Slavery in Africa and The Caribbean: A History of Enslavement and Identity Since the 18th Century 9780755623631, 9781780761152

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TABLES

Table 2.1 Slave Categories in Kano in the 1850s Table 4.1 Index of Letters Seized from Kosoko’s Palace Table 4.2 Estimates of Slaves Embarked in the Bight of Benin, 1766–1851 Table 4.3 Identified Ships Embarking Slaves in Lagos, 1841–1851 Table 4.4 The Atlantic Slave Voyage Database and Ships Trading with Kosoko Table 6.1 Population Growth, Virgin Islands, 1716–1720 Table 6.2 Ports of Embarkation from the Coast of Africa to Tortola, 1750–1812 Table 6.3 Value Property Holdings of Free and Enslaved Persons in British Pounds (£) Virgin Islands, 1815 and 1823 Table 6.4 Rates of Natural Increase/Leeward Islands, 1817–1828 Table 6.5 Examples of Virgin Islands’ Creole Table 6.6 Comparison of Virgin Islands and Igbo Proverbs Table 6.7 Number of Whites, Free Blacks and Coloureds, and Enslaved Africans in Methodist Society on Virgin Islands, 1807–1823

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MAPS

Map 1.1

The Nupe and their Neighbours in the Basin of the Niger and the Benue Rivers Map 6.1 Isaac Pickering’s 1798 Map of Plantations on Tortola

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ILLUSTR ATIONS

Illustration 6.1 Cassava Griddle found at Belmont Site Illustration 7.1 Robert Wedderburn, c. 1824

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Most of the chapters in this book derive from conference papers presented at the Canadian Association for African Studies’ (CAAS) Annual Meeting and Conference held at Carleton University, Ottawa in May 2010. Coinciding with the Association’s 40th anniversary, the editors thought that it was an appropriate time for past and present students of Professor Paul Ellsworth Lovejoy to celebrate his scholarly contributions and career as a teacher, friend, mentor, and most importantly, an historian of Africa and its Diaspora. We recognize the intellectual contributions of participants at the multi-panel sessions. Specifically, we thank the discussants Professors Edmund Abaka, Judith Byfield, José C. Curto, Bonny Ibhawoh, and Martin Klein. We acknowledge the following presenters whose papers are not included in this volume: Edmund Abaka, Leidy Marcela Alpízar, Nielson Rosa Bezerra, Jeffrey Gunn, Rafaela Jobbitt, Katrina Keefer, Jennifer Lofkrantz, Dominique Marshall, Ismael Musah Montana, Vanessa Oliveira, G. Ugo Nwokeji, Karlee Sapoznik, and Carlos Silva, Jr. We also thank the generous financial support of Dr. Jonathan Edmondson, Chair of the Department of History at York University; Dr. Martin Singer and Dr. Barbara Crow of the Dean’s Office, Faculty of Liberal Arts and Professional Studies; and Dr. Stan Shapson, Vice-President of Research and Innovation at York University for hosting a luncheon to celebrate Lovejoy’s scholarly contributions to African history in Canada. Finally, we thank Tomasz Hoskins and Lester Crook at I.B.Tauris for their editorial support and assistance.

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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Mariana P. Candido is Assistant Professor in the Department of History at Princeton University. She is the author of Fronteras de Esclavización: Esclavitud, Comercio e Identidad en Benguela, 1780–1850 and co-editor of Crossing Memories: Slavery and African Diaspora. Feisal Farah is pursuing a PhD in History at the University of Hull. He is also associated with the Wilberforce Institute for the Study of Slavery at the University of Hull and the Harriet Tubman Institute at York University, Toronto, Canada. Nadine Hunt teaches in the Department of History at York University, Canada. Her research appears in the Canadian Journal of History, Library and Information Association of Jamaica Bulletin, and several edited collections. Femi J. Kolapo teaches in the Department of History at the University of Guelph, Canada. He has done research on the Nupe, Igala, and a few Igbo societies, all linked to the Atlantic world by the Niger River, to determine whether or how the early nineteenth-century abolition of the Atlantic slave trade impacted them. His other research interests include Christian missionary/African society relationship and the scholarship of education. Olatunji Ojo is Assistant Professor in the Department of History at Brock University. He has published articles in the Journal of African History, History in Africa, the International Journal of African Historical Studies and African Economic History.

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Mohammed Bashir Salau is Assistant Professor of History at the University of Mississippi. He is author of The West African Slave Plantation: A Case Study. Katherine A. Smith is Lecturer at H. Lavity Stoutt Community College in the British Virgin Islands. One of her primary preoccupations relates to culture and identity; her radio/television and workshop appearances are always linked to issues regarding the role of African heritage in cultural identity as well as the importance of a national and cultural identity in the British Virgin Islands.

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INTRODUCTION

Nadine Hunt and Olatunji Ojo This volume provides another historical perspective on slavery by focusing on the lives of enslaved people, slaving operations, and the aftermath of slavery in parts of Central, East and West Africa, the British Virgin Islands and Jamaica since the eighteenth century. The contributors engage ongoing historiographical and methodological debates on African voices of enslavement in the pre-colonial and colonial past by exploring a range of sources held in Africa, the Caribbean, and Europe. Slavery in Africa and the Caribbean addresses the following questions: How was the slave trade organized? What impact did age, ethnicity, gender, and religion have in shaping slaving operations? How did enslaved Africans and their descendants identify themselves and were identified by others? What was the degree of interaction between slave owners, slaves, and their descendants in slave and postslavery societies? Building on new interest in African and Caribbean history, the contributors explore slaving operations and the forced migration of Africans within and outside of the continent. The contributors demonstrate that Africans adopted various strategies by creating and recreating their ethnic, cultural, and religious identities in order to cope with the harsh reality of enslavement. Several of the contributors demonstrate that many Africans escaped enslavement or were emancipated as a result of accepting the protection from an individual or an ethnic, political, or religious group. In the case of children, manumission was achieved as a consequence of having a European, Arabian, or Indian father. Subsequently, many of these children were mixed-race and

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represented both free and enslaved people in their respective society. The contributors demonstrate that patron-client relationships were solidified based on conjugal or marital unions, religious conversion, or in some cases through ethnic cleansing. However, a client or protected individuals or freed slaves who remained in their former owners’ community also faced an identity crisis, since they had to recognize the norms of behaviour as well as appreciate the cultural heritage of their patron or protector. There are several themes explored in the following chapters such as biography, colonialism, gender, family, religion, and war. In searching for the African voice of slaves and slavers, several individuals stand out including ‘Talkee’ Amy, Samuel A. Crowther, Kosoko, Masaba, Luzia Massak, Gustavus Vassa, or Olaudah Equiano, and many others highlight both sides of slaving operations as beneficiaries and victims. Several chapters illustrate that it was difficult for many women to achieve freedom in comparison to their enslaved male counterparts. More importantly, because women bore children evidence of their sexual exploitation especially by male owners was well documented through the manumission of children. Religion is an important theme, since enslaved people sought Christianity and Islam to save them from a life of enslavement. However, Africans in Africa and the Caribbean still sought out indigenous religious leaders and practitioners to make sense of the world around them. The authors utilize primary sources in the forms of letters, manumission papers, commercial contracts, wills and last testaments and oral history held by archives and libraries in Angola, Britain, the British Virgin Islands, Jamaica, Nigeria, and Portugal.

Defining slavery The study of slavery continues to capture the attention of researchers as the contributors in this collection attest. Definitions on slavery and the process of enslavement in Africa and the Caribbean vary depending on the historical period, geographic region, religious practices, and the motives for acquiring enslaved people. For example, Suzanne Miers’s and Igor Kopytoff’s influential edited collection surveyed slavery in Africa.

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However, Miers and Kopytoff did not offer a simple definition of slavery. This was largely due in part because after an extensive discussion on slavery also followed complex case studies of enslavement in Africa.1 Since Miers and Kopytoff, several edited collections have emerged that focus on defining slavery in defined geographic spaces such as East and West Africa.2 In 1983, Transformations in Slavery: A History of Slavery in Africa provided scholars with a synthesis on the historical literature of slavery. In successive editions, Paul Lovejoy expanded his review of the literature to include research on the Atlantic and Indian Ocean slave trades. Lovejoy’s working definition of slavery in Africa was important, because for the first time, it also explained the context of enslavement for the millions of Africans who forcibly departed the continent before 1850.3 Since Transformations in Slavery, several scholars have contributed to a comparative discussion on slavery in Africa and the Americas with an analysis of Caribbean slave societies.4 The contributors to this volume illustrate that the institution of slavery was at its heyday in Central, East, and West Africa and the Caribbean in the eighteenth century. Many Africans as well as their descendants were deemed chattel and the property of someone, who determined the destiny for enslaved people. Yet, these chapters show agency on the part of the enslaved, since many enslaved people were able to maintain an identity separate from their owner. For many, achieving their freedom allowed them to return to an identity of their parent(s) or the community that they had become detached from, while some continued to practice aspects of their former owner’s ethnic and religious identity. For the most part, universal emancipation was achieved through codified laws, generally, debated on and approved by politicians and lawmakers in Europe. For example, slavery formally disintegrates in the British Empire starting in 1838. European-legislated conventions, legal acts, and treaties declared the terms of how an enslaved person achieved freedom in Africa and the Caribbean in the nineteenth century. However, enslaved people in the Caribbean achieved universal freedom much earlier than Africans in Africa.5 For example, the British Parliament called for an end to the Atlantic slave trade in 1807. By calling to an end the traffic of Africans, in Europe, Britain was

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a leader in the anti-slavery movement followed by France, the Netherlands, Spain, and Portugal. Of course the countless stories of enslavement told and in some cases written by emancipated people in London, including Vassa and Robert Wedderburn to raise awareness of slavery in the Caribbean, also placed pressure on Europeans to end the Atlantic slave trade to the Americas. The attempts to impede the Atlantic slave trade from an African perspective shows that King Kosoko and other kings of Lagos, for example, did not fancy the thought of an end to the trade in Africans. Africans such as Kosoko, who took a major risk, despite the fact that a vessel might be captured by a British anti-slavery patrol at anytime along coastal Africa, did in fact make a soaring profit. The illegal nature of the Atlantic slave trade became very complex, since Brazilian slave traders in West Africa presented a new dilemma to British forces for three reasons. First, Brazil was outside the confines of continental Europe. Second, in 1822, it achieved independence and was no longer a Portuguese colony. Finally, slavery would not be abolished in Brazil until 1888. Despite Brazil’s interest in reviving the Atlantic slave trade, in West Africa, the trade eventually collapsed largely due to external pressure from Britain placed on African kings and merchants. In 1833, the British Parliament passed the Abolition of Slavery Bill. By the next year, emancipated people in the British Caribbean over the age of six years were declared apprentices to their former slave owners for a minimum of four years and a maximum of six years. However, in 1838, Britain ended the formal apprenticeship period, officially declaring universal emancipation to people residing in the British Caribbean. France, the Netherlands, and Denmark allowed most enslaved people in the Caribbean and elsewhere to achieve universal emancipation by the 1860s. However, most enslaved people in Africa did not achieve freedom until the onset of colonial rule at the end of the nineteenth century, when slavery was deemed illegal in Europe’s newest colonies.

