (1980), 289-310 (309).
76. The theme is much in evidence in many of Fage’s works, and in fact already in his
famous article “Slavery and the Slave Trade in the Context of West African History”,
Journal of African History, X, 3 (1969), 393-404.
303
NOTES pp. [12–14]
77. Seymour Drescher, “White Atlantic? The Choice for African Slave Labor in the
Plantation Americas”, in David Eltis, Frank D. Lewis and Kenneth L. Sokoloff (eds),
Slavery in the Development of the Americas (Cambridge University Press, 2004),
31-69.
78. Two letters from Ouidah, both dated 14.10.1713 (NA, T70/3 & 5), one of them
signed Charles Greene. Also J. Tinker and Humfreys from Whydah [Ouidah]
10.5.1724 (NA, T70/7)[all O.s. dates].
79. The standard work remains Herbert S. Klein, The Middle Passage. Comparative studies
in the Atlantic slave trade (Princeton University Press, 1978). But see also Eltis and
Richardson (2010), 159-96.
80. For a discussion, see Finn Fuglestad, The Ambiguities of History. The Problem of
Ethnocentrism in Historical Writing (Oslo Academic Press, 2005).
81. We consider it pertinent in this respect to refer to the astonishment expressed by the
prominent Conservative MP Charles B. Adderley in the House on Commons on 3
April 1865: “How, then, along such a coast can slaves be exportable?” It is true that
he reacted to a testimony which depicted the conditions on the Guinea coast generally
in the era of the so-called illegitimate slave trade. But that trade was at its most intense
on the Slave Coast. See Parliamentary Papers: Report from the Select Committee on
Africa (Western Coast). Ordered, by the House of Commons, to be Printed, 26 June
1865, 53. Adderley, the chairman of that committee, was Cabinet minister twice, in
1858–59 and 1874–78.
One feels that Adderley’s astonishment ought to have been shared by most
modern historians.
82. To refer only to what has filtered down to the in a sense non-specialized literature:
we know that African slaves comprised the vast majority of the migrants to the
Americas before 1800. But high death rates and low birth rates meant that they did
not generate a proportionate number of descendants. Cf. James Belich, Replenishing
the Earth: The Settler Revolution and the Rise of the Anglo-World 1783–1939 (Oxford
University Press, 2009), 26 (in fact based on several articles by David Eltis). We also
know that “The West Indian slave population was far smaller than the total number
of slaves shipped there, indicating that very high levels of slave mortality required
constant slave inflows to replenish supply”. (Ronald Findlay and Kevin H. O’Rourke,
Power and Plenty. Trade, War, and the World Economy in the Second Millenium
[Princeton University Press, 2007], 231). This strikes us as a polite way of saying that
some sort of “soft” genocide occured.
Note furthermore that many slaves, after arriving wherever it may have been in
the Americas, were submitted to the extra hardship of being resold, re-exported or
smuggled to other places on that continent. Cf. for instance Wim Klooster, “Inter-
Imperial Smuggling in the Americas, 1600–1800”, in Bernard Bailyn and Patricia L.
Denault (eds), Soundings in Atlantic History. Latent Structures and Intellectual
Currents, 1500-1830 (Harvard University Press, 2009), 141-80.
Only 5 per cent of the slaves ended up in North America. Although perhaps they
should not be seen as the lucky few, most of them were set to work growing cotton
as opposed to the much more demanding sugar-cane. Hence, “Life expectancy and
reproductive potential were much poorer in the Caribbean than on the North
304
pp. [14–15] NOTES
American mainland” (Eltis and Richardson, Atlas, 161). What is true for the
Caribbean is also true for Brazil.
83. To the best of our knowledge, the study of that trade has not progessed very far since
the pioneering contribution by Ralph A. Austen in 1979. Cf. his “The Trans-Saharan
Slave Trade: A Tentative Census”, in Henry A. Gemery and Jan S. Hogendorn (eds),
The Uncommon Market. Essays in the Economic History of the Atlantic Slave Trade
(New York 1979), 23-76.
84. Even today it is difficult not to be repelled by the classic argument that the Africans
were better off as slaves in America than as freemen in Africa, and that as slaves in
America they were offered the possibility to “see the light” and thus presumably to
avoid eternal damnation. A notorious example is the foreword by Bishop Erik
Pontoppidan (1698-1764) dated 1760 in Rømer (1760/2000), 5-12. Pontoppidan
was a leading figure in the Lutheran church of Denmark-Norway. His name may still
ring a bell among the older generation of Danes and Norwegians, owing to his famous
catechism whose lifetime spanned several centuries.
85. Inspired in part by David Brion Davis, The Problem of Slavery in Western Culture
(Oxford University Press, 1966).
86. Pruneau (1789), 207-8, 216-7 & 262. He went on to argue that “les partisans [de la
traite] veulent rendre la religion complice de leurs crimes” (ibid. 263-4).
There also comes to mind in this context the experience of John Newton (1725–
1807), a captain of slave ships who became an Anglican cleric and wrote the hymn
“Amazing Grace” (point made to the present author by Edna Bay).
87. We are referring to the Slave Trade Act of that year. For a discussion, see Eltis (1987).
88. The historian in question is Arif Dirlik, and the comments above are inspired by a
recent review of his in American Historical Review, 5 (2010), 1445-7.
89. Parliamentary Papers. Correspondence with British Ministers and Agents in Foreign
Countries, and with Foreign Ministers in England, relating to the Slave Trade. From
April 1, 1849, to March 31, 1850 (Presented to both Houses of Parliament by Command
of Her Majesty. 1850), 6 (also published by Irish University Press in the series Slave
Trade, vol. 37, Shannon, 1969).
90. It is true that Denmark (or, if one prefers, Denmark-Norway) abolished the slave
trade in 1792, but with effect only from 1802–3 – before Britain. But that prohibition
concerned only Danish subjects, with the result that the slave trade went on as before
from the Danish establishments. Cf. Ole Feldbæk and Ole Justesen, Kolonierne i
Asien og Afrika (Copenhagen, 1980), last chapter.
We find it significant that there existed absolutely no abolitionist movement in
the eighteenth century in the reputedly most tolerant and most humanitarian of the
European countries, namely the Dutch Republic, in contrast to Britain and France.
The Netherlands was in fact among the last European states to abolish the slave trade
and slavery. Cf. Ernst van den Boogaart, “Books on Black Africa. The Dutch
Publications and their owners in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries”, in Beatrix
Heintzle and Adam Jones (eds), European Sources for Sub-Saharan Africa before 1900:
Use and Abuse. Paideuma, vol. 33 (Wiesbaden, 1987), 115-26; Seymour Drescher,
“The Long Goodbye: Dutch Capitalism and Antislavery in Comparative Perspective”,
American Historical Review, 1, 99 (1994), 44-69.
305
NOTES pp. [15–17]
91. Tapan Raychaudhuri, Jan Company in Coromandel 1605–1690: A Study in the

Interrelations of European Commerce and Traditional Economies (The Hague,
Martinus Nijhoff, 1962) , 164-7.
The Portuguese apparently had a somewhat similar experience in India. Cf. King/
secretário de Estado, to Viceroy Brazil, Lisbon, 29.5.1731 (OR, vol. 27, doc. 79;
reproduced in Anais/Annaes do Archivo Público da Bahia/Arquivo do Estado da Bahia,
vol.42 [1976], 81).
92. Law (2004a), 14. Other historians who have done field work on the Slave Coast,
notably Edna Bay, have come away with the same impression (personal communication,
3 January 2015).
93. Ibid., 148-9. And the treatment of slavery and the slave trade in Agbo’s Histoire, the –
we repeat – leading local traditional history, cannot be described as anything but a
gross attempt at falsification. This is the book which has become canonical locally,
according to Law (2004a), 66.
94. Notably Robert M. Baum, Shrines of the Slave Trade. Diola Religion and Society in
Precolonial Senegambia (Oxford University Press, 1999), 97 & 178; Shumway
(2011b), 133.
95. Law (2004a), 50.
96. Ibid., 153.
97. See her books Et si l’Afrique refusait le développement? (Paris, L’Harmattan, 1991);
and Comment l’Afrique en est arrivée là (Paris, L’Harmattan, 2011); plus a famous
interview with her in Paris-Match, 20.8.1992, under the title “L’Afrique serait-elle
incurable?”
98. From authors quoted in Jeffrey Gunn, “Creating a Paradox: Quobna Ottobah
Cugoano and the Slave Trade’s Violation of the Principles of Christianity, Reason,
and Property Ownership”, Journal of World History, vol. 21, 4 (2011), 629-56
(631). Gunn’s article provides us with an illuminating account of the arguments
in favour of and against slavery and the slave trade in the eighteenth century
and earlier.
99. It means having filled up half the expected cargo of slaves. Expression encountered
in document 814, dated 1.3.1686 [O.s.] in Law (2001a).
100. Quoted in Emilia Viotti da Costa, “The Portuguese-African Slave Trade. A Lesson
in Colonialism”, Latin American Perspectives, 12, 1 (1985), 41-61 (47).
101. The word is used systematically in the Ordens Régias, as in for instance the one signed
in Lisbon on 27 May 1716 (vol. XI, doc. 54). Published in Anais/Annaes do Archivo
Público/do Arquivo do Estado da Bahia, Brazil, vol. XXI (1949), 314.
The verb is obviously a hangover from the period when the Portuguese (and other
Europeans) did in fact ransom Christian captives in Muslim countries.
102. “Les Nègres...si necessaires pour la culture des sucres, tabacs, cottons, indigos & autres
denrées”, Édit du Roy du mois de Mars 1696 (printed). Consulted in AD Loire
Atlantique, Nantes (C739).
103. “J’en demande pardon à l’humanité, mais les nègres sont aux cultures de nos colonies
ce que les boeufs et les chevaux sont aux cultures d’Europe”, Mémoire anonyme ca.
1775 (AN, Colonies F/2a/11).
306
pp. [17–23] NOTES
104. “Este triste, mas necessario commercio”; Conde do Funchal & Linhares to the British
Government, Rio 16.11.1811 (OR, vol. 112, doc. 299C, Arquivo (Público) do Estado
da Bahia, Brazil).
105. Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: the “Objectivity Question” and the American
Historical Profession (Cambridge University Press, 1988).
106. Or at the least carry connotations which are not necessarily applicable to Africa of
old. Among those who argue the contrary, at least in the case of Dahomey, is Robin
Law (1991b), 70-104. Linda Heywood and John Thornton agree with him. See their
“Kongo and Dahomey, 1660–1815: African Political Leadership in the Era of the
Slave Trade and Its Impact on the Formation of African Identity in Brazil”, in Bernard
Bailyn and Patricia L. Denault (eds), Soundings in Atlantic History. Latent Structures
and Intellectual Currents, 1500–1830 (Harvard University Press, 2009), 86-111.
A1
THE SLAVE COAST: A GENERAL PRESENTATION
1. The Lower Guinea Coast is usually defined as the region between Cape Mesurado
in Liberia and Cameroon or Gabon. The name Guinea was for long synonymous
with Black Africa. The English coin known as Guinea was first struck in 1668 by the
Royal African Company from gold imported from that coast.
2. Robin Law, The Slave Coast of West Africa 1550–1750. The Impact of the Atlantic
Slave Trade on an African Society (Oxford University Press, 1991b), 13.
3. James Fairhead and Melissa Leach, Misreading the African Landscape. Society and Ecology
in a Forest-savanna Mosaic (Cambridge University Press, 1996); Law (1991b), 19.
4. On the climate and the geography in general of the region, cf. in particular Alfred
Comlan Mondjannagni, Campagnes et villes du sud de la République Populaire du
Bénin (Paris/The Hague, Mouton, 1977); André Guilcher, “La région côtière du
Bas-Dahomey occidental. Étude de géographie physique et humaine appliquée”,
Bulletin de l’IFAN, série B, XXI, 3-4 (1959).
5. See, for instance, Strikrodt (2003), 28.
6. Excellent map in Larry W. Yarak, Asante and the Dutch, 1744–1873 (Oxford
7. Valentin A. Agbo and Pierre Bediye, “Le plateau Adja”, in Jon Daane, Mark Breusers
and Erik Frederiks (eds), Dynamique paysanne sur le plateau Adja du Bénin (Paris,
Karthala, 1997), 29-48, especially 32-9.
8. Robin Law argues that it appeared in print for the first time in the book by the Dane
Erich Tilleman published in 1697 and referred to above. See his The Kingdom of
Allada (Leiden, Research School CNWS, 1997c), 1. Earlier it was called Costa
Darida or Costa Arda, Arda being another name for Allada. Cf. Armando Cortesão
and A. Teixeira da Mota, Portugaliae Monumenta Cartographica (Lisbon, 1960), vol.
II, 266 & III, 362.
9. The central work on Oyo remains Robin Law, The Oyo Empire c.1600–c.1836. A
West African Imperialism in the Era of the Atlantic Slave Trade (Oxford University
Press, 1977).
307
NOTES pp. [23–25]
If Law’s and my own calculations are anything to go by, Oyo at its greatest extent,
in the 1780s, covered a territory one and a half time that of the whole Slave Coast.
At that time Oyo embraced roughly half the land area and half the population of
Yorubaland, according to J.D.Y. Peel, Religious Encounter and the Making of the
Yoruba (Notre Dame: Indiana University Press, 2000), 28-9.
10. Main work: Ivor Wilks, Akwamu 1640–1750. A Study of the Rise and Fall of a West
African Empire (University of Trondheim, 2001), the printed version of a thesis
of 1958.
11. The pioneering work on the past of Ketu is E.G. Parrinder, The Story of Ketu. An
Ancient Yoruba Kingdom (Ibadan University Press, 1956).
On the Yoruba inside the Slave Coast generally, see Paul Mercier, “Notice sur le
peuplement Yoruba au Dahomey-Togo”, Études Dahoméennes, IV (1950), 29-40.
12. Hounkpatin C. Capo, “Le Gbe est une langue unique”, Africa, 53, 2 (1983), 47-57.
See also his “Elements of Ewe-Gen-Aja-Fon dialectology”, in François de Medeiros
(ed.), Peuples du golfe du Bénin. Aja-Ewe (Paris, Karthala, 1984), 167-78.
13. But if so, one is left with, for instance, the problem of translating the phrase “our Gbe
language”. Cf. E.Y. Egblewogbe, “The language(s) of the Lower Volta and Yewa area,
a problem of classification and terminology”, in N.L. Gayibor (ed.), Toponymie
historique et glossonymesactuels de l’ancienne Côte des Esclaves (XVe-XIXe siècle)(Lomé,
Presses de l’Université du Benin, 1990), 103.
14. See the excellent maps in Irene Quaye, “The Ga and their Neighbours 1600–1742”
(unpublished PhD thesis, University of Ghana, 1972).
15. Law (1991b), 14.
16. Robert S. Smith, Kingdoms of the Yoruba (London, Methuen, 2nd ed., 1976), 77.
See also the excellent map in Patrick Manning, Slavery, Colonialism and Economic
Growth in Dahomey, 1640–1960 (Cambridge University Press, 1982), 23.
17. Peel (2000), 29.
18. Dassa-Zoumé, also called Idáìsà, and Savè, Sabi or Sabe. See Abiodun Adediran, “The
Formation of the Sabe Kingdom in Central Benin Republic”, Africana Marburgensia,
16, 2 (1983), 60-74; Bíódún Adédìrán, “Ìdáìsà: The Making of a Frontier Yorùbá
State”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXIV, 1 (1984), 71-85.
19. For a discussion, see the classic work of Robin Horton, “Stateless Societies in the
History of West Africa”, in Ajayi and Crowder, History of West Africa, 87-128.
20. Smith (1978), 78.
21. Jessie Gaston-Mulira, “A History of the Mahi peoples from 1774 to 1920 (Benin)”
(PhD thesis, UCLA, 1984); Barbara F. Grimes (ed.), Ethnologue. Languages of the
World (11th edit., Dallas, 1988), 149-53; Sylvain C. Anignikin, “Histoire des
populations mahi. À propos de la controverse sur l’ethnonyme et le toponyme ‘Mahi’”,
Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XLI, 2 (2001), 243-65.
22. Paul Nugent, “A Regional Melting Pot: The Ewe and Their Neighbours in the Ghana-
Togo Borderlands”, in Benjamin Lawrance (ed.), A Handbook of Eweland: The Ewe
of Togo and Benin (Accra, Woeli, 2005), 29-43 (32); Jean-Claude Froelich, “Les
problèmes posés par les refoulés montagnards de culture paléonigritique”, Cahiers
d’Études Africaines V, 3 (1964), 383-99.
308
pp. [25–27] NOTES
See the small, but illustrative map in Lynne Brydon, “Rice, Yams and Chiefs in
Avatime: Speculations on the Development of a Social Order”, Africa, 51, 2 (1981),
659-77 (660).
23. Paul Nugent, “‘A Few Lesser Peoples’: the Central Togo Minorities and their Ewe
Neighbours”, in Carola Lentz and Paul Nugent (eds), Ethnicity in Ghana: The Limits
of Invention (Basingstoke/London, Macmillan, 2000), 162-82 (164).
24. Nicoué Lodjou Gayibor and Angele Aguigah, “Early Settlements and Archaeology
of the Adja-Tado Cultural Zone”, in Lawrance (2005), 1-14; Brydon (1981).
25. Paul Nugent, Myths of Origin and the Origin of Myth: Local Politics and the Uses of
History in Ghana’s Volta Region (Berlin, Das Arabische Buch, 1997), 2.
26. Egblewogbe (1990), 100.
27. Nugent (2000), 164.
28. Examples in M.A. Kwamena-Poh, Government and Politics in the Akuapem State
1730–1850 (London, Longman and Evanston: Northwestern University Press,
1973), 46 & 151-4; Quaye (1972), 28 & 93.
29. Inspired by Stephan Bühnen, “Place Names as an Historical Source: An Introduction
with Examples from Southern Senegambia and Germany”, History in Africa, 19
(1992), 45-101. It is the only work of its kind that we know of. Bühnen’s pioneering
effort has certainly not been followed up as far as the Slave Coast is concerned.
30. I.A. Akinjogbin, Dahomey and its Neighbours 1708–1818 (Cambridge University
Press, 1967) esp. p. 72.
31. Law (2004a), 21-2; R.P. Thomas Moulero, “Histoire et légendes des Djêkens”, Études
Dahoméennes (NS), 8 (1966), 39-56 (43).
32. Law (2004a), 19.
33. Djè means salt. But even so the toponym of Djèkin is uncertain. Cf. Josette Rivallain,
“Le sel dans les villages côtiers et lagunaires du Bas-Dahomey: sa fabrication, sa place
dans le circuit du sel africain”, West African Journal of Archaeology, 7 (1977), 143-69;
A. Félix Iroko, “Le sel marin de la Côte des Esclaves durant la période précoloniale”,
Africa (Rome), XLVI, 4 (1991), 520-40.
34. A. Félix Iroko, Les Hula du XIVe au XIXe siècle (Cotonou, 2001), esp. 49; Claude
Savary, La pensée symbolique des Fõ. Tableau de la société et étude de la litterature orale
d’expression sacrée dans l’ancien royaume du Dahomey (Geneva, 1976), 150; Roberto
Pazzi, “Recherche sur le vocabulaire des langues Evè, Aja, Gèn et Fòn” (Première
partie: Lexique des noms) (mimeogr., Lomé, 1976), 75; Strickrodt (2003), 52.
35. William Bosman, A New and Accurate Description of the Coast of Guinea (first
published in Dutch in 1704; new English edition [Frank Cass], 1967), 368a.
36. Iroko (2001, p. 283) argues that the first Hula villages were among the most ancient
human settlements on the coast. And according to Montserrat Palau-Martí, the Hula
dominated the coast from the river Volta to Badagry. See her Le Roi-Dieu au Bénin
(Sud Togo, Dahomey, Nigeria occidental) (Paris, Berger-Levrault, 1964), 96-7. See
more generally Luis Nicolau Parés, “The Hula ‘Problem’: Ethnicity on the Pre-
Colonial Slave Coast”, in Toyin Falola and Matt D. Childs (eds), The Changing Worlds
of Atlantic Africa. Essays in Honor of Robin Law (Durham, 2009), 323-46.
37. Salt came from the lagoons whose water was salty, but also from the soil which
contained an impressive level of salinity, higher than that of the ocean. Salt extraction
309
NOTES pp. [27–29]
is incidentally very hard work. See Rivallain (1977); Iroko (2001), 253; Strickrodt
(2003), 53.
38. A. Félix Iroko, Mosaïques d’histoire béninoise, vol. I (Tulle, 1998), 13.
39. Law (2004a), 23.
40. In the colonial period a certain Dagbo Hounon, presented as the priest of Hou (i.e.
Hu) was considered to be the chief priest (“chef supérieur”) of all the local priests
(“féticheurs”) of Ouidah (Agbo, 1959).
41. On Hulagan-Great Popo, see Robin Law, “Les toutes premières descriptions de Petit-
Popo par les européens: des années 1680 aux années 1690”, in N.L. Gayibor (ed.),
Le tricentenaire d’Aneho et du pays guin, vol.I (Lomé, Presses de l’Université du Bénin,
2001), 33-58 (34); Strickrodt (2003), 48; Law (1991b), 15-16.
42. Iroko (2001), 106.
43. Paul Isert, Letters on West Africa and the Slave Trade. Paul Erdmann Isert’s Journey
to Guinea and the Caribbean Islands in Columbia (1788), Selena Winsnes (ed.) and
trans. (British Academy/Oxford University Press, 1992), 93-4.
44. Sacred king, according to Iroko (2001), 117-22.
45. Law (1991b), 30.
46. Dahomey had very imprecise and constantly fluctuating borders, like most polities
in Africa of old. Exactly which area the kings of Dahomey controlled effectively at
any period of time is in fact impossible to determine (50-85 km east-west and 135
km north-south?). Its population has been estimated by various authors as between
150,000 and 200,000 inhabitants. But none offers any supporting evidence, and none
indicates with any precision the relevant period.
47. Sandra E. Greene, “Notsie Narratives: History, Memory, and Meaning in West Africa”,
South Atlantic Quarterly, 101-4 (2002), 1015-41, esp. 1016-22.
48. Nugent (2005), 29.
49. Meera Venkatachalam, “Between the Devil and the Cross: Religion, Slavery, and the
Making of the Anlo-Ewe”, Journal of African History 53, 1 (2012), 45-64 (49).
50. Ibid.
51. Michel Verdon, The Abutia Ewe of West Africa. A Chiefdom that Never Was (Berlin
etc., Mouton, 1983), 23; Kate Skinner, “Local Historians and Strangers with Big
Eyes: The Politics of Ewe History in Ghana and its Global Diaspora”, History in
Africa, 37 (2010), 125-58 (131).
52. Paul Nugent, “Putting the History Back into Ethnicity: Enslavement, Religion, and
Cultural Brokerage in the Construction of Madinka/Jola and Ewe/Agotime Identities
in West Africa, c.1650–1930”, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 50, 4
(2008), 920-48 (935); Ray A. Kea, “Akwamu-Anlo Relations c.1750-1813”,
Transactions of the Historical Society of Ghana, 10 (1969), 29-63 (33).
53. Venkatachalam (2012), 53.
54. See for instance Manning (1982), 24.
55. On Genyi/Glidji, see Nicoué Lodjou Gayibor, “Les origines du Royaume de Glidji”,
Annales de l’Université du Bénin, Togo, III (1976), 75-102; plus many other works
by the same author. See also Strickrodt (2003).
56. One of those who believes (or believed?) so is Nicoué Lodjou Gayibor. He has argued
that the Benin Gap is the result of human activity. Cf. his “Écologie et histoire: les
310
pp. [29–31] NOTES
origines de la savane du Bénin”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXVI, 1-2 (1986), 13-41;
and “Les origines de la savane du Bénin: une chasse gardée?”, Cahiers d’Études
Africaines, XXXIX, 1 (1989), 137-8.
But Chantal Blanc-Pamard and Pierre Peltre argue that it is at least 20,000 years
old. Cf. their “Remarques à propos de ‘Ecologie et histoire: les origines de la savane
du Bénin’”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXVII, 3-4 (1987), 419-23. However,
Lawrence Barham and Peter Mitchell (The First Africans. African Archaeology from
the Earliest Toolmakers to most Recent Foragers [Cambridge University Press, 2008],
358) state that what they call the Benin Gap savanna corridor was abruptly reopened
some 4,500 to 4,100 years ago.
For a general overview of the question, see Fairhead and Leach (1996), 288.
57. Ibid.
58. Stanley B. Alpern, “On the Origins of the Amazons of Dahomey”, History in Africa,
25 (1998), 9-25; and by the ame author, Amazons of Black Sparta. The Women
Warriors of Dahomey (New York University Press and London, C. Hurst, 1998).
59. Blanc-Pamard and Peltre (1987), 421.
60. Work by Sharon Nicholson and G.Brooks, quoted in Emmanuel Kwaku Akyeampong,
Between the Sea and the Lagoon. An Eco-Social History of the Anlo of Southeastern
Ghana, c.1850 to Recent Times (Ohio University Press/Oxford, James Currey, 2001),
32; Fairhead and Leach (1996), 50.
61. Verena Pfeiffer, Agriculture au Sud-Bénin: Passé et perspectives (Paris, L’Harmattan,
1988), 78; Mondjannagni (1977).
On the ravages of the thunderstorms in Ouidah in the eighteenth century, cf. for
example: “à M. Gourg, Versailles 8 Xbre [December] 1787” (AN Colonies, B-196).
62. Hans Christian Monrad, Bidrag til en Skildring af Guinea-kysten og dens Indbyggere
(etc) (Copenhagen, 1822). English version by Selena Axelrod Winsnes in Two views
from Christiansborg Castle, vol. II: A Description of the Guinea Coast and its Inhabitants
(Accra, Sub-Saharan Publishers, 2009), 178 & 200-1. There is a long description in
Robert Norris, Memoirs of the Reign of Bossa Ahádee, King of Dahomey. To which are
added, the Author’s Journey to Abomey, the Capital; and a Short Account of the African
Slave Trade (1789, reprinted London [Frank Cass] 1968), 112-18.
63. J.A Skertchly, Dahomey as it is (London, Chapman and Hall, 1874), 40. See also
M’Leod (1820/1971), 21; etc.
64. Letters signed Carter from Whidah [Ouidah] 28.12.1685, 1.3.1686 & 6.1.1686/7
[O.s.], in Robin Law, (ed.), The English in West Africa, 1691–1699. The Local
Correspondence of the Royal African Company of England 1681–1699, Part 3 (Oxford
University Press/British Academy, 2006), documents 813, 814 & 822; Law, “West
Africa’s Discovery of the Atlantic”, International Journal of African Historical Studies,
1, 44 (2011), esp. p. 8.
65. Bosman (1704/1967), 328; E.N. Boris et al. from Christiansborg, 14.11.1739, in
Ole Justesen (ed.), Danish Sources for the History of Ghana 1657–1754, 2 volumes
(Copenhagen, 2005), 558.
66. Guilcher (1959), 362 & 413.
67. B.K. Drake argues that they did not care anyway. See his “The Liverpool-African
Voyage c.1790–1807: Commercial Problems”, in R.Anstey & P.E.H. Hair (eds),
311
NOTES pp. [31–32]
Liverpool, the Atlantic Slave Trade, and Abolition. Essays to Illustrate Current
Knowledge (Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, Occasional Series, vol. 2,
1976), 126-56 (132).
68. To state the obvious, and in the words of Postma, “the slave trade was a very complex
and risky business with a variety of unpredictable forces that could influence its
outcome”; Johannes Menne Postma, The Dutch in the Atlantic Slave Trade 1600-
1815 (Cambridge University Press, 1990), 253.
But the slave traders knew well the timetable of it all, as demonstrated by Bosman
(1704/1967, 748). He advised to leave Europe not later than 10-15 Sept, because
then it was possible to reach the Americas by the end of April – the sugar-making
season – and to leave before the hurricane season set in. The problem is whether they
were able to keep to that timetable.
69. Gayibor (1986), 17.
70. Akyeampong (2001), 1; G.K. Nukunya, “The Land and the People”, in Francis
Agbodeka (ed.), A Handbook of Eweland vol. I: The Ewes of Southeastern Ghana
(Accra, Woeli, 1997), 8-13.
71. For a general discussion, see Law (1991b), 13-32; Strickrodt (2003), 32-4; Jean M.
Grove and A.M. Johansen, “The Historical Geography of the Volta Delta, Ghana,
during the period of Danish Influence”, Bulletin de l’IFAN, série B, XXX, 4 (1968)
1376-1421.
72. Guilcher (1959), 410.
73. “A sandy, swampy island of only about two square miles in size”: Kristin Mann,
Slavery and the Birth of an African City. Lagos, 1760–1900 (Indiana University Press,
2007), 23. Mann’s is the standard work on the history of Lagos.
74. Ryder (1969), 158. More generally, see Sandra T. Barnes, “The Economic Significance
of Inland Coastal Fishing in Seventeenth-Century Lagos”, in Falola and Childs
(2009), 51-66 (53).
75. Blocked by a sand bank which was there in the eighteenth century (and earlier) and
which has not moved since. See “Description nautique de la Côte d’Afrique” (op.
cit.); Edward Bold, The Merchant’s and Mariner’s African Guide; Containing an
Accurate Description of the Coast, Bays, Harbours, and Adjacent Islands of West Africa
(etc) (London, 1819, republished in Salem, US, 1823), 64-5.
Little Popo is often called Pichaninee Popo in the English sources, from the
Portuguese pequeno, meaning precisely “little”.
76. Guilcher (1959), 384-5 & 412.
77. Note that “Wetlands and shallow lakes are among the most productive ecosystems
in the world per unit of surface area. The more productive an ecosystem, the more
biomass humans can appropriate from it for food, fiber, fuel, construction materials,
and medicines without negatively affecting the system’s function”. Quotation from
Vera Candiani, “The Desagüe Reconsidered: Environmental Dimensions of Class
Conflict in Colonial Mexico”, Hispanic American Historical Review, 92, 1 (2012),
5-39 (21).
78. Robin Law, “Between the Sea and the Lagoons: The Interaction of Maritime and
Inland Navigation on the Precolonial Slave Coast”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines,
XXIX, 2 (1989a), 222.
312
pp. [32–34] NOTES
79. Ibid., 214; Robert S. Smith, “The Canoe in West African History”, Journal of African
History, XI, 4 (1970), 518; Thomas Birch Freeman, Journal of Various Visits to the
Kingdoms of Ashanti, Aku, and Dahomi, in Western Africa (London, second ed. 1844,
third ed., 1968), 278.
80. Nicoué Lodjou Gayibor, “Esquisse d’une histoire économique des Ewe de l’ère
précoloniale”, Annuaire de l’Université du Bénin, Togo, V (1978), 129-44 (131).
81. Norris (1789/1968), 80-81; Law (1991b), 19-20; Édouard Dunglas, Contribution
à l’histoire du Moyen-Dahomey (2 vols. of Études Dahoméennes, 1957), 84; A.
Aubréville, “Les forêts du Dahomey et du Togo”, Bulletin du Comité d’Études
Historiques et Scientifiques de l’Afrique Occidentale Française, XX, 1-2 (1937), 1-112.
82. Mondjannagni (1977), 211.
83. “…a more fertile soil [than the one in Hueda/Ouidah], and one more abounding in
rich and healthy plantations, I have never seen”, one European commented. B.
Cruickshank: report on a Mission to the King of Dahomey, 19.11.1848 (Parliamentary
Papers, 1850, IX, 534-5). See also Pruneau de Pommegorge (1789), 204 & 236.
84. Pfeiffer (1988), 63.
85. “The country being very populous & till the ground three times every year for corn
for their subsistance” (Ambrose Baldwyn & co. from Whydah [Ouidah], 28.3.1723
[O.s.] [NA T70/7]).
86. James Houstoun, Some New and Accurate Observations, Geographical, Natural and
Historical, Containing a True and Impartial Account of the Situation, Product, and
Natural History of the Coast of Guinea (etc) (London, 1725), 26.
87. William O. Jones quoted in Stanley B. Alpern, “Exotic Plants of Western Africa:
Where They Came from and When”, History in Africa, 35 (2008), 63-102 (64).
88. Nadia Lowell, “The Watchi-Ewe: Histories and Origins”, in Lawrance (2005), 90-114.
89. Jouke S. Wigboldus, “Trade and Agriculture in Coastal Benin c.1470–1600: an
Examination of Manning’s Early-growth Thesis”, Afdeling Agrarische Geschiedenis.
Bijdragen (Agricultural University of Wageningen), vol. 28 (1986), 299-383
(337-8).
90. São Tomé has been qualified by Stanley Alpern as “a veritable agricultural experiment
station”. See his “The European Introduction of Crops into West Africa in Precolonial
Times”, History in Africa, 19 (1992), 13-43. See also Wigboldus (1986), 353.
91. Alpern (2008), 69; Bosman (1704/1967), letter 2 & page 645; Wigboldus (1986),
330-53; etc.
92. Bosman (1704/1967), 31-2. As for Alexis Adande, he argues that there was a great
famine on the Central Slave Coast in 1682 (before the real take-off of maize?). See
his “Togudo-Awude, capitale de l’ancien royaume d’Allada. Étude d’une cité
précoloniale d’après les sources orales, écrites et les données de l’archéologie” (Thesis
Université de Paris, Panthéon-Sorbonne, 1984) 312.
93. See especially, Journal de navigation du sieur Joseph Crassous de Médeuil (op. cit.);
Gourg, “Mémoire”, Juda [Ouidah] 12.5.1785 (AN, Colonies C6-26, d.63).
94. Phillips (1732), 215-16; Bosman (1704/1967), 390; Pires (1957), 29; Johann Peter
Oettinger’s account of his voyage to Guinea 1692-93, in Jones (1985), 180-98; Adams
(1823/1966), 67; Barbot on Guinea, 634; Abraham Du Port from Whydah (Ouidah)
11.11.1727 (O.s.), in Law (1990a), 12.
313
NOTES pp. [34–36]
95. Especially Archibald Dalzel – see the many letters from him in the Edinburgh
University Library, Dk.7 52, some quoted in I.A. Akinjogbin, “Archibald Dalzel:
Slave Trader and Historian of Dahomey”, Journal of African History, VII,1 (1966),
67-78. See also Isert (1788/1992), 2.
96. Smith (1744/1967, 194-5): “the real beauty of this country…All who have ever
been here, allow this to be one of the most delightful countries in the world”.
Bosman (1704/1967, 339): “the most charming place that imagination can
represent”.
See also Isert (1788/1992), 104-5; William Snelgrave, A New Account of some
Parts of Guinea, and the Slave Trade (etc) (London 1734, new impression, F. Cass,
1971), 3; Phillips (1732), 214; Dralsé de Grand-Pierre, Relation de divers voyages
faits dans l’Amérique et aux Indes occidentales (Paris, 1718), 164-71; Relation du
Royaume de Judas en Guinée (op. cit.); and many others.
97. Houstoun (1725), 26-7.
98. Ibid., 34.
99. The quotation is from Tattersfield (1991), 107. Other examples in Per O. Hernæs,
“Den Balstyrige Bergenser på Gullkysten”, Norsk Sjøfartsmuseum. Årsberetning 1995
(Oslo, 1996), 127-38; Davies (1957); document 819 dated 22.11.1686 [O. s.] in
Law (2001a); Monrad (1822/2009), 202-3; letter from William’s Fort 25.5.1715
[Old style] (NA T70/3).
100. Postma (1990), 65.
101. Tattersfield (1991), 85-107; A.F.C. Ryder, “The re-establishment of Portuguese
factories on the Costa da Mina to the mid-eighteenth century”, Journal of the
Historical Society of Nigeria, II, 3 (1958), 157-83.
102. So called by Monrad (1822/2009), 264.
103. Davies (1957), 83 & 97-8. Davies adds that between 1684 and 1732, among the
shore-based English personnel in West Africa, well over half died in the first year and
only one in ten got back to England.
104. Various letters from 1680–81 in Robin Law (ed), Correspondence from the Royal
African Company’s Factories at Offra and Whydah on the Slace Coat of West Africa in
the Public Record Office, London 1678–93 (Centre of African Studies, Edinburgh
Univerity, 1990a) 14-18 & 26-7; Carter, Whiddah [Ouidah], 11.11.1686 &
16.3.1687, in Law (2006), 333 & 342.
105. Postma (1990), 65.
106. Both titles are used in the sources, also that of chief. They seem to have been
interchangeable.
107. Akinjogbin (1967), 70-71; Examination of William Devaynes by the African
Committee, 22.3.1788 (NA BT 6/9).
108. Akinjogbin (1967), 218-9.
109. Hernæs (1996).
110. For example, David Henley and Ian Caldwell (eds), Stranger-kings in Indonesia
and Beyond. Special issue of Indonesia and the Malay World (vol. 36, No. 105, July
2008).
111. Law (2011), 10ff.
314
pp. [37–41] NOTES
A2
1. Philip D. Curtin, The Atlantic Slave Trade. A Census (University of Wisconsin Press,
1969).
2. See footnote 1 in the Introduction.
3. It is true that “the facts speak only when the historian calls on them: it is he who
decides to which facts to give the floor and in what order” (E.H. Carr, What is
History? [London, 1990], 11). Yes, but Carr refers here to a situation where there is
an abundance of facts and where the role of the historian becomes to pick and choose.
It is a luxury denied to many.
4. Manning (1982).
5. Wigboldus (1986), 299-383.
6. The History of Dahomy, an Inland Kingdom of Africa. Compiled from Authentic
Memoirs (London 1793, 2nd edition, with a new introduction by J.D. Fage, Frank
Cass, 1967), XI. The title is rather strange, since Dahomey was no longer exclusively
an inland polity in Dalzel’s time.
7. Patrick Manning, “The Slave Trade in the Bight of Benin, 1640–1890”, in H. Gemery
and J. Hogendorn (eds), The Uncommon Market. Essays in the Economic History of
the Atlantic Slave Trade (New York, 1979), 107-41 (129).
8. Nadia Lowell, “The Watchi-Ewe: Histories and Origins”, in Benjamin Lawrance
(ed.), A Handbook of Eweland: The Ewe of Togo and Benin (Accra, Woeli, 2005), 97.
9. Lionel Abson from Whydah [Ouidah] 24.10.1770 (NA T70/31).
10. Rank list 1795 (NA T70/1606); Law (2004a), 75. Abson was one of the very few
Europeans who became fluent in Gbe.
11. James A. Rawley, “Further Light on Archibald Dalzel”, International Journal of African
Historical Studies, 17, 2 (1984), 317-23; Loren K. Waldman, “An Unnoticed Aspect
of Archibald Dalzel’s the History of Dahomey”, Journal of African History, VI, 2
(1965), 185-92.
12. I.A Akinjogbin, “Agaja and the Conquest of the Coastal Aja States 1724–30”, Journal
of the Historical Society of Nigeria, II, 4 (1963), 74-6.
13. See, for instance, Dalzel’s sober testimony to the African Committee in April 1788:
“The Examination of A.Dalzel. by the Committee of the Company of Merchants
trading to Africa” (often called the African Committee) 5-8.4.1788 (NA, BT 6/10).
14. Including those in the Birmingham Central Library (the Galton Family Papers) and,
as already noted, in the Edinburgh University Library.
15. An excellent summary of the controversy in Thomas Constantine Maroukis, “Warfare
and Society in the Kingdom of Dahomey: 1818–1894” (unpublished PhD Thesis,
Boston University 1974), 2.
16. Pruneau (1789).
17. I.A Akinjogbin, Dahomey and its Neighbours 1708–1818 (Cambridge University
Press, 1967).
18. Ibid., 15-17.
19. P.C. Lloyd, “Sacred Kingship and Government among the Yoruba”, Africa, 30, 3
(1960), 221-37 (225).
315
NOTES pp. [41–43]
20. Theory first put forward in Akinjogbin’s, “Agaja and the Conquest of the Coastal
Aja States 1724–30”, Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, II, 4 (1963), 545-66.
Akinjogbin admitted at least that Dahomey took part in the slave trade, whereas
Dov Ronen states flatly (and absurdly) that “Dahomey was not a slave trading state”.
See his “On the African Role in the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade in Dahomey”, Cahiers
d’Études Africaines, XI, 1 (1971), 5-13 (13).
21. Akinjogbin (1967), 34.
22. Lisa A. Lindsay, “Extraversion, Creolization, and Dependency in the Atlantic Slave
Trade”, Journal of African History, 55, 2 (2014), 133-45.
23. Based on three articles by Robin Law: “King Agaja of Dahomey, the Slave Trade,
and the Question of West African Plantations: the Mission of Bulfinch Lambe and
Adomo Tomo to England, 1726–32”, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History,
19, 2 (1991), 137-63; “Further Light on Bulfinch Lambe and the ‘Emperor of
Pawpaw’: King Agaja of Dahomey’s Letter to King George I of England, 1726”,
History in Africa, 17 (1990), 211-26; “An Alternative Text of King Agaja of Dahomey’s
Letter to King George I of England, 1726”, History in Africa, 29 (2002), 257-71.
24. John Atkins (A Voyage to Guinea, Brasil, and the West Indies; in His Majesty’s Ships,
the Swallow and Weymouth, 1735, London, new impression [F. Cass], 1970, 122),
argued that Agaja’s aim was to stop raids on his own people. Atkins and Pruneau de
Pommegeorge were the only convinced Abolitionists among the early writers.
25. See for instance Rodney’s famous book How Europe Underdeveloped Africa (London,
1972); and Basil Davidson’s Black Mother (Boston, 1961).
26. Akinjogbin (1967), 26-37.
27. First formulated in his review of Akinjogbin’s book in Journal of the Historical Society
of Nigeria, IV, 2 (1968), 344-7; and elaborated upon in his “The Fall of Allada, 1724
– an Ideological Revolution?”, ibid., V, 1 (1969), 157-63. It is true that Law expressed
himself somewhat more cautiously in his 1991 book.
28. A.I. Asiwaju and Robin Law, “From the Volta to the Niger, c.1600–1800”, in Ajayi
& Crowder (1985), 412-64 (455). The hypothesis of continuity between Allada and
Dahomey especially has been defended by such authors as Montserrat Palau-Martí,
Dov Ronen and W.J. Argyle.
29. According to her, “what seems to have been unique in Dahomey will often be found
to be an intensification of common practices, or subtle alterations in institutions
known elsewhere (in West Africa)”: Edna G. Bay, Wives of the Leopard. Gender,
Politics, and Culture in the Kingdom of Dahomey (University of Virginia Press, 1998),
4.
30. Robin Law, “Warfare on the West African Slave Coast, 1650-1850”, in R. Brian
Ferguson and Neil L. Whitehead (eds), War in the Tribal Zone: Expanding States
and Indigenous Warfare (Santa Fe, 1992), 103-26; Law (1991b), 347-8.
31. Ibid., 349.
32. Ibid., 330-31.
33. J. Cameron Monroe, “Building the State in Dahomey: Power and Landscape in the
Bight of Benin”, in J. Cameron Monroe and Akinwurai Ogundiran (eds), Power and
Landscape in Atlantic West Africa. Archaeological Perspectives (Cambridge University
Press, 2012), 191-221 (192).
316
pp. [43–46] NOTES
34. “Banditti” according to Frederick E. Forbes (Dahomey and the Dahomans. Being the
Journals of two Missions to the King of Dahomey and Residence at his Capital in the
Years 1849 and 1850, [London, 1851]), I, 19. David Ross agrees. See his “The Anti-
Slave Trade Theme in Dahomean History: An Examination of the Evidence”, History
in Africa, IX (1982), 263-71; and “European Models and West African History:
further Comments on the Recent Historiography of Dahomey”, History in Africa,
X (1983), 293-305.
35. A central thesis in Akinjogbin (1967).
36. Theme discussed in Finn Fuglestad, “Quelques réflexions sur l’histoire et les
institutions de l’ancien royaume du Dahomey et de ses voisins”, Bulletin de l’IFAN,
39, 2 (1977), 493-517.
37. Jacques Lombard, “The Kingdom of Dahomey”, in D. Forde and P.M. Kaberry (eds),
West African Kingdoms in the Nineteenth Century (London, 1967), 70-92 (81).
38. As Edna Bay (1998, 130) has put it: “the Dahomean armed forces were beaten
ignominiously and more than once, when they faced foes of roughly equal strength” –
and even, in our opinion, of inferior strength.
39. Richard F. Burton, A Mission to Gelele, King of Dahomey (etc) (1864/1966), II, 231.
Dahomey’s limited achievements have also been underlined by Thomas C. Maroukis,
“Dahomian Warfare and the Slave Trade”, paper presented at the African Studies
Association Convention, New Orleans 22-26.11.1985, 5.
Or as a French official argued already in 1777, the Dahomeans “n’ont jamais été
puissants, quelques actions éclatantes du grand-père de ce roy [i.e. Agaja and Kpengla
respectively] leur ont donné une réputation qui fait toute leur force” (Levet de Juda
[Ouidah] 6.10.1777 [AN C6-26]).
40. Lombard (1967), 89.
41. Matt D. Childs and Toyin Falola, “Introduction: Robin Law and African
Historiography”, Falola & Childs (2009), 1-28 (1).
42. Law (1991b), 11.
43. Law, ibid., 8.
44. Examples mentioned in Albert van Dantzig (1986), 257; Justesen (2005), 354-5, 361
& 369; and Stephen D. Behrendt, “The Journal of an African Slaver, 1789-1792, and
the Gold Coast Slave Trade of William Collow”, History in Africa,22 (1995), 61-71.
45. Albert van Dantzig, “Willem Bosman’s New and Accurate Description of the Coast of
Guinea: How Accurate is it?” History in Africa, 1 (1974), 101-8.
46. Ernst van den Boogaart, “Books on Black Africa. The Dutch Publications and their
owners in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries”, in Beatrix Heintze and Adam
Jones (eds), European Sources for Sub-Saharan Africa before 1900: Use and Abuse.
Paideuma, vol. 33 (Wiesbaden, 1987), 117.
47. Selena Axelrod Winsnes, “P.E. Isert in German, French, and English: A Comparison
of Translations”, HA, 19 (1992), 401-10.
48. See the pertinent discussion in David Henige, “The Race is not Always to the Swift.
Thoughts on the Use of Written Sources for the Study of Early African History”, in
Heintzle & Jones (1987), 53-79.
49. In Sandoval’s case the slaves he worked among in Cartagena de las Indias. Alonso de
Sandoval (1576–1652), De Instauranda Aethiopum Salute (Seville, 1627). New
317
NOTES pp. [46–48]
edition: Un tratado sobre la esclavitud (Introducción, transcripción y traducción de