Enslavement and identity in Africa The contributors to this edited collection demonstrate that Africans maintained fluid identities, enabling them to negotiate cultural

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differences during African, European, and Islamic slavery. All Africans and African-descended people born free acquired an identity which was developed along ethnic and religious lines. However, enslaved people also learned to speak languages, practice a religion, and at times held more than one religious belief as well as learn to socialize with family and strangers in a slave society. The chapters illustrate that Africans despite facing the limitations of freedom as a consequence of enslavement made decisions and showed that they were agents in determining their life’s path. Thus, it is important to recognize the formation of identities in a slavery context because depending on where and when enslaved Africans interacted with free and unfree people they always acted out their identity. In general, scholars of the African Diaspora who focus on the forced migration of Africans during the external slave trades demonstrate that Africans travelled with their ethnic, religious, and cultural identities.6 However, several of the chapters in this volume demonstrate that identities in Africa could be shifted as a consequence of enslavement. In Africa, Africans usually adopted the language, religion, and cultural values of the person or family that owned them. Therefore, whether Africans faced enslavement in Africa or the Caribbean, enslaved people further demonstrate their vulnerability to experience an identity crisis. For some enslaved women, this meant using Portuguese naming practices to indicate their child’s mixed-race status. For some enslaved men in West Africa, this meant taking arms to fight for Islam as well as to enslave more people.

Enslaving histories in Africa and the Caribbean The chapters by Femi James Kolapo and Mohammed Bashir Salau explore enslavement in relation to ethnic and religious wars occurring throughout West Africa in the nineteenth century. In chapter one, Kolapo argues that major socio-political changes swept across the Niger-Benue confluence area in the nineteenth century. This chapter shows agency on the part of Nupe people in their attempts to define as well as redefine their ethnicity and identity during the expanding jihad movement of the Sokoto Caliphate and the decline in trafficking

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people through the Niger Delta into the Atlantic slave trade. Salau examines the internal slave trade in the Sokoto Caliphate with a focus on one of the central emirates, Kano. He argues that local merchants participated in slave raiding expeditions organized by the state but did not form Kano’s army. Instead the royal families in Kano primarily utilized enslaved men to form the rank-and-file as well as administration of the emirate’s army to capture and enslave people in West Africa. Subsequently, merchants profited from these slave expeditions by selling Africans internally following the collapse of the Atlantic slave trade market in 1807. Chapters three and four highlight the Luso-African slave trade between Brazil and Africa focusing on the major ports of Benguela, Lagos and their hinterlands. Mariana Candido explores the conjugal relationships established by African and mixed-race women with European and Brazilian men in Benguela. She argues that Benguelan women profited from these liaisons with foreign merchants, and in some instances, free women elevated their socio-economic position by acquiring the Portuguese title of dona. In the case of enslaved women, some received their freedom upon their partner’s death or their children were freed by their European or Brazilian father. In chapter four, Olatunji Ojo sheds new light on the Atlantic slave trade between Brazil and Lagos by examining a rare collection of letters seized by the British anti-slavery patrols in the nineteenth century. This chapter shows the participation of African kings and merchants in the Atlantic slave trade as well as Yoruba speakers who resided in Brazil to learn Portuguese among other things, but also to cement trade relationships between Lagosian rulers and Bahian merchants. In chapter five, Feisal Farah highlights the social, economic, and political tensions in Mombasa, Kenya, during British colonial rule. Farah traces the history of slavery in an urban town and argues that many emancipated people faced discrimination during the colonial and even through the post-colonial periods. Officially, slavery was abolished in 1907. However, social and religious events taking place post-1907 sometimes served as a reminder to formerly enslaved people their previous servile position in Mombasa and its hinterland.

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Chapters six and seven focus on the African Diaspora in the Caribbean world. Katherine Smith examines the arrival of enslaved Africans landed on the Islands of Virgin Gorda and Tortola in the eighteenth century. Smith shows that enslaved Africans did not necessarily work on sugar plantations, as many other Africans sent to other British Caribbean colonies experienced, but laboured on cotton plantations, engaged in small-scale farming, and raised livestock. Smith’s chapter also examines the gradual adoption of Christianity by Gorda’s and Tortola’s African-descended populations in the nineteenth century, which coincided with universal emancipation beginning in 1838. Nadine Hunt examines the life of a mixed-race Jamaican, Robert Wedderburn, who was born into slavery in 1762. She examines how Wedderburn identified with Africa and Africans by comparing his writings to those published by two well-known emancipated Africans Vassa and Samuel Crowther. Hunt argues that Wedderburn’s autobiography, Horrors of Slavery, followed the writing style of emancipated Africans who wrote their ‘freedom narrative.’ In addition, Wedderburn paid special attention to enslaved African women in his writings as did Vassa and Crowther. Hunt points out that all three men witnessed the enslavement of female family members such as their mothers, sisters, and grandmothers.

Notes 1. Suzanne Miers and Igor Kopytoff, ‘African “slavery” as an institution of marginality,’ in Suzanne Miers and Igor Kopytoff (eds.), Slavery in Africa: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives (Madison, 1977), 3–81. 2. Henri Médard and Shane Doyle (eds.), Slavery in the Great Lakes Region of East Africa (Athens, 2007); Sylviane A. Diouf (ed.), Fighting the Slave Trade: West African Strategies (Athens, OH, 2003). 3. Paul E. Lovejoy, Transformations in Slavery: A History of Slavery in Africa (New York, [1983] 2000), 1–23. 4. Trevor Burnard and Gad Heuman, ‘Introduction,’ in Gad Heuman and Trevor Burnard (eds.), The Routledge History of Slavery (New York, 2011), 1–17; Kristin Mann, ‘Shifting Paradigms in the Study of the African Diaspora and of Atlantic History and Culture,’ Slavery and Abolition, 22:1 (2001), 3–21; David Eltis, The Rise of African Slavery in the Americas (Cambridge, 2000);

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Franklin W. Knight (ed.), The Slave Societies of the Caribbean (London, 1997); John K. Thornton, Africa and Africans in the Making of the Atlantic World (New York, [1992] 1998). 5. Hilary McD. Beckles and Verene A. Shepherd, Saving Souls: The Struggle to End the Transatlantic Trade in Africans (Kingston, 2007). 6. See various essays in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Identity in the Shadow of Slavery (London, [2000] 2009). Also see, James Sidbury, Becoming African in America: Race and Nation in the Early Black Atlantic (Oxford, 2007).

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1 ETHNICIT Y AND IDENTIT Y AT THE NIGER-BENUE CONFLUENCE DUR ING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY NUPE JIHAD Femi James Kolapo

The nineteenth century ushered in fundamental socio-political changes across much of what became Nigeria. In the Nupe country and the general Niger-Benue confluence area to the south and southeast, these changes occurred at the intersection of an expanding jihad movement from the Sokoto Caliphate and its representative emirates of Bida and Ilorin, the slave trade, internal slavery and population displacement, and tremendous social-political and cultural ferment among the local communities. Drawing and redrawing of political boundaries, population movements, and formation and reformation of local communities were part of the inevitable consequences of the military and political turmoil that ushered in these changes. This study examines the contour and the agencies that defined or refined group identities among the communities and societies that comprised of the axis of Nupe, Ilorin, and the Igala kingdom – all major subjects in this crisis.

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Much discussion has been done around the theme of ethnicity in Africa, and particularly the controversies about the value of the primordialist versus instrumentalist or constructivist understanding of the concept. These discussions flow out of contemporary concerns about problems of national integration and the alleged role that the ethnic factor is thought to play in social mobilization for or against the nation, the state, and in the perpetuation of corruption in Africa. However, the initial research effort stressing the newness and ‘colonial invention’ of tribalism and ethnicity was overdrawn and in the course of time, more nuances have been applied to the investigation of the topic. It is readily accepted now that the flux and turbulence of nineteenth century Africa and even the regular social and economic intercourses that generated exchanges of population in earlier times were no less active in forming, reforming, and transforming identities. As Bruce Berman states, ‘the invention of tradition and ethnic identities, along with polities, religions, trading networks and regional economies, were present in Africa long before the European proconsuls arrived.’1 We however need to be careful to not overdraw the fuzziness and flexibility of socio-cultural boundaries and to not simply hypothesize the contingency and ease with which multiple identities were easily assumed by African communities. The historian has the benefit of examining specific case studies to establish the historicity of much of the theorizing that social science could contribute to our understanding of social phenomenon. It is clear for example, that there is a difference between the nineteenth-century experiences of West Africa and South Africa regarding the malleability of group identities. To some extent in Southern Africa, the various military and political conflicts accompanied by demographic shifts led to the reshaping of ethnicity within the context of state formation.2 However, similar and equally cataclysmic conflicts and population movements in West Africa did not succeed in shaking off the general stability of the ethno-national and cultural boundaries of ethnic groups, even though there were dynamic interchanges and exchanges between and among them.3 Nineteenth-century history of the Niger-Benue confluence provides much material that cautions against overlooking the relevance

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of continuity—significant forces that continued to reconstitute ethnic cores and boundaries even as major changes were ongoing. Continuity was as significant as was change, and it was a continuity that allowed for progressive reconstitution of the boundaries rather than conserve their essential pristine form. These forces continued to ensure a progressive regeneration, readjustment, and recalibration of ‘primordial’ cultural content of ethnic and other identities and to ensure that a general central core remained significant, separate from the more or less flexible surrounding boundaries. The many conflicts, wars, and population displacements between and among different states and communities in the nineteenth-century Nupe and Niger-Benue confluence area were the stuff that made up the flux that kept ethnicity plastic. However, more significant, as will be shown in this study, were countervailing forces. These powerful opposing factors served to thwart transculturation, so strong that all the crises and turbulence of the era notwithstanding, ethnic identities in the area basically maintained their boundary relationship among one another from the pre-colonial through the colonial and into the post-independence era.

Background Who were the Nupe and their south eastern neighbours, especially the Owe, Yagba, Bunu, the Akoko and Afenmai, that are subject of this study? The Nupe inhabit the basins of the rivers Niger and Kaduna.4 In contemporary Nigeria, they are divided between Kwara and Niger states. In the nineteenth century, the Nupe were constituted into five emirates within the Sokoto Caliphate – Rabah/Bida, Lapai, Agaie, Shonga and Lafiagi. The Owe, Bunu and Yagba, on the other hand, were inland agricultural peoples living to the southeast of the Nupe, further away from the Niger and its flood plains. They are today located within Kogi state. The Nupe country during the first three quarters of the nineteenth century witnessed protracted political crisis and a pandemic of wars. Indeed, the nineteenth century was a long era of military and political revolution in Nigeria. To the north, all the Hausa states were subject to jihad wars of Uthman Dan Fodio and his followers. While Bornu to

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Map 1.1. The Nupe and their Neighbours in the Basin of the Niger and the Benue Rivers

the northeast did not fall to the jihadists, nonetheless, ‘sympathetic risings of the Falata . . . did precipitate a revolution which ended the rule of the most venerable dynasty in the whole Sudan [a thousand year old Seifuwa dynasty of Bornu].’5 The Nupe were soon embroiled in this jihad struggle, although, it went parallel with, and eventually supervened over succession wars within the ruling houses of Nupe. To the east of Nupe, the old Oyo Empire had collapsed under its own weight, aided by revolts from its periphery, the most important of which was jihadist-supported Ilorin. Further south, all of Yoruba country was embroiled in overlapping and concatenating series of wars that continued until European colonialism swept over the region. The Niger delta was in much crisis too.6 Likewise, the Igala kingdom, reputedly powerful up until the eighteenth century, lost steam and by the beginning of the nineteenth century had to contend with civil and secessionist crises.7 Meanwhile, Ilorin emerged as an autonomous jihadist state to Nupe’s south-southwest, and Ibadan became the successor to Oyo with claims and aspirations lapping on the outer boundaries

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of southern Nupe periphery that embraced minor independent nonNupe states and societies of the Ekiti states, the Basa, the Kakanda, the Oworo, Eki, Bunnu, the Igbira of Panda, and the Gbagyi. These minor states were located in the general area where Nupe emirate of Bida, the jihadist Ilorin, expansionist Ibadan, and the waning Igala of Idah intersected. The peoples of these minor states bore the brunt of the expansionist impulses of their bigger more powerful expansionist neighbours as they were squeezed from all sides during this period. They suffered tremendous violence, population displacement, migration, capture, and enslavement.8 What were the empirical contexts within which ethnicity and other self and community identities operate among these societies as they socially and militarily interacted during a period of prolonged and intense military and political crisis? Frederick Barth’s insight in his seminal work becomes useful here since this study starts from the empirical to inform or challenge the theoretical. Barth criticized earlier studies that tended to view ethnicities in terms of self-contained units that existed in isolation of one another.9 We will not revisit Barth’s criticism here, rather, we will be dealing with ethnic groups and their groupings, highlighting the boundaries between them and how these boundaries were maintained and reconstituted. We will also stress how exterior forces of militant imperialist states and their expansionist policies became more significant in determining the most important parameters of ethnic constitution and reconstitution for the minor victim communities that were caught in the vortex. The context of conquest, dispersion, relocation, migration, and enslavement that characterized the Niger-Benue confluence area of the period was nothing other than the antithesis of isolation.

Collapse of pre jihad Nupe kingdom Siegfried Nadel argued that beyond a shared language, it was the mythical charter of Tsoede, the Nupe cultural hero, to which most of the speakers of Nupe subscribed that constituted them into a discernible unity, regardless of the presence or lack thereof of an overarching structure of state.10 Janet Ewald, thought otherwise, noting that

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‘a shared language was probably the clearest definition of the Nupe [and that a] less tangible boundary was the awareness of unity, expressed by the myth of a culture hero, Tsoede, who created Nupe as a political entity and established the line of kings or etsu’.11 The old Nupe state was built on the memory of this hero and the pre-jihad Nupe ruling class and some of the subsections of Nupe claim to be descendants of Tsoede. By the end of the eighteenth century, royal succession struggles had fragmented the old Nupe state into three and by 1857, the prejihad Nupe kingdom ceased to exist as the jihad faction in the series of wars that broke out over Nupeland finally succeeded in pushing the rival indigenous royal contenders off both their separate thrones.12 Consequently, the major Nupe emirate of Bida was established and war among communities in the new Nupe state subsided, excepting for occasional revolts by a fellow Nupe group known as the Kyada. The emergent jihadist state continued, however, to expand at the expense of its weaker non-Muslim decentralized neighbours to the south and southeast – the Basa, Kakanda, Eki-Bunnu, Yagba and others. However, as there were always Nupe people who were independent of the old Nupe state, the Kyada river people being the most significant, so also, following the outbreak of the Sokoto jihad, several independent Nupe groups also organized themselves into smaller emirates, completely independent of the main Nupe-Bida emirate. They were Lapai, Agaie, Shonga, and Lafiagi.

Ethnicity and the struggle for the Nupe throne The conceptualization of the Sokoto jihad as a purely ethnic-based war in European explorers’ and colonial officials’ accounts has long been condemned as part of the framework that justified British occupation of Hausaland. Hugh Johnston, Murray Last, Michael Smith, and even a recent author like Rowland Adeleye have not been spared from condemnation for implying that the Fulani and Hausa were not only distinct ethnic categories that were preserved from contact with one another but were actually so hostile and opposed to each other that the resolution of the antagonism was Fulani jihad wars that removed and

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replaced Hausa rulers with Fulani ones all over northern Nigeria.13 Recent revisions emphasize that neither the Hausa nor the Fulani were homogeneous or monolithic ethnic groups onto themselves. The Fulani, having dwelt for several centuries among the Hausa, there was no justification for considering them aliens or foreigners, since through intermarriage and other socio-economic interactions, they have become part and parcel of the societies that they immigrated into. The revisions also call attention to the fact that Hausa societies were already Islamized and had significant clerical groups that related with Fulani clerics as fellow Muslims and fellow clerics. Hence, the jihads were generally conceptualized as part of the indigenous processes of political reformation and state enlargement in the Nigerian area catalysed by political corruption, oppression, and economic malaise. They highlighted class division between oppressor and oppressed to be more of a significant explanation for the jihads than ethnic antagonism between Fulani and non-Fulani.14 Much of this argument, of course, applies to the jihad in Nupe, which was part of the larger Sokoto jihad. The interesting point to make though is that the controversy about the role of ethnicity in the Nupe jihad is not a recent phenomenon but rather began during the jihad and among the Nupe. The definition of ‘us’ versus ‘them,’ the jihadist versus those they were ranged against, and the Nupe versus those who were not Nupe became significant in the first decade of the nineteenth century. The categories of Nupe and Felata, Fulani ethnic appellation of the general leadership of the jihad, became very significant in establishing boundaries of communities for military, political, and probably economic purposes. It is important to note that the crisis that broke up the old Nupe state predated the Sokoto jihad and its spread into Nupe. Since the earliest cause of the crisis was dynastic quarrel, the contending aspirant royal factions sought support from different sections of Nupe society – usually sections to which they were related either on the mother or on the father side. Provincial sectionalism was thus whipped up and ethno-nationalism became a major factor used by the contending parties to mobilize support and stir up opposition against their rivals.15

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After the jihadists insinuated themselves into what was originally a Nupe internal crisis, the basis for defining identity and for mobilization become ever more complex. Islam and the jihad ideology, which theoretically was supra-ethnic, trans-cultural, and universal, became very significant, but the original ethno-nationalist mobilization did not lose its edge a bit. The struggling jihadist factions who by marriage had struck root among various sections of the Nupe society also tapped into it, in addition to their Islamic jihadist ideology, helping thereby to sustain its continuing potency. While the schism in Nupe rulership deepened by the early nineteenth century, Mallam Dendo, a migrant Fulani cleric, not only gathered Islamic scholars and students around himself from beyond Nupe, but by marriage, vocation, and residence had developed kinship and other social roots within Nupe.16 The rival Nupe Etsu and their supporters, in their claims and counterclaims and in their many wars against one another, tapped into the social network that Mallam Dendo had developed. They sought to use Dendo as a tool to contest the succession rule and to liquidate their rivals. Meanwhile, Dendo supported one and the other, becoming the effective kingmaker. For more than four decades when the contenders and their sons lost and won battles and wars, the forces of the Muslim community led by Mallam Dendo assumed larger and larger social and political power and significance and became most critical to any side winning victory.17 A critical point here is that during the drawn out military political crisis, the various Nupe groups were appropriating and utilizing the social, cultural, and military-political networks of the long resident Muslim clerical communities. At the same time they were engaged in a social engineering process to culturally and politically integrate the immigrant Muslim communities into their universe. The cultural identity and social boundary of who could rule the Nupe, who could arbitrate, who would decide whether one or the other eligible royal contender would emerge as Nupe ruler and whether the old traditional rules or new Islamic ones were to guide the community were thrown into a flux. Masaba, one of the sons of Dendo, whose mother was Nupe, in his contention against his half brother, was driven out of Rabah, the first jihadist capital into the welcoming

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embrace of, Sitakozhi, allegedly his mother’s clan at Lafiagi/Lade and Egga area.18 This region was home to one of the Nupe royal claimants who were sidelined by the jihadist. Safe among them, Masaba carved out a separate state for himself, a state that he expanded at the expense of the Bassa, Okun, Oworo, Kakanda, Igbira, Igala, and other communities of the Niger-Benue confluence area whom he attacked. As ruler at his capital Lade, over many years, with the support of the Bataci and the Kyada Nupe sections, Masaba fought and succeeded in forcing his half-brother, Usman Zaki, into exile in Gwandu. During the period that he was established at Lade, Masaba resisted Umar Bahause, a general in the forces of Usman Zaki, who managed not only to usurp the throne vacated by the latter but also to route Masaba at Lade and to send him fleeing into temporary exile in Ilorin. Consequently, Masaba during this period seems to have effectively become a Nupe ethnocultural champion.19 Masaba’s military political activities and the ethno-cultural mobilization that he carried out during over a decade of struggles as a major contender for the Nupe emirate throne, parallel with the jihadist principles to which he was heir, largely reconfigured the scope of ethnic identity. It narrowed down the sense of difference between the Nupe and the immigrant community and helped in the transformation – broadening – of Nupe sense of identity to include the Fulani. Masaba had over the years successfully won over the loyalty and support of a considerable portion of the Nupe of the Jimada royal fraction. His establishment and reign at Lade from c.1835–1852 and his rearguard military action against Umar from 1853, no doubt, aided in the continuing refashioning of their self identity by the Nupe section to the south of the Niger. Masaba had been immensely successful as a politician and had expanded his territory even to non-Nupe areas in the tradition of their famous founder Tsoede. Masaba’s evident successes, his mixed Fulani/ Nupe descent and the important fact that he identified with the Nupe in opposition to his own full-blooded Fulani brother must have smoothed over the traditional consciousness of the dichotomy between the invading Fulani and the victim Nupe

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and their endangered indigenous royal houses. In the course of his rise to fame and struggle against his brother and other contenders, Masaba was able to completely insinuate himself into the Nupe’s ethos. This process was consummated in 1857. This was at the eventful moment of the consolidation of a new single Nupe emirate by the protagonists of the jihad, represented by the linking up of Masaba’s south bank and Umoru/Uthman Zaki’s north bank Nupe factions during the war that ended Umar’s military coup d’Ètat.20 Another important factor is the considerable mobility that the wars forced on the Nupe population. There was social, but more importantly, demographic mobility. The Nupe who found themselves conscripted into the army of the jihadists enjoyed some of the social and political privileges that followed the slow success of the jihad. The various alliances between the jihadists and the respective indigenous leaders, with their followers, also meant that opportunities of a measure of leadership/followership interaction and building up of mutual interests at very close quarters were taking place during the wars.21

Ethnic identity at the southern border of the Rabah/Lade/ Bida and Nupe state While major internal reconfiguration of identity was ongoing among the Nupe, similar processes, but engineered through a different set of agencies and with outcomes a little more complicated, were ongoing among the victim populations of the smaller states that had been subject to the Nupe wars and jihad. A number of studies have looked at the impact of the Nupe jihad on the Niger-Benue confluence and Afenmai area.22 The authors though disagree over a couple of issues, like whether or not the wars were religiously motivated and why and when predatory slave raiding began, are generally agreed on a number of major points. They affirm the devastating, violent, dislocating, and exploitative character of the jihad for the victim states and populations.