Enriqueta Vila Vilar), (Madrid, Alianza Editorial, 1987).
50. Editors’ Introduction to Barbot on Guinea, pp. XIV & XLIII.
51. See her “On the Trail of the Bush King: A Dahomean Lesson in the Use of Evidence”,
History in Africa,, 6 (1979), 1-15 (2).
52. Quoted in Editors’ Introduction, Barbot on Guinea, p. XCVIII.
53. In our case, especially those of Argyle and Herskovits, as we shall see.
54. Robin Law, “‘Legitimate’ Trade and Gender Relations in Yorubaland and Dahomey”,
in the book edited by him: From Slave Trade to ‘Legitimate’ Commerce. The
Commercial Transition in Nineteenth-century West Africa (Cambridge University
Press, 1995), 195-214 (195).
55. An idea of the problem is given by Suzanne Preston Blier, “Field Days: Melville J.
Herskovits in Dahomey”, History in Africa, 16 (1989), 1-22.
56. It has resulted in his monumental Flux et Reflux… (1968).
57. Many of these duplicates, and other documents in Lisbon, have been printed, although
often in abridged form, in Inventario dos documentos relativos ao Brasil existentes no
Archivo de Marinha e Ultramar de Lisboa (organisado para a Biblioteca Nacional do
Rio de Janeiro por Eduardo de Castro e Almeida), five volumes (1913–1918). Quite
a few relevant documents have also been printed in the Anais/Annaes do Archivo
Público/do Arquivo do Estado da Bahia.
58. See for instance Kenneth G. Kelly, “The Archaeology of African-European Interaction:
Investigating the Social Roles of Trade, Traders, and the Use of Space in the
Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Hueda Kingdom, Republic of Bénin”, World
Archaeology, 28, 3 (1997b), 351-69; and Kelly (1997a); Neil L. Norman, “Hueda
(Whydah) Country and Town: Archaeological Perspectives on the Rise and Collapse
of an African Atlantic Kingdom”, International Journal of African Historical Studies,
42, 3 (2009), 387-410.
59. Main work: Klavs Randsborg and Inga Merkyte et al., Bénin Archaeology. The Ancient
Kingdoms, 2 vols (Oxford, Wiley-Blackwell, 2009 [Acta Archaeologica Vols.80-1 &
2 & Acta Archaeologica Supplementa XI).
60. Robert Durand, “Journal de bord d’un négrier, 1731–1732”; in Beinecke Library,
Yale, Gen. Mss. vol. 7; as indicated in Harms (2002). But Harms has unfortunately
not deemed it necessary so far to follow in the footsteps of Law, that is, to present
us with a scholarly published edition of the document.
61. According to Justesen (2005, p. V), those who do not have a thorough knowledge
of the Danish language in the period, and who have not the opportunity to take a
crack course in palaeography, are faced with an impossible task.
62. The Dutchman Albert van Dantzig tells us comfortingly that the Dutch archives are
unreadable for those of us who have not had a Dutch upbringing. Cf. his “The Furley
Collection. Its Value and Limitations for the Study of Ghana’s History”; in Heintzle
& Jones (1987), 423-32 (428).
63. Albert van Dantzig, The Dutch and the Guinea Coast, 1674–1742: A Collection of
Documents from the General State Archive at the Hague (Accra, Academy of Arts and
Sciences, 1978); Justesen (2005). Adam Jones has done the same for a number of
relevant German sources.
318
pp. [48–50] NOTES
64. The quotation is from Bulfinch Lambe, reproduced in William Smith, A New Voyage
to Guinea (1744/1967), 182.
65. Karl Polanyi, with Abraham Rotstein, Dahomey and the Slave Trade. An Analysis of
an Archaic Economy (Seattle, University of Washington Press, 1966), page XX.
66. “Literacy was…viewed with grave suspicion by the Asante state”, according to T.C.
McCaskie, State and Society in Pre-Colonial Asante (Cambridge University Press,
1995, paperback edit. 2002), 9. And McCaskie added that the introduction of
unauthorized use of a foreign fashion, in thought or behaviour, was a capital offence
(ibid., 100).
This recalls the Dane H.C. Monrad’s famous point about the two gifts that the
Africans and the Europeans received, according to the people of the Gold Coast:
“The gift…which fell to the Whites contained books (etc) [whereas the gift which
fell to the Africans did not]. Nonetheless, by no means do (the Negroes) envy (the
Europeans this gift) – they do not…covet it, but exist, in general, very happy in their
own sphere” (Monrad [1822/2009], 33).
67. Edouard Foà, Le Dahomey (1895), 173.
68. Underlined by Dalzel in his examination by the African Committee in April 1788
(op. cit.).
69. Réflexions sur Juda, 1776 (op. cit.), 15; M’Leod (1820/1971), 29; Isert (1788/1992),
104.
70. The best-known case is that of the Merina kingdom of Madagascar in the nineteenth
century. Cf. Solofo Randrianja and Stephen Ellis, Madagascar: A Short History
(London & Chicago, 2009).
71. Verger (1966), 60. The many Portuguese prisoners the kings of Dahomey came to
keep do not seem to have been employed in any concrete or practical way.
72. Throughout the eighteenth century not one Dahomean was trained in Europe or in
São Tomé, according to Akinjogbin (1967), 210.
73. Kenneth Kelly, “Indigenous Responses to Colonial Encounters on the West African
Coast: Hueda and Dahomey from the Seventeenth through Nineteenth Centuries”,
in Claire L. Lyons and John K. Papadopoulos (eds), The Archaeology of Colonialism
(Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute, 2002), 96-120 (115).
74. If something was not tried, or was not known to his father or grandfathers, our
African will reject it, it was said: Aarestrup, Biørn, J.M. Kjøge, J. Gjønge, Rasmussen:
“Nogle bidrag til Kundskab om den danske strækning på Guinea Kysten.
Christiansborg 8.6.1774”, in Arkiv for Statistik, politik og Huusholdningsvidenskaber
(Udgivet af [edited by] Prof. Friderik Thaarup), vol. III (Kjøbenhavn/Copenhagen,
1797–8), 161-92 (191).
Or as Monsieur Gourg, Director of the French fort in Ouidah-Glehue in the
1780s, expressed it rather crudely: they believe that the spirits (fétiches) will kill them
if they innovate (Gourg de Juda, 24.1.1789 [AN C6-26, d.111]).
75. Short story from 1888, made into a film by John Huston in 1975.
76. According to Tom McCaskie who talks about the staggering wealth and diversity of
Denkyira and Asante traditions, possibly unrivalled in West Africa. See his “Denkyira
in the Making of Asante c.1660–1720”, Journal of African History, 48, 1 (2007) 1-25
(4 & 25).
319
NOTES pp. [50–54]
77. Compare this with Fanteland and John Kofi Fynn’s seven-volume Oral Traditions of
Fante States, published 1974–76, according to Shumway (2011a), 210.
78. Samuel Johnson, The History of the Yorubas, from the Earliest Times to the Beginning
of the British Protectorate (London, G. Routledge, 1921; but written in 1897).
79. Manning (1979), 112.
80. David Henige talked already in his 1987 article (p. 74) of “the impending demise of
much oral historiography because of the impossibility of testing its conclusions”.
Another central article which abounds impactingly in the same sense is Donald R.
Wright, “Requiem for the Use of Oral Tradition to Reconstruct the Precolonial
History of the Lower Gambia”, History in Africa, 18 (1991), 399-408.
81. Bay (1998), 38.
82. Robin Law, “History and Legitimacy: Aspects of the Use of the Past in Precolonial
Dahomey”, History in Africa, 15 (1988), 431-56 (437).
83. Auguste Le Hérissé, L’Ancien Royaume du Dahomey. Moeurs, religion, histoire (Paris,
E. Larose, 1911).
84. Bay (1998), 38.
85. Law (1988), 434.
86. On Le Hérissé, see Bay (1998), 32; Stanley B. Alpern, “On the Origins of the Amazons
of Dahomey”, History in Africa, 25 (1998a), 11, footnote 14.
87. Le Hérissé (1911), 3 & 273; Law (1988), 431.
88. Kpo=leopard, ji= to give birth or to engender, to= agent; according to her (1998,
72).
89. Ibid., 71-80.
90. Edna G. Bay, “Belief, Legitimacy and the Kpojito: An Institutional History of the
‘Queen Mother’ in Precolonial Dahomey”, Journal of African History, 35, 1 (1995),
1-27 (1).
91. Inspired by Claude-Hélène Perrot, “La fête d’Adjahouto à Allada (Dahomey) et ses
enseignements historiques”, Annales de l’Université d’Abidjan, série I, t.I (1972),
132-49.
92. Finn Fuglestad, “The Trevor-Roper Trap or the Imperialism of History. An Essay”,
History in Africa, 19 (1992), 309-26.
(2008), 934.
94. So also does Ross (1983).
95. Akinjogbin (1967), 25.
96. Ibid., 118.
97. Robert Norris, Memoirs of the Reign of Bossa Ahádee, King of Dahomey. To which are
added, the Author’s Journey to Abomey, the Capital; and a Short Account of the African
Slave Trade (1789/1968), 1-2.
98. Maurice Ahanhanzo Glélé, Le Danxome du pouvoir aja à la nation fon (Paris, 1974)
166-80.
99. John C. Yoder, “Fly and Elephant Parties. Political Polarization in Dahomey, 1840-
1870”, Journal of African History, 15, 3 (1974), 417-43.
320
pp. [54–58] NOTES
100. J. Cameron Monroe, “Continuity, Revolution or Evolution on the Slave Coast of

West Africa? Royal Architecture and Political Order in Precolonial Dahomey”,
Journal of African History, 48, 3 (2007), 349-73. See also his “Dahomey and the
Atlantic Slave Trade. Archaeology and Political Order on the Bight of Benin”, in
Akinwumi Ogundiran and Toyin Falola (eds), Archaeology of Atlantic Africa and the
African Diaspora (Indiana University Press, 2007), 10. But Monroe may well be
correct when he argues that Dahomey significantly expanded state control throughout
its territory during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
101. Law (1991b), 330.
102. Point elaborated upon in Fuglestad, The Ambiguities of History. The Problem of
Ethnocentrism in Historical Writing (Oslo Academic Press, 2005).
103. Joyce Appleby, “The Power of History”, American Historical Review, 103, 1 (1998),
1-14.
104. Inspired by the works of the Austrian historian Otto Brunner as summarized in
Steffen Patzold, “Le ‘premier âge féodal’ vu d’Allemagne. Essai sur les historiographies
française et allemande”, in Dominique Iogna-Prat, Michel Lauwers, Florian Mazel
and Isabelle Rosé (eds), Cluny. Les moines et la société au premier âge féodal (Presses
Universitaires de Rennes, 2013), 19-29.
105. Notably Peter Charles Hoffer, The Historians’ Paradox: The Study of History in Our
Time (New York University Press, 2008).
106. The classic extreme example of the contrary is Renaissance Italy. See Paula Findlen,
“Possessing the Past: The Material World of the Italian Renaissance”, American
Historical Review, 103, 1 (1998), 83-114.
107. Here we have allowed ourselves to plagiarize E.P. Thompson’s famous The Making
of the English Working Class (first publ. 1963, Penguin ed., 1991), 257 & 542.
108. Igor Kopytoff, “The Internal African Frontier: The Making of African Political
Culture”, in the book edited by him: The African Frontier. The Reproduction of
Traditional African Societies (Indiana University Press, 1987), 3-84 (78).
A3
SOCIETAL, RELIGIOUS AND POLITICAL STRUCTURES: A MODEL
1. Dalzel (1793/1967), VI.
2. Examination of A. Dalzel/Dalzell by the African Committee 5-8.4.1788 (op. cit.).
3. “Ce pays sans ombre de religion”; Lettre de Juda, 17.1.1734 (AN C6-25, d.152)- a
typical utterance.
4. “The Negroes recognize, without exception, a Supreme Being” (Monrad [1822/2009],
32); “ils croient tous à…l’existence d’un être suprême, immense, infini, créateur de
tout (mais) trop grand pour se mêler de regir le monde” (“Réflexions sur Juda”, 1776
[op. cit.], 73-4).
5. See his, “For Marx but with Reservations about Althusser: A Comment on Bernstein
and Depelchin”, History in Africa, 8 (1981), 247-51; and “In Search of a Marxist Perspective
on Pre-Colonial Tropical Africa”, Journal of African History, 19, 3 (1978), 441-52.
6. We have tried to substantiate this point in a number of works: “A Reconsideration
of Hausa history before the Jihad”, Journal of African History, XIX, 3 (1978), 319-
321
NOTES pp. [58–60]
39; “Earth-priests, ‘Priest-Chiefs’, and Sacred Kings in Ancient Norway, Iceland and
West Africa. A Comparative Essay”, Scandinavian Journal of History, IV, 1 (1979),
47-74; “The ‘tompon-tany’ and the ‘tompon-drano’ in the History of Central and
Western Madagascar”, History in Africa, IX (1982), 61-76 (written with the assistance
of Stephen Ellis); “Precolonial Subsaharan Africa and the Ancient Norse World:
Looking for Similarities”, History in Africa, vol. 33, (2006), 179-203. Plus the 1977
and 2005 works, and some works in Norwegian.
7. Madeline Manoukian, The Ewe-speaking Peoples of Togoland and the Gold Coast
(London, IAI Ethnographic Survey of Africa, 1952), 46 (based on the works of Jacob
Spieth).
8. Gaston Mulira (1984), 17.
9. O.B. Lawuyi, “The Obatala Factor in Yoruba History”, History in Africa, 19 (1992),
369-75 (373).
10. Roberto Pazzi, “Recherche sur le vocabulaire des langues Evè, Aja, Gèn et Fòn”
(Première partie: Lexique des noms) (1976), 78.
11. Bay (1998), 132-3; Paul Hazoumé, Le pacte de sang au Dahomey (Paris, Institut
d’Ethnologie, 1937; reprinted 1956), 19-26, 57; Suzanne Preston Blier, “Razing the
Roof: The Imperative of Building Destruction in Danhomè (Dahomey)”, in Tony
Atkin and Joseph Rykwert (eds), Structure and Meaning in Human Settlements
(Philadelphia, 2005), 165-84 (180).
12. Brodie Cruickshank, Eighteen Years on the Gold Coast of Africa (London, 1853; 2nd
ed., Frank Cass, 1966), 173. And of course competition for power (in Anlo) was
waged in part on a spiritual battlefield: Sandra E. Greene, Gender, Ethnicity, and
Social Change on the Upper Slave Coast. A History of the Anlo-Ewe (Portsmouth, NH
and London, Heinemann and J. Currey, 1996), 55.
13. Bay (1998), 60 & 131-3; W.J. Argyle, The Fon of Dahomey. A History and Ethnography
of the Old Kingdom (Oxford University Press, 1966), 83.
Significantly, according to the French officer Alexandre D’Albéca the locals
believed that the French could conquer their land in the 1890s because they had
much closer relations with Mawu than the Africans. (See his “Voyage au pays de
Éoués”.)
14. Édouard Dunglas, “Origine du Royaume de Porto-Novo”, Études Dahoméennes (ns),
9-10, 1967), 29-62 (31); Alfred Comlan Mondjannagni, Campagnes et villes du sud
de la République du Bénin (Paris/The Hague, Mouton, 1977), 275.
15. Sandra Barnes’ Introduction to the book edited by her (Africa’s Ogun), 4.
16. See footnote 45 in the Introduction; Monrad (1822/2009), 178.
17. The famous fa-divination consists in finding out the will of the gods; Melville J. and
Frances S. Herskovits, Dahomean Narrative. A Cross-cultural Analysis (Northwestern
18. Monrad (1822/2009).
19. “Oddly enough, as [the] new African history was developing, little attention was paid
to the history of African religions”, Robert M. Baum, Shrines of the Slave Trade. Diola
Religion and Society in Precolonial Senegambia (Oxford University Press, 1999), 10.
20. Winston King, “Religion”, in Mircea Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion, vol.
12 (New York, Macmillan, 1987), 282-93 (282).
322
pp. [60–63] NOTES
21. What precedes and follows constitute a personal interpretation of the following
works: Suzanne Preston Blier, African Vodun. Art, Psychology and Power (University
of Chicago Press, 1995); Roger Brand, Ethnographie et vocabulaire religieux des cultes
vodoun (Munich, LINCOM Europa, 2000); Melville J. Herskovits, Dahomey. An
Ancient West African Kingdom, 2 vols (New York 1938, Northwestern University
Press, 1967); Judy Rosenthal, “Religious Traditions of the Togo and Benin Ewe”, in
Benjamin Lawrance (ed), A Handbook of Eweland. The Ewe of Togo and Benin (Accra,
Woeli, 2005), 183-96; Christian R. Gaba, “The Religious Life of the People”, in
Francis Agbodeka, A Handbook of Eweland vol. I: The Ewes of Southeastern Ghana
(Accra, Woeli, 1997), 85-104; Claude Savary, La pensée symbolique des Fõ. Tableau
de la société et étude de la litterature orale d’expression sacrée dans l’ancien royaume du
Dahomey (Geneva, 1976).
22. Reputed closeness to supernatural forces was used to legitimize all positions of
authority, according to Sandra E. Greene, “Conflict and Crisis: a Note on the
Workings of the Political Economy and Ideology of the Anlo-Ewe in the Precolonial
Period”, Rural Africana, 17 (1983), 83-96 (88).
23. Louis Brenner, “‘Religious’ Discourse in and about Africa”, in Karen Barber and P.F.
de Moraes Farias (eds), Discourse and Its Disguises: The Interpretation of African Oral
Texts (Birmingham, Centre of West African Studies, 1989), 87-105 (87). See also
Baum (1999), 35.
The Malagasy language did not have separate words for “politics” and “religion”
(Randrianja & Ellis (2009), 62).
24. At least according to Rodney Stark, One True God: Historical Consequences of
Monotheism (Princeton University Press, 2001), 108.
25. Winston King (1987) again: “what the West calls religions is…an integral part of the
total ongoing way of life” (282), it cannot be separated from the rest, cannot be
defined as a separate sphere. Or if one prefers, “the religious is scarcely distinguishable
from the sociocultural” (283).
26. Chris Abotchie, “Legal Processes and Institutions”, in Francis Agbodeka (ed.), A
Handbook of Eweland vol. I: The Ewes of Southeastern Ghana (Accra, Woeli, 1997)
73-84 (75).
27. Ibid., 74; Savary (1976), 188 & 375; Brand (2000), 54; Pazzi (1976), 285; etc.; plus
personal communication from Edna Bay dated 11 April 2015.
28. “Les morts existent à l’état de forces spirituelles” (Savary [1976], 188).
29. Paul Pélissier, Le pays du Bas Ouémé: une région témoin du Dahomey méridional (Dakar,
Faculté des Lettres et Sciences Humaines, 1963), 56; Marie-Josée Pineau-Jamous,
“Porto-Novo: royauté, localité et parenté”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXVI, 4
(1986), 547-76; Herskovits (1938/1967), I, 171-83; Manoukian (1950), 22-40; etc.
30. Pazzi (1976), 302.
31. J.D.Y. Peel, Religious Encounter and the Making of the Yoruba (Indiana University
Press, 2000), 30.
32. John Pemberton III and Funso S. Afolayan, Yoruba Sacred Kingship. “A Power Like
That of the Gods” (Washington and London, Smithsonian Institution Press, 1996).
33. Robert Smith, Kingdoms of the Yoruba (London, Methuen, 1976), esp. 129-31; Peter
Morton-Williams, “An Outline of the Cosmology and Cult Organization of the
323
NOTES pp. [63–65]
Oyo Yoruba”, Africa, XXXIV, 3 (1964), 243-61; Peter C. Lloyd, The Political
Development of Yoruba Kingdoms in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries (Royal
Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 1971); etc.
34. Peter C. Lloyd, “Sacred Kingship and Government among the Yoruba”,
Africa, 30, 3 (1960), 227. For a comparison with the Akan, see Michelle Gilbert,
“The Person of the King: Ritual and Power in a Ghanaian State”, in David Cannadine
and Simon Price (eds), Rituals of Royalty. Power and Ceremonial in Traditional
Societies (Cambridge University Press, 1987), 298-330 (esp. 319).
35. Robert J. Wenke, The Ancient Egyptian State. The Origins of Egyptian Culture (c.8000–
2000 BC) (Cambridge University Press, 2009), 271-3.
36. This is a theme we have treated in all but two of the works of ours listed in the
Bibliography.
37. Basile Kossou, “La notion de pouvoir dans l’aire culturelle aja-fon”, in Le concept de
pouvoir en Afrique (UNESCO, 1981), 84-106 [name of editor not indicated]; Edna
G. Bay, Iron Altars of the Fon People of Benin (catalogue, exhibition, Emory Museum
of Art and Archaeology, October 2–December 21, 1985), “Introduction”; Pierre
Verger, Note sur le culte des Orisa et Vodun à Bahia, la Baie de tous les saints au Brésil,
et à l’ancienne Côte des Esclaves en Afrique (Mémoire de l’IFAN, no.51, Dakar, 1957);
Pineau-Jamous (1986), 547; Brand (2000), 8; Savary (1976), 165; etc.
38. Morton-Williams (1964), 253; Montserrat Palau-Martí, Le Roi-Dieu au Bénin (Sud
Togo, Dahomey, Nigeria occidental) (Paris, Berger-Levrault, 1964), 158-69.
39. We are referring of course to Sir James Frazer and his multivolume The Golden Bough
(1890, third edition 1906-15, plus later abridged editions).
40. Gilbert (1987), 323.
41. A.F.C. Ryder, Benin and the Europeans 1485-1897 (London, Longmans, 1969), 71.
42. Palau-Martí (1964), 11. We consider the title of her book unfortunate.
43. Lucien Scubla, “Sacred King, Sacrificial Victim, Surrogate Victim or Frazer, Hocart,
Girard”, in Declan Quigley (ed.), The Character of Kingship (Oxford/New York, Berg,
2005), 39-62 (40).
44. Nii Otokunor Quarcoopome, “Notse’s Ancient Kingship: Some Archaeological and
Art-historical Considerations”, African Archaeological Review, 11 (1993), 109-28
(126).
45. Lloyd (1960), 225.
46. Ibid., 236.
47. Ade M. Obayemi, “The Yoruba and Edo-speaking Peoples and their Neighbours
before 1600 A.D,” in Ajayi & Crowder (1985), 255-322; Johnson (1897/1921),
esp. 143.
48. Andrew H. Apter, Black Critics and Kings: the Hermeneutics of Power in Yoruba
(University of Chicago Press, 1992), 22-3; Lawuyi (1992), 369-75; R. Smith
(1976), 60.
49. Mondjannagni (1977), 162.
50. Again the reference is to the works of the present author. See footnote 6 above.
51. Mondjannagni (1977), 162; Jacques Lombard, “Contribution à l’histoire d’une
ancienne société politique du Dahomey: la royauté d’Allada”, Bylletin de l’IFAN,
XXIX, 1-2 (1967), 40-66; Montserrat Palau-Martí, L’Histoire de Sàbe et de ses rois.
324
pp. [65–63] NOTES
(République du Bénin) (Paris, Maisonneuve et Larose 1992); and by the same author:
Société et religion au Bénin (les Sàbé-Opara) (Paris, Maisonneuve et Larose, 1993).
52. Igor Kopytoff, “The Internal African Frontier: The Making of African Political
Culture”, in Igor Kopytoff (ed.), The African Frontier. The Reproduction of Traditional
African Societies (Indiana University Press, 1987).
53. On this and the following see, in a comparative context, for instance Fuglestad with
Ellis (1982); Martha Kaplan, Neither Cargo nor Cult. Ritual Politics and the Colonial
Imagination in Fiji (Duke University Press, 1995); Ian Caldwell, “Power, State and
Society Among the Pre-Islamic Bugis”, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde,
151, 3 (1995), 394-421; possibly also David Johnson, Spectacle and Sacrifice: The
Ritual foundations of Village Life in North China (Harvard University, Asia Center,
2009). The heads of the shê territorial units look to us rather like “earth-priests”.
As far as Cambodia is concerned, there are the very interesting observations made
by the Chinese diplomat and traveller Zhou Daguan (1266–1346) in the late
thirteenth century called A Record of Cambodia: the Land and its People (translated
and edited by Peter Harris, Silkworm Books, 2007).
54. Some references in Fuglestad (1979), 53, footnote 24.
55. We have been told that the earlier Bamileke, Tikar and other societies of Cameroon
before the emergence of the fon chieftainchips are relevant examples in this context.
But it is a point we have been unable to investigate so far.
56. As in Anlo: Greene (1983), 86.
57. B.A. Agiri, “Early Oyo History Reconsidered”, History in Africa, II (1975); Robin
Law, The Oyo Empire c.1600–c.1836. A West African Imperialism in the Era of the
Atlantic Slave Trade (Oxford University Press, 1977a), 29.
58. See for instance David Henley and Ian Caldwell, “Kings and Covenants. Stranger-
kings and social contract in Sulawesi”, Indonesia and the Malay World, vol. 36, no.
105 (2008), 269-91.
59. Jack Goody in the “Introduction” to the book edited by him, Succession to High Office
(Cambridge University Press, 1966), 1-56 (5).
60. Fuglestad (1979), and many of the works referred to in the preceding.
61. Interesting illustration of many of the themes referred to above (although not from
the perspective adopted in the present work) in Alfred Adler, Le pouvoir et l’interdit.
Royauté et religion en Afrique noire (Paris, Albin Michel, 2000).
62. The most famous case world-wide is that of the Incas: Geoffrey W. Conrad & Arthur
A. Demarest, Religion and Empire. The Dynamics of Aztec and Inca Expansionism
(Cambridge University Press,1984). In Africa, the book by Adler (preceding
footnote) seems to us to refer to a similar case.
The book by Conrad and Demarest constitutes incidentally a powerful argument
in favour of our sacred-society thesis.
63. Robin Law, who may not be in agreement with our interpretation here, notes
nevertheless that the political system of Oyo involved an uneasy balance between
the alafin and the oyo mesi which was bound to give rise to recurrent tensions, not
to say bitter strife, between the two. Cf. Law (1977a), 76; and by the same author,
“Making Sense of a Traditional Narrative: Political Disintegration in the Kingdom
of Oyo”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXII, 3-4 (1982), 387-401 (esp. 399).
325
NOTES pp. [67–70]
64. Inspired by Henley and Caldwell (2008).

65. Speculation based on Sandra T. Barnes and Paula Girshick Ben-Amos, “Ogun, the
Empire Builder”, in Barnes (ed.), Africa’s Ogun, 39-64 (42); Apter (1992), 21-5.
66. See for instance R. Smith (1976); and for the case of Asante: Larry W. Yarak, Asante
and the Dutch, 1744–1873 (Oxford University Press, 1990), 12.
67. For instance, the cases of Anlo and Glidji on the Slave Coast, as we shall see.
A4
1. “Le monde surnaturel est intégré au monde des vivants et forme avec lui un tout
cohérent” (Savary [1976], 143).
2. Ibid.; Pazzi (1976), 284; Pierre Verger, “Oral Tradition in the Cult of the Orishas
and its Connection with the History of the Yoruba”, Journal of the Historical Society
of Nigeria, I (1956), 61-3: Morton-Williams (1964a), 252; Manoukian (1950), 45;
Akyeampong (2001), 33.
3. Pazzi (1976), 286.
4. Savary (1976), 149 & 164; Law (1991b), 105-6; Bernard Maupoil, La Géomancie à
l’ancienne Côte des Esclaves (Paris, Institut d’Ethnologie, 1943), 35-8; etc.
5. Le Hérissé (1911), 158-60; Hazoumé (1937/1956), 160-61.
6. For instance Pazzi (1976), 302.
7. Note in any case that Legba is a very complex deity and has in fact many roles. Brand
(2000), 65; Savary (1976), 161; Foà (1895), 223; etc.
8 Rosenthal (2005), 184; Savary (1976), 156 & 211-12; Bay (1998), 23; Herskovits
(1938/1967), I, 209-10 (note that the “love thy neighbour as thyself ” theme is not
much in evidence).
9. Barnes (1989), 3.
10. Blier (1995a), 4.
11. Brand (2000), 1-2.
12. Joan Dayan: “Vodou practices must be viewed as ritual reenactments of Haiti’s
colonial past, even more than as retentions from Africa”. Cf. her Haiti, History and
the Gods (University of California Press, 1995), XVII-XX, 35-6.
13. Pierre Verger, “Le culte des Vodoun d’Abomey aurait-il été apporté à Saint-Louis de
Maranhon par la mère du roi Ghézo?”, Études Dahoméennes, 8 (1952), 19-24; Bay
(2001), 42-60; Brand (2000), 41.
14. Argyle (1966), 176-7; Marty (1925), I, 125-6; Herskovits (1958), 12; Maupoil
(1943), 69; and many others.
15. Nicoué Lodjou Gayibor, “Migrations-société-civilisation: les Ewe du sud-Togo”
(thèse-3e cycle, Paris I, 1975), 396.
16. Gaba (1997), 47.
17. Herskovits (1958), 132-4. Hence similar to Olorun or Olodumare among the Yoruba
(Lloyd [1960] 223) and Onyame among the Akan (Emmanuel Akyeampong and
Pashington Obeng, “Spirituality, Gender, and Power in Asante History”, International
Journal of African Historical Studies, 28, 3 [1995], 481-508 [483]).
326
pp. [70–72] NOTES
18. Note that the same family pattern, with the lesser deities emanating from the supreme
one, has been proposed for other parts of West Africa, notably the Fante and the Ga
of the Gold Coast and the Diola of Senegambia. Cf. T.C. McCaskie, “Nananom
Mpow of Mankessim: An Essay in Fante History”, in David Henige and T.C.
McCaskie (eds), West African Economic and Social History. Studies in Memory of
Marion Johnson (African Studies Program, University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1990),
133-50 (139); Irene Quaye, “The Ga and their Neighbours 1600-1742” (PhD thesis,
University of Ghana, 1972), 269; Baum (1999), 38-42 & 105-7.
19. Herskovits (1958), 132-4.
20. According to a person in Ouidah interviewed by Bosman, the number of their gods
was endless and innumerable – “we make and break our gods daily”, he added (Bosman
[1704/1967], 367a-368).
21. Maupoil (1943), 68.
22. Herskovits (1958), 135.
23. See footnote 45 in the Introduction.
24. Maupoil (1943); Blier (2005), 175.
25. Verger (1957), 141; Barnes (1989); Herskovits (1958), 133-4.
26. Wording by Greene (2002), 1019.
27. Le Hérissé (1911), 128.
28. Pazzi (1976), 60; Brand (2000), 1; Argyle (1966), 183.
29. Herskovits (1958), 37.
30. Ibid., 35; Verger (1957), 141 & 157.
31. Atkins (1735/1970), 180; “Relation du Royaume de Judas (ca. 1715)” (op. cit.), 90;
Hender Molesworth and Rowland Powell to the RAC, Jamaica 24.1.1680/1 (O.s),
in Elizabeth Donnan (ed.), Documents Illustrative of the History of the Slave Trade to
America, vol. I, 1441-1700 (Washington DC, Carnegie Institution, 1930), 271;
Robert Elwes, off Cape Lopez 31.1.1686 (O.s); & Georges Nantes, from Barbados
10.5. 1686 (O.s); both in Law (2006), 379; Mondjannagni (1977), 121 & 162.
32. Savary (1976), 153-61; Brand (2000), 3 & 77; Herskovits (1938/1967), II, 135-7;
Argyle (1966), 185-6; Herskovits (1958), 17; Edna G. Bay, Asen, Ancestors, and
Vodun: Tracing Change in African Art (University of Illinois Press, 2008), 56 (in
addition to her Wives of the Leopard, especially 115-18).
33. For instance Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch, “De la traite des esclaves à l’exportation
de l’huile de palme et de palmistes au Dahomey: XIXe siècle”, in C. Meillassoux (ed.),
The Development of Indigenous Trade and Markets in West Africa (Oxford University
Press, 1971), 107-23 (112).
34. For instance: Jan Vansina, Kingdoms of the Savanna (University of Wisconsin Press,
1966); Georges Balandier, Daily Life in the Kingdom of Kongo (translated from the
French, London and New York, 1968) and Political Anthropology (Penguin ed.,
1970); John K. Thornton, The Kingdom of Kongo. Civil War and Transition 1641–
1718 (University of Wisconsin Press, 1983); Susan Herlin Broadhead, “Beyond
Decline: the Kingdom of the Kongo in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries”,
International Journal of African Historical Studies, 12, 4 (1979), 615-50; John
Thornton, “The Origins and Early History of the Kingdom of Kongo, c. 1350–1550”,
International Journal of African Historical Studies, 34, 1 (2001), 89-120; Louis Jadin
327
NOTES pp. [72–74]
and Mireille Dicorato (eds), Correspondance de Dom Afonso, roi du Congo 1506–
1543 (Brussels, Académie Royale des Sciences d’Outre-Mer, 1974); John K.Thornton,
“The Kingdom of Kongo, ca.1390–1678. The Development of an African Social
Formation”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXII, 3-4 (1982), 325-42.
35. The dates used by John K. Thornton in “Afro-Christian Syncretism in the Kingdom
of Kongo”, Journal of African History, 54, 1 (2013), 53-77.
36. A.F.C. Ryder, “Missionary Activities in the Kingdom of Warri to the Early Nineteenth
Century”, Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, vol. 2, 1 (1960), 1-26; William
A. Moore, History of Itsekiri (1936; 2nd edit. Frank Cass 1970, with a new Introd.
by P.C. Lloyd), 30-33; P. Mateo de Anguiano (1649–1726), Misiones Capuchinas
en Africa, vol. II, Misiones al Reino de la Zinga, Benín, Arda, Guineà, y Sierra Leona
(Madrid, 1685; modern edition: vol. VII of Missionalia Hispanica [con introducción
y notas del P. Buenaventura de Carrocera], Madrid [Consejo Superior de
Investigaciones Cientificas & Instituto Santo Toribio de Mogrovejo, 1957]),
251-66.
37. Personal interpretation of, among other works, Ryder (1969), 4-21, 107, 202 & 313;
R.E. Bradbury, Benin Studies, Peter Morton-Williams (ed.) (Oxford University Press/
International African Institute, 1973), esp. 138-40; Dmitri M. Bondarenko, “Advent
of the Second (Oba) Dynasty: Another Assessment of a Benin History Key Point”,
HA, 30 (2003), 63-85; Dmitri M. Bondarenko and Peter M. Roese, “Between the
Ogiso and Oba Dynasties: An Interpretation of Interregnum in the Benin Kingdom”,
ibid., 31 (2004), 103-15; Paula Ben-Amos Girshick and John Thornton, “Civil War
in the Kingdom of Benin, 1689–1721: Continuity or Political Change?”, Journal of
African History, 42, 3 (2001), 353-76.
38. Pemberton III (1989), 105-46 (138).
39. Robert Smith, “The Lagos Consulate, 1851-1861: An Outline”, Journal of African
History, XV, 3 (1974), 393-416 (esp. 394); Mann (2007), 27-9, 36 & 49.
40. Adédirán (1984), 80; Aimé Sègla and Adékin E. Boko, “De la cosmologie à la
rationalisation de la vie sociale. Ces mots idààcha qui parlent ou la mémoire d’un
type de calendrier yoruba ancien”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XLVI, 1 (2006), 11-50.
As for Savè/Chabe, there are apparently clear traces of contrapuntal paramountcy:
R.P. Thomas Mouléro, “Histoire et légende de Chabe (Save)”, Études Dahoméennes
(ns), 2 (1964), 51-92 (61-2).
41. Parrinder (1956), 14-22; Palau-Martí (1964), 56-8 & 195; Iroko (1998),155.
42. As usual, personal interpretation of: Jacques Lombard, “La vie politique dans une
ancienne société de type féodal: les Bariba du Dahomey”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines,
XXII, 3 (1960), 5-45; Marjorie Helen Stewart, “The Kisra legend as oral history”,
International Journal of African Historical Studies, 13, 1 (1980), 51-70.
43. Kwame Yeboa Daaku, Trade and Politics on the Gold Coast 1600 to 1720. A Study of
the African Reaction to European Trade (Oxford at the Clarendon Press, 1970), 159-
60. According to A. Norman Klein, there is interestingly a rough “correlation between
the distribution of forest-living, yam-growing, Kwa-speaking populations and an
abnormal blood type, haemoglobin S (HbS, the sickle cell gene), which offers
resistance to malarial parasites” (Klein [1996], 250). Kwa is a very broad linguistic
category englobing all the languages of the coast of Guinea.
328
pp. [74–76] NOTES
44. Ibid., 253; Yarak (1990), 4-16; McCaskie (1995/2002), 275-85.