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The disagreement over whether the Nupe were waging true jihad or were rather engaged in predation can easily be resolved if one does not create an over reified ideological position for the jihadists or assume a dichotonomous nature to the motivation of their motley agents where there should be none. To question the seriousness of jihadists’ religious intentions for expanding their state into these areas, it seems, would imply a premise that uncritically accepts the ideological selfrepresentation of jihadist imperialism throughout history, an ideology that stresses peace and submission to God at the expense of the wars and violence that might have been involved in the establishment of the institutions and agencies that undergirded the peace. Hence, although Masaba put his Islamic and jihadist credentials to contingent and perhaps opportunistic use before he became sole Emir of the triumphant Bida emirate, yet, this does not detract from the sincerity of his commitment to jihad as a tool for the conversion of the pagan and expansion of Islam. Militarily expanding Dar al-Islam and all the dirty exploitative and oppressive details it involved and getting the elite of conquered territory to convert however they may were no less part of the processes involved in creating the Dar al-Islam and distinguishing it from the Dar al-Harb than was the eventual establishment of Islamic schools and the building of mosques.23 The other question of whether destructive slave raiding in the second half of the nineteenth century was due to the refusal or inability of the victim population to pay tribute or whether this actually began long before the establishment of Bida emirate in the late 1850s seems to have been settled by my consideration of the records for the period 1810–1857, a period that had not been looked at by scholars for this issue.24 A number of early nineteenth-century European explorers to the Niger River witnessed the raids carried out by Masaba from his Lade base southward and south eastward. These observers blamed the raids for the enslavement of many Nupe and other people who ended up as slaves and ex-slaves in Aboh, Jebba, Ilorin, Idah, Lagos, and Sierra Leone.25 There is agreement though on the devastating demographic impacts that the wars and raids had on these societies. Scholars of these wars point to population decline in these areas that were subject to repeated

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raiding by the various sections of the Nupe warring groups. They affirm the presence of expanses of land with ruined towns and villages; relocation of many to inaccessible more defensible terrains; general insecurity of life and hardship in carrying on normal economic activities beyond the security provided by mountain crags and other hidden areas; and the rise of mixed multi-ethnic and multi-cultural refugee communities established on the left bank of the Niger River, seemingly away from easier reach of the raiding groups. The studies also agree on the epidemic nature of the wars that raged in this general area. Indeed, I calculated that within a space of about 50 years until Bida was founded, any respite the Nupe had from war did not last beyond two years. I also showed that these wars, right from the start, had spread outside of the Nupe core area into the small neighbouring states. The various factions that struggled for ascendancy within Nupe raided the outlining areas for slaves, recruits, booty, and for territorial bases from where war could be effectively organized to fight their rivals. Unfortunately, for the victim minor states of the Niger Benue confluence area, the epidemic of military violence did not subside with the victory of the jihadists and the unification of the Nupe government in the new Islamic emirate at Bida. Rather, their plight became worse, especially because Nupe emirate relationship with the victim peoples assumed a much more predatory form.26 It is also clear that there were palpable cultural and political impacts that lasted past the period of Nupe thraldom. The subjection to Nupe political domination and the placement of an egba, Nupe political agent, representing the interest of the emir and the transformation of the people into Nupe subjects was the obvious result. However, in the end, Nupe political titles, musical, and cultural artefacts and practices; Nupe facial marking, and some Arabic derived words flowing through Nupe, were all diffused into these societies. The closest neighbours to the Nupe, the Kakanda even before 1850 were reported to have been Nupeized, and among the Okun people, the Yagba and Eki, and also the Oworo and the Basa were all said to have imbibed considerable elements of the Nupe language and other cultural contents.27 However, before the successful rise of the jihadist faction into sole rulership of Bida emirate, protracted warfare, population displacement,

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deportations, raiding, enslavement, and destruction of whole settlements were as much the experience of the Nupe within their territories as were the experiences of the smaller states and communities on the Niger Benue confluence. Hence many Nupe became refugees as much as did others in both the old and the many newly risen communities of the Niger-Benue confluence.28 Commenting on this demographic situation, Crowther noted that the slave wars having scattered so many Nupes among the inhabitants of the lower parts of this river, and trade mostly transacted by nearly all people in the Nupe language, while the more informed speak Hausa also, a great many Igaras and Igbiras speak Nupe; nearly two-thirds of the inhabitants of Gbebe speak it, and I am told by a Kakanda man that all the Kakandas speak it also; the Bassa being only a slight dialect of Nupe . . . 29

Crossings, boundaries, and bordered territories The jihad was an effective marker of identity, especially for the citizens of Rabah and later Bida Nupe emirates. Not only did it establish and confirm their global citizenship in the Islamic umma, but also because theirs were the powerful and triumphant states, it marked them as the centres from where governance proceeded and from where policies for the pacification of non-Muslims emanated. They were the ones who made tax demands and levies in kind and in slaves from ‘heathen’ peoples on the frontier of Islam. Even before the success of jihad at Rabah and before the ascendance of the revolutionary factions at Bida, jihad was no less significant as a marker to mobilize support for the contenders. It was already a major tool in identifying and unifying the motley crowd of mercenaries, freed and slave soldiers, and military levies, especially of the factions of the House of Mallam Dendo around a common interest and around acceptable leader(s).30 The slaves of the opponents were granted liberty, if they fled their masters and joined the jihad.31 The initial base of the jihadist army of Mallam Dendo, Usman Zaki and eventually of Masaba during their

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struggles against rivals, consisted of masses of freed slaves of different ethnicities. Usman Zaki’s jihadist faction had a Borno warrior as its top military commander and a Yoruba person as the Ubandawaki, his second. Masaba went further to recruit soldiers from among the Yagba and from far away Ibadan.32 A Yoruba soldier in the army of Rabah was called a Felatah by a victim population that sought to present their Rabah attackers as different and oppressive invaders.33 This identification thereby aroused local ethno-nationalist feelings of fellow victims and aided in the mobilization of opposition. Everybody who was associated with the political establishment of Rabah fit the classification done by the victims. The jihadist, no matter their ethnicity also identified publicly and proudly as Fulani or Felatah and counterposed this ethno-political identity to the despised category of their victims, the Nupe or the Kakanda, Basa, Oworo, and Ijumu. Hence, politicized ethnicity was a double edged tool, used hegemonically by the jihadist ruling class and as a tool by the victims to evoke a feeling of resistance to those, who by the appellation, were marked out as aggressors. Once all the Nupe became citizens of the triumphant Bida emirate or were associated with it or with the other smaller emirates, the dynamics of identity changed to focus on jihadist/Nupe versus pagan/non-Nupe. As a hegemonic tool, the jihadist identity had to be preserved by the Nupe. For as long as the various ethnic groups south of the Nupe were the captive resource base for the jihadist state, the latter’s adoption of Islam, and aspect of Nupe political culture and or Nupe language, and their self-identification as individual Muslims were not considered sufficiently compelling. Hence, as perpetual victims, they never became citizens, were not considered fellow Muslims, and remained subject to raiding by the jihad leaders. The Rabah/Lade/Bida jihadist leadership had their egba or entire contingents of jihadist troops placed in the conquered communities, where the local population were treated as other, non-jihadist, and liable to raids and tributes. Unfortunately, the victim populations were forced thereby to respond and react on the basis of such treatment, thus reinforcing their non-jihadist, nonNupe identity that the wars and mixing were otherwise automatically engendering.34

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Evidence for the Niger-Benue confluence area from about 1831 through the end of the nineteenth century details the rise of refugee communities, new villages and towns, and boundary market communities that were characterized by multi-cultural settlement patterns, multi-lingual abilities and the increasing prominence of the Nupe language. The Church Missionary Society (CMS) and other evidence indicate considerable population mixing and substantial Nupe influence at Gbebe, Lokoja, Egga, and the heart of the Eki-Bunu country.35 After Bida’s consolidation in 1857 as the capital of the triumphant Nupe jihad state, huge number of slaves, mercenaries, and soldiers, artisans and assorted professionals were settled in Bida. Large numbers of immigrant traders, settlers from Hausaland, and Fulani cattle herders turned the erstwhile camp into a cosmopolitan city. The Bida court adopted Hausa as the official language, though the emirs from Mallam Dendo through Masaba and Umoru Majigi also spoke and understood Nupe and Yoruba, in addition to some Arabic.36

Gbebe and Lokoja Gbebe and Lokoja, on opposite sides of the confluence of the NigerBenue confluence, were two important towns at the south-eastern edge of the Nupe emirate. Gbebe began as a domain of an increasingly intractable Igala chief, Ameh Aboko, who wanted more space between himself and the Idah monarchy so that he could more effectively exploit the economic opportunities that his riverine clan’s watermanship and the location of the new territory offered. The early incursions into the communities on the West bank of the Niger by Dendo’s forces, and later by Masaba from Lade destroyed about 100 settlements and led to a redistribution of their population, the majority of who crossed over the Niger to settle first at Otuturu and then at Gbebe on the east bank.37 Gbebe soon developed into a major trading port that was visited by traders from Aboh, Onitsha, Ilorin, and from Nupe. By 1857, many traders took residence at Gbebe and it developed into a bustling commercial town with Eki, Bunnu, Nupe, and Igbira resident quarters. According to T. J. Hutchinson, the Gbebe traded in ‘British manufactured goods, which are brought up from Bonny, Brass, and

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Benin, as well as across the Yoruba country from Lagos, [and] glass beads of a double pyriform shape . . . from Mecca.’38 John Whitford also showed that the Gbebe markets displayed ‘heaps of corn, small pyramids of salt, native soap in balls, small white beans, and a variety of seeds . . . native made razors, . . . native-made iron shovels, country cloths woven of grass-fibre and cotton combined, cotton reels, raw cotton in bags, palm-oil and shea butter in jars, very good honey . . . abundance of fowls, ducks, and goats, and at the butcher’s stalls, rough joints of elephant and hippopotami.’39 The CMS arrived in Gbebe in late 1858, by which time, the location, wealth, and fame of the town had began to attract the attention of Emir Masaba. Bishop Crowther in 1872 noted that Masaba had been ‘eyeing this place [Gbebe] and Idda a long time’ and was sure with the state of animosity between Gbebe and Idah, that he could ‘foresee that the sagacity of Masaba will find a loophole under the pretence of helping either the one or the other and thus without their being aware of it, he will make himself the master of Gbebe.’40 Though on Igala territory, with an Igala chief nominally subject to the Attah at Idah, Gbebe, together with all the communities in the immediate area of the confluence, was already drawn into the maelstrom of Nupe military, political, and commercial empire. When in 1859–60 Crowther began his Upper Niger Mission as a CMS missionary, he proposed that Nupe would be the language to suit their purposes best because he felt that Nupe had virtually become the lingua franca for the entire region, thanks to war, trade and migration.41 In 1866, civil war broke out in Gbebe, forcing most of its inhabitants to seek refuge elsewhere. Lokoja on the other hand, began as a settlement near the village of Patti, where William Balfour Baikie, the 1854 leader of the British Niger exploration party, settled. Within four years of Baikie’s building his permanent residence, about 2,000 settlers and refugees had moved into the town, who were fleeing from pressures similar to those suffered by others who went to Gbebe.42 The Nupe emirate of Bida, however, was very interested in Lokoja, as together with Gbebe, it not only commanded major arteries of overland and river trade, it also played host to the British consul who Masaba courted for diplomatic

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and commercial reasons. Masaba soon claimed that Lokoja was his territory which he was very happy to have Baikie settle in. A detachment of Nupe soldiers were quickly sent to Lokoja to protect the new settlement of Masaba’s English friend, but after Baikie died in 1864, Masaba’s representatives seem to have become more assertive and began to raid and enslave people. A letter from Emir Masaba to Captain Glover, among other things, shows that he considered all the small states and communities in the immediate south and southeast of Bida emirate border as ‘heathen’ and liable target for spoliation. He claimed that he felt hampered in his desire to attack these societies by British diplomatic and missionary presence. [T]he land is mine and I want you [Captain Glover] to destroy it, why? because I don’t want anything to disturb you on the way or on mine land and I might have sent war down to fight them long ago, but I cannot do it as long as Lokoja is there, why? because you have trusted your people at Lokoja into my hands and they all are under my protection and if I should send war against them and scatter them all over the land, and I should return back, and those heathen should gather themselves on Lokoja, perhaps come on them at night, and spoil the place through an account of the goods that is there, who is to be blame, I am. . . . Now some of my army is at Lokoja to keep the place safe until the steamers come. Another thing that I wish you to do this year is, that if possible, I wish you to remove your men from Lokoja to a place opposite Eggan, why? because the place is far from me and the land not good for a horse, for I lost good many horses there and it prevented me from knowing what to do with the heathen below it.43 Masaba was no doubt also interested in the prospect and promise of commerce that diplomatic relations with the British would offer him. He had a good appreciation, it seems, of the military capability of the British, which he felt secured in his belief that he could draw upon on

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the basis of a working political alliance with them. Clearly, he represented his state as an expanding one that felt constrained to withhold its soldiers on their southward march only for the consideration of the British consular and CMS missionary presence at Lokoja. Not intending to incorporate the Niger-Benue into Nupe, he was nevertheless ready to raid them. Indeed, his troops in Lokoja eventually would not be held back as they began to raid and capture ‘heathen’ individuals and communities in the neighbourhood, to the consternation of the missionaries.44 In Gbebe, and to some extent Lokoja, trade was a significant force that was shaping the identity of peoples and communities. However, it was not the only force. Warfare, raids, political conflicts, and enslavement and slavery went hand in hand with trade. These all were responsible for demographic displacements and migrations that infused Gbebe with a multi-cultural blend of refuge seekers, traders, and slaves. Gbebe social and commercial set-up thus included a significant slave sector. Gbebe and Lokoja people sold and used slaves and the missionaries and Baikie spent considerable sum on redeeming slaves – Nupe, Basa, Igbira, Yoruba, Igala, Eki, and Bunu – especially, those who were Christian converts.

Identifying the enemy Jihad redefined the identity of the Muslim from local ethnic affiliations to embrace a new universal brotherhood of true believers. The Fulani clerics in Nupeland thus purveyed markers that reshaped cultural and ethnic loyalties. The identity of the Muslim was based on a holy book and the practices that it stipulates for Muslims everywhere. As an ideological tool, Nupe dynastic rivals sought to use it to their advantage but ended up ceding central authority to the new emir. War called for clear cut definition of boundaries and identities of protagonists and antagonists. At the same time, as in other places in northern Nigeria, the Nupe jihad wars involved mobilization that went beyond parochial boundaries of ethnic loyalty. But, the jihad ideology itself evolved and assumed more and more force only over time during the course of the Nupe crisis, not being able to attain sole

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and immediate prominence before 1857. At various times, therefore, during the prolonged crisis, and depending on where was the theatre of war – whether among the Nupe contenders to the throne and their Nupe supporters, or between the emergent Nupe emirates (Rabah, Lade or latter Bida) and the mini-states of the Niger-Benue confluence, there were moments when people made a distinction between who was full Nupe versus who was Fulani; who was Muslim Nupe versus non-Muslim; and who was Nupe versus who was Igala, Basa, or Eki. Also, in Nupe and the general Niger – Benue confluence area, it is noteworthy that slavery was an effective tool for hierarchical integration of captives. Male slaves were integrated through military-related service and as artisanal and professional auxiliaries for the military and the king and young women and child slaves were co-opted as wives or concubines, and wards, respectively.

Offset forces Population displacements, migrations, development of refugee communities, rural-urban population transfers, military recruitment and mobilization, and the overall impact of the gradual spread of Islam and Christianity constituted the major change factors that engaged the communities and peoples in structural articulations to harmonize their identities. Nonetheless, within the same social reality, parallel forces of continuity were equally pushing against those of change. As commercial expansion in slaves, ivory, imported and local goods boomed and the Nupe language acquired prominence, however, the Kyada, the Kakanda, and the Igala merchant and canoe transportation interests did not let off on their control of their portion of the river commerce. Long distance trade on the Niger was still organized by specialized groups who wove their occupational, geographical, and cultural traits together into identities that marked them ever more different from their neighbours. The Kyada, who cherished their control of and profit from river transport, though Nupe increasingly asserted their ethnic independence. The Kakanda did not allow Kyada vessels free pass through Kakanda territory and often confiscated canoes that trespassed their waters, acts that were interpreted both by the Nupe emir

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as well as the British consular and missionary agents at the confluence as piracy.45 The same applies to others along the Niger all the way to its Delta. In this sense, the relays of traders from communities along the Niger River – organized and protected like corporations, probably engendered competitive ethnic boundary building rather than boundary crossing. Settlement patterns in Gbebe and Lokoja, and in far away places like Bida, Ilorin, and Kano, featured quarters or wards settled by specific immigrant ethnicities, making them ethnic enclaves. This tendency clearly furthered boundary building even as the immigration that took settlers to those towns and cities tended towards ethnic boundary crossing. Also, at Gbebe and Lokoja, new immigrant groups were encouraged to buy into their host societies through titles and leadership positions that were given to important personalities among them as ethnic representatives in the multi-ethnic communities. Leroy Vail’s position regarding ethnic consciousness does not apply to Nupe’s nineteenth-century history, his claim that ‘ethnic consciousness [in South Africa] is very much a new phenomenon, an ideological construct, usually of the twentieth century, and not an anachronistic cultural artefact from the past.’46 John Lonsdale’s position is more appropriate when he writes that ‘it is a response to state power, even a condition of its successful exercise, in providing the categories between which men divide in order to rule.’47 The origins of politicized ethnicity can be located within the crux of conflict or integrative relationship with the state. The Nupe-Islamic states, long before British colonization of Nigeria, as they divided the Niger-Benue confluence area into the Dar al-Islam and Dar al-Harb and thereby secure a zone for expansion and economic exploitation, constantly used state tools and policies to reconstitute outlying communities into distinct and subject ethnicities liable to capture and enslavement. And before the jihadists rose to sole dominance, contending Nupe rulers and their supporters who vied for the prize of the central Nupe throne felt compelled to highlight the alienness and difference of the Fulata when they felt that their jihadist supporters’ influence was too overwhelming and subversive of their class security. For their part, the Fulani or Fulata, having intermarried and been resident for long, acted indigenous by drawing on marriage and other social networks they had built within the Nupe society as

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the need arose and at propitious times, they identified themselves as jihadists – a representation that was based on an ideology of universal Islamic brotherhood. Barth, whose seminal work on comparative ethnicity produced many disciples and influenced research on the subject, focused his investigation of the nature of ethnicity on the boundary that defines the group, rather than the static content that the boundary encloses. For the Nupe, though, the further question one can pose is what defines the boundaries; how broad or narrow these boundaries are; and why are there boundaries if not to regulate, constrain, and delineate the content of the bordered entities. It thus begs the question whether one looks at ethnicity as an entity that is culturally constitutive in a sense that distinguishes it from another one or whether one focuses on the boundaries through which persons and communities mediate their inclusivity or exclusivity and thereby establish territories that are bounded. In the final analysis, they boil down to the same thing. The sociality and historicity of the peoples become the most significant element to understanding their identities as they interact across the borders – ascriptive or inclusive. This includes peoples’ self-identities and how they define others in opposition or parallel to themselves over time.

Conclusions There was a clear stability – not stasis – to ethno-linguistic units in the Niger-Benue confluence area, and without prejudice to the dynamic nature of the cultural and even linguistic contents of these units, they have remained different from each other even as they engaged in intense interaction. They have tended to endure over more or less the same geographic territory for considerable length of time, as Hair observed. The concept of boundaries at the edge of the territories that are conceptually compared or that relate with each other in reality implies that there might be concentric circles that include the core, the middling, the outer and the fringe sections to ethnicity. The flexibility and the distances that personnel and other cultural elements cross or are allowed to cross could be expected to vary between those different segments that constitute the unit.

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The tenacity of the boundaries that constitute these units can be expected to be different based on factors such as size, as between for example the tens of millions of Yoruba and the near-million Nupe or the tens of thousands of Bassa. It is certain that we can identify major fuzziness with respect to how the various actors in the Nupe and Niger-Benue confluence identified themselves, depending on whether they were ruling elite, imperialists, relatively helpless refugees or traders or migrants. However, a core Nupe still remained. The Igala, the Bassa, the Kakanda, and the Igbira, even as they interacted among each other as ethnicities all maintained segments and relationships that constituted cores, even though the Nupe language and culture had assumed significant instrumentality in their social and economic lives. That the Nupe somewhere along the line included descendants of people who were originally non-Nupe is not the issue. The changes and the continuities experienced by the people were by nature able to absorb cross boundary interactions without losing their ethnic and cultural distinctiveness. The position in this chapter is not to be seen as that of a romantic traditionalist who implies that the ethnie, has remained unchanged over the millennia. The logic of such an untenable position would further imply that the ethnic group has no history and that the pristine cultural contents of such ethnie is ‘undefiled’ by experience and that the memory of its pure culture has continued to uphold the individuality and identity of the ethnic group.48 Rather, the idea stressed here is that the instability of ethnic cultures; the changes and transformations, deletions and accessions and morphing and the exchanges of personnel and all the usual historical dynamism that attend conscious agents of history occurred in Nupe. They occurred within a continuous circuit and within boundaries where all the actors and agents within this social context continued to be reproduced as Nupe while the category Nupe is maintained and clearly distinguished from Basa, Yoruba, Bunu, and other peoples. Initially for Rabah, and then for the emergent Bida emirate, ethnicity was important. It marked the other and it marked them so effectively because otherwise the universalizing tendencies of Islamic political expansion would transform everybody into Muslims. They

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would then automatically cease to be liable to capture, impressments, enslavement, and to other forms of exploitation that the ruling class of Rabah or Bida were clearly not willing to forgo even as the emirate expanded. Nonetheless, Islam spread and the influence of Nupe’s political culture increased everywhere as aspects of Nupe culture and traditions were adopted by the victim population, in addition to their adoption of Islam. Indeed, before the jihad, local wars, migration, displacement, military conscription, and the like were already ‘Nupeizing’ a great portion of the area that were impacted by the Nupe social political crisis of the period. All these cultural influences and the spread of Islam from the Nupe centre would ordinarily imply that Bida emirate not only developing a multi-cultural society, but that Nupe culture was being assimilated by victim peoples who were of other ethnicities. What happened though was that ethnicity became an effective tool in the hands of the Bida military political elite with which to work counter or parallel to the uniformizing principles of Islam and empire. In theory, Islam and the Nupe imperium sought to integrate those peoples and communities they impacted as fellow global Muslims within a universal Islamic umma. On the other hand, ascriptive ethnicity that differentiated between Muslim Nupe and the others denied authenticity to these victim peoples and communities though their socio-political and economic interactions implied that they were within the broad boundary area where Nupe identity could be plastic enough to have their claims to Nupeness doubted. The aspirant Nupehood of the Akoko, the Yagba, the Eki, and Bunnu, and the fact that they spoke Nupe and adopted Nupe cultural practices were rebuffed by the Bida Nupe and their rights and access to the privilege of enjoying liberty as Nupe denied. This demonstrates that they were not Nupe, although they were Nupeized, and not being Nupe enough, they were different than the Nupe who were jihadist and Muslims. None of this would also amount to the now problematic idea of the ‘invention’ of ethnicity, even if some instrumentalization can be attributed to the use that Nupe’s elite of Rabah, Lade, and Bida made of these changing suits of identities. The authenticity of Nupe does not diminish because aspects of Nupe culture and tradition were diffused