Another interesting work on Asante is Pescheux (2003).
45. Klein (1996), 254; Gérard Pescheux, Le royaume asante (Ghana). Parenté, pouvoir,
histoire, XVIIe–XXe siècles (Paris, Karthala, 2003), 52; Peter Shinnie, “Early Asante:
Is Wilks Right?”, in John Hunwick and Nancy Lawler (eds), The Cloth of Many
Colored Silks. Papers on History and Society Ghanaian and Islamic in Honor of Ivor
Wilks (Northwestern University Press, 1996), 195-203.
46. Pescheux (2003), 534; Gilbert (1987), 303; Captain R.S. Rattray, The Tribes of the
Ashanti Hinterland (2 volumes, Oxford at the Clarendon Press, 1932), vol. I, p.XIX.
47. Ivor Wilks, “Aspects of Bureaucratization in Ashanti in the Nineteenth Century”,
Journal of African History, VII, 2 (1966), 215-32 (215).
48. Fynn (1971), 40.
49. Ivor Wilks, “Ashanti Government” in Daryll Forde and P.M. Kaberry (eds), West
African Kingdoms in the Nineteenth Century (International African Institute/Oxford
University Press, 1967), 206-38 (221).
50. Underlined especially in Per O. Hernæs, “Dansk-Norske handelsutposter på
Gullkysten i slavehandelens æra”, Norsk Sjøfartsmuseum. Årsberetning 1997 (Oslo,
1998), 129-41 (135).
51. The classic work is Rattray (1932). See also David Tait, “The Political System of
Konkomba”, Africa, XXIII, 3 (1953), 213-23; Jack Goody, “The Over-Kingdom of
Gonja” in Forde & Kaberry (1967), 179-205; Goody (1966), 142-76.
52. Michel Izard, Introduction à l’histoire des royaumes mossi (2 volumes, Paris/
Ouagadougou-CNRS/CVRS, 1970), and many other works by the same author;
Wilks (1985), 466-72.
53. Shumway (2011a), 154 & 164. The ultimate authority in these matters is John Kofi
Fynn whose works on the Fante we have been unable to consult.
54. Madeline Manoukian, Akan and Ga-Adangme Peoples of the Gold Coast (Oxford
University Press/International African Institute, 1950), 66 & 86; Quaye (1972), 94-5.
55. Everything on the Akwamu constitutes my personal interpretation of Wilks (2001).
56. Nicoué Lodjou Gayibor (ed. but Gayibor wrote most chapters), Histoire des Togolais,
vol. I: Des origines à 1884 (Presses de l’Université du Bénin, 1997), 326.
57. Including Nugent (2005), 38.
58. Greene (2002a), 1022; D.E.K. Amenumey, The Ewe in Pre-Colonial Times. A Political
History with Special Emphasis on the Anlo, Ge and Krepi (Accra, Sedco, 1986), 11-12;
Laumann in ibid., 14-28 (17).
59. The matter may be apparently somewhat more complicated. For a discussion see Michel
Verdon, The Abutia Ewe of West Africa. The Chiefdom that Never Was (Berlin etc.,
Mouton, 1983); Benjamin N. Lawrance, “Bankoe v. Dome: Traditions and Petitions
in the Ho-Asogli Amalgamation, British Mandated Togoland, 1919-39”, Journal of
African History, 46, 2 (2005), 243-67; Nicoué Lodjou Gayibor, “L’aire culturelle Ajatado
des origines à la fin du XVIIIe siècle” (Thesis , Paris I University, 1985), 439-40.
60. Manoukian (1952), 34; Laumann (2005), 18.
61. Gayibor (1997), 327; Gaba (1997), 36.
329
NOTES pp. [76–81]

(2008), 935.
63. Gayibor (1975), 382.
64. Amenumey (1986), 15.
65. Nukunya (1997), 63-4; Gaba (1997), 36-8; etc.
66. Abotchie (1997), 81.
67. Nukunya (1997), 48-9.
68. Ibid.
69. Greene (1996), 2 & 27-8.
70. Sandra E. Greene, “The Past and Present of an Anlo-Ewe Oral Tradition”, History in
Africa, 12 (1985), 73-87 (79); Akyeampong (2001), 106.
71. Greene (1983), 88.
72. Nii Otokunor Quarcoopome’s short but informative study (1993), 109-28, does not
pretend to be one.
73. Law (1991b), 14.
74. Gaba (1997), 38.
75. McCaskie (1995/2002), 144-242; Pescheux (2003), 181 & 539.
76. Pemberton (1989), 138; Apter (1992), 21-5; Agiri (1975), 75-9; Law (1977a), 66-73.
77. McCaskie (1995/2002), 147.
78. Fuglestad (2005), 107-20.
79. Our thinking in these matters has been influenced in particular by the reading of
Nancy M. Farriss’ magnificent “Remembering the Future, Anticipating the Past:
History, Time, and Cosmology among the Maya of Yucatan”, in Diane Owen Hughes
and Thomas R. Trautmann (eds), Time. Histories and Ethnologies (University of
Michigan Press, 1995), 107-38.
80. Here we part company with David Henige when he says that he believes “that oral
societies do not forget their past so much as they reject…the need for its memory to
be factual”. David Henige, “Impossible to Disprove yet Impossible to Believe: the
Unforgiving Epistemology of Deep-time oral tradition”, History in Africa, 36 (2009),
127-234 (231).
81. Savary (1976), 374-5. Baum (1999, 58-9) argues the same for parts of Senegambia.
82. Skertchly (1874), 13.
83. Adams (1823/1966), 203. In the case of the Gold Coast, we note what H.C. Monrad
(1822/2009, 43 & 80) has to say: “In general, it is not essential for the Negroes to
know when this or that happened… Time is never precious for the Negro”. See also
ibid., 89 & 227).
84. Law (1988), 433.
85. Ibid., 436.
86. Lombard (1967a), 80.
A5
1. A reputation based primarily on his classic work The Great Transformation. The
Political and Economic Origins of our Time, first published in 1944.
330
pp. [81–85] NOTES
2. Polanyi (1966); and by the same author: “Sortings and the ‘Ounce Trade’ in the West
African Slave Trade”, Journal of African History, V, 3 (1964), 381-93.
3. Law (2004a), 147.
4. Georg Elwert,Wirtschaft und Herrschaft von ‘Dãxome’ (Dahomey) im 18. Jahrhundert:
Ökonomie des Sklavenraubs und Gesellschaftsstruktur 1724 bis 1818 (Munich, 1973).
For an evaluation, cf. Agneta Pallinder-Law’s review entitled, “The Slave Trade
Economy in Dahomey”, Journal of African History, 2 (1975), 306-7.
5. Roberta Walker Kilkenny, “The Slave Mode of Production: Precolonial Dahomey”,
in Donald Crummey and C.C. Stewart (eds), Modes of Production in Africa: the
Precolonial Era (Beverly Hills/London, 1981), 157-73 (160).
6. Jack Goody, Technology, Tradition, and the State in Africa (Oxford University Press/
International African Institute, 1971).
7. David Eltis and Lawrence C. Jennings: “Trade between Western Africa and the Atlantic
World in the Pre-colonial Era”, American Historical Review, XLIII, 4 (1988), 936-59.
8. Joseph E. Inikori, “The Economic Impact of the 1807 British Abolition of the
Transatlantic Slave Trade”, in Toyin Falola and Matt D. Childs (eds), The Changing
Worlds of Atlantic Africa. Essays in Honor of Robin Law (Durham, NC, 2009), 163-
82 (176).
9. Ibid., 177.
10. Robin Law, “The Gold Trade of Whydah in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth
Centuries”, in David Henige and T.C. McCaskie (eds), West African Economic and
Social History: Studies in Memory of Marion Johnson (University of Wisconsin,
Madison, 1990), 105-18; Robin Law, “Computing Domestic Prices in Precolonial
West Africa: a Methodological Exercise from the Slave Coast”, History in Africa, 18
(1991), 239-57; Robin Law, “Cowries, Gold, and Dollars: Exchange Rate Instability
and Domestic Price Inflation in Dahomey in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth
Centuries”, in Jane I. Guyer (ed.), Money Matters. Instability, Values and Social
Payments in the Modern History of West African Communities (Heineman/James
Currey, 1995), 53-73; Robin Law, “Finance and Credit in Pre-Colonial Dahomey”,
in Endre Stiansen and Jane I. Guyer (eds), Credit, Currencies and Culture. African
Financial Institutions in Historical Perspective (Uppsala, 1999), 15-37.
11. M’Leod (1820/1971), 93.
12. Inspired by Belich (2009), 96.
13. In the case of the Slave Coast, see in particular Norman (2009b), 187-218; and
another article by the same author (2009a), esp. 408.
14. Underlined in ibid., 402, and in Greene (1996b), 39-40, among other works, including
in some rather unexpected ones, such as for instance Daniel Hopkins, “Peter
Thonning’s Map of Danish Guinea and its Use in Colonial Administration and
Atlantic Diplomacy 1801-1890”, Cartographica, 35, 3-4 (1998), 99-122 (108).
15. Apart from The Ambiguities of History, we have exposed our views on the course of
European and Global History in several works in Norwegian. Among the latter,
Vekstøkonomi. Et globalhistorisk essay (Oslo, Unipub, 2010).
Of the vast literature on the origins and rise of capitalism, one of the most
pertinent works remains in our opinion Jean Baechler’s “Essai sur les origines du
système capitaliste”, Archives Européennes de Sociologie, IX, 2 (1968), 205-63.
331
NOTES pp. [85–87]
16. Law (1991b), 56.

17. Ibid., 220. See also Arnold below (footnote 36).
18. Jan S. Hogendorn and Marion Johnson, The Shell Money of the Slave Trade (Cambridge
University Press, 1986).
19. Ibid., 6 & 92.
20. Jan S. Hogendorn and Henry A. Gemery: “Abolition and its Impact on Monies
Imported to West Africa”, in David Eltis and James Walvin (eds), The Abolition of the
Atlantic Slave Trade. Origins and Effects in Europe, Africa, and the Americas
(University of Wisconsin Press, 1981), 99-115 (108).
21. Its importance has been exaggerated according to Eltis (2000), 184, footnote 59.
22. Polanyi (1966), 187.
23. Hogendorn and Johnson (1986), 2.
24. Gayibor (1997), 229.
25. Marion Johnson, “The Ounce in Eighteenth-century West African Trade”, Journal
of African History, VII, 2 (1966), 197-214; and by the same author, “The Atlantic
Slave Trade and the Economy of West Africa”, in R. Anstey and P.E.H. Hair (eds),
Liverpool, The African Slave Trade, and Abolition (Historic Society of Lancashire
and Cheshire, 1976), 14-38.
26. Postma (1990), 228.
27. Ibid., 211.
28. David Northrup, “New Evidence of the French Slave-Trade in the Bight of Benin”,
Slavery and Abolition, 24, 3 (2003), 61-81 (64).
29. A.G. Hopkins, An Economic History of West Africa (London, Longman, 1973), 111.
30. Long lists in Stanley B. Alpern, “What Africans Got for Their Slaves: A Master List
of European Trade Goods”, History in Africa, 22 (1995), 5-43; Barbot on Guinea,
657-8; Northrup (2003), 66-7; Johnson (1976), 15-8; Davies (1957), 170-5; Law
(1991b), 199-205.
31. Inga Merkyte and Klavs Randsborg, “Graves from Dahomey: Beliefs, Ritual and
society in Ancient Bénin”, Journal of African Archaeology, VII, 1 (2009), 55-77
(61-3).
32. The French director at Ouidah noted in 1734, and complained about “les révolutions
continuelles en goût de ce pays” (Levet de Juda 17.1.1734, op. cit.). See also Justesen
(2005), XXVI; etc.
33. The only work we know about regarding cross-cultural trade is Philip D. Curtin’s
Cross-cultural Trade in World History (Cambridge University Press, 1984). But its
perspective is distinct from the one adopted in the present book.
34. “The circulation of objects…is not merely a physical process but is also a movement
and displacement of competing conceptions of things”: Nicholas Thomas, Entangled
Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific (Harvard
University Press, 1991). Or as Kenneth Kelly has expressed it (Kelly (1997b): “trade
items…were assigned values and meanings consistent with the (local) cultural system”.
35. Well illustrated in Harms (2002), 248-9.
36. For a discussion, cf. Rosemary Arnold, “A Port of Trade: Whydah on the Guinea
Coast”, in Karl Polanyi, Conrad Arensberg and Harry W. Pearson (eds), Trade and
Markets in the Early Empires. Economies in History and Theory (New York, The Free
332
pp. [87–92] NOTES
Press, 1957), 154-76 (173). But note that Arnold’s article is based exclusively on
published material.
37. Polanyi (1964), 384.
38. E.W. Evans and David Richardson, “Hunting for Rents: the Economics of Slaving
in Pre-colonial Africa”, Economic History Review, XLVIII, 4 (1995), 665-86
(667-71).
39. Ibid., 676.
40. Johnson (1976), 32-3. Additional concrete examples in Alain Yacou, Journaux de
bord et de traite de Joseph Crassous de Médeuil. De La Rochelle à la côte de Guinée et
aux Antilles (1772–1776) (Paris, Karthala, 2001), 137; Harms (2002), 232.
41. Law (1992b); and by the same author, “Horses, Firearms, and Political Power in
Precolonial West Africa”, Past & Present, no. 72 (1976), 112-32.
42. Ibid., 114-15.
43. Eltis (2000).
44. Anonymous: Certain Considerations Relating to the RAC of England (etc), printed
1680 (Harley MS 7310; British Library-Department of Manuscripts).
45. Mémoire des Negociants de Nantes etc. 25.11.1777 (AD-Loire Atlantique, Nantes,
C738).
46. Indeed, the Royal African Company, which for long had a monopoly of the English
slave trade, encouraged English merchants and manufacturers to compete with the
Dutch, and with success (underlined in Davies [1957] 174).
47. Inspired in the last resort by Nuala Zahedieh, “Regulation, Rent-seeking, and the
Glorious Revolution in the English Atlantic Economy”, Economic History Review,
63, 4 (2010), 865-90.
48. Findlay and O’Rourke (2007), 533.
A6
1. See the Introduction, footnote 1.
2. Elaborated in Stephen D. Behrendt, “The Annual Volume and Regional Distribution
of the British Slave Trade, 1780–1807”, Journal of African History, 38, 2 (1997),
187-211.
3. R.E. Bradbury, The Benin Kingdom and the Edo-Speaking Peoples of South-Western
Nigeria (London, International African Institute, 1957), together with a section on
The Itsekiri, by P.C. Lloyd, 20.
4. Landolphe (1823), I; Ryder (1969), 33, 125, 212 & 229.
5. Ryder (1966), 203; Ryder (1969), 41-5 & 65; “Relation du voyage de Guynée fait
en 1687 sur la frégate ‘La Tempeste’ par le Sr. Du Casse”, in Roussier (1935), 1-47
(15).
6. But note that between 1780 & 1807 the number of slaves embarked from the Benin
kingdom made up 19.4 per cent of all slaves embarked on British ships, only British
ships, in the Bight of Benin. Figures from Behrendt (1997), 205.
7. Ryder (1969), 45.
8. Ibid., 198.
333
NOTES pp. [92–94]
9. Benin cloth, not necessarily made in Benin itself but exported through Benin, was
sold on the Gold Coast and later even in Brazil. However, it began to lose out in the
competition with Indian and European textiles already in the seventeenth century.
The akori beads came originally from Ife before those from Venice took over. Cf.
Ryder (1966), 203-4; Daaku (1970), 24; Merkyte and Randsborg (2009), 61;
Tilleman (1697/1994), 153; O. Euba, “Of Blue Beads and Red: the Role of Ife in
the West African Trade in Kori Beads”, Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 11,
1-2 (1982), 109-27.
10. M. de Mithon de Legoma, Haiti, 15.2.1717 (AN Marine B/1/20, f.134-). General
reputation of Benin slaves: “les moins estimés- se chagrinent et meurent promptement”;
Pruneau (1789), 244.
11. David Eltis, Paul E. Lovejoy and David Richardson, “Slave-trading Ports: Towards
an Atlantic-Wide Perspective, 1676–1832”, in R. Law and Silke Strickrodt (eds),
Ports of the Slave Trade (Bights of Benin and Biafra) (Centre of Commonwealth
Studies, University Of Stirling, 1999), 12-34 (20-21).
12. See for instance Northrup (2003), 62-3.
13. This began very early: Thomas Clarke & Hugh Elliott to the RAC, Orphra [Offra]
in Arda [Allada], 17.9.1678 [O.s.], in Donnan (1930), 236-7.
14. As expressd by Joseph Blaney in a letter from Whydah (Ouidah), and referring
specifically to that place, 1.3.1715 [O.s.] (PRO C.113/276).
15. Hernæs (1998). Among the many other examples: Edwyn Stede and Stephen
Gascoigne to the RAC, Barbados, 27.1.1682/3 [O.s.] (Donnan [1930], 304).
16. “Return from the Commissioners for Trade and Plantations, to the Honourable
House of Commons, in consequence of the address of the said House to His Majesty
of the 29th Day of January 1777 (etc)”, printed 1777, p. 6 (NA, T70/177); Dantzig
and Priddy (1971), 17-18; many documents in Justesen (2005), 112-29, 261 & 328;
G. Aguirre Beltran, “Tribal Origins of Slaves in Mexico”, Journal of Negro History,
31-3 (1946), 269-352 (315).
17. Ray A. Kea, Settlements, Trade, and Politics in the Seventeenth-Century Gold Coast
( Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982), 105-6.
18. Law (2004a), 39; etc.
19. E. Jackline from Whydah [Ouidah], 13.10.1692 [O.s.], in Law (1992a), 55.
20. Ryder’s book from 1969 is, once more, the obvious reference.
21. Note that the early Atlantic slave trade (exclusively Portuguese) was far from
negligible, it may have involved from 900 to 2,200 slaves a year. Cf. Ivana Elbl, “The
Volume of the Early Atlantic Slave Trade, 1450–1521”, Journal of African History,
38, 1 (1997), 31-75.
22. Eltis & Richardson (2010), 197.
23. A slightly earlier date cannot be ruled out. See the interesting discussion in David
Wheat, “The First Great Waves: African Provenance Zones for the Transatlantic
Slave Trade to Cartagena de Indias, 1570–1640”, Journal of African History, 52, 1
(2011), 1-22. The first slaves from the future Slave Coast were perhaps sent to
Cartagena de Indias in present-day Colombia.
24. Robin Law, “The Evolution of the Brazilian Community in Ouidah”, Slavery and
Abolition, 22, 1 (2001), 22-41; also published in Kristin Mann and Edna G. Bay
334
pp. [96–101] NOTES
(eds), Rethinking the African Diaspora: the Making of a Black Atlantic World in the
Bight of Benin and Brazil (London, Frank Cass, 2001).
The African population in Brazil increased from nearly two million in 1798 to 5.8
million in 1872: Inikori (2009), 171.
25. The Gold Coast “became fully integrated into the Atlantic slave trade suddenly,
between roughly 1700 and 1725”, according to Shumway (2011a), 54.
26. Documents quoted in Yacou (2001), 139.
27. Useful summary of existing statistics in Mann (2007), 33.
28. For instance, the RAC at its fullest extent (in 1689) employed all told more than 300
white men in Africa, three-fourths of whom were foreigners (Davies [1957], 251-4).
29. Inikori (2001); and by the same author: “The Known, the Unknown, the Knowable,
and the Unknowable: Evidence and the Evaluation of Evidence in the Measurement
of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade”, in Toyin Falola (ed.), Ghana in Africa and the World:
Essays in Honor of Adu Boahen (Trenton, NJ & Asmara, Eritrea, 2003), 535-65.
30. J.E. Inikori, “The Volume of the British Slave Trade, 1655-1807”, Cahiers d’Etudes
Africaines, XXXII, 4 (1992), 643-88 (685).
31. Source material published in Donnan (1930), I, 355-6.
32. Inikori (2001), 89 & 96-7.
33. Norris (1789/1968), 69-70; Dalzel’s testimony in the meeting of the Committee of
the African Association on 2.8.1804, in Robin Hallett (ed), Records of the African
Association 1788–1831 (London/Edinburgh, Thomas Nelson & Sons, 1964), 194;
Robin Law, “Further Light on John Duncan’s Account of the ‘Fellatah Country’”,
History in Africa, 28 (2001), 129-38; etc.
34. Lander (1830/1967), 35.
35. Theory of Evans and Richardson (1995), 675. It may be significant that we do not
know on the Slave Coast of any trading network or trading community like the one
that there is reason to believe the famous and somewhat mysterious Akani of the
Gold Coast constituted, especially in pre-Asante times. The Akani are however
primarily associated with the gold and not the slave trade. Cf. Albert van Dantzig,
“The Akanists: A West African Hansa”, in Henige and McCaskie (1990), 205-16;
Kea (1982), 30 & 248-87; Shumway (2011a), 37-40.
36. Manning (1979, 125) does point out that the evidence is – unsurprisingly – scattered
and quite impressionistic. See also, by the same author, “Contours of slavery and
social change in Africa”, American Historical Review, 88, 4 (1983), 835-57 (847).
37. Law (1991b), 222-3.
38. Robin Law, “Ethnicities of Enslaved Africans in the Diaspora: On the Meanings of
‘Mina’ (Again)”, History in Africa, 32 (2005), 247-67.
39. Law (1977a), esp. p. 219.
40. Robin Law, “A West African Cavalry State: the Kingdom of Oyo”, Journal of African
History, 16 (1975), 1-15.
41. On Borgu see Robin Law and Paul E. Lovejoy, “Borgu in the Atlantic Slave Trade”,
African Economic History, 27 (1999), 69-92.
42. Messrs Miles and Dalzel (both old Guinea hands) considered that the slave trade
was carried by a chain of merchants from the Coast indefinitely in many directions
towards the interior (Meeting of the Committee of the African Association 2.8.1804;
335
NOTES pp. [101–102]
in Hallet [1964], 193-5). Pruneau (1789), 151: some slaves came from 50 or 60 days’
march in the interior having been “vendus à dix marchés différens en route”. See also
the testimony of Oettinger from 1692-3 in Jones (1985), 195-6; and that of P.
Labarthe, Voyage à la Côte de Guinée, ou description des Côtes d d’Afrique depuis le cap
Tagrin jusqu’au cap de Lopez-Gonzalves (Paris, Debray, an XI [1803]), 104-5; plus
finally M. (Xavier) Béraud, “Note sur le Dahomé” (dated Whydah [Ouidah]
26.3.1866), Bulletin de la Société de Géographie, 5e série, vol.12 (1866), 371-86 (374).
43. Studies of ethnic origins of slaves in America, based on data from shipping and
plantation records, are inconclusive, and at times flawed, in our opinion, and have
therefore not been further pursued recently. We have decided to abstain from
providing references to them.
44. Kenneth G. Kelly, “Change and Continuity in Coastal Bénin”, in Christopher R.
DeCorse (ed.), West Africa during the Atlantic Slave Trade: Archaeological Perspectives
(Leicester University Press, 2001), 81-100 (96). We have to do with an “extrapolation
of remarkable audacity”, to use a famous expression by David Henige, a type of
extrapolation uncomfortably common in the field of the history of the slave trade
according to him (and I agree). See David Henige, “Measuring the Immeasurable:
the Atlantic Slave Trade, West African Population and the Pyrrhonian Critic”, Journal
of African History, 27, 2 (1986), 295-313.
45. Fr Joseph de Naxara (modern: José de Nájera), Espejo mystico en que el hombre interior
se mira practicamente ilustrado para los conocimientos de Dios, y el exercicio de la virtudes
(etc) (Madrid 1672), 239 [consulted in BNA, sección impresos no. 3/63664].
46. In addition to Naxara, see van Hoolwerff from Offra 2.4.1687 in Dantzig (1978),
29-30; and “The Examination of A. Dalzel by the African Committee”, 5.4.1788 (op.
cit.). Then there is the case of the many Huedan fugitives in 1727 and later which we
will encounter in Part B.
47. Phillips (1732), 219; Pruneau (1789), 165-6; Bosman (1704/1967), 344-5.
48. Idem; Dalzel (1793/1967), 211; Lombard (1967), 89; etc.
49. Bay (2001), 52; Herskovits (1938/1967), II, 32.
50. A. Félix Iroko, “Condamnations pénales et ravitaillement en esclaves de la traite
négrière”, in Elisée Soumonni, Bellarmin C. Codo and Joseph Adande (eds), Le Bénin
et la route de l’esclave (Cotonou, ONEPI, 1994), 93-5; Bay (2001), 45; Chenevert
and Bulet, “Réflexions sur Juda” (op. cit.), 52.
51. Robin Law, “On Pawning and Enslavement for Debt in the Pre-Colonial Slave Coast”,
in Toyin Falola and Paul E. Lovejoy (eds), Pawnship in Africa: Debt Bondage in
Historical Perspective (Boulder, Westview, 1994), 55-69.
52. Law (1991b), 185-8.
53. Kelly (1997a), 362-3.
54. Harms (2002), 250.
55. Phillips (1732), 218; “Relation du Royaume de Judas”, ca. 1715 (op. cit.), 86; Bosman
(1704/1967), 364; Law (2004a), 132.
56. Again Phillips (1732), 218.
57. Barbot on Guinea, 635; Bay (1998), 47. See also Aubrey Burl, Black Barty:
Bartholomew Roberts and his Pirate Crew 1718-1723 (first publ., 1997; Sutton
Publishing, 2006), 219.
336
pp. [102–105] NOTES
58. Oettinger in Jones (1985), 196.

59. Postma’s contention (based on Ratelband) that slaves were initially kept in leggers,
floating ships “in a lagoon”, and later in corrals on the beach, until a company slave
ship arrived, refers presumably to Offra, since it is difficult to reconcile with the rest
of the evidence for Ouidah. What is certain is that there were, in contrast to the Gold
Coast, no facilities like warehouses or dungeons (Postma [1990], 96).
60. The whole process is remarkably well described in “Instructions pour la coste de
Guinée”, ca. 1722 (AN Marine 3/JJ/252).
61. In 1773 (Yacou [2001], 122).
62. Isert (1788/1992), 98.
63. Law (2004a), 129-34.
64. Pruneau (1789), 209-13.
65. Houstoun (1725), 35.
66. Examination by R. Norris of the African Committee, 27.2.1788 (NA BT 6/9).
67. Law (2004a), 141.
68. Minutes of Council, Elmina, 11.1.1706, in Dantzig (1978), 127.
69. Lander (1830/1967), II, 250-51.
70. Postma (1990, 236) is, as far as we can see, the only one to make this point.
71. Snelgrave (1734/1971), 107; Herskovits (1938/1967), I, 55; Argyle (1966), 142;
Alpern (1998b), 135; Honorat Aguessy, “Le Dan-Home du XIXe siècle était-il une
société esclavagiste?”, Revue Française d’Études Politiques Africaines, 50 (1970), 71-91
(75); Edna G. Bay, “Servitude and Wordly Success in the Palace of Dahomey”, in
Claire C. Robertson and Martin A. Klein (eds), Women and Slavery in Africa
(University of Wisconsin Press, 1983), 340-67 (345); etc.
72. See for instance Compte rendu Le Phoenix, Petit Popo, 30.3.1738 (AD Charente
Maritime, B.5729 d/p 79); Phillips (1732), 219 etc. (Relevant passages from Phillips
also in Donnan [1930], 402-3).
73. Yacou (2001) and Harms (2002) provide good examples.
74. Bosman (1704/1967), 364a.
75. Documents in Justesen (2005), 189 & 770-73.
76. A good description of this practice in Gov. Wellemsen from Christiansborg,
23.1.1728; ibid., 373.
77. Information (occasionally contradictory) and discussion: Letter from Whidah
[Ouidah] 3.12.1707 [O.s.] (NA T70/2); N. Dubois, memorandum dated 10.11.1710
(ex-Zentrales Staatsarchiv, Merseburg; R.65.32 vol.I, ff.30-36 -courtesy of Adam
Jones); “Relation du Royaume de Judas” c.1715 (op. cit.), p. 86; Pruneau (1789), 206;
Yacou (2001), 137, 241-4; Gourg, “Mémoire 1791” (op. cit.); Northrup (2003);
Postma (1990), 141 & 162; Klein (1978); Eltis & Richardson (2010), 159-96; Harms
(2002); Conde de Sabugosa from Bahia 20.5.1734, reproduced in Verger (1968), 86.
78. Stephen D. Behrendt, David Eltis and David Richardson, “The Cost of Coercion:
African Agency in the Pre-modern Atlantic World”, Economic History Review, LIV,
3 (2001), 454-76 (459).
79. Ibid., 466.
80. Examination of Dalzel by the African Committee, 5-8.4.1788 (op. cit.). See also
Pruneau (1789), 206.
337
NOTES pp. [105–106]
81. Tattersfield (1991), 114.

82. Example: letter from Lisbon 22.8.1719, OR, vol.XIV, doc.134; reproduced in Anais/
Annaes do Archivo Público/do Arquivo do Estado da Bahia, XXXII (1952), 35.
83. For instance, no less than four English captains died at Ouidah between March and
May 1686: Law (2006), 331-3. Other examples from Law (1991a), 37-8; plus a letter
from Jaquin ( Jakin) in 1722 (NA T70/7).
84. Bouët-Willaumez (1848/1978, 195) reports of cases of cannibalism among the
waiting slaves, due to inadequate feeding.
At one stage the Danes, because of shortage of food, sold off their slaves to the
Portuguese and others “so that they would not die” (Frantz Boye et al., from
Christiansborg, 3.4.1714; in Justesen [2005], 246). Our guess is that they did anyway.
85. C.A. Syndermann from Christiansborg, 29.12.1723 (ibid., 300).
86. Barbot on Guinea, 639-40 & 774-5; Atkins (1735/1970), 175; Pruneau (1789), 207.
87. Editors in Barbot on Guinea, 46.
89. Law (1992a), 29-33; Letter from Whydah [Ouidah] 6.6.1686 [O. s.] (NA T70/11).
90. Burl (1997/2006), 223 (referring to the original documents in NA: High Court of
Admiralty Papers-HCA 49/Bundle 104 – a source we have not been able to consult).
Roberts and his men figure in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island (1883). Most
of them were either killed in action or hanged. John Atkins, whose earlier mentioned
book (1735/1970) ranks as a major source for the history of the Slave Coast, played,
in his capacity of naval surgeon, a central role in the trial of the pirates at Cape Coast
Castle in 1722–23 (ibid., 186-94; Burl [1997/2006], 223-87).
Unsurprisingly “pirates cared nothing about the slaves”: Arne Bialuschewski,
“Black People under the Black Flag: Piracy and the Slave Trade on the West Coast
of Africa, 1718-1723”, Slavery and Abolition, 29, 4 (2008), 461-75 (469).
A French view of it all can be read in “Mémoire de la course des forbains”, 6.2.1722
(AN C6-25).
91. Guy-François de Kersaint, Journal de navigation 1757, 5.5.1757 (AN Marine B/4/77,
doc.20); Report signed Marseille, 11.10. 1762 (AN Marine B/4/103, doc.183).
Portuguese version of these events in OR, vol. 56, doc.17; Viceroy Bahia 10.5.1757
(APEB: Arquivo (Público) do Estado da Bahia).
92. Behrendt, Eltis and Richardson (2001), 459 & 462-3.
Some sources: Rask (1754/2009), 53; Bosman (1704/1967), 365a; Barbot on
Guinea, 775-82; Phillips (1732), 219; Bouchel de Juda, 30.4.1722 (AN C6-25, f.47).
93. See for instance, Phillips (1732), 229.
95. Phillips (1732), 229-30.
96. The most explicit on this point was a Frenchman by the name of Jacques Proa in
1777–8 who noted that “[les Négresses] ont…une manière de faire jouir qui vaut bien
celle des Europénnes”. He did not add that to them is was a question of life or death
(“Mémoire de Jacques Proa, dit Proa des îles”, op. cit.).
97. See for instance, “Instruction pour la Coste de Guinée”, ca.1722” (op. cit.); Harms
(2002), 273. There is an excellent illustrative map in Eltis and Richardson (2010), 8.
98. “Instructions pour la Coste de Guinée” - ca. 1722 (op. cit.).
338
pp. [106–108] NOTES
99. See, for instance, the description by Sir Henry Huntley, Seven Years’ Service on the
Slave Coast of Western Africa (London, Thomas Cautley Newby, 1850), 125-7. See
also Tony Hodges and Malyn Newitt, São Tomé and Príncipe. From Plantation Colony
to Microstate (Boulder, Westview, 1988), esp. 25; Robert Garfield, A History of São
Tomé Island, 1470-1655. The Key to Guinea (Mellen Research University Press, 1992).
100. Bosman (1704/1967), 415.
101. Letter from R. Miles, Governor of the Cape Coast Castle; date missing, but must
be early 1780s (NA T70/32) (among the many descriptions of the islands at the time
of the slave trade, see Pruneau [1789], 249-60).
103. The Diligent in 1731 needed only 12 days on the crossing to Príncipe, but another
ship arrived at São Tomé four and a half months after having left the Guinea coast
(Harms [2002] 277). Three weeks’ crossing is recorded in Aarestrup et al. (1797–
8), 192.
104. (2001), 464.
105. Hernæs (1995), 251-2.
106. Example from Caldas (1759/1931), 298.
107. Pires (1800/1957), 140. See also Memorandum-1770s (AN Marine 3/JJ/247, doc.6);
Barbot on Guinea, 722; Yacou (2001), 249-51.
108. According to Phillips (1732), 221.
109. In Barbot on Guinea (772-3) we have a close to rosy description of the Middle Passage
– no more than 50 days and with quite adequate food, owing to the abundance of
fish, birds and all sorts of sea-creatures, especially in the area of the island of Ascension.
110. For instance, in the period 1707–11 “56 slave ships owned by British merchants
(were) lost, largely to enemy privateers (i.e.) over a quarter of all the ships estimated
to have cleared British ports for Africa in this period” – including those on the home
run. David Richardson, “The Eighteenth-century British Slave Trade: Estimates of
its Volume and Coastal Distribution in Africa”, Research in Economic History. A
Research Annual, vol. 12 (Greenwich, CT 1989), 151-96 (158).
111. Most clearly expressed in a letter signed Baldwin & Humphreys, Whydah [Ouidah]
30.6.1722 [O.s] (NA T70/7).
112. “On perd 1/6e des esclaves dans la traversée. Et après la vente à l’Amérique il en meurt
au moins le quart, avant qu’ils soient accoutumés au climat” (Mémoire 1714, AN
C6-25 doc. 6).
113. “Africans who survived the Middle passage had dramatically different experiences
when they landed, depending on where their voyage took them”; Eltis and Richardson
(2010), 161.
114. From about the 1710s the slave trade to Bahia was supplying more labour to the
mineral regions of the Brazilian hinterland than to the sugar-producing areas of the
northeast. Cf. Alexandre Vieira Ribeiro, “The Transatlantic Slave Trade to Bahia,
1582–1851”, in David Eltis and David Richardson (eds), Extending the Frontiers.
Essays on the New Transatlantic Slave Trade Database (New Haven, Yale University
Press, 2008), 130-54 (136).
115. For an amusing account of how the Europeans tried to evade those customs whenever
they could, see J. Blythe from Whidah [Ouidah] 7.8.1687 [O. s.], in Law (2006), 399.
339
NOTES pp. [108–114]
116. Law (2004a), 147.