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into other places and were being practiced by non-Nupe people. Similarly, the authenticity of the Akoko, Kakanda, Bassa, or Yagba ethnicities cannot be denied simply because what constitutes their ethnicities now include Nupe-derived cultural elements, including the Nupe language. Ethnicity, just like the planetary system, is a cluster of elements whirling around in great speed, elements expanding or collapsing even as the entire body though in perpetual motion and change, continues to maintain in distinguishable forms, its constituent components. Ethnic identities are forged through peaceful contact as they are through bloody conflicts and superimposition. They could as well be adopted freely, willingly, or unknowingly as they could be imposed and forced upon victim populations by superior military, economic, and other forces. Thus the Nupe titles, cultural practices like gunnu masquerade, and the use of Nupe trumpet and facial marking by some of the victims and smaller states and societies of the Niger-Benue area were product of their subjection to military and political domination and exploitation. The Nupe application of military, fiscal, and ideological policies among these smaller states highlighted the latters’ subjecthood, as opposed to their citizenship. Policies that re-emphasized their nonNupe and non-Muslim identity emanated out of jihadist imperialism. It is intriguing that one of the reactions by the people was to responsively operate on the basis of their categorization by their oppressors as the ethnic others. As a resistance reflex and in collaboration with fellow oppressed, they reacted to what on their part was foreign Nupe military aggression and political oppression. Having been defined as heathen, being non-Nupe Yagba, Bassa, Kakanda, these ethnicities operated as such in their search for refuge, in their resistance to Nupe military incursion and in their protest against Nupe fiscal impositions and in their ideological posture against jihad. In the process the heathen other identity that was imposed by the powerful turned out to become at the same time organically adopted by the people. The Ekiti, Afenmai, Bunu, Yagba, Eki, and Oworo people of the Niger-Benue confluence area and beyond were trying to negotiate their identities – perhaps broaden the scope of it or to perhaps integrate into Nupe or into some aspects of what was Nupeness.49 They were perhaps

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in the process of developing interchangeable or permeable layers to their ethnicity. However, at the same time, exterior factors of jihad and enslavement and other military political policies by the Nupe emirate were imposed, enforced, and reinforced to mark and distinguish the boundaries between the exploitable other regardless of whether or not the other had adopted Islam, aspects of Nupe culture or the Nupe language.

Notes 1. Bruce Berman, ‘Ethnicity, patronage and the African state: the politics of uncivil nationalism,’ African Affairs, 97:388 (1998), 311. 2. Most popular example being the rise of the Zulu, the enlargement of the baSotho, and the dispersal of the ‘Ngoni.’ 3. Paul E. Hair shows that this can be applied to all ethnic groups within Nigeria. See, P. E. H. Hair, ‘Ethnolinguistic continuity on the Guinea Coast,’ Journal of African History, 8:2 (1967), 247–268. 4. Siegfried F. Nadel, A Black Byzantium: The Kingdom of Nupe in Nigeria (Oxford, 1942), 1. 5. Abdullahi Smith, ‘A little new light on the collapse of the Alafinate of Yoruba,’ in Abdullahi Smith (ed.), A Little New Light: Selected Historical Writings of Abdullahi Smith (Zaria, 1987), 138. 6. E. J. Alagoa, ‘Nineteenth century revolutions in the eastern delta states and Calabar,’ Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 5:4 (1971), 565–574; Kenneth O. Dike, Trade and Politics in the Niger Delta: 1830–1885 (Oxford, 1956). 7. Femi J. Kolapo, ‘Post-abolition Niger River commerce and the nineteenthcentury Igala political crisis,’ African Economic History, 27 (1999), 45–67. 8. On Yagba, Akoko, and Kaba societies with respect to the Nupe wars in the early nineteenth century, and general outline sketches of these wars in general, see S. J. Idris, ‘The establishment of Pategi emirates: the historical background c.1810–1818,’ (unpublished MA thesis, Ahmadu Bello University, 1992), 207–209; A. R. Mohammed, ‘The Sokoto jihad and its impact on the confluence area and Afenmai,’ in Ahmad Mohammad Kani and Kabir Ahmed Gandi (eds.), State and Society in the Sokoto Caliphate (Sokoto, 1990), 142–157; Elizabeth A. Isichei, A History of Nigeria (London, 1983), 212; Rowland A. Adeleye, Power and Diplomacy in Northern Nigeria 1804–1906: The Sokoto Caliphate and its Enemies (London, 1971), 34–35. 56; S. A. Akintoye, Revolution and Power in Yorubaland 1840–1893: Ibadan Expansion and the Rise

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9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14.

15.

16.

17. 18.

19. 20.

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of Ekitiparapo (London, 1971), 35; Michael Mason, ‘The jihad in the south: an outline of nineteenth century Nupe hegemony in north-eastern Yorubaland and Afenmai,’ Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 5:2 (1970), 193–209; John C. Hatch, Nigeria: The Seeds of Disaster (Chicago, 1970), 114; Hugh A. S. Johnston, The Fulani Empire of Sokoto (London, 1967), 136–138; Robin Hallet (ed.), The Journal of Richard and John Lander: Edited and Abridge with an Introduction by Robin Hallet (New York, [1832] 1965), 91. Frederick Barth, ‘Introduction,’ in Frederick Barth (ed.), Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference (Oslo, 1969), 2–10. Siegfried F. Nadel, ‘Nupe state and community,’ Africa: Journal of the International African Institute, 8:3 (1935), 260–261. Janet Ewald, ‘The Niger River and river peoples in Nupe,’ (unpublished MA thesis, University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1975), 2. Nadel, ‘Nupe state,’ 262. Rowland A. Adeleye, Power and Diplomacy in Northern Nigeria 1804–1906: The Sokoto Caliphate and its Enemies (London, 1971); Johnston, Fulani Empire; Murray Last, The Sokoto Caliphate (London, 1967); M. G. Smith, ‘The jihad of Shehu Dan Fodio: some problems,’ in I. W. Lewis (ed.), Islam in Tropical Africa (London, 1966), 408–419. M. A. Al-Hajj, ‘The meaning of the Sokoto Jihad,’ in Y. B. Usman (ed.), Studies in the History of the Sokoto Caliphate: The Sokoto Seminar Papers (Zaria, 1979), 3–19; Yusufu Abba, ‘The 1804 Jihad in Hausaland as a revolution,’ in Studies in the History of the Sokoto Caliphate, 20–33; and Yusufu Bala Usman, ‘The transformation of political communities. Some notes on the perception of a significant dimension of the Sokoto Jihad,’ in Studies in the History of the Sokoto Caliphate, 34–55. See Appendix 1 in Femi J. Kolapo, ‘Military turbulence, population displacement and commerce on a slaving frontier of the Sokoto Caliphate: Nupe c. 1810–1857,’ (unpublished PhD thesis, York University, 1999), based on Dupigny, Nupe Province, p. 10, paragraphs 19 and 20. He was also said to have cured the daughter Etsu Manjiya of madness and she was consequently said to have been given to him in marriage. It is inferred that this was probably the mother of Masaba. Sule Mohammed, History of the Emirate of Bida, to 1899 AD (Zaria, 2011). See chapter two, which provides comprehensive details on this. Samuel Crowther and John C. Taylor, The Gospel on the Banks of the Niger: Journals and Notices of the Native Missionaries Accompanying the Niger Expedition of 1857–1859 (London, [1859] 1968), 409. See entry for January 25th. Kolapo, ‘Military turbulence,’ 59–60; Mohammed, Emirate of Bida, 118. Kolapo, ‘Military turbulence,’ 60–61.

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21. Kolapo, ‘Military turbulence,’ 59–61, and 78. 22. See note 9 above. But others specifically directed at them include those by Ade Obayemi, Akomolafe, A.R. Mohammed, and by the present author. 23. See Ade Obayemi, ‘The Sokoto Jihad and the Okun Yoruba: a review,’ Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 9:2 (1978), 61–87; Toyin Falola, ‘The impact of the 19th century Sokoto Jihad on Yorubaland,’ in Ahmad Mohammad Kani and Kabir Ahmed Gandi (eds.), State and Society in the Sokoto Caliphate (Sokoto, 1990), 134–135. 24. Femi J. Kolapo, ‘The southward campaigns of Nupe in the lower Niger valley,’ in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Slavery on the Frontiers of Islam (Princeton, NJ, 2003), 69–85; Mohammed, ‘The Sokoto jihad,’ 144. 25. The explorer accounts with these information are plentiful, including those by Samuel Crowther, Journal of an Expedition up the Niger and Tshadda Rivers, undertaken by MacGregor Laird, Esq., in connection with the British Government in 1854 (London, [1855] 1970); T. J. Hutchinson, Impressions of Western Africa with Remarks on the Diseases of the Climate and a Report on the Peculiarities of Trade up Rivers in the Bight of Biafra (London, [1858] 1970); James F. Schön and Samuel A. Crowther, Journals of the Rev. James Frederick Schön and Mr. Samuel Crowther who accompanied the Expedition up the Niger in 1841 with a new Introduction by Prof. J. F. A. Ajayi (London, [1842] 1970); William Allen and T. R. H. Thomson, A Narrative of the Expedition sent by Her Majesty’s Government to the River Niger in 1841 under the command of Captain H. D. Trotter (London, [1848] 1968); Crowther and Taylor, Gospel on the Banks of the Niger; Richard Lander and Hugh Clapperton, Records of Captain Clapperton’s Last Expedition to Africa (London, [1830] 1967); John Whiford (ed.), Trading Life in Western and Central Africa: Introduction by A. G. Hopkins (London, [1877] 1967); William B. Baikie, Narrative of an Exploring Voyage Up the Rivers Kwora and Binue commonly known as the Niger and Tsadda in 1854 (London, [1856] 1966); Thomas J. Hutchinson, Narrative of the Niger, Tshadda, and Binue Exploration including A Report on the Position and Prospects of Trade up Those Rivers: With Remarks on The Malaria and Fevers of Western Africa (London, [1855] 1966); W. Cole, Life in the Niger or the Journal of an African Trader (London, 1862); Daniel J. May, ‘Journey in the Yoruba and Nupe countries in 1858,’ Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London 30 (1860), 212–233; S. W. Koelle, Polyglotta Africana: or, A Comparative Vocabulary of Nearly Three Hundred Words and Phrases in more than One Hundred Distinct African Languages (London, 1854); MacGregor Laird and R. A. K. Oldfield, Narrative of an Expedition into the Interior of Africa by the River Niger in the Steam Vessels Quorra and Alburkah in 1832, 1833 and 1834 (London, 1837); Robert Huish, The Travels of Richard and John Lander, into the Interior of Africa, for the Discovery of the Course and

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26.

27.

28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

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Termination of the Niger; from Unpublished Documents in the Possession of the late Capt. John William Barber Fullerton, with a Prefatory Analysis of the Previous Travels of Park, Denham, Clapperton, Adams, Lyon, Ritchie, & c. into the hitherto Unexplored Countries of Africa (London, 1836); Hugh Clapperton, Journal of a Second Expedition into the Interior of Africa from the Bight of Benin to Sokatoo, to which is Added the Journal of Richard Lander from Kano to the Sea Coast (London, 1829). University of Birmingham, Birmingham (UB), C. A3/04(b), Bp. Samuel A. Crowther, Journals & Reports. Crowther: Lokoja. ‘Review of the Niger mission’ Niger Mission, 1860–79. Also see, Kolapo, ‘The southward campaigns.’ UB, C. A3/O 4 (a) Rev. Samuel A. Crowther. Letters & Papers 1857–63. Crowther to Venn. Bonny, 3 December 1859. Steamer Rainbow. Niger Mission. Also see, C. O. Akomolafe, ‘The establishment of Nupe administration and its impact on Akoko, 1840–1897,’ ODU: University of Ife Journal of African Studies 35 (1989), 208–232. Baikie, Narrative of an Exploring Voyage, 286. Also see, Femi J. Kolapo, ‘Trading ports of the Niger-Benue confluence area, c.1830–1873,’ in Robin Law and Silke Strickrodt (eds.), Ports of the Slave Trade (Bights of Benin and Biafra) (Stirling, 1999), 96–120. UB, Crowther to Venn. Bonny, 3 December 1859. Nadel, Black Byzantium, 109; Kolapo, ‘Military turbulence,’ 77–80. Lander, Records of Captain Clapperton’s Last Expedition, 192–193; MacGregor and Oldfield, Narrative of an Expedition (London, 1837), II, 87–88. UB, C. A3/O 4 (a), Niger Mission: Samuel A. Crowther, Letters and papers 1857–63, Crowther to CMS Sec. Gbebe, 3 October 1862. Also see National Archives of Kaduna, Kaduna, Ilorprof. 6593, Lafiagi Historical and Assessment – Assessment Report, Lafiagi District June 1912 Report by Major Budgen. ‘Historical Notes,’ paragraph 5. Kolapo, ‘Military turbulence’, p56–57 Nadel, Black Byzantium, 109; Kolapo, ‘CMS missionaries of African origin and extra-religious encounters at the Niger-Benue confluence, 1858–1880,’ African Studies Review, 43:2 (2000), 96–101. See, May, ‘Journey in the Yoruba and Nupe countries.’ UB, C. A3/o4 (b), Rev. Samuel A. Crowther, Journals & Reports 1857–72, Crowther, ‘Report on the Niger Mission.’ Crowther, Journal of an Expedition up the Niger, 39; Allen and Thomson, A Narrative of the Expedition, I, 338–340, and 368. Hutchinson, Impressions of Western Africa, 253. Whitford, Trading Life in Western and Central Africa, 193–194.

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40. UB, C. A3/04 (b) Rev. Samuel A. Crowther, Journals & Reports 1857–72, Crowther, ‘Report on the Niger Mission.’ 41. Crowther, ‘Report on the Niger Mission,’ 1857–72. 42. British National Archives, Kew, Foreign Office 2/34; Samuel A. Crowther, Onitsha, 1857–72. 43. UB, C. A3/o4(a), Bp. Samuel Crowther, Niger Mission, Letters & Papers 1857 to 1872, Crowther: Letter: King Massaba to His Excellency, John H. Glover: Biddah, 12 June 1870. 44. Crowther, Letters & Papers [1872] 1873–1875. 45. One of the highlight of such bold actions was the capture of Bishop Crowther, his son and others by Abokoh of Igbokehin. The expedition that rescued the bishop eventually resulted in the death of Consul Fell, (together with three or four others) of poisoned arrow wound. This is mentioned in the current journal of Thomas. 46. Leroy Vail, ‘Ethnicity in southern African history,’ in Roy Richard Grinker and Christopher B. Steiner (eds.), Perspectives on Africa: A Reader in Culture, History, and Representation 1997), 54. 47. John Lonsdale, ‘States and social processes in Africa: a historiographical survey,’ African Studies Review, 24:2–3 (1981), 151. 48. Dell Upton, ‘Ethnicity, authenticity, and invented traditions,’ Historical Archaeology 30:2 (1996), 1. 49. Even if this was for the instrumental reason of warding off extortion and the worse aspects of Nupe dominion.

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2 SL AVE TR ADING IN K ANO EMIR ATE1 Mohammed Bashir Salau

In a comprehensive historical synthesis on slavery in Africa first published in 1983, Paul E. Lovejoy claims, among others, that government agencies, foreign merchants and local Muslims were all involved in slave marketing in various Islamic areas of Africa. More importantly, he asserts that merchants often lingered around army camps in the hope of buying slaves cheaply and subsequently moving them to distant markets for disposal.2 Challenging the latter assumption, in a study on military slavery in Sudan, Douglas H. Johnson explains that Sudanese military slavery developed in the eastern Sudanese kingdoms of Sinnar and Darfur prior to the eighteenth century and from there spread to parts of East Africa and Central Sudan during the next two centuries. He further explains that Sudanese military slavery was ambiguous in character for several reasons including because it was tied to patronage and because slave soldiers and their descendants often had ambiguous liberty, which was frequently expressed in ethnic terms, throughout their lives in relation to the state. For Johnson, the ambiguous liberty of military slaves was a product of their acquisition by the state as well as by the uses to which they were put primarily by the state. In terms of the uses of military slaves,

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he suggests that they were mainly used for establishing centralized states and for maintaining the army of such centralized states. This political use of slaves was based on a pattern of raiding, which, according to Johnson, favoured racial antagonism. First established in eastern Sudanic kingdoms, the pattern of raiding that favoured the enslavement and use of people who were both culturally and politically different from free people in centralized states ensured that Sudanese slave soldiers were distinctive from the free populace they helped to control. Johnson explains that this distinctiveness of slave soldiers was fostered in ethnic terms and in the roles they were given to perform by the state. Having shown that state activity created martial races and was important in defining social stratification, Johnson concludes that ‘because of the importance of state activity in defining social stratification it is not possible to accept the proposal recently put forward by Lovejoy that Muslims traders merely keyed themselves into existing network of African war captives, convicted criminals, and debtors in obtaining slaves.’3 Although a number of works have been written specifically on the internal and external dimensions of slave trading in Africa, none of them has comprehensively tested Lovejoy’s assumption, while few of such works look at the Sokoto Caliphate.4 Of the relatively few works that examine slave trading in the Sokoto Caliphate, none focus primarily on Kano emirate even though it is widely recognized as having the most important slave market in the Caliphate. Conversely, the bulk of the literature on royal slavery in Kano emirate have mainly focused on elite or titled slaves, but not on the linkages between royal slaves and slave trading.5 This chapter attempts to begin to right the balance by examining the role of the state and merchants in slave trading in Kano emirate during the nineteenth century. The chapter will emphasize the interaction between state/military activities and slave trading by using a combination of source materials including oral data from the Yusuf Yunusa Collection,6 Arabic materials, and colonial records. It will attempt to show that merchants did not only linger around army camps in the hope of buying slaves cheaply and subsequently moving them to distant markets for disposal, they also shaped the ethnic and religious identity of many individuals who were traded.

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Slave trading in Kano emirate: role of the state The Kano emirate was founded in 1807 after a group of Fulani clan leaders, who were loyal to Uthman dan Fodio, killed the pre-jihad Kano ruler, Alwali, and defeated his forces at a fortified town known as Burumburum.7 Although the increasing enslavement of free Muslims was one of the major factors that stimulated the jihad, which led to the foundation of the Sokoto Caliphate,8 the wars between Alwali and the founders of Kano emirate in part resulted in the enslavement of many individuals.9 Thus, some of those enslaved by the jihad forces in Kano emirate area must have contributed as soldiers and in varied other capacities to the successful foundation of the emirate. With the defeat of Alwali, the Fulani clans who formed the new aristocratic group must have been aware of this fact. They also fully appreciated that to consolidate their hold on power they had to maintain a strong army and also develop their state and economy. Therefore, the post-jihad rulers in Kano emirate, as those in other parts of the Sokoto Caliphate, enacted policies geared towards political and economic consolidation, as well as enhancing Islam.10 The focus of this political and economic policy of entrenching a Muslim state was to subdue heathens, establish fortified fortresses or ribats, encourage sedentarization, and promote trade and production. Partly as a result of the implementation of these policies, by the second decade of the nineteenth century, Kano emirate became the major commercial, industrial, and agricultural centre in the Sokoto Caliphate. Tied to this process of political and economic consolidation was the increase in the slave population of the emirate. Although it is impossible to know the precise number of slaves in Kano emirate during the nineteenth century, oral data and the accounts of contemporaneous European explorers, both of which must be treated with caution, permit us to estimate the number of slaves found in birnin Kano during this period.11 For instance, in 1824, visiting European explorers observed that more than half of birnin Kano’s 30,000 to 40,000 people were slaves,12 while three years later Hugh Clapperton observed there were 30 slaves to every free man in the city.13 Commenting in the 1850s, Heinrich Barth indicated that the slave population in the city was about the same ratio as that of free men

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and described the slave presence then as ‘very considerable.’14 Another European writer, Charles H. Robinson, commented that slaves constituted over half of birnin Kano’s population by the last decade of the nineteenth century.15 Overall, these estimates were perhaps peculiar to birnin Kano at that time, but they do force us to recognize that slaves were a substantial part of the Kano emirate population. In general, the slave population in the Kano emirate was acquired through capture, purchase, gifts, tribute payments, and breeding. Of these means, capture through warfare or slave raids accounted for most of the enslaved.16 Although the masu sarauta17 in Kano emirate were rarely directly involved in slave trading, they were renowned for their involvement in the military activities, which assisted to produce the vast majority of slaves used and traded in the emirate. Also, they were renowned for carrying out significant state economic development programmes. Therefore, a focus on the military initiatives of these aristocrats, and on state actions in general, will demonstrate not only how the state generally helped to produce slaves but also how state actions influenced slave trading. Taking advantage of their leadership positions in society, succeeding emirs, especially from the reign of Ibrahim Dabo (1819–1846), emerged as a significant part of the major slave owners in the emirate. Although these emirs, as private slave owners, used their slaves in varied capacities in both the rural and urban areas, they stationed a significant number at ribats located in various parts of the state.18 Largely based permanently at these ribats, such slaves and their descendants, as Sudanese military slaves, helped to maintain and consolidate the state.19 Accordingly, they were often deployed for wars and slave raids mainly against people of the Dar al-Harb,20 and occasionally against rebellious citizens/vassals and other rival Muslim societies.21 Thus, following the defeat of Alwali and the relative peace experienced during the reign of the first post-jihad Kano emirate ruler, Sulaiman, military activities against those local forces who opposed the rule of Ibrahim Dabo or Sulaiman’s successor resulted in the seizure of more captives. Often locally considered as apostates, such captives, however, included Muslims and non-Muslims as one nineteenth-century source suggests:

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then the battle of Dantunku at Danyaya. After one year he assembled his army and was given a lot of aid by some of his brothers the Amirs. When Dantunku learnt of this development he sought the help of Kuffar in order to form a large army. The two armies met at Sabon Ruwa on Sunday 16th Rabiu Awwal and the jamaa defended and held to the right, Dantunku thought that he had driven them away but the Amir of Kano took over the command of his army personally and this changed the course of events. The two men saw each other. Dust was raised at the battle ground as a result of which the kuffar deserted unnoticed until when the dust settled then they were seen escaping to the hills where were spread in borders of their country none of them turned back. Dantunku escaped until he passed his abode. The people of the country fled, no house was left in his territory that day. They returned to the Valley of Sabon Ruwa where they camped. From this battle a lot of wealth that could not be estimated were gathered for the Amir. Which included camels, lady slaves, horses, merchandise and many wordly things.22 On other occasions, warfare related to kingship struggle also resulted in the enslavement or seizure of captives even after the reign of Ibrahim Dabo. For instance, the Kano civil war or basasa, which took place between 1893 and 1895 when two rival claimants for the throne fought against each other, also resulted in the enslavement of many, including Muslims.23 In the case of the Dawakin Kudu region of Kano emirate, for instance, a colonial official indicated that when the civil war broke out Dawakin Kudu should have remained loyal to the Galadima and Emir but Yusufu sent a powerful envoy to the town, the Jarmai Dilla, and persuaded the people to change sides . . . .The Tukurawa then broke in, sacked and burnt the town, and carried the women and children off into slavery24 Apart from using their army in local engagements, Kano emirate rulers also used them against foreign/external enemies. In the nineteenth