117. Rinchon (1964), 342-3.
118. Phillips (1732), 216.
119. Law (2004a), 36-7; Gilles Soglo, “Notes sur la traite des esclaves à Glexwe (Ouidah)”,
in Soumonni, Codo & Adande (1994), 66-72 (67).
120. That is, if our French sources can be trusted. Cf. Mémoire sur le fort de Juda [Ouidah],
postérieur à 1763–7 (CAOM-DFC, carton 26, c.75, d.109); Baud-Duchiron de Juda
[Ouidah], 1.9.1778 (AN C6-26).
121. Idem; Williams Fort, Day book, March-April & Nov-Dec. 1763, signed Goodson
(NA T70/1159); Williams Fort, Day book, July-Sept.1781, signed Abson (NA
T70/1162); Gourg, “Mémoire pour servir d’instruction”, 1791 (French archival
source), p. 5; Per O. Hernæs, Palaver: Peace or “problem”? A Note on the “Palaver-
system” on the Gold Coast in the 18th Century based on Examples drawn from Danish
Sources (working papers 1-1988, Centre for African Studies, University of
Copenhagen), 24; various documents in Law (2001a), 208-10 & 242.
122. Report of a Select Committee - no date - probably 1776 (NA, BT 6/3).
B1
1. C.R. Crone (ed. and trans.), The Voyages of Cadamosto, and other documents on Western
Africa in the second half of the fifteenth century (The Hakluyt Society, 1937), 114-25;
John Vogt, Portuguese rule on the Gold Coast 1469–1682 (Athens, University of
Georgia Press, 1979), 1-92.
2. Or as Bosman put it (1704/1967, 334), the Portuguse were “loaded with…sorry
goods”. See also Ryder (1969), 43. On the history of Portugal, cf. Joaquim Romero
Magalhães (ed.), No alvorecer da modernidade (1480–1620) and António Manuel
Hespanha (ed.), O Antigo Regime (1620–1807), respectively volumes III & IV of
José Mattoso [gen. editor] História de Portugal (Lisbon, Ed. Estampa, 1997 & 1998).
3. It was built, “not because of fear of the local African polities, but because of fear of…a
rival European power”, namely Castile (Hair, “Columbus”, 117).
4. Hair (ibid.) adds that Elmina was the first fortress in the history of the world to be
built and maintained several thousand miles from the homeland. And Lawrence notes
that it was the earliest European building in the Tropics (Lawrence [1963], 25).
Monrad points out that the first Portuguese forts were built at the best sites,
“where the surf breaks against rocky promontories”, those being the safest places for
landing along the coast (Monrad [1822/2009], 253 & 258).
5. Chauveau (1986), 196.
6. There is some disagreement among the specialists as to the precise definition of the
Costa da Mina (See Law, 2005). It is true that the Capitania (Captaincy) of Mina
covered formally only the region to the Volta river, the region east of that river
“belonging” to the Captaincy of São Tomé. But the limits of the official Captaincies
may not be relevant in this context. In fact Costa da Mina was a loose and primarily
geographic term which no-one ever bothered to define properly, but in common
parlance the Costa da Mina was routinely considered to englobe the coast both west
340
pp. [114–115] NOTES
and especially east of Elmina, in fact all the way to Cape Formosa in present-day
southern Nigeria.
7. “Paños de algodon [cloth], y aceite de palma y muchas legumbres, como iñame y otros
mantenimientos”. Cf. “Relação de Garcia Mendes Castelo Branco, começando da
Mina atee o Cabo Negro (1620)”, in Padre António Brásio (coligida e anotada pelo),
Monumenta Missionaria Africana, vol. VI (África Ocidental [1611-1621]) (Lisbon,
Agência Geral do Ultramar, 1955), 468-78 (470).
The king of Allada was “our friend” according to the same Castello Branco. See
also Pieter de Marees, Description and Historical Account of the Gold Kingdom of
Guinea (1602) (translated from the Dutch and edited by Albert van Dantzig and
Adam Jones; publ. for the British Academy by Oxford University Press, 1987), 225.
The cloth was resold on the Gold Coast. Cf. K. Ratelband (uitgegeven door),
Vijf dagregisters van het kasteel São Jorge da Mina (Elmina) aan de Goudkust (1645–
1647) (‘s-Gravenhage [the Hague], Linschoten Vereeniging, Martinus Nijhoff, 1953),
37-9, 158 & 381.
8. J.D. Fage, “More about Aggrey and Akori beads”, in 2000 ans d’histoire africaine. Le
sol, la parole et l’écrit. Mélanges en hommage à Raymond Mauny, tôme I (Paris,
SFHOM, 1981), 205-211; Law (1990b), 105. The beads of African origin were, as
noted, later replaced by beads from Venice.
9. Robin Law, “The Slave Trade in Seventeenth-century Allada: a Revision”, African
Economic History, 22 (1994d), 59-92 (62-6).
10. 1593 is the date given in Ryder (1969), 84.
11. Underlined in a rather unlikely publication, G.F. Zook’s The Company of Royal
Adventurers Trading into Africa (originally published in The Journal of Negro History
in 1919. Reprinted New York, Negro Universities Press, 1969), 45.
12. Postma (1990), 14-22.
13. Of the many works it is possible to refer to regarding the events related in this section,
the ones we are most familiar with are C.R. Boxer, The Dutch Seaborne Empire 1600–
1800 (Hutchinson 1965; Pelican 1973); and Jonathan I. Israel, The Dutch Republic.
Its Rise, Greatness, and Fall 1477–1806 (Oxford University Press, 1995).
14. Garfield (1992), 251-79.
15. On this, and the next point, see, for a discussion: Postma (1990), 76; Verger (1968),
42; Dantzig (1978), 225-7; Israel (1995), 935-46; Hespanha (1997/8); Ernst van den
Boogaart and Pieter C. Emmer, “The Dutch Participation in the Atlantic Slave Trade,
1596–1650”, in Henry A. Gemery and Jan S. Hogendorn (eds), The Uncommon Market.
Essays in the Economic History of the Atlantic Slave Trade (New York, 1979), 353-75.
16. Dantzig (1978), 225-7.
17. Boxer (1965/1973), 94-125.
18. “We cannot carry on trade without war nor war without trade”, as one Dutch official
in Java expressed it in 1614 (ibid., 107).
19. See for example, Klooster (2009).
20. The official Dutch policy was that the Director-General of the WIC at Elmina
“should try to convince the natives, with sweetness or with harshness…that once they
belong to our trading-stations they should not trade with foreign ships” (Document
from 1675 in Dantzig [1978]12).
341
NOTES pp. [115–118]
21. African Committee to the Lords of the Treasury, 9.4.1812; British Parliamentary
Papers. Report from the Select Committee on papers relating to the African Forts
(ordered, by the House of Commons, to be Printed, 26.6.1816) (published by the
Irish UP in the series Colonies Africa, vol. 1 – Shannon, 1968), 104.
22. The only reference we have found to that company is Margaret Makepeace, “English
Traders on the Guinea Coast, 1657-1668: An Analysis of the East India Company
Archive”, History in Africa, 16 (1989), 237-84.
23. J.R. Jones, The Anglo-Dutch Wars of the Seventeenth Century (Longman, 1996), 178.
24. Jan de Vries and Ad van der Woude, The First Modern Economy. Success, Failure, and
Perseverance of the Dutch Economy, 1500–1815 (Cambridge University Press, 1997).
25. Postma (1990), 1-25.
26. Say Findlay and O’Rourke (2007), 178.
27. According to Boxer (1965/1973), 26.
28. Findlay and O’Rourke (2007), 187. See also Postma (1990), 23; & Documents from
1730 in Dantzig (1978), 238-9.
29. Klooster (2009), 154.
30. Postma (1990), 26-55.
31. Ryder (1958), 157.
32. Note the role of Italian Capuchins in this respect: Padre António Brásio (coligida e
anotada), Monumenta Missionaria Africana, vol. XIV (África Ocidental [1686–
1699]) (Lisbon, 1985).
33. According to Justesen’s “Introduction” (2005), XI.
34. Hernæs (1988), 20-34; Shumway (2011a), 66.
The word cassare is one the Europeans of the epoch and modern scholars insist
on deriving, curiously enough, from casa, i.e. house, whereas it is much more logical
to conclude that it comes from the verb casar, meaning to marry. It appears in fact
always in the context of matrimony.
35. “Luso-” comes from Lusitania, the Latin name for Portugal.
36. The main work on the Brazilian tobacco is of course Verger (1968).
37. Rae Jean Dell Flory, “Bahian Society in the Mid-Colonial Period: the Sugar Planters,
Tobacco Growers, Merchants, and Artisans of Salvador and the Recôncavo, 1680–
1725” (PhD thesis, University of Texas, 1978). Flory points out (158-9) that tobacco
was not grown on plantations and can therefore be characterized as a smallholder
crop.
38. John Edward Philips, “African Smoking and Pipes”, Journal of African History, 24, 3
(1983), 303-19. The popularity of tobacco and pipe-smoking is even confirmed by
archaeology (Kelly [2002], 105).
39. The theme is a constantly recurring one in the sources and the literature. In addition
to Verger (1968), see for instance Isert (1788/1992), 139; Neil L. Norman, “From
the Shadow of an Atlantic Citadel: An Archaeology of the Huedan Countryside”,
in J. Cameron Monroe and Akinwumi Ogundiran (eds), Power and Landscape in
Atlantic West Africa. Archaeological Perspectives (Cambridge University Press, 2012),
142-66 (156-8).
40. See for instance T. Edward Bowdich, A Mission from Cape Coast Castle to Ashantee
(etc) (London, John Murray, 1819; 3rd ed. F.Cass, 1966, ed. by W.E.F. Ward), 337.
342
pp. [118–120] NOTES
41. Norris (1789/1968), 146-7; Gourg, “Mémoire 1791” (op.cit.), 7-9: “L’essai que j’en
avais fait [to cultivate de tobacco plant] avoit surpassé mon attente...tabac superbe,
d’une qualité de beaucoup supérieure à celui du Bresil”.
42. Verger (1968), 37; A.P. Wærøe et al., from Christiansborg 30.4.1734 ( Justesen [2005],
497); Levet de Juda [Ouidah] 2.3.1791 (AN C6-27, d.89).
43. Flory (1978), 246.
44. The royal decree of 12.11.1644 allowed slave traders to carry third-rate tobacco
directly from Salvador to Bight of Benin to buy slaves (Verger [1968], 29). That is,
only two years after the loss of the last Portuguese fort to the Dutch.
45. A.J.R. Russell-Wood, “Colonial Brazil: the Gold Cycle. c.1690–1750”, in Leslie
Bethell (ed.), The Cambridge History of Latin America, vol. II (Colonial Latin
America) (1984), 547-600 (547-8).
46. On the abundant literature on the subject, we retain: Flory (1978), 161-2; and Carl
A. Hanson, “Monopoly and Contraband in the Portuguese Tobacco Trade, 1621–
1702”, Luso-Brazilian Review, XIX, 2 (1982), 149-68.
As for the stream of regulations, many of them figure in Inventario, vol. II (1914),
esp. pages 166, 195 & 241; and in Anais, vol. 31 (1949), pages 95, 119 & 126, & vol.
32 (1952), pages 15 & 23.
47. Verger (1968), 28.
48. Flory (1978), 246; Hanson (1982), 159; Dantzig (1980), 161; Conde de Sabugosa
[Viceroy 1720-35], Bahia 20.5.1734 (OR, vol. 30, doc. 30 - reproduced in Anais for
1977).
49. Some references (apart from the OR): Caldas (1759/1931), 292; Dantzig (1978), 9;
Verger (1968), 224; Entry-journal Christiansborg 28.2.1704 (Justesen [2005], 194);
Agreement Sir Dalby Thomas & Dutch General, 30.6 (o. s.), 11.7. (new style) 1708
(NA, T70/1516); Governor Cape Coast Castle 27.7 & 26.10.1781 (NA, T70/33);
Anonymous, “Discurso Preliminar, Historico, Introductivo com naturaleza de
Descripção Economica da Comarca e Cidade da Bahia” [no date, but later than 1789],
Annaes da Bibliotheca Nacional do Rio de Janeiro, vol. XXVII (1905), 281-348 (341).
50. Summary in OR, vol. 71 (1761), page 259 (APEB). See also Verger (1968), 29; Lopes
(1939), 6.
51. Postma (1990), 76-7.
52. Law (1994d), 66; Ernst van den Boogaart, “The Trade between Western Africa and
the Atlantic World, 1600–1690: Estimates of Trends in Composition and Value”,
Journal of African History, 33, 3 (1992), 369-85 (373).
53. Law (1997c), 6; Strickroth (2003), 70. It must be remembered that the archives of
the WIC for this early period have been lost.
54. Boogaart and Emmer (1979), 358.
55. Adam Jones (transcribed, translated and edited), West Africa in the Mid-Seventeenth
Century. An Anonymous Dutch Manuscript (African Studies Association Press, 1995),
3.
56. But only 2-300 people according to another source (ibid., 38, fn.3).
57. Ibid., 37. It has been copied, it seems to us, by Dapper (1686, 306).
58. See for instance Buenaventura de Carrocera, OFM Cap., “Misión Capuchina al Reino
de Arda”, Missionalia Hispanica, VI, no. 18 (1949), 523-46 (534). Later, at least, the
343
NOTES pp. [120–123]
installation of a new European Director in Ouidah continued to be a pompous affair,

including, very much, in the epoch of Dahomey (Pruneau [1789], 170-74).
59. Northrup (2003) gives an idea of the situation in 1789/90; nothing had changed.
See also Yacou (2001), 128-33; Law (2004a), 118; etc.
60. According to Thomas Phillips (1732, 218), the slavers could not refuse to buy the
slaves of the king, usually the worst of the lot; they were Reys Cosa (Portuguese for
“things of the king”). See also (Louis) Delbée (or D’Elbée), “Journal du voyage du
Sieur Delbée, Commissaire general de la Marine, aux Isles, dans la coste de Guynée”,
in J. de Clodoré (ed.), Relation de ce qui s’est passé dans les isles et terre-ferme de
l’Amérique pendant la dernière guerre avec l’Angleterre et depuis en exécution de Traitté
de Breda, vol. II (Paris, G. Clouzier, 1671/microfilm edition Hachette 1972), 347-
558 (438-9); Barbot on Guinea, 365; Law (2004a), 117; etc.
61. By Rinchon (1964), 337.
62. As one RAC official expressed it, “trade of Whydah [Ouidah] differs from...the rest
of the coast..it depends upon the pleasure of the king (therefore necessary to) humour
him” (RAC to Capt. Willis, London 21.8. 1705 [O. s.] [NA, T70/52]). Reason for
which the RAC provided the king with “a very strong fashionable SEDAN” (idem.
12.2. 1706/7 [O.s.] (NA T70/52).
63. Robert Elwes, off Cape Lopez 31.1.1686; in Law (2006), 379.
64. P. Rocco da Cesinale, Storia delle missioni dei Cappuccini, tomo III (Roma, Tipografia
Barbèra, 1873), 487; “Relation du Royaume de Judas, ca. 1715” (op. cit.); Akinjogbin
(1967), 28.
65. Chouin (1998), 124.
66. Summary in Buenaventura de Carrocera (OFM Cap.), “Misión Capuchina al Reino
de Arda”, Missionalia Hispanica, VI, no. 18 (1949), 523-46.
67. Makepeace (1989).
68. Bailey W. Diffie & George D. Winius, Foundations of the Portuguese Empire 1415–
1580 (Un. of Minnesota Press, 1977), 160-2, 179 & map after page 192; Garfield
(1992), 291.
69. Law (1994d), 73.
70. Gijs Rommelse, “The Role of Mercantilism in Anglo-Dutch Political Relations, 1650-
74”, Economic History Review, 63, 3 (2010), 591-611 (601).
71. Zook (1919/1969), 13.
72. Jones (1996), 150.
73. Law (1997c), 88.
74. Zook (1919/1969), 47. Holmes’ original journals from his African expeditions are
at Pepys Library, Magdalene College, Cambridge (PL 2698).
75. Makepeace (1989), 244.
76. Quoted in Zook (1919/1969), 61.
77. J.J. Crooks (ed.), Records Relating to the Gold Coast Settlements from 1750 to 1874
(first ed. Dublin 1923, 2nd ed. Frank Cass, 1973), 3.
78. Kroon van Ardra met Bijbehorend Dokument-inventory number NM 816 a & b.
Koper en glas, perkament.
The crown was exposed as destined for Allada on the Gold Coast, that is, until
the present writer took it upon himself to point out the error in a letter to the
344
pp. [123–126] NOTES
museum, and received a letter of thanks from Dr. W.H. Vroom, Director of the
“Afdeling Nederlandse Geschiedenis”, dated 30 July 1987. The Duke of York’s letter
was published in R. van Luttervelt, “Herrinneringen aan Michiel Adriaenszoon
de Ruyter in het Rijksmuseum”, Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum, vol. 5, 2 (1957),
27-71 (53).
79. Zook (1919/1969), 62.
80. Jones (1996), 154-5.
81. “It is very probable that both England & the United Provinces greatly overestimated
the value of the African forts & factories, but, at that time, the possession of them
seemed very important”, Zook (1919/1969), 62.
82. So argues at least Davies (1996), 12.
83. Law (1997c), 88. In sum, “the promising beginnings of the Royal Adventurers were
wrecked by the Dutch wars”: C.W. Newbury, The Western Slave Coast and its Rulers.
European Trade and Administration among the Yoruba and Adja-speaking Peoples of
South-Western Nigeria, Southern Dahomey and Togo (Oxford at the Clarendon Press
1961, reprinted 1973), 19.
84. Document ca. 1670 in Dantzig (1978), 11. See also another document p. 20.
85. Delbée (1671/1972), 384.
86. Abdoulaye Ly, La Compagnie du Sénégal (Paris, Présence Africaine, 1958), 101.
87. Ibid., 21 & 94-5; Garfield (1992), 274; Quaye (1972), 37, 49, 94, 98 & 104; Nováky
(1992), 57-69; Postma (1990), 75; Dantzig (1980), 38-46; Victor Granlund, En
svensk koloni i Afrika eller Svenska Afrikanska kompaniets historia (Stockholm, 1879),
13-14.
88. Ly (1958), 103.
89. Carrocera (1949), 534.
90. Berbain (1942), 38.
91. Barbot on Guinea, 635-6.
92. Jones (1996), 179ff.
93. Davies (1957); Zahedieh (2010), 878.
94. Law (1994d), 76.
95. Law (1997c), 7.
96. Postma (1990), 36-8 & 110.
97. Ibid., 74.
98. Ouidah-Glehue pops up frequently in Justesen (2005). See also Strickrodt (2003),
111; A. Jones (1985), 6-7 & 164-99; letters from Josiah Pearson Whydah 22.4. 1694
& 8.4.1695 (O.s.); in Law (1992a), 58-60 (the Brandenburgers sold the slaves at
Danish Saint Thomas).
99. Belich (2009), 21. He adds: “A borrowed Asian crop was grown on expropriated
Native American land by coerced African labour for the benefit of Europe” (21-2).
100. B.W. Higman, “The Sugar Revolution”, Economic History Review, LIII, 2 (2000),
213-36.
101. The obvious reference is Philip D. Curtin, The Rise and Fall of the Plantation Complex.
Essays in Atlantic History (Cambridge University Press, 1990).
102. Sidney W. Mintz insinuates as much in his classic Sweetness and Power. The Place of
Sugar in Modern History (first publ. 1985, Penguin ed. 1986).
345
NOTES pp. [126–128]
103. Jan de Vries, The Industrious Revolution. Consumer Behaviour and the Household
Economy, 1650 to the Present (Cambridge University Press, 2008), 155.
104. Note also that cultivating and processing cotton was much less demanding (which
meant less deadly) than sugar cane.
105. David Eltis is one who does not see a problem here, since he denies any active agency
to the people of the Slave Coast. Says Eltis: “The foundations of the eighteenth
century Carribean plantation economies based on African slave labour were laid in
the 1650s and 1660s. The key factors…were probably the restoration of peace in
England, and declines in both emigration from and population in England that began
in the later 1650s. Strong productivity growth in the slave shipping business also
helped. Above all, however, Europeans were unable to contemplate chattel slavery
and slave trade-like shipping conditions for Europeans. African participation in
transatlantic migration was much larger than European before the nineteenth century,
but it was…driven by the refusal of voluntary migrants (or non-prisoners) [from
Europe] to work on sugar estates, and the apparent inability of the European
capitalists to overcome this aversion either by force or inducement… [Thus]
seventeenth-century merchant capitalism was subject to ethnocentric blinkers, and
was not quite as unbridled as it is often portrayed” (Eltis [1997], 108). In sum, all
the relevant factors were European: a questionable assertion.
106. Law (2004a), 13.
107. Zahedieh (2010), 873.
108. See, for instance, “Instructions to Captain Samuel Kempthorne”, London, 4.5.1686
(Donnan [1930], I, 354-5), and various documents from 1690 (ibid., 377-85);
Anonymous, “Certain considerations” (op. cit.).
109. Postma (1990), 78-83.
110. Revealing comments in Knud Rost and Claus Fedders from Christiansborg,
31.10.1718 ( Justesen [2005], 272-3).
111. Bosman (1704/1967), 363a). At one stage the Danes accused the interlopers of
abducting free Negroes (Thrane, 27.3.1702, in Justesen [2005], 123).
112. Josiah Pearson from Whydah [Ouidah], 8.4.1695 [O. s.], in Law (1992a), 59-60.
113. Most clearly expressed in Ligaard, 7.1.1707 ( Justesen [2005], 204).
114. Dantzig (1978), 9; M. Johnson (1976), 22.
115. Tattersfield (1991), 84; Kris E. Lane, Pillaging the Empire: Piracy in the Americas
1500-1750 (Armonk, NY/London; M.E. Sharpe, 1998).
116. Documents in Law (2006), 388. Also documents in Salvatore Saccone, Il viaggio di
Padre Domenico Bernardi in Brasile ed in Africa nel quadro dell’attività missionaria
dei Cappuccini agli inizio dell ‘età moderna. Con il testo della Relazione del “Viaggio”
(Bologna, Pàtron Editore, 1980) [mainly reproduction of documents 1713–1726],
168-72.
117. According to Law, Hueda became independent some time in the seventeenth century,
but continued in some sense to acknowledge the overlordship of Allada. Cf. his “‘The
Common People were Divided’: Monarchy, Aristocracy and Political Factionalism
in the Kingdom of Whydah, 1671-1727”, International Journal of African Historical
Studies, 23, 2 (1990), 201-29 (213).
346
pp. [129–134] NOTES
B2
THE AFRICAN SIDE: THE EARLY/LEGENDARY PAST
1. Randsborg & Merkyte (2009), I, 24-32 & 268.
2. Ibid., 198-264 & 271.
3. Gayibor & Aguigah (2005), 7.
4. We are dealing here with a well-known worldwide archetype, places which the
traditions point to as cradles for dynasties and/or peoples and which conserved some
sort of mythical-historical status.
5. Adande (1984), 81.
6. Cf. the case of Kongo mentioned earlier.
7. Pazzi (1976), 229-33. See also his “Aperçu sur l’implantation actuelle et les migrations
anciennes des peuples de l’aire aja-tado”, in François de Medeiros (ed.), Peuples du
golfe du Bénin. Aja-Ewe (Paris, Karthala, 1984), 11-19.
8. Gayibor and Aguigah (2005), 7; Wigboldus (1986), 312.
9. Gayibor (1997), 155.
10. Ibid., 160.
11. Palau-Martí (1964), 96-7. Palau-Martí adds that when the king became very old, the
earth opened itself under him and engulfed him. Does this imply a claim to indigenous
status?
12. Agbo and Bediye (1997), 32-3.
13. Pazzi (1976), 230.
14. Gayibor (1997), 156-7.
15. Ibid., 160.
16. Pazzi (1976), 230.
17. Dunglas (1957), 76; Gayibor (1997), 160-61.
18. D’Albèca, “Voyage”, IV, Le Tour du Monde, no.11. 16.3.1895, 121-8 (124).
19. The reference is again to the relevant chapters in Gayibor (1997).
20. Suzanne Preston Blier, “The Path of the Leopard: Motherhood and Majesty in Early
Danhomè”, Journal of African History, 36, 3 (1995), 391-417 (408).
21. Gayibor (1997), 46-68; Quarcoopome (1997); Greene (2002a), 1061-7; Kelly
(2001), 869.
22. Gayibor (1997), 170-78.
23. Quarcoopome (1997), 124.
24. Gayibor (1975), 119-20; Greene (2002a), 1024.
25. N.L. Gayibor, “Le remodelage des traditions historiques: La légende d’Agokoli, roi
de Notse”, in Claude-Hélène Perrot (ed.), Sources orales de l’histoire de l’Afrique (Paris,
1989), 209-14.
26. Gayibor (1997), 326.
27. Ibid., 180-81 & 187.
28. Quarcoopome (1997), 110.
29. Ibid., 110-11.
30. G.A. Robertson, Notes on Africa; Particularly those Parts which are Situated between
Cape Verd and the River Congo; (etc) (London, Sherwood, Neely, and Jones, 1819),
236-8.
347
NOTES pp. [134–140]
31. Sandra E. Greene, Sacred Sites and the Colonial Encounter: A History of Meaning and
Memory in Ghana (Indiana University Press, 2002), 15-17.
32. Pazzi (1984); and Pazzi (1976), 238.
33. Nugent (2008), 935.
34. Klooster (2009), 153.
35. Sandoval (1627/1987), esp. 123 & 139.
36. Naxara (1672), 202.
37. R.P.F. Basilio de Zamora: “Cosmographia, o descripcion del mundo”, dated 1675,
p. 46 (Colección de MSS Borbón-Lorenzana, no. 244, consulted in the Biblioteca
Provincial de Toledo, now part of the Biblioteca Pública del Estado en Toledo).
38. Naxara (1672), 204-5.
39. N.L. Gayibor, “Toponymie et toponymes anciens de la Côte des Esclaves”, in the
book edited by him: Toponymie historique et glossonymes actuels de l’ancienne Côte des
Esclaves (XVe-XIXe siècle) (Lomé, Presses de l’Université du Benin, 1990), 25-42 &
I-VIII (41).
40. André Pognon, “Le problème ‘Popo’”, Études Dahoméennes, XIII (1955), 13-14.
41. Gayibor (1985), 264-7; Gayibor (1997), 340.
42. Strickroth (2003), 80-81; Isert (1788/1992), 95.
43. Dalzel (1793/1967), 11.
44. Law (2004a), 46.
45. Iroko (2001), 17-34.
46. This is the theory of Yves Person, “Les monarchies africaines” [mainly about
Dahomey], Le Mois en Afrique, 200 ( July-Sept. 1982) 161-176 [167] & 202-3 (Oct.-
Dec. 1982), 104-121.
47. Gérard L. Chouin and Christopher R. Decorse, “Prelude to the Atlantic Trade: New
Perspectives on Southern Ghana’s Pre-Atlantic History (800–1500)”, Journal of
African History, 51, 2 (2010), 123-45.
B3
1. Le Hérissé (1911).
2. See especially Lombard (1967b).
3. According to Herskovits (1938/1967), I, 167-9.
4. Argyle (1966), 5.
5. Herskovits (1933/1964), 35.
6. Argyle (1966), 195-6; Herskovits (1938/1967), I, 158; Paul Mercier, “The Fon of
Dahomey”, in D. Forde (ed.), African Worlds. Studies in the Cosmological Ideas and
Social Values of African Peoples (Oxford University Press/International African
Institute, 1954), 210-34 (225-6); Le Hérissé (1911),10.
7. Ibid., 273; Adande (1984), 238; Hazoumé (1937/1956), 140.
8. Lombard (1967b), 50-52; Asiwaju and Law (1985), 432; Perrot (1972), 136-8.
9. In addition to earlier references, see especially C. Raymond Oké, “L’ancien Danhome
des origines à la formation territoriale du royaume” (thesis, Université de Paris
I-Sorbonne, 1972). Extracts published under the title “Les siècles obscurs du royaume
348
pp. [140–143] NOTES
aja du Danxome”, in François de Medeiros (ed.), Peuples du golfe du Bénin. Aja-Ewe

(Paris, Karthala, 1984), 46-66.
10. Adande (1984), 238.
11. Le Hérissé, (1911), 100-3, 106-12 & 275-6; Argyle (1966), 4-5.
12. Summarized in Lombard (1967b), 57.
13. Ibid., 57; Adande (1984), 292-3. Herskovits (1958, 358) adds the interesting detail
that none of the Adjahuto ever entered the temple of Tedo.
14. Perrot (1972), 144.
15. Adande (1984), 127; Oké (1984), 51.
16. Bouchel de Juda, 30.4.1722 (op. cit.); Lombard (1967), 50-51.
17. Zamora, “Cosmographia” (op. cit.), 47.
18. Mondjannagni (1977), 137-63; Oké (1972), 46-66; Iroko (1998), 13-15.
19. Wigboldus (1986), 322; Robin Law, “Jean Barbot as a Source for the Slave Coast of
West Africa”, History in Africa, 9 (1982), 155-73 (159). Wigboldus believes Tori’s
“port” of Foulaen/Fulao was the place where the French established themselves in
1671, and that there is more generally a confusion between Foulaen and Ouidah.
He may have a point.
20. Barbot on Guinea, 621.
21. Mondjannagni (1977), 88 & 121; Argyle (1966), 182.
22. What we know of Apa is summarized in Law (1997c), 16 (and map facing page 1).
23. Le Hérissé (1911), 273.
24. Mouléro (1966), 43-4.
25. Document from ca. 1670 in Dantzig (1978), 11.
26. Ryder (1969), 14.
27. Bradbury (1957), 21.
28. Ulsheimer in Adam Jones (ed.), German Sources for West African History 1599-1669
(Wiesbaden, F. Steiner, 1983), 24.
29. Barnes (2009).
30. Ryder (1969), 73.
31. “Misiones del Congo y Etiopia” (BNE Ms. 18 178, folios 211-3) – a summary of the
Capuchin mission to Allada written after its ending. See also Ryder (1969), 312.
32. Delbée (1671/1972), 558. Oyo and Benin were irreconciliable enemies of those of
Allada, according to Barbot (Barbot on Guinea, 639).
33. Norris (1789/1968), XI.
34. Ryder (1969), 87; Law (1991b), 354.
35. After his godfather, Pedro Zapata, the governor at Cartagena de las Indias [or was
he the interpreter encountered in Cartagena?]. His servant became Antonio, but he
died on the return trip to Allada: “Misiones del Congo y Etiopia” (op. cit.); Carrocera
(1949), 526.
36. Ibid., 532-3; King’s Instructions 28.6.1659 for the Prefect P. Luis Antonio de
Salamanca (BNE Ms. 3818, f. 74-5), reproduced in Anguiano (1685/1957), II,
240-42.
37. Cód. 3818, folios 65-65v (BNE); also in Padre António Brásio (ed.), África Ocidental
(1656–1665), vol. XII of his Monumenta Missionaria Africana (Lisbon, Academia
Portuguesa da História, 1981), 216-17.
349
NOTES pp. [143–146]
38. The original documents in the Vatican Archivio della Sacra Congregazione per
l’Evangelizzazione dei Popoli o “de Propaganda Fide”; especially the series Scritture
originali Congregazioni Generali and Acta Sacrae. But most have been reproduced
in Brásio (1981).
39. But the text in Gbe is very clumsy according to Gayibor (1997, 226).
40. The easiest available version is the French one. Cf. Henri Labouret and Paul Rivet,
Le Royaume d’Arda et son évangélisation au XVIIe siècle (Paris, Institut d’Ethnologie,
1929). The Spanish version is in Anguiano (1685/1957), II, 251-66.
There are two known extant copies of the original 1658 edition of the Doctrina
Christiana, one in the Biblioteca del Palacio Real de Madrid (sign.IX-5.051), and
the other in the Biblioteca del Instituto de San Isidro, also in Madrid.
41. The Provincial of the Capuchins of Castile to Propaganda Fide, 20.7.1659; in Brásio
(1981), 254-5.
42. The really genuine primary sources are the two letters written by Padre Luís de
Salamanca, as noted the head of the mission (but possibly penned by someone else,
since Salamanca fell sick relatively quickly). They are dated Zima (Allada) 26 & 28.5.
1660 and were sent to Propaganda Fide – reproduced in Brásio (1981), 285-8.
There is in addition a very useful summary of the mission with the title “Relación
de lo que sucedió a los Padres misionarios del reino de Arda (etc)”, and written
evidently very shortly after the end of the mission – possibly by some of the
participants. Reproduced in Anguiano (1685/1957) (original in BNE, Ms.6170, ff.
120-5).
43. King’s Instructions 28.6.1659 (op. cit.).
44. Underlined especially in Zamora, “Cosmographia” (op. cit.), 48.
45. Ibid., 62-4; in addition to Naxara’s observation (1672, 239) already referred to.
46. Ibid., 204 & 238-9.
47. Carrocera (1949), 538.
48. Anguiano (1685/1957), 247.
49. Ibid., 245.
50. Misiones del Congo y Etiopia (op. cit.).
51. Anguiano (1685/1957), 247-8.
52. Ibid., 248-50; Naxara (1672), 35.
53. Reyes Fernández Durán, La corona española y el tráfico de negros. Del monopolio al
libre comercio (Ecobook, Editorial del Economista, Madrid, 2011). There is also a
lot of general interest in Paul Lokken, “From the ‘Kingdoms of Angola’ to Santiago
de Guatemala: The Portuguese Asientos and Spanish Central America, 1595–1640”,
Hispanic American Historical Review, 93, 2 (2013), 171-203. See also Postma (1990),
31-47.
54. King’s Instructions 28.6.1659 (op. cit.).
55. Ryder (1969), 99.
56. Possibility deduced from Strickroth (2003), 70.
57. On Spanish history in this period, the possible references are of course legion, one
being Henry Kamen, Spain 1469–1714. A Society of Conflict (Longman, 1983).
58. Zamora, “Cosmographia” (op. cit.), 47.
59. Padre Luís de Salamanca’s letter of 26.5.1660 (op. cit.)
350
pp. [146–149] NOTES
60. Robin Law, “Religion, Trade and Politics on the ‘Slave Coast’: Roman Catholic
Missions in Allada and Whydah in the Seventeenth Century”, Journal of Religion in
Africa, XXI, 1 (1991), 42-77 (especially 63-4 & 70); and by the same author, “Islam
in Dahomey: a Case Study of the Introduction and Influence of Islam in a Peripheral
area of West Africa”, Scottish Journal of Religious Studies, VII, 2 (1986), 95-116 (113).
61. Some scattered examples: Versailles à M. Gourg, 8.12.1787 (op. cit.); Zamora,
“Cosmographia” (op. cit.), 47; A. Félix Iroko, “Les hommes et les incendies à la Côte
des Esclaves durant la période précoloniale”, Africa (Rome), XLVIII, 3 (1993),
396-423.
62. A recurring theme: Misiones del Congo y Etiopia (op. cit.); Carrocera (1949), 535;
“Relación de lo que sucedió a los Padres misionarios” (op. cit.), 245.
63. References in the preceding footnote, and in Carrocera (1949), 535-40, plus in the
whole of the “Relación” (Spanish archival source).
64. Naxara(1672) does not mention directly his Popo experience, although Grand Popo
looms relatively large in his account (pp. 202-3). What we have comes from Carrocera
(1949, 541-2) for whatever it may be worth.
65. Ray A. Kea, “From Catholicism to Moravian Pietism. The World of Marotta/
Magdalena, a Woman of Popo and St. Thomas”, in Elizabeth Mancke and Carole
Shammas (eds), The Creation of the British Atlantic World ( Johns Hopkins University
Press, 2005), 115-36.
66. Delbée (1671/1972), 434.
67. Another Frenchman, Jean Doublet (1883, p. 253), used the same title for the great
priest of Hueda in 1704.
68. Delbée (1671/1972), 427-34 (the quotation from p. 434).
69. Ibid., 443.
70. Bouchel de Ouidah, 30.4.1722 (op. cit.).
71. Perrot (1972), 136-42.
72. D’Albéca (1895), I, 86.
73. Perrot (1972), 142.
74. Ibid., 148.
75. Norman (2009a), 339.
76. Des Marchais, “Journal de Navigation du voyage en Guinée, Iles d’Amérique, Indes
Espanoles, fait en 1704” (British Library, Department of Manuscripts, Additional
Manuscripts Add.19560), VII/75; Bosman (1704/1967), 339.
77. Norman (2009a), 394 & 402.
78. Law (2004a), 81.
79. Marcel Gavoy, “Note historique sur Ouidah par l’administrateur Gavoy (1913)”,
Études Dahoméennes, 13 (1955), 47-78; Agbo (1959), 12-16; Des Marchais, “Journal
de Navigation” (op. cit.), 79-81; Robin Law, “Ideologies of Royal Power: the
Dissolution and Reconstruction of Political Authority on the ‘Slave Coast’, 1680–
1750”, Africa, 57, 3 (1987), 321-44 (321); and by the same author (1990c), 214.
Finally, there is a curious tradition, which may or may not square with the above,
which has it that the first settlers in Hueda were people who had been ousted from
their original homeland and were then permitted to settle down in their new habitat
by the king of Allada. What happened next was that the local Alladan governor
351
NOTES pp. [149–153]
turned over the power to the head of the newcomer with, that is, the assent of the
king of Allada (Relation du Royaume de Judas en Guinée [op. cit.], 21).
80. Agbo (1959), 12-16.
81. Des Marchais, “Journal” (op. cit., 75-6; Norman (2012), 150-51.
82. “Relation du Royaume de Judas en Guinée” (op. cit.), 75.
83. Des Marchais, “Journal” (op. cit., 77).
84. N****, Voyage aux côtes de Guinée et en Amerique (Amsterdam, 1719), 42-3.
85. Des Marchais, “Journal” (op. cit.), 77; Phillips (1732), 216.
86. Norman (2009a), 402. He adds (p. 408) that nails were associated with magico-
religious power, another classic feature of sacred societies and sacred kingship,
together with long hair (remember Samson).
87. Des Marchais, “Journal” (op. cit.), 87-8.
88. “Relation du Royaume de Judas en Guinée” (op. cit.), 34-5 & 42; Law (1990c), 205;
Smith (1744/1967), 206.
89. Barbot on Guinea, 638.
90. Phillips (1732), 219.
91. Bosman (1704/1967), 344-5 & 367; Smith (1744/1967), 206. But note that Smith
may not be an independent source. Cf. Harvey M. Feinberg, “An Eighteenth-century
case of plagiarism: William Smith’s A New Voyage to Guinea”, History in Africa, 6
(1979), 45-50.
92. “Relation du Royaume de Judas en Guinée” (op. cit.), 83.
93. Bosman (1704/1967), 345.
94. “Relation du Royaume de Judas en Guinée” (op. cit.), 47-8.
95. Note that Huedanu/Hwedanu, meaning the people of Hueda, is also said to mean
the people of the snake. Cf. Herskovits (1933/1964), 76.
96. Robin Law, “‘My Head Belongs to the King’: On the Political and Ritual Significance
of Decapitation in Pre-colonial Dahomey”, Journal of African History, 30, 3 (1989),
399-415 (413); Law (1991b), 112-15.
97. Law (2004a), 81.
98. Law (1991b), 112.
99. Atkins (1735/1970), 110-33.
100. Bosman (1704/1967), 371.
101. The priest of Hu was, according to Agbo, very much the chief priest in Ouidah in
the colonial era (Agbo [1959], 138 & 257).
102. Barbot on Guinea, 635; Law (1991b), 238-41.
103. Law (1991b), 127-8.
104. Albert van Dantzig, “Les hollandais sur la Côte des esclaves: parties gagnées et parties
perdues”, in Études Africaines Offertes à Henri Brunschwig (Paris, EHE Sciences
Sociales, 1982), 79-89 (80).
105. This is the opinion of Law (2004a), 46.
106. Including, between 1675 and 1679, a private French trader by the name of Jean
Oudiette (Ly [1958], 128, footnote 16).
107. Verger talks about “la tentative malheureuse (en 1680) faite depuis São Thomé pour
construire une forteresse à Ajuda” (Ouidah): Verger (1966), 4-5. See also Correia
(1996).
352
pp. [153–155] NOTES
108. Robin Law (ed.), The English in West Africa, 1681–1683. The Local Correspondence
of the Royal African Company of England, 1681–1699, Part 1 (Oxford University
Press/British Academy, 1997) 241, footnote 58.
109. Law (1991b), 130-31.
110. Wybourne described the RAC officials as “horne mad, Brandy mad, boy mad,
Treacherous & foole mad men”, and accused them of intriguing against their own
colleagues; Wybourne, Guydah [Ouidah], 8.12.1682 [O.s.], in Law (1992a), 25.
111. Phillips (1732), 226.
112. The sources for Wybourne, the RAC, and the other actors in the 1680s/90s in Hueda
and Allada are quite abundant, making possible a detailed reconstruction, something
which will not be attempted here, however. Most have been reproduced in the
collections of primary sources published by Robin Law (Further Correspondence and
The English in West Africa, Parts 1, 2 & 3).
113. Letter from John Winder 23.3.1681/2 [O.s.]; in Law (1992a), 10.
114. The locals “will have all ships trade that comes” (Thorne from Ophra in Arda
4.12.1681 [O.s.], but referring to Hueda; ibid., 5.
115. Law (2004a), 32-3.
116. Phillips (1732), 226.
117. According to Dalzel “The spot on which William’s Fort stands, was formerly dedicated
to religious purposes…the governors…have permitted a house within the walls…to
be appropriated to Nabbakou, the titular god of the place…the reason why the English
fort has escaped the disasters which befell the other forts” (Dalzel [1793/1967],
92-3; repeated in Law [2004a], 93). But Law adds that the French fort too had a
shrine.
118. Burton (1864/1966), I, 64.
119. Many documents in NA T70/3 & T70/1474.
120. Dubois, Memorandum, 10.11.1710 (op. cit.)
121. The Dutch established a lodge in 1687, as noted earlier.
122. Neil L. Norman and Kenneth G. Kelly, “Landscape Politics: The Serpent Ditch and
the Rainbow in West Africa”, American Anthropologist, 106, 1 (2004), 98-110 (101
& 108); Kelly (1997b), 356.
123. N*** (1719),42-3. The palace was “the meanest I ever saw”, stated Phillips (1732,
216). And Atkins agreed with him (1735/1970, 110).
124. Smith (1744/1967), 192-3.
125. Law (2004a), 44.
126. Des Marchais, “Journal” (op. cit.), 52.
127. Summary of the evidence in Law (1991c), 52.
128. Bosman (1704/1967), 366-366a.
129. We possess two letters (in Latin) written by Celestin de Bruxelles, one signed Dieppe
19.9.1681, and the other signed Juidae [Ouidah] in Guineâ 2.11.1682, both
published in Analecta Ordinis Minorum Capuccinorum, vol. XXXI (Rome, 1915),
328-30 & 357-8. See also Louis Jadin, “L’oeuvre missionnaire en Afrique noire” in
J. Metzler (ed.): Sacrae Congregationis de Propaganda Fide. Memoria rerum 1622–
1972 (350 anni a servizio delle Missioni) (Rome/Freiburg/Vienna, 1972), vol. I/2,
413-546 (457).
353
NOTES pp. [155–160]
130. “Relation du Royaume de Judas en Guinée” (op. cit.), 69-70. Hulst set out into the
interior (did he reach Dahomey?) and died there in November 1683.
131. R. Père Godefroy Loyer (1660-1715), Relation du voyage du royaume d’Issyny, Côte
d’Or, Païs de Guinée, en Afrique (etc) (Paris, 1714), esp. 14-15 & 296-7; Bosman
(1704/1967), 368, 385-7; Père Gonzalez François, “Relation abrégée du voyage des
Frères Prêcheurs, missionaires en Afrique et en Guinée (etc)”, in “La Mission du V.P.
Gonzalez François en Guinée, sur les côtes d’Afrique (1688)”, Année Dominicaine
(etc) (vol. 14, Sept. 1702, new edit. 1900), 461-75 (472-4); Cardeal Fabrício Spada
ao Núncio Apostólico em Portugal, 8.2.1699, Brásio, XIV (1985), 187; N*** (1719),
52-4; Raymond J. Loenertz OP, “Dominicains français missionnaires en Guinée au
XVIIe siècle”, Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum (Rome), vol. XXIV (1954), 240-
68 (254); Law (1991c), 55-7.
132. Law (1991c), 52.
133. See Roussier (1935), which also contains most of the relevant primary sources,
including Loyer’s Relation.
134. Ducasse’s “Relation” is reproduced in ibid., 1-47. For Wybourne’s reaction, see his
letter of 18.2.1688 [O.s.] in Law (2006), 346-7.
135. According to the English. See Thomas James from Whydah [Ouidah] 29.12.1687
[O.s.] in Law (1992a), 49.
136. Bosman (1704/1967), 371.
137. Robert Du Casse, L’Amiral Du Casse (1646–1715) (Paris, Berger-Levrault, 1876).
For the voyage to Guinea in 1687-8, see pp. 59-69.
138. John A. Lynn, The Wars of Louis XIV 1667–1714 (Longman, 1999), 191-265.
139. See for instance Law (1990c), 203-12.
140. The relevant sources in Law (1991a), 29-30 & 74; and Law (1992a), 51-3, 90-91.
141. On the French side: “Mémoire sur la Guinée” 1716 (CAOM-DFC, c.75 d.113-4;
Lettre de Du Colombier, ca. 1716 (AN Marine B/3/236).
142. Documents in Law (1991a), 29-30.
143. See for instance: “Description des Roiaumes ou l’on fait le commerce en Afrique”
[written by Ducasse] (op. cit.); and many documents in the file NA T70/11; letter
from Ouidah dated 21.6.1688, in A. Jones (1985), 164-5.
144. Robin Law, “Dahomey and the Slave Trade: Reflections on the Historiography of
the Rise of Dahomey”, Journal of African History, 27 (1986a), 237-67 (240); Eltis
(2000), 153.
B4
DAHOMEY AND ITS NEIGHBOURS: EARLY BEGINNINGS AND AFTER
1. Cf. Law (1988), 446-7; Law (1997c), 65.
2. Le Hérissé (1911), esp. 273 & 289. See also Dunglas (1957), 90.
3. Pruneau & Guestard de Juda [Ouidah], 18.3.1750 (AN C6-25); Chenevert & Bullet,
“Réflexions sur Juda” (op. cit.); Pruneau (1789), 153-4; Law (1992b), 116. It is above
all a recurrent theme in the many works of David Ross, the way we read him.
4. Oké (1984), 61-3.
5. Anignikin (2001), 256.
354
pp. [160–162] NOTES
6. Lombard (1967b), 86.

7. Blier (1995a), 18-27; Aguessy (1970), 76.
8. [R.P.] Jacques Bertho, “La parenté des Yoruba aux peuplades du Dahomey et du
Togo”, Africa, vol. 19 (1949), 121-32 (126); Alexandre Adandé, “Le maïs et ses usages
dans le Bas-Dahomey”, Bulletin de l’IFAN, XV, 1 (1953), 220-82 (269); Herskovits
(1958), 217; etc.
Note the role of “little people” clad as apes in the reception of a new European
Director at Ouidah-Glehue (Pruneau [1789], 170-74).
On the Pygmies more generally, see Kairn A. Klieman, “The Pygmies Were our
Compass.” Bantu and Batwa in the History of West Central Africa, Early Times to c.
1900 C.E. (Portsmouth, NH, Heinemann, 2003).
9. Le Hérissé says as much (1911, 243), as does also Glélé (1974, 67), both “officialists”.
The king was in addition dokunnò, which Glélé translates as “maître et possesseur de
toutes les richesses”.
10. Herskovits (1933/1964), 35.
11. Verger (1952), 22; Bay (2001), 54.
12. Herskovits (1938/1967), I, 172-8.
13. Iroko (1993), 412.
14. Merkyte & Randsborg (2009), 70.
15. J.A.M.A.R. Bergé, “Étude sur le pays Mahi (1926–1928). (Cercle de Savalou-Colonie
du Dahomey) AOF”, Bulletin du Comité d’Études Historiques et Scientifiques de
l’Afrique Occidentale Française XI, 4 (1928), 708-55 (esp. 739-45); Robin Law,
“Dahomey and the North-West”, in Claude-Hélène Perrot (ed.), Cahiers du CRA
(Centre de Recherches Africaines): Spécial Togo-Benin, no. 8 (1994c), 149-67 (152);
Herskovits (1938/1967), I, 172; Le Hérissé (1911), 278; Dunglas (1957), 94.
16. Pires (1800/1957), 88-9.
17. This purchase was ceremonially re-enacted at the installation of each new king, who
symbolically “bought Dahomey” by a distribution of cowries, implying incidentally
a very low price. (Law [1989b], 407; Glélé [1974], 111).
18. Le Hérissé (1911), 102-3 & 243-4; Law (1987), 334.
19. Savary (1976), 144.
20. Pélissier (1963), 44.
21. Le Hérissé (1911), 291-5; Oké (1972), 90; Dunglas (1957), 97-9 & 143; Law
(1991b), 265-6.
22. Le Hérissé (1911), 294-5. Twins were greatly valued traditionally, to the point of being
worshipped. Cf. Foà (1895), 193; Amélie Degbelo: “Les Amazones du Danxomè
1645-1900” (mémoire de maîtrise, Université Nationale du Bénin, 1979), 35.
23. Dunglas (1957), 96-9; Anatole Coissy, “Un règne de femme dans l’ancien royaume
d’Abomey”, Études Dahoméennes, 2 (1949), 5-8.
24. Robin Law, “The ‘Amazons’ of Dahomey”, Paideuma, vol. 39 (1993), 245-60 (250).
This echoes Mercier (1954), 232 .
25. Among those who believe in Tassi Hangbe’s existence are Edna Bay (1998, 54-6) and
Stanley Alpern. The latter argues that “The long silence on Ahangbé [Tassi Hangbe]
may well have been due not to her non-existence but to a dynastic policy of suppressing
her memory” (Alpern, 1998b, 10), as happened with Adandozan later.
355
NOTES pp. [162–168]
26. According to Thomas Baillie from Cape Coast Castle 17.3. 1717/18 [O.s.] (PRO
C113/262).
27. Bay (2001), 54.
28. Conseil de la Marine 5.1.1717, referring to a letter from Bouchel, Ouidah, 22.6.1716,
(AN Marine B/1/19, f.1-3). Law (1997c), 110-11.
29. Apart from the case of Weme, examples in M’Leod (1820/1971), 66-71; Adande
(1984), 91.
30. Le Hérissé (1911), 246-7; Argyle (1966), 82.
31. Based mostly on Pélissier (1963), 43-5. But see also Dunglas (1957), 57-66; and R.P.
Thomas Mouléro, “Histoire des Wémenous ou Dékanmènous”, Études Dahoméennes
(NS), no.3 (1964), 51-76. Mouléro’s work is, however, hard to decipher.
32. Dunglas (1957), 65.
33. Mouléro (1964), 65-73; and in many parts in Pélissier (1963). See also Georges
Edouard Bourgoignie, Les hommes de l’eau. Ethno-écologie du Dahomey lacustre (Paris,
Éditions Universitaires, 1972), 71-2.
34. Pélissier (1963), 55.
35. Ibid., 46.
36. Fuglestad (1977).
37. Bay (1995), 11.
38. Law (1989b), 408.
39. “Il tient tout du roi”, Glélé (1974), 66.
40. Law (1991b), 331. See also Law (1997a), 328.
41. Lombard (1967), 55-6. See also Glélé (1974), 65.
42. Blier (1995b).
43. Argyle (1966), 71; Glélé (1974), 127; Herskovits (1938/1967), I, 108-11; etc.
44. Law (1989b), 405-7; Law (2004a), 85.
45. Le Hérissé (1911), 243 & 248.
46. Law (1992b), 106-7.
47. As all our authors point out.
48. D’Albéca (1895), IV, 124.
49. Herskovits (1938/1967), I, 228; Bay (1998), 23.
50. Law (1989b), 401 & 413-14.
51. Expression from Bay (1998), 16.
52. Ibid., 35 & 52-3; Michael Houseman, Blandine Legonou, Christiane Massy and
Xavier Crepin: “Note sur la structure évolutive d’une ville historique. L’exemple
d’Abomey (République populaire du Bénin)”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XXVI, 4
(1986), 527-46 (535-6 & 543).
53. Herskovits (1938/1967), II, 38 (footnote).
54. Houseman et al., (1986), 542.
55. Le Hérissé (1911), 102-7.
56. Ibid., 32-7; Argyle (1966), 60-63; Herskovits (1938/1967), II, 38-9.
57. Argyle (1966), 89-92.
58. Ibid., 399.
59. Mercier (1954), 214.
60. Herskovits (1933/1964), 36.
356
pp. [168–172] NOTES
61. Bay (1998), 319-20.

62. Law (1992b); Law (1991b), esp. 269-71; and many of his other works.
63. David Ross, “Dahomey”, in Michael Crowder (ed.), West African Resistance (2nd ed.,
London, 1978), 144-69 (154).
64. Law (1976), 123.
65. Law (1991b), 227.
66. Bay (1998), 202.
67. Findlay & O’Rourke (2007), 171.
68. According to Ray A. Kea, “Firearms and Warfare on the Gold and Slave Coasts from
the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Centuries”, Journal of African History, XII, 2 (1971),
185-213 (191).
69. Merkyte and Randsborg (2009), 76.
70. Examples: Ray A. Kea, “Administration and trade in the Akwamu empire, 1681–
1730”, in B.K. Swartz Jr & R.E. Dumett (eds), West African Culture Dynamics.
Archaeological and Historical Perspectives (The Hague etc. Mouton, 1980), 371-92;
W.A. Richards, “The Import of Firearms into West Africa in the Eighteenth Century”,
Journal of African History, 21, 1 (1980), 43-59.
71. David Ross, “Robert Norris, Agaja, and the Dahomean Conquest of Allada and
Whydah”, History in Africa, 16 (1989), 311-24 (314-5). The same viewpoint was in
fact expressed by the Chenevert and Bullet in 1776 (“Réflexions sur Juda”, op. cit).
72. Newbury (1961/1973), 27.
73. Barnes & Ben-Amos (1989), 48; Lombard (1967), 80; Burton (1864/1966), I, 291;
Forbes (1851), 69.
74. Barnes & Ben-Amos (1989), 48.
B5
1. Including Akyeampong (2001, 39).
2. Quaye (1972), 85.
3. Because of the presence of many Ga, according to Gilbert (1987), 311.
4. Fynn (1971), 37-9.
5. Quaye (1972), 117; Wilks (2001), 107-13.
6. According to Tilleman (1697/1994, 28).
7. Ibid.; Quaye (1972), 109-58, 274-5; documents in Justesen (2005), 216-17, 298,
318, 329.
8. The English and the Dutch either changed sides several times or supported both, not
the Danes. (Quaye [1972], 109-58).
9. Justesen (2005), 54-5; Wilks (2001), 12.
10. Carta de Paulo Freire de Noronha ao Príncipe Regente D. Pedro (c.1671), in Brásio
(1982), XIII, 153-8. Freire de Noronha was Governor of São Tomé 1668–71. The
one who took over in 1673, Julião de Campos Barreto, was the one who conquered
Christiansborg (Carta de um religioso a El-Rei, 17.10.1678; ibid., 446-52).
11. Vogt (1979), 203-4.
12. Tilleman (1697/1994), 456; Sandra E. Greene, “Land, Lineage and Clan in Early
Anlo”, Africa, vol. 51 (1981), 451-64 (456).
357
NOTES pp. [172–175]
13. Phillips (1732), 211-13; Wilks (2001), 24-5.

14. Wilks (2001), 55.
15. Quaye (1972, 158) argues that Basua and Ado were joint kings from 1680/81 to 1699.
16. Ibid., 122.
17. Frantz Boye et al. from Christiansborg, 3.4.1714 ( Justesen [ 2005], 248).
18. Quaye (1972), 155; Wilks (2001), 66 ff (based in part on Rømer [1760/2000]); Ray
A. Kea, “‘I Am Here to Plunder on the General Road’- Bandits and Banditry in the
Pre-nineteenth Century Gold Coast”, in Donald Crummey (ed.), Banditry, Rebellion
and Social Protest in Africa (London, 1986), 109-32; plus a number of Danish sources
reproduced in Justesen (2005), 136-8, 173-6, 199-200, 204-5, 232-3, 326, 361-3,
369-70.
19. Governor Herrn from Christiansborg, 1.7.1722, ibid., 295.
20. Rask (1754/2009), 153.
21. Strickrodt (2003), 72, Law (2001c), 39; Akyeampong (2001), 39-40.
22. Kea (1986), 118.
23. Relevant documents (pages 41 & 50-1) in Law (2001c); and in Law (1992a), 36-7
& 42. See also Law (1991b), 243; Strickrodt (2003), 108-11.
24. Gayibor (1997), 378-83.
25. Greene (1988), 76.
26. Greene (1996b), 64; and by the same author: “Sacred Terrain: Religion, Politics, and
Place in the History of Anloga (Ghana),” International Journal of African Historical
Studies, 30, 1 (1997), 1-22.
27. Alain Mignot, La terre et le pouvoir chez les Guin du sud-est du Togo (Paris, Publications
de la Sorbonne, 1985).
28. Ibid., 70-74; N.L. Gayibor, “Origines et formation du Genyi”, in N.L. Gayibor (ed.),
Le tricentenaire d’Aného et du pays guin, I (Lomé-Presses de l’Université du Bénin,
2001), 19-31; N. Lowell (2005).
29. Mignot (1985), 185-7.
30. Ibid., 29-53 & 76-86.
31. Strickrodt (2003), 79.
32. Law (2001c), 34.
33. Nicoué Lodjou Gayibor, “Recueil des sources orales du pays Aja-Ewe” (mimeogr.,
Institut Pedagogique National, Lomé, March 1977), 52; and by the same, “Recueil
des sources orales de la region d’Aneho” (mimeogr., same Institute, same place, Oct.
1977), 19.
34. For a discussion, cf. Letters from Carter in Whydah [Ouidah] 10.5.1687 [O.s.] and
from Pearson, same place, 8.4.1695 [O. s.], both in Law (1992a), pages 47-8 & 60
respectively; plus many of the works of Nicoué Gayibor, especially his “Les rois de
Glidji: une chronologie revisée”, History in Africa, vol. 22 (1995), 197-222 (217);
and Gayibor (2001), 27.
35. Diedrich Westermann, Die Glidyi-Ewe in Togo (Berlin, 1935), 216 (a book we have
been unable to consult); Gayibor (1985), 882-9.
36. “Le propriétaire du sol…en principe le descendant du premier occupant du sol…
chargé d’accomplir certains rites propitiatoires liés au culte de la terre en tant que
divinité”; (Gayibor [1985], 889).
358
pp. [175–181] NOTES
37. Summary in Mignot (1985), 35-42 & 52-3; Gayibor (Mars 1977), 48-58.
38. Or as Mignot has expressed it (1985, 81) “dans la tradition des Guin tout est
manipulation”.
39. See for instance Gayibor (1997), I, 25.
40. For instance Fynn (1971), 67-9.
41. What follows is based on Justesen (2005), 214-15; 229,550; Wilks (2001), 19, 28,
33-4; Nørregaard (1968), 112; Daaku (1970), 155; Rask (1754/2009).
42. Amenumey argues that “there is no truth in the claim that Akwamu imposed its
authority over Anlo”, whereas most others argue the opposite. Cf. D.E.K. Amenumey,
“A Brief History”, in F. Agbodeka, A Handbook of Eweland, volume I: The Ewes of
Southeastern Ghana (Accra, Woeli,1997), 14-27 (18).
43. See, for instance, Akyeampong (2001), 17.
44. Isert (1788/1992), 41; Grove and Johansen (1968), 1383-92.
45. Greene (2002b), 16.
46. Greene (1983), 90; Greene (1997), 10-11.
47. Law (1991b), 141-8; Strickrodt (2003), 117.
48. Pearson from Whydah [Ouidah], 8.4.1695 [O. s.], in Law (1992a), 60; RAC to W.
Hicks at Whydah [Ouidah], 13.11.1711 [O. s.] (NA T70/52).
49. M’ Leod (1820/1971), 139-40; Newbury (1961/1973), 29; Gayibor (1978), 138;
Strickrodt (2003), 179-80; etc.
B6
THE 1680s–1720s: AN OVERVIEW
1. Adande (1984), 312.
2. Bosman (1704/1967), 395-8.
3. Law (1992b), 115.
4. A good example from the Gold Coast was the so-called Komenda wars. Cf. Dantzig
(1980), 102-14; Chouin (1998), 166-81; Robin Law, “The Komenda Wars, 1694-
1700: A Revised Narrative”, History in Africa, 34 (2007), 133-68.
5. Hoolwerff himself provides us with examples in a letter of his from Ouidah 31.1.1687
(Dantzig [1978], 29).
6. Summary of the events in letter from Valentyn Gros, Hoolwerff ’s short-stay successor,
21.12.1690 (ibid., 34-5).
7. Information from Valentyn Gros, summarized by him in document dated 18.2.1692
(ibid., 62).
8. By de la Palma 31.3.1705 (ibid., 109).
9. “We had much adoe to keep (Ofori) from plundering the factory. The French director
was panyarred…and would me too if he could gett me. (Ofori is) very desireous to
knock us all on the head”. All the Europeans wanted to leave, but only the Dutch
were permitted to do so. Cf. E. Jackline from Whydah [Ouidah], 25.12.1692 [O.s.]
in Law (1992a), 56, and footnotes 374 & 378 on p. 92.
10. As interpreted and discussed by Strickrodt (2003), 105. See also Jackline from
Whydah in Law (1992a).
11. Law (1991b), 246-7.
359
NOTES pp. [181–184]
12. Phillips (1732), 222. See also Tattersfield (1991), 87-8.

13. Roussier (1935), 84.
14. Dantzig (1980), 74.
15. A. Jones (1985), 10.
16. Their action in Indonesia has been qualified by Findlay and O’Rourke (2007,199)
as nothing less than “genocidal”.
17. Pearson from Whydah [Ouidah], 15.4.1697 [O.s.] in Law (1992a), 60-61; Dantzig
(1980), 74-5.
18. Jackline from Whydah [Ouidah], 13.10.1692 [O. s.], in Law (1992a), 56; Strickroth
(2003), 104.
19. John Bloome from James Fort, Accra 10.10 & 11.12. 1692 [O.s.]; in Law (1992a),
56 & 69.
20. Wilks (2001), 33.
21. Several letters from John Wortley and Edward Jackline in 1692 (Law [1992a), 51-5
& 90-91); Phillips (1732), 215.
22. According to the Dutch (letter signed V. Gros, 7.8.1691, in Dantzig [1978], 35).
23. Edward Jackline from Whydah [Ouidah], 10.5.1692 [O.s.], in Law (1992a), 52-4:
“here is no resisting the Country”, Jackline concluded, a conclusion Robin Law has
used as the title of one of his articles. Cf. Robin Law, “‘Here is No Resisting the
Country’: The Realities of Power in Afro-European Relations on the West African
‘Slave Coast’”, Itinerario, 18 (1994e), 50-64.
24. Francis Smith from Whydah [Ouidah] 20.9.1693 [O.s.], in Law (1992a), 57.
25. Strickrodt (2003), 105. Thomas Phillips argues that he was poisoned by members
of his entourage who had been bought by the king of Hueda (Phillips [1732], 220).
26. Strickrodt (2003), 106.
27. Law (1991b), 60-61; Akyeampong (2001), 38.
28. Strickrodt (2003), 106.
29. Pearson from Whydah [Ouidah], 3.4.1694 [O. s.], in Law (1992a), 58; Bosman
(1704/1967), 335-6; Law (1992b), 109.
30. Bosman (1704/1967), 396-7; Law (1977a), 157.
31. Willis from Whydah [Ouidah] 23.3.1703/4 [O.s.] (NA T70/28).
32. Capt. Matthew Wilson to the RAC, from King’s Town, Whydah [meaning Savi],
26.6.1699; in Donnan (1930), I, 436.
33. “There are so many ships here at the Coast that they might have rained down from
the clouds…also much sickness of smallpox among the Negroes this year” (Thrane
from Christiansborg, 27.7.1700; in Justesen [2005], 118).
34. Bosman (1704/1967), 329-30; Law (1991b), 241.
35. Thrane from Christiansborg, 27.3.1702 ( Justesen [2005], 123).
36. Wilks (2001), 28.
37. On Ado’s retreat, there are many relevant documents in Justesen (2005), 154-8. The
Danes monitored closely the events in the east and the retreat of the Akwamus.
38. Greene (1981), 459; Wilks (2001), 29. See also Dantzig (1980), 220.
39. See the preceding chapter.
40. For instance, in 1722 ounces of gold were delivered by Hueda to Akwamu via Dutch
commies. The idea was to attack Jakin. But as the Akwamu did nothing, the king of
360
pp. [184–186] NOTES
Hueda wanted the gold back. (Minutes from Elmina 23.4. 1724, in Dantzig [1978],
217). More generally: Law, (1991b), 251 & 260; Strickrodt (2003), 119.
41. Strickrodt (2003), 119.
42. Expression in letter from E. Jackline, Whydah [Ouidah], 13.10.1692 [O. s.] in Law
(1992a), 55. Silke Strickrodt makes it clear throughout her dissertation that the rulers
of Little Popo-Glidji never mended their ways.
43. Law (2004a), 33.
44. “Carta determinado ouvir os homens de negócio sôbre consentir o rei de Ajudá-
Hueda que se faça na sua terra una feitoria ou fortaleza, e informar dos meios que se
oferecem para edificar e sustentar o seu presídio” (Lisbon 2.12.1698); OR, vol. 5,
doc.80; in Anais, vol. 31 [1949], 97. Also several more documents of the OR, vols.
8 & 11 in the same volume of the Anais. See also Verger (1966), 5-8; & Ryder (1958),
159, for slightly different versions.
45. Davies (1957), 79 & 135. It had to do with the Glorious Revolution, according to
Zahedieh (2010), 883.
46. Zahedieh (2010), 883.
47. RAC to King of Widah [Hueda], London 12.8.1701 [O. s.] (NA T70/51).
48. There is a significant letter from the RAC, signed 14.8.1713 [O.s.] to Joseph Blaney
at Ouidah: “You must endeavour to get the French & Dutch agents to join with you
in giving effectual disappointment to interlopers and constantly use your utmost
interest & skill with the natives to do the same” (NA T70/52) (same argument in
other documents from 1713 in the same file).
49. Davies (1957), 134-6 & 151-2. The RAC’s role and position in the context of English
politics have recently been re-examined in William A. Pettigrew, Freedom’s Debt: the
Royal African Company and the Politics of the Atlantic Slave Trade, 1672–1752
(University of North Carolina Press, 2013).
David Eltis argues that the RAC accounted for just over 17 per cent of British
slaving voyages between 1699 and 1703–4 (and later?), as opposed to 75 per cent
in the 1680s (Eltis [2000], 153, fn.63).
50. Philippe Haudrere, La compagnie française des Indes au XVIIIe siècle (Paris, Librairie
de l’Inde éditeur, 1989), 124 & 392. See also documents 172, 175 & others in AN
C6-27. Note that the French slave trade, in contrast to the English, remained heavily
subsidized. Dantzig (1980), 17; Postma (1990), 115-16.
51. On the English case, see Davies (1957), 344-5; Martin (1927), 8-27; Parliamentary
Papers, “Reports…relating to the African Forts” (op. cit.), 3-4.
52. Manning (1983), 844.
53. Frantz Boye from Christiansborg, 30.5.1713 & 3.4. 1714 ( Justesen [2005], 243 &
249).
54. Many documents in ibid., pp. 197, 205, 209-15.
55. A possible reference is once more Lynn (1999); to which we may add Joaquím
Albaredo Salvadó, La Guerra de Sucesión de España (1700–1714) (Barcelona, Crítica,
2010).
56. Treaty signed in Madrid in August 1701 by none other than Jean-Baptiste Ducasse,
the one who is reputed to have donned a leopard’s skin in Hueda in 1688. The relevant
documents in AN Colonies F/2a/7.
361
NOTES pp. [186–189]
57. Note that “The French Americas actually took in fewer slaves than any of the major
European empires in the Americas”; David Eltis and David Richardson, “Prices of
African Slaves Newly Arrived in the Americas, 1673–1865: New Evidence on Long-
Run Trends and Regional Differentials”, in David Eltis, Frank D. Lewis and Kenneth
L. Sokoloff (eds), Slavery in the Development of the Americas (Cambridge University
Press, 2004), 181-218 (190).
58. See Chapter V in part A.
59. Lettres de la Chambre de Commerce de Nantes, 9.7.1718 & 24.2.1720 (AN Marine
B/3/251 & B/6/264).
60. Berbain (1942), 83; M. Johnson (1966), 208-9.
61. Eltis (2000), 127-8.
62. Ibid., 125-6; Davies (1957), 207. Relevant documents in NA T70/14 and AN
Colonies F/2a/7.
63. Something the French realized already in 1706: Mémoire sur le commerce de l’asiente
et les moyens de remedier aux abus-1706 (AN Colonies F/2a/7).
64. Mémoire de la Compagnie de l’Assiente 27.6.1716 (AN Colonies, F/2a/8).
65. Law (1991b), 133-4.
66. Original draft reproduced in Dantzig (1978), 115-16.
67. Des Marchais, “Journal de Navigation” (op. cit.), 29-30 & 52-4; Dantzig (1980), 149.
Some details regarding the treaty’s practical application are presented by the
Dane Johannes Rask: “at Fida (Ouidah-Glehue), the one enemy will not attack the
other for a distance of 2 miles above and two miles below. If two ships belonging to
nations at war with each other are anchored there for trade and they both become
ready to sail at the same time, they are not allowed to weigh anchor at the same time,
but one of them must leave at least 24 hours before the other one. Therefore, ships
for all the countries head for Fida [Ouidah-Glehue]” (Rask [1754/2009], 72).
68. The contrast with the Gold Coast was underlined by the neutral Danes. See for
example letter from Lygaard, 14.7. 1708 ( Justesen [2005], 214).
69. Klooster (2009), 172.
70. N*** (1719), 41-3; Law (1991b), 252.
71. Letters from Whydah [Ouidah] 25 & 26.8. 1703 [O.s.] (NA T70/13); Akinjogbin
(1967), 35; Law (1990c), 217.
72. N*** (1719), 111; Law (1991b), 252-4.
73. RAC to Peter Duffield at Widah [Ouidah], London 23.2.1702 [O. s.] (NA T70/51);
RAC to W. Hicks at Whidah [Ouidah], 13.11.1711 [O. s.] (NA T70/52). Also
many documents in NA T70/14; Dantzig (1980), 149.
74. Roussier (1935), XXXIII.
75. Gov. Hartwig Meyer to the Directors, Christiansborg 23.9.1703 ( Justesen [2005],
168-9).
76. N*** (1719), 40-41; Letter from Whydah [Ouidah] 25.8.1703 (archival source).
77. Not all parts of Guinea were equally fortunate. We have already referred to the
situation on the Gold Coast. And São Tomé suffered a devastating attack by the
French in April-May 1709 (Garfield [1992], 294).
78. Doublet (1883), 250-57.
79. Ibid., 258.
362
pp. [189–191] NOTES
80. Ibid., 253-6; Berbain (1942), 39 & 56.

81. Doublet (1883), 262-3.
82. Lettres de Martinique 6.7.1706 & 8.2.1707 (AN Colonies C/8a/16, f.160 & C/8b/2,
f.86).
83. Law (1997c), 5; Marty (1925), 113.
84. Law (1986b), 99.
85. Law (1991b), 250-51; Greene (1996b), 33.
86. Letters from van der Broucke, 26.8.1705 & 10.11.1705 (Dantzig [1978], 111 & 125).
87. Relevant documents in ibid., 113-19.
88. Postma (1990), 75.
89. Dantzig (1980), 168.
90. Ibid., 214-21.
91. Ibid., 148-57; Law (1991b), 139-40 & 253-4.
92. Richard Willis from Whydah [Ouidah], 8.12.1706 [O. s.] (NA T70/5).
93. Documento 3, Lisbon 1.3.1723, OR vol. XVIII 1722-3 (Anais, vol. 32 [1952], 124).
94. Verger, Flux, 47.
95. Willis originally proposed this type of trade in a letter from Ouidah dated 18.2.1707
[O. s.] (NA T70/5). But the RAC authorities in London were dead set against it:
“We strictly forbid you to trade with the Portugueze, or in the least to encourage
them. Your notion of tradeing with the Portugueze is very destructive to the English
interests...should the Portugueze by your encouragement fix themselves in the
Whiddah [Ouidah] trade, you will bring irreparable injury to the English nation”
(from the RAC to Capt.Willis, 26.6.1707 [O. s.] [NA T70/52]).
However, those same authorities effectuated a complete volte-face in a very short
time. Cf. RAC to Capt. R.Willis, 19.9.1707 [O.s.] (NA T70/52). And in 1712 the
question was how “the Portugueze trade at Whidah [Ouidah] may be made
advantageous and subservient to ours” (African House to Whydah, 17.3.1712 [O.
s.] [NA T70/52]).
96. Tobacco exports to West Africa multiplied seven times between 1700 and 1750,
before stagnation set in. Cf. B.J. Barickman, A Bahian Counterpoint. Sugar, Tobacco,
Cassava and Slavery in the Recôncavo, 1780–1860 (Stanford University Press, 1998),
29. Gold we know much less about.
97. As Joseph Blaney, the English director at Ouidah, admitted in 1714: “There is no
way to make the Portuguese trade subservient to the Company’s interests”, (Blaney
from Whydah [Ouidah], 22.4.1714 [O. s.][NA T70/5]).
98. Platfue et al., from Christiansborg 16.1.1751 ( Justesen [2005], 813); Harms (2002),
148 & 247; David Henige and Marion Johnson, “Agaja and the slave trade: another
look at the evidence”, History in Africa, III (1976), 57-67 (63).
99. Example: RAC to Ambrose Baldwyn, African House, 14.12.1720 (NA T70/53).
100. Bitter complaint from for instance William Baillie Williams Fort, 20.11.1716 [O.s.]
(T70/22).
101. Ryder (1958), 158.
102. Flory (1978), 189-91 & 218.
103. RAC to Whydah (Ouidah) 4.10.1711 [O. s.] (NA T70/52); Randall Logan from
Whidah (Ouidah) 14.2.1714 [O. s.] (NA T70/6: the same to Joseph Blaney, Whydah
363
NOTES pp. [192–195]
(Ouidah) 15.3.1715 [O. s.] (NA T70/3); from Cape Coast Castle, 2.5.1715 [O. s.]
(NA T70/6); J. Blaney from Whydah (Ouidah) 10.12.1715 [O.s.] (NA; T70/6);
Bouchel: Mémoire…pour le rétablissement du commerce de Juda et Ardre, 20.8.1718
(AN C6-25, d.38); Mémoire sur la Guinée, 1716 (op. cit.). Law (1990b), 108; Verger
(1968), 47-51; Harms (2002), 209-10.
104. Relation du Royaume de Judas, c.1715 (op. cit.), 33.
105. Du Coulombier, “Mémoire de la suite des affaires du pays de Juda”, 14.12.1715 (AN
C6-25, d.25).
106. Relation du Royaume de Judas (op. cit.); Akinjogbin (1967), 40.
107. For a discussion, see Dralsé de Grand-Pierre (1718), 168-9; Akinjogbin (1967),
39-40; Law (1991b), 150-53.
108. According to Akinjogbin (1967), 47.
109. Snelgrave (1734/1971), 5. See also Norman (2012).
110. Lettre de Juda 29.5.1714 (AN C6-25, d.17); Du Coulombier, Mémoire de la suite
des affaires de Juda, 14.2.1715 (op. cit.); Akinjogbin (1967), 42; Oké (1972), 99-105.
111. Law (1987), 321; Law (1990c), 222-3.
112. Ibid., 224; Strickrodt (2003), 120.
113. Letter from W. Green, late factor at Jakin, 2.10.1717 (NA T70/22; Law (1997c),
110; Asiwaju and Law (1985), 440.
114. Law (1991b), 259-60; Law (1997c), 59 & 108.
115. Law (1990c), 224-5.
116. Law (1997c), 59-61.
117. Example: letter from Williams Fort 10.5.1720 [O. s.] (NA T70/54). More generally:
Law (1990c), 227.
118. Bouchel, de Juda, 30.4.1722 (op. cit.).
119. Ibid.; Law (1987), 321.
120. Law (1997c), 107-10.
121. Mémoire de l’Estat du pays de Juda et de son négoce, 1716 (AN C6-25, d.31).
122. Projet d’instruction du Conseil de la Marine au Sieur Bouchel, Louvre, 10.10.1716
(AN Marine B/1/9, f.431); Berbain (1942), 57.
123. Ibid., 36; Haudrere (1989), 57.
124. Mémoire de Lisbonne, 20.3.1717 (AN C6-25); Mémoire concernant la Cie de Juda,
1722 (op. cit.).
125. In 1719 the Portuguese government threatened to prohibit the trade with the Dutch,
to expel them and to confiscate their ships in Brazil. Cf. OR, vol. 52, doc. 71, Lisbon
5.5.1719 (reproduced in Anais no. 47 [1983] 73). Ryder (1958, 158) talks of the
“exactions” committed by the Dutch which were regularly “supplemented by barely-
disguised piracy”.
126. Dantzig (1980), 24.
127. There were occasionally discussions about sending Portuguese warships to the Costa
da Mina for protection against the Dutch (de Lisboa, 16.6.1726 [AHU, São Tomé,
caixa 5, doc. 21]).
128. Kelly (2002), 109 & map page 111.
129. Various documents in Anais, vol. 32 (1952), 88-9 & 112 ff. There is a catalogue of
all the grievances of Portuguese, but not necessarily Luso-Brazilian officialdom,
364
pp. [195–201] NOTES
against Torres in Conde de Sabugosa to the King, 16.6.1730 (APEB OR, vol. 27,
Doc.25a, folha 81).
130. But the English noted already in 1722 that the Portuguese had built a fort and factory
at Ouidah (letter from William’s Fort 25.1. 1721/2 [O. s.] [NA T70/7]).
131. Anonymous document (no date) in AN C6-25, d.40; Dantzig (1980), 199; Verger
(1968), 139-44.
132. (Correia Lopes [1939], 7).
133. Law (2004a), 10 & 37-8.
134. Point made by Davies (1957), 279.
135. Lopes Correia (1939), 6.
136. “Les portugais font la loy à présent”; Levesque de Whydah [Ouidah], 4.4.1723 (AN
C6-25, d.47).
137. Conseil de Marine, 29.9.1718 (AN C6-25, d.37); Bouchel de Juda 30.4.1722 (op.
cit.); William Baillie from Sabee [Savi], April 1719 (PRO C113/262); Strickrodt
(2003), 128; Akinjogbin (1967), 52-6; Law (1991d), 140.
138. Rost et al. from Christiansborg 11.3 & 15.6,1719 ( Justesen [2005], 274-5).
139. See especially William Baillie from Sabee [Savi] 30.4.1718 [O. s.] (NA T70/1475);
Akinjogbin (1967), 56.
140. Akinjogbin (1967), 51-2; Law (1977a), 220-21.
141. Law (1991b), 140-41.
142. Levesque de Ouidah, Sept? 1717 (AN C6-25, d.35); Bouchel de Xavier [Savi?]
6.6.1717 (AN C6-25, d.33); William Baillie from Sabee [Savi], April 1719 (op. cit.).
143. Mémoire de la course des forbains, 6.2.1722 (op. cit.); Mémoire concernant la Cie
de Judas 1722 (op. cit.); Snelgrave (1734/1971), 193-220; Bialuschewski (2008),
469; Lane (1998), 189; etc.
144. According to Akinjogbin (1967), 58.
145. De Lisboa 22.9.1724; OR, vol. XX (Anais, 32 [1952], 188).
146. Atkins (1735/1970), 190-4; Postma (1990), 79.
147. Burl (1997/2006), 245-61.
148. Atkins (1735/1970).
149. As noted by the Danes. Cf. Waerö from Christiansborg 24.12.1730 ( Justesen [2005],
433).
C1
1. Lambe’s letter of 27.11.1724, in Smith (1744/1967), 186.
2. Expression borrowed from Law (1991b), 286.
3. Fynn (1971), 46-68, and map on p. 125 (but is the map acceptable?).
4. Law (1997c), 109.
5. Among the Europeans who wrote about these events, the one who comes closest to
the status of eye-witness, apart from Lambe, is William Snelgrave. But even Snelgrave
seems to have got lost at times in the details.
6. There were at least nine of them, according to Law ([1997c], 109) - the nine who
acknowledged the king of Dahomey as their new suzerain.
365
NOTES pp. [201–205]
7. Or so argues Adande ([1984], 228).

8. According to Snelgrave ([1734/1971], 20).
9. A central testimony in this context is that of the French slave-trader Robert Durand
who did business at Jakin for some months in 1731–32. When he arrived on board
Le Diligent, he counted 15 ships there, eight of them flying the Portuguese colours
(Harms [2002], 227). According to Durand, the town was prodigiously rich (ibid.,
236).
10. Or so argues Snelgrave (1734/1971, 98).
11. Ringard/Law (1727/1988b), 326.
12. This from Snelgrave (1734/1971), 7-9; Smith (1744/1967), 70; Dunglas, (1957),
150.
13. Dalzel (1793/1967), 10.
14. As reported by William Smith (1744/1967), 177.
15. Ibid. Elaborations in Akinjogbin (1967), 82; Law (1977a), 160; etc.
16. A point made by Law (1976), 123.
17. Letter from the Luso-Brazilian Director Francisco Pereyra Mendes, 22.5.1726 (op.
cit.), quoted in Verger (1966), 25; Pruneau and Guestard, 18.3.1750 (op. cit.); Law
(1997c), 118.
18. Or this is what Pruneau & Guestard argued in a letter dated 18.3.1750 (archival
source). See also Law (1997c), 118.
19. See for instance Law (1977a), 160-3
20. Ibid., 158.
21. Alpern (1998a), 37.
22. Peter Morton-Williams, “The Oyo Yoruba and the Atlantic Trade, 1670-1830”,
Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 3, no.1 (1964), 25-45; Law (1977a), 186.
23. Deduced from a superficial perusal of World Health Organization websites. There
are some illuminating pages on the problem in general in Robin Law, The Horse in
West African History. The Role of the Horse in the Societies of Precolonial West Africa
(International African Institute/Oxford University Press, 1980), 76-82. See also
Klein (1996), 251.
24. Although extremely well proportioned, according to M’Leod (1820/1971), 29. See
also Bay (1998), 115.
25. John Thornton, “Warfare, Slave Trading and European Influence: Atlantic Africa
1450–1800”, in Jeremy Black (ed.), War in the Early Modern World, 1450–1815
(London, UCL Press, 1999), 129-46 (137).
26. Law (1997c), 121.
27. There are modern parallels in the Rif war in Northern Morocco in the 1920s and the
Vietnam war ending in 1975. Recalled by María Rosa de Madariaga, Abd-el-Krim el
Jatabi. La lucha por la independencia (Madrid, Alianza Editorial, 2009), 20.
28. Randsborg and Merkyte (2009), vol. 2, 3-31, 57-97 & 269; Merkyte and Randsborg
(2009), 61.
29. Snelgrave (1734/1971), 28.
30. Ibid., 26 & 31-2.
31. Ibid., 61-4 & 75.
32. Jeremy Tinker & co. from William’s Fort, 28.5.1726 [O.s.] (NA T70/7).
366
pp. [205–209] NOTES
33. Law (2002), 267.

34. Letter from Pereyra Mendes, 22.5.1726 (op. cit.).
35. Snelgrave (1734/1971), 9 & 20-21; Akinjogbin (1967), 68-9.
36. Ringard/Law (1727/1988b), 326.
37. Dantzig (1980), 220.
38. Law (2004a), 52-70.
39. Ringard/Law (1727/1988b), 328.
40. This is confirmed by the archeologists. The site was resettled only in the nineteenth
century. Cf. Norman (2009a), 393.
41. Letter 4.4.1727, quoted in Verger (1966), 26.
42. Ibid.
43. Ringard/Law (1727/1988b), 327.
44. Dantzig (1982), 86.
45. Ringard/Law (1727/1988b), 326-8.
46. According to a member of the Diligent’s crew who claimed to have been present in
Hueda on 9 March 1727 (Harms [2002], 152).
47. Ibid., 153; Jean Mettas, Répertoire des expéditions négrières françaises au XVIIIe siècle
(Paris, SFHOM, 1978), 116-19.
48. Snelgrave (1734/1971), 86.
49. Dantzig (1980), 227.
50. Duport from William’s fort, 20.3.1726/7 [O. s.] (NA T70/7); Verger (1966), 27.
51. Thomas Wilson from Ouidah, 27.2.1728 [O.s.], in Law (1991a), 19-21.
52. Snelgrave (1734/1971), 115; Law (2004a), 52.
53. Snelgrave, (1734/1971), 120; Law (1991b), 287.
54. Pahl et al. from Christiansborg, 10.9.1727 ( Justesen [2005], 363).
55. Snelgrave (1734/1971), 27.
56. See, for instance, Thomas Wilson from William’s Fort 24.2 1727/8 & 29.4.1728
[O. s.] in Law (1991a), 19-20 & 25; H. Dupetitval de Juda [Ouidah] 20.5., 15.8,
19.8 & 13.9.1728 (AN C6/25); Charles Testefolle from Whydah [Ouidah]
30.10.1729 [O. s.] (NA T70/7); Snelgrave (1734/1971), 115-19; etc.
57. The details in many of the sources printed in Law (1991a).
58. Wilson from William’s Fort, 24.2.1727/8 (op. cit.); Law (2004a), 56-7.
59. Thomas Wilson (in letter from Whydah/Ouidah 29.4.1728 [O.s.) called Dahomey
“the enemy” and noted that trade was impossible as long as “the enemy is master of
the country one day and the Whydahs [Huedans] the other”. And he added that the
Huedans sold each other in order to maintain themselves (in Law [1991a], 25-9).
60. Huffon refused anyway, having still not lost faith in the final victory of Oyo
(Dupetitval de Ouidah, 20.5. 1728 [op.cit.]). Dupetitval was the one who tried to
negotiate.
61. There was in fact a very complicated plot against Dupetitval, the French Director,
according to the same Dupetitval. The (strange?) idea was to deliver the fort to the
warriors of Little Popo-Glidji, who (still according to Dupetitval) counted on the
collaboration of the Dutch (Hertogh) in Jakin, the English Director and some of
Dupetitval’s own subalterns, plus – we imagine – the exiled Huedans; all directed
against Dahomey. (Dupetitval de Juda [Ouidah] 15.8, 19.8 & 13.9.1728 [op.cit.]).
367
NOTES pp. [209–211]
62. As the English director Abraham Du Port put it, “I’m fully resolved to blow up the
fort before I’ll go a prisoner a second time to Ardah” (Du Port was among the
Europeans captured by the Dahomeans on 9.3.1727). Cf. Du Port from William’s
Fort, 23.10.1727 [O. s.] (Law [1991a], 14-15). His successor Thomas Wilson, who
arrived in February 1728, was equally determined: “I am resolved to defend [William’s
Fort] to the last minute” (Wilson from William’s Fort 24.2.1727/8 [op.cit.]).
In the English fort, possibly the best manned and equipped of the three, there
were in April 1728 some 40 Europeans and 400 lightly armed but possibly unreliable
Africans: not a very imposing force by any standard (Wilson from William’s Fort
29.4.1728 [O.s.], ibid., 25-9).
63. Mémoire de la Compagnie des Indes, 8.11.1730 (AN C6-25, d.144); Hertogh to
Praeger/Pranger, 8.8.1730 (Dantzig [1978], 250); Harms (2002), 221.
64. John Brathwaite from William’s Fort, 20.5.1730 [O. s.] (NA T70/4).
65. Verger (1966), 31.
66. Edward Deane/Deanes from William’s Fort, 26.6.1731 [O. s.] (NA T70/7).
67. In fact, on 30.4.1728 [O. s.] Agaja sent ambassadors (to the three forts) “assuring us
that they had no designe against the white men- they were only come against those
Whydahs that had revolted against the king of Dahomey whilst the Ayous [Oyos]
had come on him” (Thomas Wilson from William’s Fort 12.7.1728 [O.s.], in Law
[1991a], 32-8).
68. Relevant documents in Verger (1968), 145; and in Law (2004a), 52-4.
69. Ibid., 55.
70. But according to the French director of the Fort St. Louis de Gregory (lettre
26.8.1733, AN C6-25 d.146), it came about because the European directors
complained about the three captains. The Director added “Ce changement a amené
beaucoup de tranquilité. Ce Tegan a ordre de ne point importuner les Directeurs des
Forts”. In other words, it was a concession to the Europeans. Law’s thesis, in 1991b,
335-6; repeated in 2004a, 57 & 109.
71. Manoukian (1952), 35.
72. Adédirán (1984), 75; Dantzig (1980), 232.
73. Elmina Journal 8.1.1732 (Dantzig [1978], 273).
74. Strickrodt (2003), 125-34. See also Law (1991b), 315.
75. (Correa) Lopes (1939), 29.
76. Summary and discussion in Akinjogbin (1967), 68; Law (1977a), 161; Herskovits
(1958), 167.
77. “King of Dahomey will hear of no accomodation with the King of Whydah [Hueda]”
( John Brathwaite, Whydah/Ouidah 16.8.1730 [O.s.]; NA T70/7).
78. Mémoire sur le commerce de Nantes, 30.1.1732 (AD-Loire Atlantique C.740);
Harms (2002), 221; Gayibor (1985), 906.
79. Directeur du Fort St. Louis (Ouidah) 26.8.1733, d.146); Deane/Deanes, William’s
Fort 26.6.1731; Mémoire sur le commerce de Nantes, 30.1.1732 (all op. cit.).
80. Cf. the very informative instructions to Julien Du Bélay, the new French director, in
1733: “Cette troupe de Judaïques [exiled Huedans] fait des courses et occasionne
bien les désordres; ils demandent souvent des emprunts ou des gratifications au
comptoir de la Compagnie, sur lesquels il faut que M. Dubellay soit bien réservé. Il
368
pp. [211–214] NOTES
doit craindre surtout de ne pas faire penser à Dada [the king of Dahomey] qu’il
favorise ces réfugiés…D’un autre côté, il est nécessaire qu’il n’indispose pas les
Judaïques au point qu’ils l’empèchent de passer la barre” (Instructions pour…Julien
Du Bélay, 27.6.1733 [AN C6-25, doc. 28]).
81. Directeur Fort St.Louis, 26.8.1733 (op. cit.).
82. This was the reason for which three Frenchmen had their throats slit by the exiled
Huedans in September 1733. See lettres de Juda (Ouidah) 26.8.1733, 20.9.1733
(AN C6/25) & 7.1. 1734 (all op. cit.).
83. Law (2004a), 52.
84. Norman (2012), 160.
85. S. Johnson (1921), 174-6; Law (1991b), 295.
86. Wilks (2001), 73-4 & 83-6; Rømer (1760/2000), 136-7; and a great many other
Danish sources (in Justesen [2005], 357, 361, 374-5 etc.).
87. Quaye (1972), 165.
88. Wilks (2001), 85-6.
89. Ibid., 81-98; Daaku (1970), 181; Quaye (1972), 175-8.
90. Fynn (1971), 71.
91. Ibid., 108.
92. Wilks (2001), 105-8.
93. C.K. Welman, The Native States of the Gold Coast. History and Constitution I. Peki
(London, Dawsons of Pall Mall, 1924, reprinted 1969), 7-8; Sandra E. Greene,
“Cultural Zones in the Era of the Atlantic Slave Trade: Exploring the Yoruba
Connection with the Anlo-Ewe”, in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Identity in the Shadow of
Slavery (London/New York, Continuum, 2000), 86-101 (93-4); Gayibor (1985),
874; etc.
94. Wilks (2001), 109.
95. Inspired by the discussion in David Ross, “The Dahomean Middleman System, 1727–
c.1818”, Journal of African History, 28, 3 (1987), 357-75 (esp. 384).
96. Pahl et al. from Christiansborg, 10.9.1727 ( Justesen [2005], 363).
97. Law (1991d), 144-5. Note that before the audience they conferred with William
Snelgrave, who was in London at that time, and who advised against returning to
Dahomey, given the fate of Testefolle (Snelgrave [1734/1971], 68-71).
98. Ibid., 71; Law (1991d), 146.
99. Journal of the Commissioners for Trade and Plantations from January 1728–9 to
December 1934, preserved in the Public Record Office (London, HMSO, 1928), 199-
203. See also African House (RAC Headquarters) to the R.H. Lords Comissioners
for Trade and Plantations 10.6 & 7.10. 1731 (T70/172).
100. Law (2002), 261-70.
101. Garfield (1992).
102. Examination of William Devaynes by the African Committee, 22.3.1788 (op. cit.);
Letter from the African Committee to the Lords of the Treasury, 9.4.1812
(Parliamentary Papers, “Report – Select Committee”, 1816/1968 [op. cit.], 105);
Stefan Halikowski Smith, “’Profits Sprout like Tropical Plants’: a Fresh Look at what
Went Wrong with the Eurasian Spice Yrade c. 1550–1800”, Journal of Global History,
vol. 3, 3 (2008), 389-418.
369
NOTES pp. [215–218]
C2
1. Law (1991b), 329.
2. Ibid., 294; Examination of Robert Norris by the African Committee, 27.2.1788 (op.
cit.).
3. Dantzig (1980), 232.
4. Akinjogbin (1967), 105.
5. Robin Law, “The Slave Trader as Historian: Robert Norris and the History of
Dahomey”, History in Africa, 16 (1989c), 219-35 (226).
6. On Ashangmo (and on Little Popo-Glidji, which he calls Genyi) the leading authority
is Nicoué Lodjo Gayibor. See his 1985 thesis, 908; plus Gayibor (1997), 260-61;
Gayibor (2001), 27; and above all Le Genyi. Un royaume oublié de la Côte de Guinée
au temps de la traite des noirs (Lomé, Editions Haro, 1990), esp. 104-13.
7. Declaration of the Soldier Johan Joost Steirmark, made at Elmina, 4.12.1737, in
Dantzig (1978), 327-32; Strickrodt (2003), 134.
8. According to the traditions of Little Popo-Glidji. Cf. Gayibor (1990), 109.
9. Law (1987), 322.
10. Law (1990b), 110.
11. Verger (1966), 60.
12. Verger (1968), 169-71.
13. Ibid., 167-8.
14. Compte-rendu, Le Phoenix, Petit Popo 30.3. 1738 (op. cit.).
15. “Cet endroit est à fuir” was the message of a French “Mémoire” dated 13.12.1740
(CAOM-DFC); Rømer (1760/2000), 176; Platfues et al. from Christiansborg,
12.4.1749 ( Justesen [2005], 763); Strickrodt (2003), 150-51.
16. Harms (2002), 230.
17. From WIC 3.1.1729 (Dantzig [1978], 229).
18. The factual dimension of the Hertogh story is based on Dantzig (1980), 229-42,
which is in turn based on the collection of Dutch documents published by the same
Dantzig: (1978), 242-342.
19. See also Ryder (1969), 192.
20. See also Verger (1966), 38.
21. Postma (1990), 77.
22. Most clearly expressed – much later – in Carta de José da Silva Lisboa, advogado da
Bahia, 18.10.1781 (Inventario II, 504-5).
23. De Bahia, 22.4.1733, OR, vol. 29, doc. 74 (reproduced in Anais, 43 [1977], 25);
Vicerei Brazil ao Rei de Portugal (sobre) o estado decadente dos negócios e navegação
na Costa da Mina (Bahia, 20.5.1734; OR, vol. 30, doc. 30; both reproduced in ibid,
43 [1977], 25 & 65); VR ao rei Port.: decadência do comércio com à Costa da Mina
(Bahia 30.8.1736, OR, vol.32, doc.82; ibid., 44 [1979], 30); Flory (1978), 256; etc.
24. Or so argued the Danes: E.N. Boris de Christiansborg, 3.5.1738 ( Justesen [2005],
537).
25. Postma (1978), 75.
26. Dantzig (1980), 232.
370
pp. [218–220] NOTES
27. Postma (1978), 78.

28. Letter from Antonio Pinto, Portuguese factor in Jakin, n.d. (AHU, São Tomé caixa
4); also communication from the same quoted in Pranger to Hertogh 11.7.1733
(Dantzig [1978], 291).
29. For a summary of the relevant sources, and a discussion, see Law (1997c), 4; Dantzig
(1980), 232-4; Robin Law, “A Lagoonside Port of the Eighteenth-Century Slave
Coast: The Early History of Badagry”, Canadian Journal of African Studies, 28, 1
(1994b), 32-59 (38).
30. Hoffmester from Jaquin, 1.8.1732 & Carstares from Ardah, 7.8.1732, in Dantzig
(1978), 279-80.
31. He took very little care of his subordinates, according to the General at Elmina
(Minutes, Elmina, 21.5.1732, in ibid., 271-2).
32. Chamber of Amsterdam to Director-General at Elmina, 20.4.1734, in ibid., 307-9;
Dantzig (1980), 235.
33. Postma (1990), 99; Akinjogbin (1967), 100.
34. Ibid., 105.
35. Hertogh to Pranger, 16.4.1732 (archival source).
36. Law (1994b), 32-3 & 38-43; T. Ola Avoseh, A Short History of Badagry (Lagos,
1938).
37. Law (1994b), 38.
38. Even according to a French source; “Mémoire” dated 13.12.1740 (op. cit.).
39. J. Elet from Jaquin [ Jakin], 8.11.1733, in Dantzig (1978), 304.
40. Robin Law, “Trade and Politics behind the Slave Coast: the Lagoon Traffic and the
Rise of Lagos 1500-1800”, Journal of African History, 24, 3 (1983), 321-48 (342).
41. Law (1991b), 313.
42. A.P. Wærøe et al. from Christiansborg 26.5.1732 ( Justesen [2005], 460). Note the
date, back in 1732.
43. Pranger to Hertogh 9.8.1732; 25.12.1732; & 15.1.1734, in Dantzig (1978), 266-7,
269-70 & 304.
44. Hogbonu, also written Xogbonu (Adjatchè in Yoruba), means “great house”. Cf. Alexis
Bancole & Gilles Raoul Soglo, “Porto-Novo et la traite negrière”, in Elisée Soumonni,
Bellarmin C. Codo and Joseph Adande (eds), Le Bénin et la route de l’esclave (Cotonou,
ONEPI, 1994), 76-8. The Portuguese name Porto-Novo was applied originally to
modern Sèmè on the seashore, i.e. the “port” of Hogbonu (Law [2004a], 201).
45. Mercier (1950), 31-3.
46. Dunglas (1967), 29.
47. Law (1997c), 1-2.
48. Dunglas tells us that the king and his “Prime Minister”, the Zounon, the latter being
qualified as “Chef de la Terre”, could not see each other. The king reigned during the
day and the Zounon during the night (Dunglas [1967], 58-9). There was a state
council, the Mito, which elected the king (Palau-Marti [1964], 188-91).
49. Admittedly, this is based on a source that cannot be considered reliable: the guide
of the contemporary royal palace of Porto-Novo, who showed the present author
the entry of the room where according to him the king retreated when he had to
commit suicide.
371
NOTES pp. [220–224]
50. A. Akindélé and C. Aguessy, Contribution à l’étude de l’histoire de l’ancien royaume

de Porto Novo (Dakar, IFAN, 1953); Yves Person, “Chronologie du royaume gun de
Hogbonu (Porto-Novo)”, Cahiers d’Études Africaines, XV, 2 (1975), 217-38.
51. Adams (1823/1966), 82.
52. Brand (2000), 93; Bay (1983), 345.
53. Law (1989b), 402.
54. Law (1989c), 225. Agaja had to insist in order to make them attend. A French report
talks of “les sollicitations reiterées de Dada [Agaja] pour assister”: Directeur de Juda
[Ouidah] 26.8. 1733 (AN C6-25, doc. 148).
55. “The journey is always made in perfect safety, & travellers accomodated with Eastern
hospitality…there are a kind of caravanseras in the towns through which (the
Europeans) pass, allotted for their reception”; Dalzel (1793/1967), XIX. Cf more
generally: Pruneau (1789), 178-83; Norris (1789/1968), 69-70; Herskovits
(1938/1967), I, 3-4.
56. Among the many eye-witness accounts, the perhaps most informative, apart from
that of Dalzel, is one from as late as 1789 by Monsieur Gourg: Journal de mon voyage
pour assister aux coutumes, Juda [Ouidah] 22.1.1789 (AN C6-26, d.110).
57. Akinjogbin (1967), 190; Law (2004a), 107-8.
58. Example: Examination of Dalzel by the African Committee, 5-8.4.1788 (op. cit.).
59. M’Leod (1820/1971), 100-2; Ross (1987), 366.
60. In addition to the sources and works already referred to, see also Foà (1895), 285-
94; Lombard (1967b), 85; Coquery-Vidrovitch (1971), 712; etc.
61. Relation du Royaume de Judas [Hueda], c.1715 (op. cit.), 53;S. Johnson (1921), 143;
McCaskie (1995/2002), 215-6; Robin Law, “Human Sacrifice in Pre-colonial West
Africa”, African Affairs, vol. 84, no. 334 (1985), 53-87.
62. M’Leod (1820/1971), 59-60. Dalzel argued that the victims of the executions were
resigned to their fate, and without fear (The Examination of A.D. Dalzell by the
African Committee 5-8.4.1788). William Devaynes argued more or less the same,
also during an examination by the African Committee 22.3.1788; as did Chenevert
and Bullet in “Réflexions sur Juda”, 1776 (all op. cit.), 73. See also some interesting
comments in Captain Canot; or, Twenty Years of an African Slaver (etc)- written down
and edited by Brantz Mayer (New York and London,1854, new edition by Arno
Press and the New York Times, 1968), 266-8. Were the victims doped?
63. Testimony of Robert Norris: “I never saw less than six decollated heads placed in the
passage leading to the King’s [Tegbesu’s] apartment, when I have been there”
(Examination of Norris by the African Committee, 27.2.1788 [op. cit.]).
64. Pruneau (1789), 190-94.
65. However, the only recorded refusal this author is aware of is that of Captain Canot
(1854/1968, 268).
66. Bay (1998), 21.
67. Including Asante (McCaskie [1995/2002], 215-16).
68. Argyle (1966), 112-16; Bay (2008), 27; Savary (1976), 190.
69. Landolphe (1823), II, 30.
70. Testimony of Lionel Abson as reproduced in Dalzel (1793/1967), 204-30.
372
pp. [224–229] NOTES
71. Law argues (1991b, 305-6) that their attitude changed to pessimism in the 1730s.
But had it ever been optimistic?
72. Ibid., 306-8.
73. Lettre de Annamabou 31.5.1744 (AN C6-25, doc. 168/170).
74. Verger (1966), 66.
75. Gayibor (1985), 914.
76. Or this is, to be precise, how Robin Law (1989c, 220) interprets Ross (1987, 362-4).
77. (1998, 64). The present author is less certain.
78. Akinjogbin (1967), 110
C3
NEAR DISASTER: THE FIRST YEARS OF THE TEGBESU ERA
1. Lists and summary in the files NA T70/1157 & 1158 (see below); Law (1991b),
327-8; Bay (1998), 109.
2. On the last point, see the interesting elaborations in Boniface I. Obichere, “Change
and Innovation in the Administration of the Kingdom of Dahomey”, Journal of
African Studies, vol. 1, 3 (1974), 235-51 (241).
3. For instance, Agbo (1959) refers consistently to the post-1727 period as one of
Dahomean “domination” and “occupation”. See also Ross (1989), 318.
4. Agbo (1959), 44-5.
5. Details and summary in Law (1994b), 47; and Law (1991b), 314.
6. Norris (1789/1968), 19-20; Foà (1895), 17.
7. Even Le Hérissé (1911, 132) admits that the wars against Mahi were unsuccessful.
8. Gaston-Mulira (1984), 48; Law (1989b), 54.
9. Deduced from Joseph C. Miller, Way of Death: Merchant Capitalism and the Angolan
Slave Trade (University of Wisconsin Press, 1988). There are also cases of liberated
slaves becoming slave traders. A classic example is that of João Oliveira which will
be evoked later. See in addition, for instance: from Sierra Leone to Earl of Clarendon,
2.9.1857 (NA ADM, 123/177).
10. Le Hérissé (1911), 300.
11. Law’s interpretation (1989c, 225) based on the relevant pages in Norris (1789/1968).
12. Law (1987), 326.
13. Including the Herskovitses (1933/1964, 35; & 1938/1967, II, 104); endorsed by
Law (1991b), 327.
14. Bay (1998), 91-2.
15. The main source for the events referred to in this section is: Jacques Levet [the new
French Director] de Juda [Ouidah] 20.8.1743 (AN C6-25; d.156-61). See also Law
(1991b), 321-2.
16. Overview in Law (1991b), 322; and in Law (2004a), 61.
17. S. Johnson (1921), 176.
18. For a discussion – Law discussing with himself – see Law (1977a), 165, & (1991b),
323; and finally Asiwaju and Law (1985), 444.
19. Levet de Juda [Ouidah] 25.2.1744 (AN C6-25). There is some confusion in the
literature as to the identity of the director expelled in 1743, because the one expelled
373
NOTES pp. [229–232]
and his replacement had very similar names. The latter was apparently also expelled
in the end.
20. According to the French. The English director had to seek refuge in the Portuguese
fort (Levet de Juda [Ouidah] 13.10 1746, AN C6-25, doc. 180).
21. Verger (1966), 71. However, some of those who were captured with Basilio,
presumably Africans, were apparently liberated only ten years later, in 1753. See
Tenente Theodosio Rodrigues, Fortaleza de S. João de Ajudá, 27.5.1753 (Inventario
I [1913], 60]).
22. On the second Basilio affair the fundamental source are the letters from Jacques
Levet de Juda dated 16.8.1743 doc.158; 13.10.1746 & 1.10.1747, the two first from
Ouidah, the last from Bahia (all in AN C6-25). See also Verger (1966), 68-81.
23. Lopes (1939), 29-30.
24. Levet de Juda [Ouidah] 16.8.1743 (op. cit.). For more details, Verger (1966), 69; and
Ryder (1958), 172.
25. Lopes (1939), 35-7; Carta-Conde das Galvêas, André de Mello e Castro, para o
Rei Dogme (Dahomey) queixando-se de sua deslealdade para com o Rei de
Portugal, consentindo que Francisco Nunes Pereira arbitrariamente usurpasse o
logar de Director da Fortaleza portugueza, Bahia 2.9.1746 (Inventario, I [1913],
37).
26. King of Portugal to Viceroy of Brazil, 25.10.1749 (OR, vol. 76, doc. 73, folha 168,
APEB). As for Nunes, he is reported to have ended his days in the penal colony of
Benguela (Lopes [1939], 38).
27. Extensive quotations from the relevant sources in Verger (1969), 86-109.
28. Carta Secretario (do Rei) Belém, 21.10.1751 (OR vol. 48, Doc. 79; in Anais, 46
[1982], 125).
29. See the many documents in Inventario, II (1914), 165-7. Also some interesting
information in “Journal de..Crassous” (op. cit.), 111.
30. Again the relevant sources are reproduced in part in Verger (1966), 88-109. See also
Ryder (1958), 171.
31. Information from T.R. da Costa in Ajudá [Ouidah] contained in letter from Viceroy
Conde dos Arcos, Bahia 23.5.1758 (Inventario, I [1913] 277).
32. See, for instance, Instructions to Governor Thomas Melvil by the Company of
Merchants trading to Africa, 17.4.1751 (in Crooks [1923/1973], 18).
33. A list of the monarchy’s many economic monopolies in Lombard (1967a), 89.
34. Most clearly expressed in letters from the French director in Ouidah, 6.6.1759; and
from his English colleague (William Devaynes) 8.6. 1759. Both in a Portuguese
collection, namely OR, vol. 61, Documents 155B & 155D (APEB).
35. On Law’s position, see especially his “The Origins and Evolution of the Merchant
Community in Ouidah”, in Robin Law and Silke Strickrodt (eds), Ports of the Slave
Trade (Bights of Benin and Biafra) (University of Stirling, 1999b), 55-70 (57). See
also Law (2004a), 115.
36. At least according to Dalzel (and Abson) (1793/1967), 213.
37. The second and bloodiest French attempt was in 1744–46 and cost the lives of about
60 Frenchmen and 250 of their African auxiliaries - the number of British casualties
is unknown (de Annamabou, 31.5.1744 [op. cit.], and: Levet de Juda [Ouidah],
374
pp. [232–233] NOTES
12.10.1746 [doc. 179]). The third attempt was in 1752, but lasted for only 16 days
(Perier de Salvent à Brest, 8.5.1752 [AN-Marine B/4/65, f.194 ff ]).
. The British were always determined to foil the French attempts (see for instance:
from Cape Coast Castle, 30.1.1751 [NA T70/68]). In fact they considered it their
right to open fire on French ships which headed for their establishments, and told
the French so in no uncertain terms (Documents translated from English, 1750
[AD-Loire Atlantique, C687]). The British doctrine in these matters was very clearly
expressed in 1814:”The French have at all times evinced the greatest anxiety to erect
Forts, & to obtain a share of the trade upon the Gold Coast, while this Country has
uniformly refused to grant to them any establishment there; and even in time of
peace has driven off their ships and excluded them from all participation in that
trade” (Committee of the Company of Merchants trading to Africa, to Earl Bathurst,
21.6.1814, in Parliamentary Papers, 1850/1968 [op. cit.], 118). Lord Bathurst was
Secretary of State for War and the Colonies.
38. William’s fort, Accounts for July & August 1754 (NA T70/1158).
39. Daybook-William’s fort, Sept-Oct. 1762, signed William Goodson (NA T70/1159).
40. Accounts-William’s Fort Nov-Dec.1752 (op. cit.); & Sept-Oct. 1758, signed William
Devaynes (NA T70/1158).
41. Instruction du Roy à de Kersaint, Fontainbleau le 5 9bre/Novembre 1756 (AN
Marine B/4/73, doc.4); Kersaint: Journal de navigation 1757, 5.5.1757 (op. cit.). On
these events also an unexpected source: Viceroy Bahia 10.5.1757 (op. cit.).
42. According to a French report. Levet de Juda [Ouidah] 13.6.1758 (AN-C6-25).
43. “Épopée glorieuse”, according to the author of an official document dated Marseille,
11 8bre/Octobre 1762 (op. cit.).
44. Example: London to Mr. Devaynes at Whydah [Ouidah], 22.7.1758 (NA T70/29).
45. Mémoire de Juda [Ouidah] 20.2.1763 (AN C6-25).
46. Verger (1966), 66-7 & 103-10.
47. De Bahia 22.5.1758 & 28.8.1759 (OR, vol. 60, folha 153 & vol. 61, doc. 97, 155 &
155 A-G, APEB); Vice-Rei Conde dos Arcos, Bahia 23.5.1758 (Inventario, I [913],
277); Officio do Governo interino, Bahia, 30.9.1761 (ibid., 475).
48. Deduced from especially Verger (1968), 240 (most Portuguese directors were in fact
temporarily promoted subalterns).
49. Council, Cape Coast Castle, 11.12.1788 (in Crooks [1923/1973], 75-6).
50. Captain Jenkins from Whydah [Ouidah], 28.7.1762 (NA T70/31).
51. “Este importantíssimo ramo de comércio” [this very important branch of trade].
Expression used in the protests from the “Oficiais da Câmara desta cidade” [the
members of the Municipal Council of Bahia] and others in documents annexed to
memorandum from King of Portugal, Lisbon 30.3. 1756 (OR vol. 55, doc. 39 &
39A). More protests in ibid., vol. 71, doc. 110A (no date). Earlier protests in for
instance: Mesa de Inspeção, Bahia 27.7.1754 (ibid., vol. 73, doc. 38A).
52. In general, see for instance, Guestad et al., de Juda [Ouidah] 11.5.1753 (AN C6-25).
53. Accounts, Sept-Oct.1758, signed William Devaynes, William’s Fort (op. cit.).
54. Many examples in the Account books to 1764 (NA T70/1158-9), and in those for
Oct-Nov-Dec. 1784 (NA T70/1162); plus Daybook Jan-Feb-March 1785 (NA
T70/1162).
375
NOTES pp. [233–235]
55. For instance: Accounts-William’s Fort, signed William Devaynes July-Aug.1752

(NA T70/1158).
56. Pruneau de Pommegeorge was of the opinon (in 1764) that the French fort did not
look like one, but instead like a worn-down farmstead (“métairie de Beauce”)
(Mémoire par M. Pruneau, Juda [Ouidah] 1764 [AN C6-25]).
William’s Fort was reputed “very much out of repair” in 1766 and “in bad repair”
in 1776. There were four Europeans in William’s Fort in the 1760s, and only two in
the 1770s, one of them being obviously Lionel Abson, plus from 54 to 80 fort slaves.
(Return from the Commissioners for trade and plantations..1777 [op. cit.]).
57. Adams (1823/1966), 52-5. His French colleague Monsieur Gourg added that Abson
was “aussi dangereux pour sa nation que pour la nôtre, étant entièrement vendu aux
nègres, avec qui il a une très grande affinité” (Gourg de Juda [Ouidah] 1.2.1789 [AN
C6-26, doc. 116]).
58. Martin (1927), 10-32.
59. A snapshot of the situation in 1768 according to the then British director Archibald
Dalziel (he had not yet changed his name to Dalzel): “The English traders have now
for four years abandoned this Port, while the French carry [on] as before. [They have]
no less than three ships now in the Road. The King…often demands the reason why
[the English traders no longer come]…it would be impolitic [for] me to give the true
reasons…namely the vileany [sic] and the thievish [sic] of his subjects…the French
finding they have no competitors, are gradually introducing worse manufactures”.
Dalziel went on to lament “the wretched state” of William’s Fort (A. Dalziel from
William’s Fort, 27.9.1768 [NA T70/31]).
60. Berbain (1942), 35.
61. Examples: William Goodson from Whydah [Ouidah], 10.11.1764 (NA T70/31);
William’s fort, Daybook Sept-Oct.1765, signed William Goodson (NA T70/1160);
A. Dalziel from Whydah [Ouidah] 18.2.1770 (NA T70/31); William’s Fort,
Daybook, May-June 1773, signed Lionel Abson (NA T70/1161).
62. The many letters from the French Director Jacques Levet de Juda constitute the main
source in this matter, especially the one dated Ouidah 1.2.1746 (op. cit.). Elaborations
and discussions are found in Robin Law, “Slave-Raiders and Middlemen, Monopolists
and Free-Traders: the Supply of Slaves for the Atlantic Trade in Dahomey, c.1715–
1850”, Journal of African History, 30,1 (1989d), 45-68 (esp. 52); and by the same
author (1999b), 57.
63. The Examination of William Devaynes by the African Committee, 22.3.1788 (op.
cit.).
64. See the relevant files in NA T70/1157, 1158 and 1159. Apart from those signed by
Devaynes, many bear the signature of William Goodson. A summary is in Law
(1991b), 327-8.
65. Unless Tanga is simply a variant of tegan, as Edna Bay argues (1998, 108).
66. Norris (1789/1968), 40-44. The story was repeated by many subsequent authors,
including Dalzell, Burton and Dunglas.
67. Law (1989c), 229.
68. Henry Turner from William’s Fort 20.2.1740 [O. s.] (NA T70/4).
69. Law (1989c), 229.
376
pp. [236–239] NOTES
70. Summary in Akinjogbin (1967), 120; and Elisée Akpo Soumonni, “The
Administration of a Port of the Slave Trade: Ouidah in the Nineteenth Century”, in
R. Law & Silke Strickrodt (eds), Ports of the Slave Trade (Bights of Benin and Biafra)
(University of Stirling, 1999), 48-54 (50) (notice the word “port” in the title).
71. Levet de Juda (Ouidah), 25 9bre (November) 1755 (AN C6-25).
72. Opinion of Akinjogbin (1967), 121.
73. According to sources consulted by David Ross (1989, 314) and Robin Law (1991b,
328).
74. The main source seems to be Le Hérissé (1911), 273-5. But note that Tori pops up
in many places and in many works, for instance in Barbot on Guinea, 621, and in
Wigboldus (1986), 322.
75. Bay (1998), 107-8. See also Law (2004a), 120-21.
76. “Tegbesu…semble travailler à sa destruction”; Mémoire pour servir à l’intelligence
de Juda (etc), Conseil de Directeurs de la Compagnie de Judas [Ouidah], 18.3.1750
(AN C6-25).
C4
1. Bay (2008), 24. But Bay also argues that Mawu and Lisa reigned supreme in Dahomey
in the eighteenth century, which is less certain. She goes on to argue that Mawu and
Lisa were introduced by kpojito (“Queen Mother”) Hwanjile under Tegbesu, who
then became their priest, and as such the head of the religious life in Dahomey,
outranking the agasunon (Bay [1995], 15). If by “religious life”, she means the official
religion, she has probably a point.
2. Blier (1995b), 414-15.
3. Law (1987), 328.
4. Law (1991b), 331.
5. But one who has tried, and with success for all we know, to penetrate the logic of the
new ancestor cults centred on the royal dynasty is Edna Bay (1998, 318-19). See also
Houseman et al. (1986), 543.
6. The Examination of A. Dalzel, 5-8.4.1788 (op. cit.); and especially Pruneau (1789),
159-63.
7. Underlined especially by Kossou, (1981), 90.
8. Glélé (1974), 66).
9. Norris (1789/1968), 103; Mahdi Adamu, The Hausa Factor in West African History
(Zaria, Ahmadu Bello University Press and Oxford University Press, 1978), 114-15;
Law (1986b), 112.
10. Le Hérissé (1911), 303.
11. According to the British sources referred to in Law (2004a), 111.
12. Opinion of Law (1986b), 100.
13. Ibid., 102; Law (1991b), 341-2.
14. Robin Law, “Royal Monopoly and Private Enterprise in the Atlantic Trade: the Case
of Dahomey”, Journal of African History, XVIII, 4 (1977b), 555-77 (560).
15. Ross (1987), 369.
377
NOTES pp. [239–242]
16. The relevant evidence is presented in Gayibor (1985), 914-15; Law (1991b), 323.
17. Levet de Juda [Ouidah] 9bre(Novembre), 1755 (op. cit.).
18. Jacques Guestard, de Juda [Ouidah] 10.7.1754 & 31.3.1755 (AN C6-25).
19. In a Mémoire, Juda [Ouidah] 1764 (op. cit.).
20. Apart from ibid., the main source on the French side is Pruneau (1789), 223-34. On
the British side we have another eyewitness account by William Goodson in the
Daybook of William’s Fort, July-August 1763 (op. cit.).
21. The source is again Pruneau’s Mémoire of 1764 (op. cit.).
22. Here we follow Strickrodt (2003), 142.
23. Akinjogbin (1967), 148-9; Gayibor (1985), 919-20.
24. Abson from Ouidah, 24.10.1770 (op. cit.).
25. Argyle (1966), 42-3.
26. The most informative source we have encountered on these events is perhaps a
somewhat strange one: Governor & Council for transacting the affairs of the
committee of the Companyy of Merchants trading to Africa…to examine the Public
Accounts 1.1.1770-31.12.1776 (NA BT 6/16).
27. On raids in 1781, see Daybook Williams Fort, April-June 1781 (NA T70/1162).
28. Norris (1789/1968), VII.
29. Monroe (2007b), 356-7.
30. Law (1988a), 444. The same was to some extent also the case in Asante. See McCaskie
(1995/2002), 217.
31. Bay (1998), 357.
32. Herskovits (1938/1967), II, 45.
33. This section is in fact based on two works of hers: 1983 and 1998.
34. Ibid.; M’Leod (1820/1971), 50; Herskovits (1938/1967), II, 45; Foà (1895), 192.
35. But consider the following statement: “African studies is replete with some of the
most trenchant critiques of the universal woman-as-victim model of historical
explanation, in which modernization or colonialism is seen as the singular agent of
change rescuing women from the timeless exploitative patriarchy of non-Western
societies”. Akinwumi Ogundiran, “The End of Prehistory? An African Comment”,
American Historical Review, June 2013, 788-801 (794). Where does this leave the
ahosi?
36. Bay (1998), 150.
37. Ibid., 149; Norris (1789/1968), 98-9; Pires (1800/1957), 114.
38. Norris (1789/1968), 128-30.
39. Dalzel (1793/1967), 150-52; Dunglas (1957), II, 26-7.
40. Glélé (1974), 108.
41. Obichere (1974), 239-41.
42. To give an example of how the local administrators were treated in Dahomey: “During
the time I was in the country, the chief magistrate of a district, for some iniquitous
transaction, was ordered by the king not to shave his beard, pare his nails, or wash
himself for a certain number of moons, and in this dirty state to sit daily at the palace-
gate several hours for public inspection” (M’Leod [1820/1971], 48).
43. Pruneau (1789), 168; Bay (1998), 25-6.
44. Alpern (1998a), 124.
378
pp. [242–244] NOTES
45. Alexandre Adandé, Les récades des rois du Dahomey (Dakar, IFAN, 1962), 13-9; Foà
(1895), 172.
46. M’Leod (1820/1971), 42-3.
47. Ibid., 46.
48. Obichere (1974), 241.
49. Le Hérissé (1911), 85.
50. Law (1999a), 31.
51. Herskovits (1938/1967), II, 39.
52. “My head belongs to the king, not to myself; if he pleases to send for it…” (Norris
[1789/1968], 8).
Or as French observers put it: “chaque particulier est élevé dans l’idée que la tête
appartient au Roy, aussi n’est-il point étonné quand il est condamné à la perdre”
(Chenevert and Bullet, “Réflexions sur Juda” [op. cit.], 51).
53. All contemporary observers that we know of, including Robert Norris, Monsieur
Gourg, William Devaynes, Pruneau de Pommegeorge, Chenevert and Bullet etc.,
are agreed on this point. And modern scholars such as Melville Herskovits, Stanley
Alpern, Suzanne Preston Blier, David Ross etc. certainly abound in the same sense.
However, Robin Law has argued that “Part of the appeal of submission to the
kings of Dahomey may well have been the belief that, with their more highly
centralised and autocratic administration, and indeed their greater personal
ruthlessness, they might be better able to restore and maintain political order” (Law
[1987], 337-8).
Law also insists on the strict regulations of pawning and enslavement in
Dahomey – the idea being that the people of Dahomey, even the slaves, enjoyed a
degree of protection not existing before or elsewhere (Law [1994a], 65-6; and by
the same author, “Legal and Illegal Enslavement in West Africa, in the Context of
the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade”, in Toyin Falola (ed.), Ghana in Africa and the
World: Essays in Honor of Adu Boahen (Trenton, NJ, Africa World Press, 2003,
513-33 [516]). But Ross has argued that those regulations applied basically only
to the members of the Abomey area warrior community and their descendants and
slaves (Ross [1989], 323). Whatever the case, we find Law’s position difficult to
reconcile with the evidence as it stands. As for Akinjogbin (1967, 140), he has
argued that Tegbesu created “an orderly contented community”. Balderdash, in
our opinion.
54. Blier (1995a).
55. Ibid., 26-7.
56. Ibid., 1.
57. Ibid., 5.
58. Ibid., 13.
59. Law (1977a), 89-96; R. Smith (1976), 100-1 & 128; Akinwumi Ogundiran, “Material
Life and Domestic Economy in a Frontier of the Oyo Empire During the Mid-
Atlantic Age”, International Journal of African Historical Studies, 42, 3 (2009), 351-
65 (357-64).
60. Chenevet and Bullet, “Réflexions sur Juda” (op. cit.), 42.
61. Adams (1823/1966), 79-80.
379
NOTES pp. [244–246]
62. On Oliveira, the only genuine source we have found is a summary in Inventario, II
(1914, no. 8245). It refers to a document with the title: “Attestado de commerciantes
da Bahia, em que affirman os serviços prestados pelo preto João de Oliveira ao
commercio da Costa da Mina” (Bahia 30.5.1770). From this and subsequent
summaries (referring to a document dated Bahia 18.7.1770, ibid. nos. 8244-8247)
we can deduce that Oliveira opened up two ports for the trade but that he later
experienced problems with the law in Salvador da Bahia. We have been unable to
locate the documents these summaries refer to.
63. On João de Oliveira, see also Verger (1966), 112; and (Vieira) Ribeiro (2008), 143.
64. Law (1986b), 109.
65. The quotation is from Mann (2007), 34.
66. Ibid., 34-5, based, according to Ms Mann, on calculations of David Eltis. But no
references are provided.
67. Some figures and a discussion in Dalzel (1793/1967), 166 & 194; Akinjogbin (1967),
140; Strickrodt (2003), 155 (there is also an interesting, but undated and unsigned
French document in AN C6-29).
68. At least according to the official list in what is presented as the Royal Palace in Porto
Novo.
69. Officio do Governador, Bahia 16.10.1775 & Carta do Rei de Ardra [Porto Novo],
undated. (Inventario II [1914, nos. 8941 & 8942], 307-8).
70. Dunglas (1967).
71. In fact, the local inhabitants are known as Awori Yoruba (R. Smith [1976], 105).
72. Barnes (2009), 53.
73. Olatunji Ojo, “The Organization of the Atlantic Slave Trade in Yorubaland, ca.1777
to ca. 1856”, International Journal of African Historical Studies, 41, 1 (2008), 77-100
(79). Incidentally, Ojo’s article and Mann’s book (2007, 23-83) make it clear that the
Oba of Lagos was little more than a primus inter pares, and hence in no way
comparable to the king of Dahomey.
74. Law (1982b), esp. 390; Law (1977a), esp. 201; S. Johnson (1921), 178-86; Akinjogbin
(1967), 145 ff.
75. Dating due to Dalzel (1793/1967), 156-7.
76. See especially Law (1977a), 201-2.
77. Law (1975).
78. Inspired by Quaye (1972); and by Hernæs (1988), 13-14.
79. The sources and scholarly works are particularly abundant on this subject. Some
relevant references: Justesen (2005), 505, 528, 533, 600-2, 608-9, 797, 813; Ray A.
Kea, “Ashanti-Danish Relations 1780-1831” (MA thesis, Institute of African Studies,
University of Ghana, Legon, 1967), 69-108; Hernæs (1998), 136-7; Akyeampong
(2001), 42-6; Nukunya (1997), 69; etc.
80. Greene (1996b), 56-7.
81. By Akyeampong (2001), 4.
82. Ibid., 45; Yarak (1990), 123.
83. For the Danes, see Christian Glob Dorph, Christianshavn, to the Directors, 4.5.1745
( Justesen [2005], 668).
84. Kea (1967), 67; Fynn (1971), 74-5.
380
pp. [247–251] NOTES
85. Ibid., 76; Amenumey (1986), 71-3.

86. Deduced from Ronald R. Atkinson, “Old Akyem and the Origins of Akyems
Abuakwa and Kotoku 1675–1775”, in B.K. Swartz Jr. and Raymond E. Dumett (eds),
West African Culture Dynamics: Archeological and Cultural Perspectives (The Hague
etc., Mouton, 1989), 349-69 (365-7); Kwamena-Poh (1973), 31-44; Fynn (1971),
108-10.
87. The sources are based on hearsay and are in fact somewhat confusing. The principal
ones are William Mutter (from Ouidah?) to African Committee, 27.5.1764 (NA
T70/31); Bowdich (1819/1966), 234; and especially Joseph Dupuis, Journal of a
Residence in Ashantee (1st ed. 1824, second ed., by W.E.F. Ward, London, Frank Cass
1966), 238-49. But since the matter is rather sensational, many scholars have felt the
need to comment on it. Among them is Adu Boahen who has argued that there was
a full-scale war between Dahomey and Asante from 1760 to 1764 (see his “Asante-
Dahomey contacts in the nineteenth century”, Ghana Notes and Queries, 7 [1965],
1-3). However, most other scholars are far more sceptical. A useful summary and
discussion in Law (1994c), 160.
88. Details in Greene (1996b), 56-8 (1997); plus in the many works of Ray Kea.
89. Gayibor (1990), 176-201.
90. Nørregaard (1968), 228.
91. Fynn (1971), 109-10; Kea (1967), 64-5.
92. Nørregaard (1968), 198.
93. Greene (1996b), 82 & 153-7. See also Akyeampong (2001), 7.
94. Greene (2002a), 1019; and Nukunya (1997), 48-9.
C5
CONTINUATION
1. African Office to Cape Coast Castle, 5.9.1775 & 30.12.1778 (both NA T70/69).
2. The details of this tortuous history in Jean Meyer, Jean Tarrade, Annie Rey-
Goldzeiguer and Jacques Thobie, Histoire de la France coloniale. Des origines à 1914
(Paris, Armand Colin, 1991), 277-314.
3. See the excellent short exposé in Drake (1976), 139.
4. Allow us to refer in this respect to a formally non-scientific but nevertheless
illuminating book about the fight against the slave trade, Eric Metaxas’ Amazing
Grace. William Wilberforce and the Heroic Campaign to End Slavery (New York,
HarperCollins, 2007), esp. 91-102. The book is in a sense the companion to a film,
with the same title, of 2006.
5. Nørregaard (1968), 276; Feldbæk and Justesen (1980), 409-29; Sandra E. Greene,
“The Individual as Stranger in Nineteenth-Century Anlo: the Politics of Identity
and Social Advancement in Precolonial West Africa”, in John Hunwick and Nancy
Lawler (eds), The Cloth of Many Colored Silks (Evanston, Northwestern University
Press, 1996), 91-127 (94).
6. By the authors of a comment in the Camden Review of 7 November 2013.
7. William’s Fort-Daybook, January-March 1779 (NA T70/1162).
8. William’s Fort, Daybook July-Sept. 1779, signed Lionel Abson (NA T70/1162).
381
NOTES pp. [251–255]
9. Akinjogbin (1967), 156-9.

10. Ibid., 160-61.
11. Dalzel (1793/1967), 178.
12. De Juda [Ouidah], 16.7.1788 (AN C6-26, doc. 94).
13. De Juda [Ouidah] 6.10.1777 (op. cit.). Chenevert and Bullet in “Réflexions sur Juda”
(1776 – op. cit.,19-20 & 31) depict a lamentable picture of Ouidah which had less
than 2,000 inhabitants, and was situated in the midst of “un pays dévasté où l’on
cultive peu”.
14. Especially Ross (1987), and Person (1982), part II.
15. Akinjogbin (1967), 155; Dunglas (1957), 69-70.
16. Parrinder (1956), 34.
17. Dunglas (1967), 32.
18. De Juda [Ouidah] 6.10.1777 (op. cit.).
19. De Juda [Ouidah], 25.4.1789 (AN C6-26, doc. 132).
20. Pires (1800/1957), 135; Adamu (1978), 114-16.
21. Pires (1800/1957), 135; Dalzel (1793/1967), VI.
22. Law (1991b), 330.
23. An interesting case-study is Marina de Mello e Souza, Reis negros no Brasil escravista:
História da festa de coroação de Rei Congo (Belo Horizonte, Editora UFMG, 2002).
24. Heywood and Thornton (2009), 106-10.
25. Amenumey (1986), 46-7.
26. Kea (1967), 38 & 69 ff.
27. Opinion of Israel (1995), 1097.
28. Lise Merete Johannesen, “Jens Adolph Kiøge’s administrasjonspolitik over for
afrikanerne i Guinea 1766–1788” (unpublished dissertation, Københavns
Universitet/University of Copenhagen, c. 1966), 44-5; Crooks (1923/1973), 50.
29. Johannesen (c. 1966), 4-11; Hernæs (1998), 137-8. As for the more general picture,
cf. Feldbæk and Justesen (1980).
30. Isert (1788/1992), 42-3; Johannesen (c. 1966), 56.
31. Sagbadre is supposed to mean “swallow” in the Ewe tongue and was apparently what
Kiøge and/or a certain Danish trader were called by the Anlo (Isert [1788/1992], 2
& 31, fn.1; Gayibor [1985], 937).
32. 1,100 men strong, according to Gayibor (1997), 260-61.
33. Gayibor (1985), 935.
34. Isert (1788/1992), esp. p. 51.
35. According to Gayibor (1985), 937-9.
36. Fynn (1971), 124-6.
37. Isert (1788/1992), 55-65.
38. According to Fynn (1971), 129-30.
39. Akyeampong (2001), 8 & 43.
40. Isert (1788/1992), 74; Lawrence (1963), 361.
41. Fynn, (1971), 128. See also Grove and Johansen (1968), 1377.
42. Isert (1788/1992), 96, including fn. 15.
43. He noted incidentally, and rather surprisingly, that “The Fidas are a very industrious
nation, they weave & make cloth out of grass” (ibid., 108-9).
382
pp. [255–257] NOTES
44. From Governor & Council, Cape Coast Castle, 9.7.1785 (NA T70/33); Fynn (1971),
127.
45. According to Monsieur Gourg, cf. his “Mémoire”, 12.5.1785 (op. cit.).
46. Feldbæk and Justesen (1980), 394-5.
47. Fynn (1971), 127.
48. Kea (1967), 42; Greene (1996b), 85; Amenumey (1986), 54; Gayibor (1985), 941.
49. Gayibor (1990), 131-2.
50. To the point of inciting the Dahomeans in July 1791 to ask the Danes to set up a
factory at Ouidah as a protection against Little Popo-Glidji. Or so argues Ray Kea
(1967), 42-4.
51. For the details, see Monrad (1822/2009), 76-7; Gayibor (1985), 944; Akyeampong
(2001), 7 & 47; Greene (1996b), 85-9; Strickroth (2003), 163-5, etc.
52. Fynn (1971), 132-6; Strickroth (2003), 165, etc.
53. Although he was, at the same time, virtually at war with the same Dutch for trying
to protect the Portuguese against what he considered to be the abuses of precisely
the Dutch. See a number of letters signed by Archibald Dalzel, October-November-
December 1792 & January 1793 (NA T70/33).
54. Amenumey talks of the 1792 fiasco (1986, 60-61). See also Nørregaard (1968), 247-
9; Fynn (1971), 133-5, etc. Relevant primary-sources are letters from Dalzel dated
2.5.1792 & 7.2.1793 (NA T70/1565 & T70/33 respectively).
55. Law (1977a), 174.
56. Or so argues Akinjogbin (1967, 162-3).
57. Discussion in Ross (1987, 373-4).
58. See for instance, Gourg de Juda [Ouidah], 2.2.1789 (AN C6-26, doc. 118).
59. M. de Flotte à bord de la frégate “La Junon”[?] en rade du Benin 25.5.1787
(AN-Marine B/4/274); M’Leod (1820/1971), 99-100.
60. How many or how few they were, and what their status was exactly (plus how it
changed over time), is a subject many historians have tried to see clear in, but so far
with rather limited success in our view. For instance, even private traders were in a
sense officials, that is permitted to trade by royal authority. Cf. Dalzel (1793/1967),
170 & 213-24; Akinjogbin (1967), 156-9; Law (2004a), 112-17, etc.
61. On this and what follows, cf. Dalzel (1793/1967), 207; Dunglas (1957), II, 192; Law
(1977a), 177-9; Akinjogbin (1967), 165-8; Law (1994b), 47-9; Ojo (2008), 79, etc.
62. Mann (2007), 66-7.
63. “Mémoire contenant des observations sur quelque pointe de la côte de Guinée, visités
en 1786 par la corvette le Pandora et sur la possibilité d’y faire des établissements,”
6.9.1786 (AN C6-27, doc. 203).
64. The Weme polities only in 1786, according to Yves Person (1975, 227). Dalzel and
Abson were indignant that Kpengla slaughtered so many prisoners of war instead of
selling them to the Europeans (Dalzel [1793/1967], 181-91).
65. Juge & Consuls de Nantes à Mgr. 28.2.1789 (AN C6-26, doc. 126); Person (1975),
223; Adams (1823/1966), 83-7.
66. Law (1977a), 245 & 262-3.
67. As noted by Lionel Abson in several letters of his, autumn of 1783 (NA T70/1545).
See also Akinjogbin (1967), 163-4.
383
NOTES pp. [258–259]
68. As evidenced by British sources from the Gold Coast, the British continued a
beneficial barter with the Luso-Brazilians, a barter the Dutch tried as usual to prevent.
See for instance Governor & Council, Cape Coast Castle, to African Office, London,
31.10.1780 (NA T70/32); African Office to Cape Coast Castle, 26.6.1782 (NA
T70/69).
69. Mémoire…le Pandora, 6.9.1786 (op. cit.).
70. Mémoires de Jacques Proa (op. cit.), 84; Hardy (?) de Ardres [Porto Novo] 22.6.1786
(Archives de la Chambre de Commerce de la La Rochelle, c.XIX, d.1-pièce 6523);
Catherine Lugar, “The Portuguese Tobacco Trade and Tobacco Growers of Bahia in
the Late Colonial Period”, in Dauril Alden and Warren Dean (eds), Essays Concerning
the Socioeconomic History of Brazil and Portuguese India (Gainesville, Florida, 1977),
26-70 (47-8).
71. Documents contained in Versailles to M. Gourg, 25 7bre (September) 1788 (in AN
Colonies B-198). According to those documents, in the late 1780s 10-12,000 slaves
were exported every year from Dahomey, the English share being 7-800, the
Portuguese one about 3,000, while the French took the rest.
72. See, for instance, Versailles à M. Gourg, 23.11.1786; & other documents in AN
Colonies B-192.
73. J.N. Matson, “The French at Amoku”, Transactions of the Historical Society of the Gold
Coast and Togoland, vol. I, part 2 (1953), 47-60. On the French side there are
abundant sources in AN-Colonies B-192 (French archive), Marine B/4 & BB/4/2.
74. Lettre du roi de PNovo signé Monsieur Pierre, 1786 (AN C6-26, doc. 205).
75. How serious those plans were is borne out by the voluminous sources they have
generated. They appear in a number of files in the Archives Nationales in Paris:
C6/26, Colonies B-192, 196 & 198 (the latter two including in particular the
correspondence between Monsieur Gourg and Versailles in 1787-88), Marine
B/4/272, 274 & 277.
76. Or that is at least what he argued a posteriori. See his letter from Judas [Ouidah]
7.3.1789 (AN C6-26, doc. 128).
77. Exhaustive report by M. Gourg dated 17.7.1787 (AN C6-26). See also letter (from
Hardy?) dated Ardres [Porto Novo] 25.9.1787 (Archives de la Chambre de
Commerce de La Rochelle, C.XIX, d.11-pièce 6694).
78. Chambre de Commerce de La Rochelle au Ministre, 26.9.1788 (Archives de la
Chambre de Commerce de La Rochelle, C.XIX, d.11-pièce 6704).
79. Versailles à M. Gourg, 25 Xbre [December] 1788 (AN Colonies B-198).
80. Capitaine du navire “La Cigogne” de La Rochelle, Porto Novo 27.9.1791; de Juda
[Ouidah] 30.9.1791, au Capitaine de “La Cigogne” (both AN C6-27, doc.91).
81. Law (1994b), 50-51; Law (1977a), 268.
82. Monsieur Pierre, de Ardres [Porto Novo] 22.7.1788, aux capitaines français (Archives
de la Chambre de Commerce de La Rochelle, carton XIX, doc. 11-pièce 6705); M.
Gourg de Juda, 28.2.1789 (AN C6-26, doc.125); Mémoire/Instruction (pour le)
commandant de la station à la côte d’Afrique, Versailles 23.11.1788 (AN-Marine,
B/4/277, fol.127 ff.).
83. State & conditions of Williams Fort, Whydah [Ouidah], signed Lionel Abson,
27.3.1788 (NA BT 6/7); Africa House to Cape Coast Castle 11.10.1788 (NA
384
pp. [259–262] NOTES
T70/70); Governor & Council, from Cape Coast Castle 20.6.1792 (NA 70/33);
and many other documents in the same file.
84. In Dalzel (1793/1967), 227-8.
85. When Gourg and Cazeneauve (the surgeon) arrived at Cape Coast Castle “every
possible attention [was] shewn them” (Governor & Council, Cape Coast Castle to
Africa House 20.11.1789 [NA T70/33]).
86. On Montaguère, see, for instance, Versailles à M. Gourg 13.3.1788 (AN Colonies
B-198); and quite a few documents in AN Colonies B-196.
87. Pierre Verger (1966, 123-4) has described in some detail the deplorable state of the
Portuguese fort and of its personnel in the 1780s.
88. Africa Office to Cape Coast Castle, 3.12.1795 (NA T70/71).
89. Garenne’s story in his “Mémoire concernant l’inutilité du Comptoir de Juda
[Ouidah]”, Juda 31.7.1789 (CAOM-DFC carton 75-doc. 116).
90. Governor, Cape Coast Castle, to E. Dickson 19.7.1804 (NA T70/34).
91. Dunglas (1957), II, 21-2.
92. De Juda [Ouidah] 16.7.1788 (op. cit.); Norris (1789/1968), 139; Law (1977a),
181-2.
93. De Juda [Ouidah], 24.1.1788 (AN C6-26); Dalzel (1793/1967), 198.
94. Dalzel (1793/1967), 168-9, 192-3 & 207; Édouard Dunglas, “Adjohon: étude
historique”, Études Dahoméennes (NS), 8, (1966), 57-73; Ross (1987), 371-2, etc.
95. That at least was the impression of the British on the Gold Coast: from Governor
& Council, Cape Coast Castle, 20.8.1789 (NA T70/33). See also Akinjogbin (1967),
170-73.
96. Gourg’s “Mémoire” from 1791 (op. cit.) is in this respect quite illustrative.
97. De Juda [Ouidah] 8.6.1789 (AN C6-26, d.134); and especially for the events after
1789: Law (1977a), 263-5.
98. Ibid., 250-77.
99. Unless we count the last one, Behanzin, who gave himself up to the French.
100. By, for instance, Akinjogbin (1967), 178-9.
101. Or so argues Dalzel (1793/1967, 223-4), in fact Lionel Abson speaking through Dalzel.
102. From Governor & Council, Cape Coast Castle, 9.5.1795, (NA T70/33); document
dated 29.4.1795 (AHU Bahia, caixa 47, no.16045); other Portuguese documents
reproduced in Verger (1968), 228, and in Verger (1977), 128-32; (Vieira) Ribeiro
(2008), 145; etc.
103. According to Akinjogbin (1967), 180-81.
104. Gayibor (1985), 921-2.
105. Ibid., 922; Law (2004a), 65; some British reports, especially one dated 3.6. 1795 in
NA T70/33.
106. (2003), 169-71.
107. Person (1982), II, 107.
108. Carta do Rei do Dahomé, 20.3.1795 & letter from Fonseca Aragão, n.d. (Inventario,
III [1914], 354-5, nos 16.145 & 16.146); “Dois Embaixadores Africanos mandados
a Bahia pelo Rei Dagomé” (Carta de D. Fernando Jozé de Portugal, Bahia 21.10.1795),
Revista Trimensal do Instituto Historico e Geographico Brazileiro, LIX, parte 1 (1896),
413-16; “Regresso do Embaixador do Rei Dagomé para a costa d’Africa” (Carta de
385
NOTES pp. [263–268]
D. Fernando Jozé de Portugal, Bahia 31.12.1796), ibid., 417-19; Luiz Pinto de Souza
Coutinho ao Governador Bahia, Queluz 3.4.1796 (Ordens Régias, vol. 81, doc. 7,
APEB); Verger (1968), 229 & 265; etc.
109. Pires (1800/1957). A ferocious critic of Pires is Verger (1968, esp. p. 236).
110. Bay (1995), 18.
111. The cause, as given by Pires, was that during the first audience the missionaries had
been asked by Agonglo to pray for Dahomean victory over the Mahis, which they
said they did, with the result that the Dahomeans emerged victorious… (Pires
[1800/1957], 62 & 108).
112. Edna Bay’s interpretation (1995, 18) of basically Pires (1800/1957), 77-80.
113. Ibid. (i.e. Pires), 70-71 & 119-20.
114. Ibid., 138-40; Verger (1968), 236 & 241; Berbain (1942), 54.
The French seized the only two ships in the Ouidah roads. There was also an attack
on Porto Novo-Seme (Akinjogbin [1967], 183; Verger [1968], 227).
115. The originals in OR, vol. 89, doc. 131B (APEB). For French translations and a very
extensive discussion, see Verger [1968], 229-36.
C6
THE LONG GOODBYE
1. “A great shift in moral consciousness in the West”, to quote Kristin Mann (2007, 1).
There comes to mind David Abulafia’s remark that “Europe was [and is?] an idea and
an ideal rather than a place” (The Great Sea. A Human History of the Mediterranean
[Oxford University Press, 2011], 546). We add: had it not been for the slave trade
and slavery.
2. This may not be exactly the position of David Eltis, but his arguments can be so
interpreted (Ellis [1987] 7-16 & [1997], 105-37).
3. We do not claim paternity for that thesis. Again our thinking may have been inspired
by Eltis (1987). But does Eltis agree with us?
4. Knight (1997), 340.
5. See the next footnote.
6. The obvious textbook on the subject is Curtin (1990). The very special Danish case
has been studied in depth by Neville A.T. Hall (ed. by B.W. Higman), Slave Society
in the Danish West Indies. St. Thomas, St. John, and St. Croix (University of the West
Indies Press, 1992, 1994), 208-28.
7. “An exceedingly lean period for printed and archival sources”, Alpern (1998a), 23.
8. Dunglas (1957), II, 35-47; Bay (1995), 19.
9. We repeat that the fundamental work on the end of the slave trade remains David
Eltis’ Economic Growth (1987). A large part of what precedes and follows is based
on that book. But see also Verger [1968), 287-562; and Robin Law, “An African
Response to Abolition: Anglo-Dahomian Negotiations on Ending the Slave Trade,
1838–77”, Slavery and Abolition, 16, 3 (1995), 281-310; and of course many other
works by a host of historians.
10. Paul E. Lovejoy and David Richardson, “The Initial ‘Crisis of Adaptation’: the Impact
of British Abolition on the Atlantic Slave Trade in West Africa”, in Robin Law (ed.),
386
pp. [268–270] NOTES
From Slave Trade to ‘Legitimate’ Commerce. The Commercial Transition in Nineteenth-

century West Africa (Cambridge University Press, 1995), 32-56.
11. Besides Verger (1968), 294-303, see also William Ernest Frank Ward, The Royal Navy
and the Slavers (New York, 1969), 58 & 78, and David A. Ross, “The First Chacha
of Wydah: Felix Francis De Souza”, Odu (n.s.), 2 (1969), 19-28 (esp. 21).
12. The best works on the history of Portugal and Brazil in this period are in our opinion
Emília Viotti da Costa, The Brazilian Empire: Myths and Histories (University of
North Carolina Press, 2000); and Gabriel Paquette, Imperial Portugal in the Age of
Atlantic Revolutions: the Luso-Brazilian World, c.1770–1850 (Cambridge University
Press, 2013).
13. Quoted (p. 161) in Leslie Bethell “The Independence of Brazil”, The Cambridge
History of Latin America, III (1985, edited by the same Bethell), 157-96. Hence what
Bethell calls the metropolization of the colony (ibid., 171).
14. See for example Príncipe ao Gov. da Capitania da Bahia, 22.8.1799 (OR vol. 88, doc.
34, APEB).
15. Prince-regent to Governor of Bahia, Rio de Janeiro, 13.4.1808 (OR, vol.105, doc
15A); Conde de Galvêas (Secretary of State for the Colonies and the Navy) to Conde
dos Arcos, Governor of Bahia, 2.8.1811 (OR, vol. 112, doc. 299F); Conde de Galvêas
to the British Government; Rio de Janeiro 24.4.1812 (OR, vol. 112, doc.299A);
Conde/Marquês de Aguiar (Chief Minister) to Conde dos Arcos, Rio de J. 9.9.1812
(OR, vol. 114, doc. 247); Marquês de Aguiar to Conde dos Arcos, Rio de J. 27.11.1815
(OR, vol. 117, doc. 434; all APEB).
16. One of the consequences was that on the coast of Guinea the local Britons, plus also
the Danes and the Dutch, more or less unwittingly gave assistance to the Luso-
Brazilian slave traders, before the naval commanders called them to order. See for
instance: Capt. Paul Irby to Secretary of the Admiralty, HMS Amelia at Sierra Leone,
4.3.1812 (NA ADM 1/1996); E. White from Cape Coast Castle, to Commodore
(Paul) Irby, 9.7.1812 (NA ADM 1/1996 & 123/177).
The ADM 1/1996 file contains particularly rich material on the fight against the
illegal slave trade.
17. The main work remains Ward (1969).
18. In addition to Eltis (1987), see for instance Robin Law, “Francisco Felix de Souza in
West Africa, 1800-1849”, in José C. Curto and Paul E. Lovejoy (eds), Enslaving
Connections: Western Africa and Brazil during the Era of Slavery (Prometheus/
Humanity Books, Amherst, NY 2004), 187-211; and Law (1995b), 283.
19. Verger (1968), 445.
20. Report - slave trade, no date, 1811? (NA CO 267/29).
21. “The fight against the Slave Trade has signally failed”. Report (and conclusion) of
HM’s Commissioner of Inquiry, R.R. Madden or Marsden 31.7.1841 (NA CO
267/170-1).
22. There is a strange discrepancy between Kristin Mann’s figures (2007, 33) and those
of the Database, even though Ms Mann refers to precisely that base as her source.
23. According to David Ross, Ouidah’s trade declined steadily between 1770 and 1812
(Ross [1987], footnote 70).
24. Cf. for instance letter from Sir James Yeo 7.11.1816 in Parliam. Papers, 1968, 6.
387
NOTES pp. [270–273]
25. Lovejoy & Richardson (1995), 33-9.

26. Carta, Officio do Gov. D. Fernando José de Portugal, Bahia 12.5.1800 (Inventario,
IV [1916] 246).
27. African Company: Minute/Petition to Admiralty, 7.5.1805 (NA BT 6/19).
28. Hamilton from Whydah [Ouidah] 21 & 22.2.1806 (NA T70/1583); M’Leod
(1820/1971), 72-3.
29. Denyau de la Garenne, Paris 25 nivôse, an [year] VII/1799 (AN C6-27 doc. 105).
30. Akinjogbin (1967), 187-90; Verger (1968), 239.
31. Marquês de Aguiar (minister) ao Conde dos Arcos, Rio de J. 6.2.1816 (OR, vol.
118,doc. 43; APEB). The Prince-Regent became king the following month.
32. M’Leod (1820/1971), 122-4.
33. It can be deduced from the file T70/1606 (NA) that the last director of William’s
Fort in 1812, resident or not, was John Hope Smith, aged 25. He became governor
at Cape Coast Castle in 1817, and of the British Gold Coast Settlements 1821–22,
under the Crown.
34. From Cape Coast Castle 1.2.1807 (NA T70/55).
35. “Mr.D.B...has by no means given me satisfaction, & by way of punishment I sent him
to Whydah [Ouidah].” (From Cape Coast Castle to the African Committee,
19.5.1806 [NA T70/1584]). See also Monrad (1822/2009), 261.
36. Parliamentary Papers, 1968, 136.
37. A.G. Hopkins, “The ‘New International Economic Order’ in the Nineteenth
Century: Britain’s First Development Plan for Africa”, in R. Law (ed.), From Slave
Trade to ‘Legitimate’ Commerce (Cambridge University Press, 1995), 240-64.
38. For instance, a former British purser “fell into the hands of the people of Whydah
[Ouidah], by whom he is retained & put in command of the Fort” (from Cape Coast
Castle 14.8.1816 [NA T70/36]).
39. See in addition Robin Law, “Madiki Lemon, the ‘English Captain’ at Ouidah, 1843–
1852: An Exploration in Biography”, History in Africa, 37 (2010), 107-23.
40. Law (2004a), 167. Chacha means “maid” in Spanish, which does not make much sense.
41. Verger (1966), 161 ff; Law (2004b), 190-92. On the Chacha, see also J. Michael
Turner, “Les Bresiliens - the Impact of Former Brazilian slaves upon Dahomey” (PhD-
thesis, University of Boston 1975).
42. Paul Hazoumé (1937/1956), 30-31.
43. Olabiyi Babalola Yai, “The Identity, Contributions, and Ideology of the Aguda (Afro-
Brazilians) of the Gulf of Benin: A Reinterpretation”, Slavery and Abolition, 22, 1
(2001), 72-82; Robin Law, “The Evolution of the Brazilian Community in Ouidah”,
ibid., 22-41; David A. Ross, “The Career of Domingo Martinez in the Bight of Benin
1833-64”, Journal of African History, VI, 1 (1965), 79-90.
44. Person (1982), II, 108.
45. Le Hérissé (1911), 311-8; Dunglas (1957), II, 47; Hazoumé (1937/1956), 27,
footnote 1.
46. Glélé (1974), 121.
47. Among the more sceptical historians is David Ross, who has argued that the tales of
Adandozan’s cruelties may be safely ignored. Cf. his “The Autonomous Kingdom of
Dahomey 1818-1894”, (Ph.D-thesis, University of London, 1967), 8.
388
pp. [273–280] NOTES
48. Person argues that in 1808 Adandozan was forced once more to pay tribute to Oyo,
but probably for the last time. Cf. Person (1982), II, 108.
49. Dunglas (1957) II, 37.
50. Ross (1967), 1.
51. If he died in 1861, as Akinjogbin argues ([1967, 207), then he outlived his successor
Gezo.
52. Alfred Burdon Ellis, The Ewe-speaking Peoples of the Slave Coast of West Africa. Their
Religion, Manners, Customs, Laws, Languages, etc. (1890, reprinted 1966), 89 (the
title of the book is misleading, it is not limited to the Ewe).
53. Elisée Soumonni, “The Compatibility of the Slave and Palm Oil Trades in Dahomey,
1818–1858”, in Robin Law (ed.), From Slave Trade to ‘Legitimate’ Commerce
(Cambridge University Press, 1995), 78-92 (esp. 81).
54. Person (1982) II, 108.
55. Anignikin (2001), 248-9.
56. For a discission, see Person (1975), 225 & 237; Law (1977a), 269-73.
57. Verger (1966), 166.
58. Ibid., 163-5 & 187-8; Verger (1968), 267-81; Inventario, V, 1918.
59. What follows is based on Verger (1966), 166-70.
60. Conde de Aguiar ao Conde dos Arcos, Rio de J. 9.9.1812 (op. cit.).
61. Conde das Galveas ao Conde dos Arcos, 2.8.1811 (op. cit.).
62. Herskovits (1938/1967), II, 131; Verger (1957), 240.
63. Glélé (1974), 117.
64. Bay (1998), 315.
65. Gezo was at best a distant cousin, according to Maroukis (1974, 12).
66. Law (1995b), 284.
67. Fynn (1971), 145-6.
68. Ibid., 145-51; Yarak (1990), 123; E. Martin (1927), 151-3.
69. Kea (1967), 49-54.
70. Strickrodt (2003), 167-8; Amenumey (1986), 41-2.
71. Greene (1996a), 95-6.
72. Akyeampong (2001), 48-57 & 215-16. He characterizes Danish rule as “evanescent”
(p. 55).
73. Amenumey (1986), 90-93.
74. Gayibor (1990), 176-201.
75. Mann (2007), 21 & 44.
76. Dalzel (1793/1967), 222-3; Bay (2001), 56.
77. Ibid., 56-7; Glélé (1974), 109; Verger (1952), 21-2.
78. Bay (2001), 52. See also Snelgrave (1734/1971), 98-106.
Another extraordinary female life story from this epoch is that of Sarah Forbes
Bonetta (1843–80). She was a Yoruba, intended by her Dahomean captors in 1850
to be a human sacrifice. She became instead a goddaughter of Queen Victoria. Her
story is recorded Walter Dean Myers’, At Her Majesty’s Request. An African Princess
in Victorian England (Scholastic Press, 1999) – actually not a scientific work but
apparently a book for children.
79. Ross (1967), 18-19; Ross (1969), 20-21.
389
NOTES pp. [280–283]
80. Elisée (Akpo) Soumonni, “Some Reflections on the Brazilian Legacy in Dahomey”,
Slavery and Abolition, 22, 1 (2001), 61-71.
81. João José Reis, Rebelião escrava no Brasil:A história do levante dos malês 1835 (São
Paulo, Editora Brasiliense, 1986).
82. Ibid., 87; Law (2001d), 26-7.
83. Bruce Chatwin, The Viceroy of Ouidah (Picador/Pan edition, 1980). Werner Herzog
turned it into a film called Cobra Verde in 1987, starring Klaus Kinski.
84. Captain Canot (1854/1968), 263-4.
85. Ross (1967), 30-31.
86. Soumonni (2001), 67.
87. Ross (1967), 33-4; Law (2004a), 196.
88. See for instance Ross (1965), 79-80.
89. Law (2004a), 147.
90. Ibid., 178-9.
91. Gayibor (1985), 966; Gayibor (1995), 208; Mignot (1985), 196-7.
92. Robert Smith’s chronology, dating those wars to the 1820s, is no longer accepted. Still,
Smith’s well-known article remains a valid introduction to the subject. We refer to his
“The Yoruba Wars, c. 1820–93. A General Study”, in J.F. Ade Ajayi and Robert Smith,
Yoruba Warfare in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge University Press, 1964), 9-55.
93. Law (1977a), 272. For what appears to be an eyewitness account of the fall of Oyo,
see H.F.C. Smith, D.M. Last and Gamba Gubio, “Ali Eisami Gazirmabe of Bornu”
in P. Curtin (ed.), Africa Remembered. Narratives by West Africans from the Era of the
Slave Trade (University of Wisconsin Press, 1967), 199-216.
94. Lombard (1967b), 73.
95. Ouidah’s position of dominance was progressively eroded by Lagos, says Law (2004a),
160.
96. Agbo and Bediye (1997), 29-48.
97. Anignikin (2001), 248-51; Ross (1967), 44-7.
98. Law (1977a), 273; Ross (1978), 147.
99. R. Law, “The Career of Adele at Lagos and Badagry, c.1807–c.1837”, Journal of the
Historical Society of Nigeria, IX, 2 (1978), 35-59 (46-7).
100. What follows is based mostly on the various contributions, many of which have been
referred to already, in R. Law (ed.), From Slave Trade to ‘Legitimate’ Commerce
(Cambridge University Press, 1995).
101. Law (1995b), 284.
102. Berbain (1942), 54.
103. Serge Daget, Répertoire des expéditions négrières françaises à la traite illégale (Nantes,
Centre de Recherche sur l’Histoire du Monde Atlantique etc., 1988), 558.
104. Law (1995b), 284. See also Robin Law, “The Transition from the Slave Trade to
‘Legitimate’ Commerce”, in Doudou Diène (ed.), From Chains to Bonds. The Slave
Trade Revisited (Paris/UNESCO and New York/Oxford, Berghahn Books, 2001),
22-35.
105. Stressed by Law (2004a), 209.
106. See, for instance, Harrison M. Wright’s “Introduction” to Freeman (1844/1968),
vii-xxxix (esp. p. xi).
390
pp. [283–287] NOTES
107. Law (1995b), 281-2.

108. Verger (1968), 431. Integral text of the law in Braz do Amaral, Fatos da Vida do Brazil
(Bahia, Tip Naval, 1941), 166-7. Many other laws related to the slave trade and
slavery have also been reproduced in that book.
109. Mann (2007), 95.
110. Law (2004), 236-8.
111. S.O. Biobaku, The Egba and their Neighbours 1842–1872 (Oxford University Press,
1957); Ross (1967), 91-3 & 101-2; Agneta Pallinder-Law, “Aborted Modernization
in West Africa? The Case of Abeokuta”, Journal of African History, XV, 1 (1974),
65-82.
112. R. Smith (1964), 11.
113. According to Robin Law, “The Politics of Commercial Transition: Factional Conflict
in Dahomey in the Context of the Ending of the Atlantic Slave Trade”, Journal of
African History, 38, 2 (1997), 213-33 (219).
114. Ross (1967), 129.
115. Law (1993), 255.
116. Bay (1998), 199.
117. Ibid., 214.
118. Bay (2008), 56.
119. Bay (1995), 19; Bay (1979), 11.
120. Bay (1998), 155.
121. Law’s theory (1997b, 227).
122. Le Hérissé (1911), 128-9.
123. Law (1986b), 113.
124. The fame of that guard is inversely proportional to its role, which was rather marginal
until the 1840s when the depletion of the male population, due to the many wars,
forced Gezo to rely more heavily on his female warriors. The best works on the
Amazons are in our opinion Alpern (1998b), and Law (1993).
125. Brue (1845), 67.
126. Ibid., 64-8.
127. Stanley B. Alpern, “Dahomey’s Royal Road”, History in Africa, 26 (1999), 11-24.
128. See his letter of 25.10.1848 in B. Cruickshank, “Letters from the Gold Coast and
Slave Coast with an Account of a Mission to the King of Dahomey”- Gold Coast
papers, 1848, 52a (MS 173088; Library of the School of Oriental & African Studies,
London).
129. Ibid; letter dated 3.11.1848.
130. Marion Johnson, “Ashante East of the Volta”, Transactions of the Historical Society of
Ghana, VIII (1965), 33-40.
131. Ibid., 36; Nugent (2008), 935; Welman (1924/1969), 7-8; Amenumey (1986), 74.
132. Akyeampong (2001), 54.
133. Ibid., 106-7. See also Greene (1996b), 94-6.
391
NOTES pp. [290–293]
EPILOGUE
1. Discussed somewhat more in depth, we repeat, in Fuglestad (2005 & 2010).
2. Mark 12:17.
3. Agbo (1959), 74-5.
4. With regard to the last point, the illuminating and intriguing work of Aldo Schiavone,
The End of the Past. Ancient Rome and the Modern World (English translation,
Harvard University Press, 2000) explains part of it.
5. Barickman (1998).
6. Alex Haley, Roots: The Saga of an American Family (New York, Doubleday, 1976).
7. Bay (2001), 43; Gaetano Ciarcia, “Restaurer le futur. Sur la Route de l’Esclave à Ouidah
(Bénin)”, Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines, XLVIII, 4 (2008) 687-705 (689-91).
8. Soumonni, Codo and Adande (1994).
9. Elisée Soumonni, “From a Port of the Slave Trade to an Urban Community: Robin
Law and the History of Ouidah”, in Toyin Falola and Matt D. Childs (eds), The
Changing Worlds of Atlantic Africa (Durham, Carolina Academic Press, 2009), 223-
31 (230).
10. The only direct reference I have seen was in an article in the French newspaper Le
Monde; an article which has since unfortunately disappeared from my collection.
392
BIBLIOGRAPHY
ARCHIVAL SOURCES
Brazil
Arquivo Publico do Estado da Bahia (Salvador da Bahia):
Ordens Regiaes/Régias: volumes 27 to 118
Colônia volume 197
France
Archives de la Chambre de Commerce de La Rochelle:
Carton XIX, documents 1-11
Archives Départementales de Charente Maritime, La Rochelle:
B.5729 & 4J2318 (”Mémoire de Jacques Proa, dit Proa des îles”, 1806)
Archives Départementales de Loire Atlantique, Nantes:
C687-C740
Archives Municipales de La Rochelle:
série EE, carton 282-3 (“Journal de navigation du sieur Joseph Crassous de Médeuil,
Lieutenant en premier ‘Le Roy Dahomey’ 1772-74”)
Archives Nationales, Paris

Archives des Colonies:
Colonies B-192, 196 & 198
Colonies C6 (Sénégal ancien)-25 à 29
Colonies C/8a/16
Colonies C/8b/2
Colonies F/2a/7 à 11
Archives de la Marine:
Marine B/1/9, 19 & 20
393
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Marine B/3/236, 251 & 264

Marine B/4/65, 73, 77, 103, 272, 274 & 277
Marine BB/4/2
Marine 2/JJ/95 (“Description nautique de la Côte d’Afrique [etc].”, no date, but
probably 1780s)
Marine 3/JJ/247 & 252 (“Description des Roiaumes ou l’on fait le commerce en
Afrique, avec le Journal du voyage fait en Guinée avec trois vaisseaux du Roy; Le
Capitaine du vaisseau “La Tempête” [i.e. Du Casse, and hence from 1687–8])
Centre des Archives d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence (Dépôt des Fortifications des

Colonies. Côtes d’Afrique):
carton 26, c.75, d.109: Mémoire sur le fort de Juda [Ouidah], postérieur à 1763–7
carton 75, doc. 104: “Relation du Royaume de Judas en Guinée. De son gouvernement,
des moeurs de ses habitants, de leur Religion. Et du Negoce qui s’y fait”, ca. 1715
carton 75, doc.106: “Mémoire” dated 13.12.1740
carton 75, doc. 111: Réflexions sur Juda, par le sieur De Chenevert et l’abbé Bulet, à
Juda [Ouidah] le 1.6.1776
carton 75, doc. 113-4: “Mémoire sur la Guinée” 1716
carton 75, doc. 116: Deniau de Garenne, Mémoire concernant l’inutilité du Comptoir
de Juda [Ouidah], Juda 31.7.1789
carton 75, doc. 118: “Mémoire pour servir d’Instruction au Directeur qui me
succedera au comptoire de Juda, par Mr. Gourg” (1791), Published under the
title “Ancien mémoire sur le Dahomey”, in Mémorial de l’artillerie de Marine, vol.
XX (1892), 747–76
Germany
Ex-Zentrales Staatsarchiv of the former German Democratic Republic, Merseburg
[now possibly in Berlin]; R.65.32 vol.I, ff.30-36: N. Dubois, memorandum
dated 10.11.1710) – courtesy of Adam Jones
Portugal
Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, Lisbon:
Bahia, caixa 47
São Tomé, caixas 4 & 5
Spain
Bibliote ca Nacional de España (Madrid):
MSS 3818, f.74-5 King’s Instructions 28.7.1659
MSS 18 178 Misiones del Congo y Etiopia, f.211, 212, 213 – a summary of the
Capuchin mission to Allada written after its ending (on Naxara, see below)
Biblioteca Provincial de Toledo (now possibly Biblioteca Pública del Estado
en Toledo):
394
BIBLIOGRAPHY
R.P.F. Basilio de Zamora: “Cosmographia, o descripcion del mundo”, manuscript

dated 1675 (Colección de MSS Borbón-Lorenzana, no.244)
United Kingdom
Birmingham Central Library: The Galton Family papers
British Library, London, Department of Manuscripts:
Anonymous: Certain Considerations Relating to the RAC of England (etc), printed
1680 (Harley MS 7310)
Des Marchais, “Journal de Navigation du voyage en Guinée, Iles d’Amérique, Indes
Espanoles, fait en 1704” (Additional Manuscripts Add.19560)
Edinburgh University Library:
Dk.7 52, letters from Archibald Dalzel (also written Dalzell)
Library of the School of Oriental and African Studies:
MS 173088: B. Cruickshank: Letters from the Gold Coast and Slave Coast with an
Account of a Mission to the King of Dahomey; Gold Coast papers, 1848, 52a
National Archives (formerly Public Record Office), Kew:
Admiralty records:
ADM 1/1996
ADM 123/177
ADM 123/183
Board of Trade records:
BT 6/3 to 6/19
Colonial records:
CO 267/11 ( Justly Watson, “A Report on the survey of William’s Fort Whydah
[Ouidah]”, 1755)
CO 267/29
CO 267/170-71
Treasury records:
T70: Records of the African Companies (especially the Royal African Company,
1672-1750; and the Company of Merchants trading to Africa, 1750-1821)
T70/2 to T70/1606
Public Record Office, Chancery Lane, London (later transferred to the National
Archives): C113/262 & 276
Printed Presumed Primary Sources (including Travellers’ Accounts)
Aarestrup, Biørn, J.M. Kjøge, J. Gjønge, Rasmussen, “Nogle bidrag til Kundskab om
den danske strækning på Guinea Kysten. Christiansborg 8.6.1774”, in Arkiv for
Statistik, politik og Huusholdningsvidenskaber (Udgivet af [edited by] Prof.
Friderik Thaarup), vol. III (Kjøbenhavn [Copenhagen], 1797–8), 161–92
395
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Adams, Captain John, Remarks on the Country extending from Cape Palmas to the
River Congo (London, 1823, reprinted 1966)
Africa Pilot (published originally as Western Coast of Africa; first edition 1849; 12th
edition London 1967; published by the Hydrographer of the Navy and prepared
by Lieut. Commander J.F. Gruning), vol. I
Anais/Annaes do Archivo Público/do Arquivo do Estado da Bahia
Anguiano, P. Mateo de (1649–1726), Misiones Capuchinas en Africa, vol. II, Misiones
al Reino de la Zinga, Benín, Arda, Guineà, y Sierra Leona (Madrid, 1685;
modern edition: vol. VII of Missionalia Hispanica [con introducción y notas del
P. Buenaventura de Carrocera], Madrid [Consejo Superior de Investigaciones
Cientificas & Instituto Santo Toribio de Mogrovejo, 1957]), 251-66
Anonymous, “Discurso Preliminar, Historico, Introductivo com naturaleza de
Descripção Economica da Comarca e Cidade da Bahia” [no date, but later than
1789], Annaes da Bibliotheca Nacional do Rio de Janeiro, vol. XXVII (1905),
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433
INDEX
Abiodun, King: death of (1789), 260–1 Akaba, King: death of, 162
Abson, Lionel: 36, 39–40, 49, 234, 251, Akan (ethnic group): 176; active
259–60; death of, 271 opposition to literacy, 48; territory
Ada: 176, 212, 245–7, 277; political inhabited by, 74, 171
relationships of, 246 Akinjogbin, Isaac A.: 40, 47, 53, 169,
Adande, Alexis: 33, 130 195, 207, 214; concept of Ebi social
Adandozan: 267, 272–6, 284; theory, 41–2, 68; original rupture
dethroning of, 276–7; expulsion theory of, 43
of deities by, 276; family of, 263; Akonno: death of (1725), 173; family
narratives of, 273–4 of, 173
Ado: 172–3; family of, 173 Akwamu: 23, 177, 181–4, 199, 206,
Agaja, King: 41, 200, 204, 209–11, 212, 289; conquest of Accra, 176;
213–15, 217–18, 224–5, 243, 264; fall of (1730), 212; invasions led by,
death of (1740), 162, 224, 226–7; 172–3, 176, 184; ruling strategies of,
family of, 216; movement of secular 171–2
capital (1730), 204 Allada, Kingdom of: 8, 34, 100, 120,
Agasu: 139, 204; family of, 237 122, 133, 136, 139–43, 146, 148,
Agbangla, King: 154–6; death of 151–3, 169, 179–80, 183, 188–90,
(1703), 187–8, 193 192–3, 195, 291; conquered by
Agbidinukun: 51 Kingdom of Dahomey (1724), 163–4,
Aghidisu: 226–7; death of, 227; 193, 199–200; destruction of (1726),
followers of, 227 205; English arrival in (1663), 123;
Agonglo, King: 251, 259; family of, 263 Spanish missionaries in, 143–5; vassals
Aido-Hwedo (deity): 70–1 of, 128, 136, 148, 159, 166
Aisan-Amar: death of (1708), 192 Alu: myths focusing on, 131–2
Aïzo (ethnic group): 24, 149; depictions Amu: revolt led by (1728), 212
of, 139–40 Angola: 120; Dutch rule of Luanda
Ajahuto: cult of, 237; family of, 237 (1641–8), 115
435
INDEX
Anlo (ethnic group): 24, 247 Bosman, Willem: 33, 46, 105–6, 127,
Anlo Confederation: 177, 253–4; 156, 179, 181
members of, 176 Branco, Garcia Mendes Castello: 114
Asante, Kingdom of: 48, 74, 78, 177, Brandenburg-Prussia: 6, 9, 98
200, 246–7, 256, 277, 287 Brazil: 14, 47, 94, 98, 106, 114, 153,
Ashangmo: 216; shortcomings of, 217 244, 262, 267–9, 271, 274, 276, 280,
Assou, Captain: 206, 208; death of, 211 282, 294; Cachoeira, 293; Costa da
Atkins, John: 42, 196 Mina, 191, 218, 230, 257–8, 268,
Awole: suicide of (1796), 261 270, 275; gold mining in, 118–19,
190–1; Independence of (1822),
Barbot, Willem: 141, 150 267; Minas Gerais, 118, 191; Rio de
Bariba (ethnic group): 260 Janeiro, 268–9 Salvador da Bahia, 47,
Basilio, João: 210, 216, 229 94, 105, 185, 195, 216, 229–30, 233,
Basua: death of (1699), 172–3 275, 292–3
Bay, Edna: 42, 46, 50–2, 163–4, 168, Brenner, Louis: 60
241, 279, 284–5 de Bruxelles, Celestin: 155
Béhanzin, King: family of, 51 Burkina Faso: 74; Kana, 100, 142, 286
Behrendt, Stephen: 107
Belize: Boca del Rio, 117 Caerloff, Heinrich: 151, 153, 155;
Benin: 15–16, 21, 28, 34, 72–3, 91–3, background of, 124
100, 129, 134, 142, 145, 217, 292, Cape Coast Castle: 9, 40, 92, 123, 185,
294; Abomey, 142; Allada, 23, 28; 232, 251, 271; piracy trials held at
borders of, 22; Cotonou, 292; Grand (1722), 196
Popo, 27, 32, 65, 135, 141–2, 147, capitalism: 15, 83, 89–90; Liberal, 265;
173, 182–3, 207, 211, 261; Grand Western Europe, 85
Popo-Agbanakin, 183; Grand Popo- Capo, Hounkpatin: 23–4
Hulagan, 182–3; Ketu, 23, 257, 281; Cardoso, Simão: death of, 209
Notsé (Nuatja), 48, 76–7, 133–4, Catholicism: 85, 145; missionaries, 156
137–8, 273; Porto Novo, 117, 133, Celestin-Hulst Mission: 155–6
139, 163, 220, 244–5, 255, 257–9, Central Slave Coast: 13–14, 33, 39,
261, 272, 274–5, 278–9, 281–2; 97, 173, 179, 190, 193, 206, 228,
vassals of, 257 251, 270; languages spoken in, 64;
Benin Gap: 22, 29–30 territory of, 22
Bight of Benin: 8, 92, 98, 126, 258, 269; Charles II of England, King: 125
coast of, 283; concept of, 91; slaves Christianity: 14–16, 59–60, 68, 148, 151,
taken from, 94–5 265, 285, 290; conversion to, 147, 252–
Blier, Suzanne Preston: 70, 132, 163–4; 3; missionaries, 50, 72–3, 136, 142–4,
writings on boico art and sculpture, 146–7, 156, 262–3; Protestantism,
243; writings on kpojito, 164 155; spread of, 70–2, 263
Bonaparte, Napoleon: 265; Christiansborg (fort): 9, 36, 92, 153,
re-legalisation of slave trade and 246, 253; as São Francisco Xavier,
slavery (1802), 249–50 172; blockading of (1729–30), 212
436
INDEX
Christiansborg-Osu: 173 D’Amon Expedition (1698–9): 184–5

Churfürstlich-Afrikanisch- Dangbe the python (deity): 27; priests
Brandenburgische Compagnie: 125 of, 150–1; shrines of, 156
Colombia: 135; Cartagena, 135 Davidson, Basil: 42, 214
Compagnie de l’Asiente: bankruptcy Delbée, Louis: 142, 147; background
of, 194 of, 124; theory of ‘Grand Marabout’,
Compagnie des Indes: 194 147–8, 200
Company of Guinea: as Company of Delbée-Caerloff Mission (1671–2):
the Asiento, 188–9 142, 147–8; success of, 124
Company of Merchants (African Denmark: 267
Company): 234; African Committee, Denmark-Norway: 98; abolition of slave
235; personnel of, 38 trade (1792), 250
cotton: growing of, 126 Devaynes, William: background of, 36;
Crevecoeur (fort): 253 Director of William’s Fort, 235
Cruickshank, Brodie: 58, 286 Dias, Bartolomeo: rounding of Cape of
Cuba: 267, 282, 284 Good Hope (1488), 122
Duchasse, Jean-Baptiste: 36, 156
Dahomean religion: 57, 77 Dupetival, Houdoyer: 209
Dahomey, Kingdom of: 25, 38, 40–1, Dutch Republic (United Provinces): 98,
43–4, 49, 52, 54, 68, 72, 78–9, 97, 115, 122, 156, 186, 253, 255; as slave
100, 103–4, 109, 128, 139–41, 150, trade nation, 98; Independence of
159–69, 192–3, 196, 200, 207–8, (1640), 115
210–11, 215–17, 220–2, 224, 228–9, Dutch West Indies Company: death of
231–5, 238, 241, 244, 251, 253, 256, personnel of, 35
258, 261, 264, 269–72, 274, 276, 281,
283–4, 289–91; Abomey, 204–6, 213, earth-priest: 71, 76, 130, 142; as king,
227, 237, 241, 286; Abomey plateau, 65–6, 130; concept of, 65
48, 129–30, 159–61, 204, 225; Allada, Eastern Slave Coast: 22, 97, 215, 244,
204, 237; as vassal of Kingdom of Oyo, 251, 257, 259, 278; languages spoken
202; conquest of Slave Coast, 3, 96–7; in, 29
depicted by historians, 41–4, 50–3; Edo (ethnic group): 73, 142
economy of, 81–3, 88, 283; expansion Eighty Years’ War (1568–1648): 114
of, 3, 28–9, 101, 103, 163–4, 193, Eltis, David: criticisms of, 82
199–201; French conquest of Elwert, Georg: 82
(1892–4), 39; Oyo conflict with English Navigation Act (1651): political
(1726), 202, 206; political systems of, impact of, 122
242–3; Simboji Palace, 241; weaponry Evans, E.W.: macroeconomic definition
produced in, 169–70; Xwetanu of slave-raiding, 87
(Annual Customs), 220–4 Ewe (Vhe)(ethnic group): Peki, 212;
Dalzel, Archibald: 35–6, 39–40, 46. spiritual beliefs of, 61, 71; territory
104–5, 251, 256; background of, 38; inhabited by, 28–9, 75–7; Watchi-
writings of, 38, 40–1, 57–8, 136 Ewe, 33, 39, 262; yevuga, 210
437
INDEX
Fante (ethnic group): 6–7, 277, 286; Accra, 9, 23, 29, 171, 176, 181; Anlo,
territory inhabited by, 74–5 31, 182, 254, 270, 277–8, 287
Findlay, Roland: 89 Ghana-Togo Mountain Languages
First World War (1914–18): 291 (GTML-Togo): 25
Foli Bébé: founder of Glidji, 175 Glélé, Maurice: 53–4, 164, 238, 242,
Fon (ethnic group): 203; spiritual 276, 284
beliefs of, 61 Gold Coast (region): 4–5, 8–10, 23,
Fongbe (language): 24 29, 34, 49, 74–5, 92, 96, 124, 153,
Fourth Anglo-Dutch Naval War 156, 171, 199–200, 212, 241, 258–9,
(1780–4): 253, 255–7 282; Accra, 36, 246–7, 253; Amoko,
France: 144, 156, 209, 232; as slave 258; Anomabo-Amoku, 231–2, 258;
trade nation, 98; colonies of, 194, Danish slave trade in, 93; Eastern,
232; Declaration of the Rights of 246; movement of slaves via, 104;
Man and of the Citizen (1789), 249; Winneba, 258
La Rochelle, 258; Marseille, 282; Gourg, Monsieur: 258–60
navy of, 232; Revolution (1789–99), Greene, Sandra: 184; definition of
98, 187, 249–50, 260–1, 265, 270; Nyigba, 247
Versailles, 258 Gu (deity): 71, 170
Franco-Dutch War (1672–8): Guedevi: 160–1; claimed descendets
belligerents of, 125 of, 161
Franco-Spanish War (1635–59): Peace Guin (Ge/Gen) (ethnic group): 24,
of the Pyrenees (1659), 145–6 226–7; banditry activity of, 210;
French West Indies Company: fleet of, exiled, 239–40
124 Guinea: 3, 11, 107, 115–16, 121, 144,
232, 249, 255, 287; Elmina, 92, 119,
Ga (ethnic group): 6; revolt led by 190, 217, 253; Jakin, 26–8, 31, 103,
(1728), 212 114, 124, 136, 141–2, 151–3, 180,
Ga-Adangbe: 175–6; refugees 183–4, 199, 201, 218–19; Keta, 8;
(‘Alampoes’), 173–4, 182–3; societal Little Popo-Ancho, 8, 29, 32, 174–6;
structure of, 246 Little Popo-Glidji, 174–7, 210–11,
de la Garenne, Deniau: 260, 263 216–17, 226, 240, 245–7, 254–6,
Gayibor, Nicoué: 175; writings of, 31, 258, 262, 277–8, 281, 286; Offra, 1,
76, 131–6 8, 10–11, 22, 26, 28, 34, 114, 123–4,
Gbe (language): 24–5, 143, 163, 203, 181; Shama, 7
244 Guinea Company: 116
Gbetome: concept of, 69 Gulf of Guinea: 22
George II, King: audience with Bulfinch Gun (ethnic group): 24; origins of, 244
Lambe, 213 Gur (language): 24–5, 74
Gezo of Dahomey, King: 15, 226, 273,
281, 284–5; rise to power (1818), Haiti: 160; voodoo culture of, 70
273, 279–80 Haley, Alex: Roots, 293
Ghana, Republic of: 21, 25, 138, 294; Hangbe-Akaba, Tassi: 162
438
INDEX
Harmattan (weather phenomenon): Japan: spread of firearms in, 169

impact on maritime navigation, 30–1 Jennings, Lawrence C.: criticisms of, 82
Hertogh, Hendrik: 36, 207, 210, Johnson, Samuel: History of the Yoruba,
217–20, 244; assassination of (1738), 50
219
Hevie: 141–2 Kabou, Axelle: 16
Hevioso (deity): 71, 285 Kelly, Kenneth: 49, 101
Hopkins, A.G.: 86, 271 de Kersaint, Guy-François: 232
Houstoun, James: 33, 104 Keta: 176, 184, 207, 216, 247, 254–5,
Hu (deity): 27, 71, 287 266–7, 277; Alampoes in, 183
Hueda (ethnic group): 24, 27, 41, 152; Keta War (1792): 255–6
exiled, 239–40 Kiøge, Jens Adolph: forts constructed
Hueda, Kingdom of: 3, 8, 26, 44, 48–9, by, 254
89, 100, 136, 141, 148–53, 156–7, Kipling, Rudyard: Man Who Would Be
169, 173, 179, 181–3, 188–9, 195, King, The, 49, 219
199, 205–6, 208, 213, 229, 291; as Klooster, Wim: 116–17, 187
vassal of Allada, 148; Dahomean Knight, Franklin W.: 266
conquest of, 41, 206, 208, 229; Kongensten (fort): construction of
French Capuchins in, 121; Glehue, (1783), 254
153, 156; living standards in, 89–90; Kongo, Kingdom of: 67, 72
polygamy in, 150; population of, 34, Kopytoff, Igor: 55–6
44; succession crisis (1708), 192 Kpengla, King: 240, 251, 260; death
Huedan Seven Years’ War (1727–30/34): of (1789), 260; liberation efforts of,
208 256; raiding parties ordered by, 252
Huffon: revolution led by (1712), Kpesi (ethnic group): territory
192–3 inhabited by, 75
Hula (ethnic group): 24, 26–7, 136–7, Krepi (ethnic group): 24
152; Bê, 22, 174; territory inhabited Kru (ethnic group): territory inhabited
by, 22, 180 by, 6
Hussar: 193; death of, 204; family of, 200 Kutome: concept of, 69
Kwadwo, Asantehene Osei: death of,
Ife: oni, 63 254
Inikori, Joseph: 4, 82, 98–9
Iroko, Félix: 27, 161 Lagoon War (1780–4): 256–8, 278–9
iron-priest: 142; concept of, 130 Lambe, Bulfinch: 205, 221; audience
Isert, Paul Erdmann: 27–8, 46, 103, with King George II, 213
254–5 Law, Robin: 114, 146, 150, 156, 164–8,
Islam: 60, 68; Quran, 252 179, 184, 195–6, 202–3, 215, 235,
Italy: 85; Rome, 145 243, 252–3, 280; observations of
economy in Slave Coast, 81–2,
James II of England, King: as Duke of 85, 87–8, 90, 102; observations of
York, 122–3 Dangbe worship, 150–1; writings of,
439
INDEX
15–16, 21, 26, 38, 42–5, 47, 54, 58, 95, 117, 142, 257, 259, 270, 275,
78–9, 82–3, 206, 213, 219–21 278, 281, 283; Lagos State, 21–2;
Le Hérissé, Auguste: 47, 51, 139, 141, Warri, 144
165, 238, 243, 272; background of, Nonobewa War (1750–1): 247
51; concept of horde proescrite, 166; Norman, Neil: 149–50
writings on Kingdom of Dahomey, Norris, Robert: 53, 104, 242–3
159–60 Nugent, Paul: 25, 28, 53; concept of
Legba (deity): 69, 71, 243 ‘Notsé meta-narrative’, 134
Lombard, Jacques: 79, 139, 238 Nunes, Francisco: 49, 216–17, 229
Louis XIV of France: 121, 124; family Nupe: revolt of, 261
of, 186; foreign policy of, 156; view Nyigble/Nyigbla (deity): 177, 247, 287
of role of slave trade, 17
Lower Guinea: 113 Oduduwa: cultural importance of, 64
Luther, Martin: 290 Ofori: 175; mercenaries led by, 180–1;
territory occupied by, 180–1
Mahdi (ethnic group): 24 de Oliveira, João: role in opening direct
Mahi (ethnic group): 260, 281 trade with Porto Novo, 244
Male: 268; arrival in Ouidah-Glehue Opoku Wae: death of (1750), 200
(1704), 189–90 Order of Friars Minor Capuchin:
Manding (language family): 74 French, 121, 155; presence in
Manning, Patrick: 2, 37–9, 50, 83, 101; Kingdom of Hueda, 121; Spanish,
observations of slave trade, 100 121, 143–5
Marxism: 58, 266, 291; concept of O’Rourke, Kevin: 89
mode of production, 82 Ouidah: 1–3, 5–6, 11, 15, 22, 26,
Mawu-Liisa (deity): 70–1, 177, 237; 118, 148–9, 183, 186, 261–3, 266,
priests of, 133; variant names of, 71, 76 278–80, 292–3; Brazilian presence
McCaskie, Tom: 78 in, 278; European lodges at, 124, 262;
Middle Passage: 12, 37, 107 local traditions of, 10; oil trade in,
Mina (ethnic group): 24, 184 282; Ouidah fort, 36, 153, 266, 271;
Mono, River: 22, 75 slave trading in, 7–8, 152, 257–61,
Monroe, J. Cameron: 43, 54 268, 274, 280
de Montaguère, Ollivier: 260 Ouidah-Glehue/Whydah: 26–7, 29,
31–2, 34, 40, 81, 83, 86, 105, 124–5,
de Nájera, José: 135 155, 168, 177, 196, 201, 205, 207,
Napoleonic Wars (1803–15): 98, 265, 209, 211, 213, 217–18, 221, 225,
267, 270, 275 229, 233–4, 236; Brazilian gold trade
Naxara: 101 in, 190–1; development of, 180, 184,
Netherlands: 217–19; Amsterdam, 123 187, 232; drinking water problems
New Akwamu: 212, 245–6, 277, 286 in, 106; European factory-lodges/
Niger Delta: 10, 72 lodges at, 184, 206; forts, 36, 39, 42,
Nigeria: 15, 21; Apa, 219; Badagry, 102, 108, 162, 189, 190, 194–5, 230;
219, 244, 257, 259, 278; Lagos, 41, founding of, 154; Hula population
440
INDEX
of, 27; piracy in, 196; slave trade in, Randsborg, Klavs: 129, 204
103, 105, 107, 157, 193, 244 Régis, Victor: 282, 285
Oyo, Kingdom of: 23, 66–7, 100–1, Richardson, David: macroeconomic
131, 134, 142, 177, 183–4, 202, definition of slave-raiding, 87
209–10, 212, 220, 222, 226–7, 239, Roberts, Bartholomew: attacks on slave
244–6, 260, 274, 282; alafin, 63, ships, 105
228, 261; Oyo Ile, 281; oyo mesi, 64; Roman Empire: fall of, 291
conflict with Kingdom of Dahomey Ross, David: 169, 224, 239, 279
(1726), 202, 206; ilari, 242; vassals Royal African Company of England
of, 44, 97, 202–3, 261 (RAC): 127–8, 153, 182, 184, 188,
218; decline of (1750–1), 154, 234;
Palau-Martí, Montserrat: 63 fleet of, 127; forts and lodges of, 185;
de la Palma, Willem: 180, 190 personnel of, 38, 153, 191, 201; slave
Pazzi, Roberto: 69, 131, 134 trading activity of, 125
Pereyra Mendes, Francisco: 206 de Ruyter, Michiel: 36, 123
Perrot, Claude-Hélène: 140, 148 Ryder, A.F.C.: 92, 117, 142, 145
Philip IV of Spain, King: 121, 145;
court of, 143 Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide:
Philip V of Spain, King: family of, 186 founding of (1622), 143
Phillips, Thomas: 7, 150, 181; Sagbadre War (1784): 254
observations of slave ships, 106 Saint Louis de Gregoy (fort):
Pierre, Monsieur: 257, 272, 278 construction of, 189
Pires, Father Vicente Ferreira: 7, 161, Sakpata (deity): 70–2, 168, 227, 243,
262–3 276, 285; priests of, 276
Polanyi, Karl: studies of Dahomey de Sandoval, Alonso: 46, 135
Kingdom, 81–2, 87 São João Baptista (fort): 195
Popo, Kingdom of: 135, 147 São Tomé and Príncipe: 33, 49, 73, 93,
Portugal: 90, 98, 113, 144–5, 218, 233, 106, 128, 153, 156, 172, 232; Dutch
262, 274, 282; as slave trade nation, capture of (1641), 115; harbours
98, 113–14; handicraft industry of, of, 106; Portuguese re-conquest of
114; Lisbon, 48, 114, 119, 145, 185, (1644), 119
216 Sardinha, Pires: 263
Portuguese Creole (language): use in Sassa, Agbo: 162
trade, 117 Saudi Arabia: Mecca, 78; Medina, 78
Postma, Johannes: 35, 218 Savary, Claude: 78
Prindensten (fort): 266–7; construction Savi: 3, 102, 128, 142, 148, 151–2,
of (1784), 255 180, 206, 209, 211; archaeological
Pruneau de Pommegeorge, Antoine: focus on, 48; Dutch factory in,
35–6, 40, 46, 103, 239–40; 181; European lodges at, 42,
background of, 14–15 155, 190, 207; European trading
establishments, 41–2, 155;
Quarcoopome, Nii: 63, 133 governance of, 149; Portuguese
441
INDEX
presence in, 153; slave trade in, 103, Soumonni, Elisée: 274, 293
107, 154 South Atlantic System: concept of, 126
Second Anglo-Dutch Naval War de Souza, Francisco Félix (Chacha):
(1665–7): 116, 123 272, 277, 279–81
Second Franco-Dahomean War Spain: 98, 114–15, 144, 267, 282, 284;
(1892–4): political impact of, 39 Civil War (1936–9), 291; Madrid, 143
Seven Years’ War (1756–63): 232 Strickrodt, Silke: 184, 262
Sierra Leone: 196, 261 Sweden: 124
Slave Coast: 1–2, 4, 6–13, 16–18, 25,
28–30, 33–4, 37, 41, 44, 47–50, Tanga: 235–6
52–3, 55, 57–8, 60–1, 69–70, 72–3, Tattersfield, Nigel: observations of slave
75, 79, 91–5, 100, 109, 113–14, ships, 105–6
116–17, 119–22, 126, 130, 135, Tegbesu, King: 43, 200, 225–6, 229–31,
142, 146, 149, 163, 180, 185–7, 199, 234–7, 239–40, 243, 264; death
203–4, 210, 215, 217, 219, 221, 234, of (1774), 240, 248, 251; military
241, 266–7, 269, 275–6, 289, 291–2, campaigns of, 226–8; proclamations
294; agriculture in, 83; economy of, issued by (1746), 238
81, 83–4, 86, 96; Eweland, 27, 29, Testefolle, Charles: 209
61, 75–6, 134, 173, 176, 245; Hula Third Anglo-Dutch Naval War
population of, 27; kindred cultures (1672–4): 125
in, 62, 84, 131, 167; languages Thomas, Nicolas: concept of ‘Entangled
spoken in 23–5; origin of term, 22–3; Objects’, 86–7
religious cultures of, 57–60; territory Thornton, John: 203–4, 253
of, 21–2 tobacco: 118–19, 191; soca (refugado),
slave trade: 1–2, 12–16, 33–4, 38, 41–2, 117–18; use in taxation, 119
89, 100, 102–3, 108–9, 117, 119–20, Tofinu (ethnic group): 24
122, 150, 177, 191, 193–4, 214, 238– Togo, Republic of: 21, 24–5, 28, 34, 76,
9, 265, 267, 270, 283, 291; abolition 100, 129, 294; borders of, 22; Lomé,
of, 250, 266; American, 266; British, 292; Tado, 48, 129–33, 135, 137–8,
185, 265–6; Danish, 93, 250; French, 149, 166, 174, 176, 204, 237, 273
187, 249–50, 266; illegal (1807–8), Tori: 135, 141–2; as vassal of Allada,
7, 98, 280, 286; local collaboration 136
in, 4; Portuguese, 127, 269; role in Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade Database:
Slave Coast economy, 100–2, 127; 91–2, 98–9, 114, 157, 193–4, 210,
sklavenraub (robbery of slaves), 82, 250–1; aims of, 37, 99–100; West-
87; slave caravans, 30, 208; slave Central region, 72
ships, 12–13; Trans-Atlantic, 1–2, Treaty of Neutrality (1703): 189;
14, 34, 82, 91, 93–4, 104–5, 125–6 provisions of, 188
Smith, Adam: Wealth of Nations, 84 Treaty of Tordesillas (1494): provisions
Snelgrave, William: 205, 207–8, 213 of, 113
Soso/Sozo: 193, 201; death of (1724), Trevor-Roper, Prof Hugh: 57–8;
193, 200; family of, 200 criticisms of, 54–5
442
INDEX
Tsardom of Russia: Pillau, 124 Weme, River: 27, 31–2, 161; flood plain
Tsetse fly: cause of fatalities due to of, 29, 163
trypanosomiasis, 3, 203 Wemenu (Oueneou) (ethnic group): 24;
Tutu, Asantehene Osei: death of (1717), migration of, 163
200 West Indies Company (WIC): 116–17,
119, 123–5, 142, 152, 154, 180–1,
Ultramarino, Arquivo Histórico: 48 188, 210, 217–18; authorization
United East India Company (VOC): of Brazilian Mina trade, 118–19;
116–17 dissolution of (1791), 258;
United Kingdom (UK): 98, 144, 232, establishment of, 116; fleet of, 127,
253, 261, 265, 269; as slave trade 196; personnel of, 127, 210, 218–19;
nation, 98; Civil War (1642–51), 122; pursuit and capture of Portuguese
Dolben Act (1788), 250; Felony Act slave ships, 120
(1811), 268–9; House of Commons, Western Slave Coast: 22, 171–3, 176,
36, 41, 250; House of Lords, 250; 195, 228, 245–7, 277, 286; Ada, 176,
London, 36, 213; Parliament, 39, 268; 254; Ewe population of, 75–6; ivory
Royal Navy, 7, 269 trade in, 29; slave trade in, 177
United States of America (USA): 48, Wilberforce, William: 250–1
98–9, 266–7, 294; Revolutionary Wilks, Ivor: 75, 172–3, 184
War (1765/75–83) 248–50, 255 William III of Holland, King: 154
William’s Fort: 154, 232–3, 271;
Verger, Pierre: 47, 216–17 personnel of, 235
Volta, River: 6–7, 21–2, 24, 75, 91, 142, Wybourne, Petley: 36, 153–4, 182
212, 246, 277
Yoder, John: 53–4
War of the League of Augsburg Yoruba (ethnic group): 25, 73, 279;
(1688–97): 157, 182; belligerents of, language of, 24, 29, 65, 160, 163,
156, 182 245; religion of, 58, 71; territory
War of the Spanish Succession (1702– inhabited by, 21, 23, 73–4, 281
14): 194; belligerents of, 186–7; Yorubaland: 23, 42, 62, 73, 78, 131,
political impact of, 97–8 245, 284
Wegbaja, King: 159, 168–9
Weme (polity): 161–2, 216, 257; Zapata, Felipe (Bans): 145–6; Doctrina
destruction of, 162–3 Christiana, 143
443

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SLAVE TRADERS BY INVITATION

Slave Traders by Invitation

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

© Oxford University Press 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

You must not circulate this work in any other form

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

ISBN 9780190876104 (print)

Y para Elisa Pérez-González de la Barreda

1. The Slave Coast: A General Presentation 21

1. Focus on the European Side 113

1. The Dramatic and Decisive 1720s 199

The author of the present manuscript written in English is a Norwegian whose

If these acknowledgements are unusually short, it is because the present

AAP/EB or Anais Anais/Annaes do Archivo Público/do Arquivo do

EHR Economic History Review

Keta S l Bight of Benin

Gold Coast © S.Ballard (2017)

Justly Watson, who went ashore on the beach south of Ouidah on 20

to reach the town of Ouidah, Watson’s destination, some four kilometres

Another European, the Portuguese Father Vicente Ferreira Pires, claimed

some 30 kilometres further east, at Offra in the kingdom of Allada. However,

precisely the day-to-day functioning, as opposed to the more abstract

someone without kin relations in this kinship-type society, and as such no

epistemological problem at hand, and leads us to make a programmatic

STRUCTURES AND TRENDS

THE SLAVE COAST

A general presentation of the Slave Coast is long overdue. So to begin at the

reached on any measure of standardization, not to mention a name for that

our Gbe in the south. What is noteworthy about the panhandle-Yoruba –

The quantitative-statistical dimension of the slave trade, the “numbers game”,

the impressive historiography on the Slave Coast – a historiography dominated

As for what happened at Savi, Akinjogbin is certainly correct. But the

employing means of destruction hitherto unknown in the region – firearms,

why they found themselves saddled with a severe problem of legitimacy. In

Slave Coast, a competition Dahomey sought to eliminate simply by physically

Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino in Lisbon, including the many duplicates of

documented”,81 the elimination of the reign of a king (Adandozan) who we are

regime was, in the nineteenth century, actually a constitutional monarchy

SOCIETAL, RELIGIOUS AND

What follows may be considered arduous reading by many. We will have to

And in the economic field? We learn that the establishment of a market

to influence the lives of their descendants.28 In fact, the intercourse between

had to be free of physical blemish. As such, also, he was by definition the

that a kinship-type society is incompatible with “states” or “kingdoms” is one

SOME CONCRETE, PRACTICAL IMPLICATIONS

us with a sort of third in-between case, that of “chieftainship” societies – for

We have to return to a theme mentioned fleetingly earlier, that of the so-called

analogous to that of modern historical thought,84 a suitably ambiguous

A FEW COMMENTS ON CERTAIN

sin of indulging in some quite extravagant extrapolations, based on inadequate

author’s limited understanding of matters economic), it seems to us that

less autonomous commercial-mercantile sector is therefore resisted. In

Thomas’ “Entangled Objects”.34 Hence, a bundle of goods which was expensive

THE DATABASE AND THE SLAVE TRADE FROM

local geographical conditions were, if possible, even more forbidding than on

Bight of Benin- Gold Total

Bight of Benin- Gold Total