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century, external wars were fought against not only non-Muslim societies but also against fellow Muslim societies. In the latter regard, Kano emirate fought mainly against Maradi and Damagaram. According to various sources, wars against these particular societies, which were mainly based on expansionist ambitions, were sometimes fought outside Kano emirate territories and the state’s army usually took many captives in the course of such engagements.25 With respect to the nineteenth-century wars that Kano emirate fought against non-Muslim societies, we know that these military engagements were mainly against the Ningi people. Various sources indicate that related military activities were partly tied to the activities of relatively few rebellious Muslims, led by one Malam Hamza, who migrated from the Tsakuwa region of Kano emirate to Ningi areas. Partly to check the activities of rebellious Muslims, emiral forces sometimes raided the non-Muslim Ningi territories, resulting in the seizure of many captives who were brought back to the Kano emirate, especially to the royal city of Kano.26 According to the Kano Chronicles, for instance, during emir Abdullahi’s reign (1855–82): He fought with Warji after the war with Kuluki, and took enormous spoil. No one knows the amount of spoil that was taken at a town called Sir. The corpses of Warjawa, slaughtered round their camp, were about four hundred. The sarki returned home. After a short time, the Sarki attacked warji again, and once more took many spoils. Kano was filled with slaves . . . 27 In addition to the external wars mentioned above, Kano emirate forces were sometimes invited to assist other Muslim societies like Gombe in warfare. In this context, war booty, which usually included captives, was usually shared between Kano emirate and the other force(s) it assisted.28 It should be mentioned at this point that the fact that Kano emirate recorded many successful raids against its enemies does not mean that its enemies were always defenceless and unsuspecting. As a matter of fact, the enemies of Kano emirate, as those of Zaria emirate, often had

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impressive defences including natural citadels, man-made village fortifications and effective war equipments like the cotton-quilt armour. On top of all these defensive mechanisms, they patrolled their societies regularly and sometimes initiated wars against Kano emirate and other societies. In the latter case, we know that on several occasions the enemies of Kano emirate made successful raids into the latter’s territory and acquired captives in the process. For instance, according to colonial records, the Ningi people attacked the Gabo village area of Kano emirate on one occasion killing some and capturing some women and children, while in another area known as Gurjiya there were engagements between local forces and the Ningi people in which prisoners were taken on both sides.29 Similarly, according to the Kano Chronicles, sometime during Abdullahi’s reign, he ‘went to Sokoto leaving his son Yusufu at Takai. While he was there Dan Maji came to attack Yusufu. A battle was fought at Dubaiya. The Kanawa fled and deserted Yusufu. Many men were slain and captured.’30 Although enemy raids into Kano were sometimes successful, some of such raids went wrong at either the planning or execution stage. Reporting on one occasion that an enemy raid did not achieve the desired result right from the planning stage, Paul Staudinger noted that: On leaving the town I saw another example of Hausa justice. Outside the palace gate I had already noticed a number of naked, shackled people who were to be taken before the king to be sentenced. They belonged to the arna, probably Gobirawa, who had been caught spying on Kano. The enemies of the Hausa, always send a number of their people into the principal cities of the country to glean information about the day of the royal armies departure and its movement so that they could arrange their attacks accordingly. This time the king condemned three of the spies to death and five others to be sold into slavery outside the country.31 Similarly, Nasiru Dantiye notes an example of when an enemy raid into Kano failed at the execution stage. Specifically, he writes

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that the enemies suffered defeat resulting in the enslavement of many: At the time that Dan Maje launched his attack on the emirate, Rano was under the rule of sarkin Rano Aliyu (1845–57), one of Emir Abdulahi Ibrahim’s ‘many great captains of war.’ The Ningawa were intercepted by the masu zaman ribatsi from Rano at Tugugu near Bunkure, about two miles from Gurjiyar Sarki. The Ningawa suffered a humiliating defeat at the battle that ensued at Tugugu. The decisiveness of Rano’s victory in this encounter was such that ‘on that . . . day, even women took prisoners.’ Many of the Ningi warriors gave themselves up. It is worthwhile to note that this victory was achieved solely by the Rano forces without any reinforcement from Kano. Estimates of Ningawa taken into slavery during this battle range from hundreds to thousands. The late sarkin Rano, Alhaji Abubakar Ila, in an interview on Radio Kano, Nigeria, related that about 1000 Ningi slaves were sent to Birnin Kano, the emirate’s headquarters.32 It follows from the above discussion that slaves in Kano emirate army were used in consolidating the state and that the state policy ensured that groups brought into the expanding emirate were politically and culturally distinct from the free population. It also follows that Kano emirate enemies also took military actions that sometimes led to the enslavement of many of the emirate’s citizens and other Muslims from elsewhere. With particular reference to the state’s relationship to slave trading, foreign and local merchants were aware of the significance of the emirate’s local and external military bases for their business. Therefore, they often visited the aristocrats not only at ribats located within Kano emirate but also at the state’s military camps located elsewhere during moments of warfare. Such visits were primarily for business purposes and slave acquisition/trading was clearly part of the reasons for such visits. This is illustrated by merchant visits to the emir of Kano, amid the warfare between Kano emirate and

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Dan Tunku’s army, in one of his major ribats known as Fanisau. Even though Fanisau was not a significant caravan centre, merchants occasionally brought goods into the settlement from neighbouring and distant communities for disposal.33 A significant part of these commodities were luxuries such as horses and shields hence aristocrats and wealthy individuals mainly bought them. It appears that the transaction in luxury commodities was conducted at the residence of the aristocrats and wealthy individuals. Apparently, the emir of Kano was entitled to the first choice of relevant commodities whenever he was present at Fanisau. If he was not interested in the products, then an aristocrat or wealthy individual in the settlement purchased them. In 1824, for instance, Clapperton found Arab merchants at the outer guardhouse of the emir’s residence with horses they had for sale. More interestingly, Clapperton was also accompanied by two birnin Kanobased merchants namely Hat Salah and El Wordee who, after his departure from Fanisau, stayed behind to sell two horses to the emir. The horses in question were given to Hat Salah for disposal by Dr Walter Oudney, who in turn bought one at Kouka from one Hadje Ali Boo-Khaloom and obtained the other as gift from the Sheikh of Borno.34 Whether or not emir Ibrahim Dabo or another aristocrat at the settlement bought the two horses on this particular date that Clapperton visited Fanisau is not clear. However, we know that the emir often bought horses and retained some in the settlement.35 Available evidence indicates that the merchants who brought horses and luxury items for disposal at Fanisau were associated with the desert edge commerce of Central Sudan and were also slave dealers.36 Thus, it is not surprising that, as in other parts of the emirate, the luxury items they brought to Fanisau were exchanged for slaves by the emir and other buyers.37 Apart from exchanging luxury products for slaves in Fanisau and other Kano emirate military bases, favoured individuals in society, mainly rich merchants, also often received slaves as gifts from aristocrats. It is clear that some of the slaves that merchants received as gifts from aristocrats, as some of those they acquired in exchanged for other products, were ultimately disposed of at local markets or elsewhere.38

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While merchants obtained slaves as gifts from aristocrats and also purchased some at Kano emirate military bases, the state fostered their slave-trading activities in another way. In particular, the wars of expansion and consolidation promoted by the emirate and the Sokoto Caliphate in general resulted in the defeat of many political units39 and consequently merchants could travel more freely, because of protection offered by the state to expand their range of operations. In turn, an enlarged network of trade routes linked various emirates, thus facilitating the regular flow of slaves from one area of the Caliphate to another, and beyond. As the most important commercial centre of the Caliphate, Kano emirate, therefore, received a significant number of slaves through trade with such areas as Adamawa, Bauchi, Gombe, Wadai, Bagarmi, Zinder, and the middle Benue region.40 The state therefore not only produced some of the slaves traded within Kano emirate, it also provided an environment conducive for business, including slave trading. As part of creating a conducive environment for slave trading, the state sought to implement Islamic laws while it also allowed slave trading at various local markets. Thus, in the latter regard, there were slave markets in all large towns like Wudil and Garko, although transactions in slaves appears to have been overwhelmingly concentrated in three slave markets located in the Mandawari, Fasa-Keyi, and Kurmi market units of Kano city.41 In Kano emirate, as in other parts of the Sokoto Caliphate, various rulers realized that all types of slave dealers related to the various slave markets made considerable return on their investments. They, therefore, levied some form of tax on any slave sale made in the market. Details on the tax levied on slave sales are sketchy. However, according to several sources, brokers at Yan bayi in Kurmi market were usually paid commission after any slave sale deal and they in turn gave a portion of their commission to the chief slave broker in the market.42 It would seem that the chief slave broker kept some portion of the tax he received and forwarded the rest to superior state officials. The amount forwarded to superior state officials in any given year must have been substantial. In fact, according to one source, the tax levied in the Yan bayi market, may altogether amount to ‘from a hundred and fifty to two hundred millions of kurdi per annum’ during the mid nineteenth century.43

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Slave trading in Kano emirate: role of merchants Although foreign and local merchants transacted in slaves within Kano emirate, my analysis will focus more on the local merchants because we know much more about their slave-trading activities within the context of the study area. Local merchants involved in slave trading could be subdivided into two categories: those engaged in long distance trade and those who acted as brokers in the various local slave markets. Irrespective of whether or not they were involved in long distance trade, local merchants could participate in and/or accompany slave raiding expeditions organized by the state. However, as has been shown elsewhere, military service was not popular among merchants and other free people in Kano emirate, and, in turn, this partly explains why the state relied on the use of slaves as soldiers and administrators.44 In general, Kano emirate’s long-distance traders were from diverse ethnic backgrounds, but virtually all of them identified as Hausa traders. Although a lot has been written about the Hausa traders, it is important in the present context to stress that they were very adventurous and were closely associated with the Muslim ‘commercial diaspora’ that spanned a vast part of the savannah and forest regions of West Africa.45 Given their association with such an extensive Muslim commercial diaspora, it is unsurprising that Hausa long-distance merchants who transported slaves into the Kano region often acquired slaves from other Sokoto Caliphate communities and West African societies like Zaria, Katsina, Bargami, Kuka, Wadai, Bauchi, Borno, Gaundere, Nupe, and Adamawa.46 The slaves that these merchants obtained from such areas were products of slave raids initiated by either the various states listed above or by their vassal groups. It is also clear that Kano merchants often lingered around military camps in order to obtain their supplies. In the Adamawa region, for instance, Philip Burnham explains that a Muslim state known as Ngaoundere was established there through a Fulani-led jihad in the nineteenth century and that most raids by this community were against non-Muslims. According to Burnham, Gbaya took place during the dry season and normally lasted several months, although in some cases they stretched over several

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years . . . A sizeable proportion of Ngaoundere would participate in these major raids and one French traveler reported that when he visited the town in 1893, 3,000 out of the total town population of 11,000 were absent for such a purpose. Once the war party, complete with women and domestic slaves to look after the warriors’ needs, had traveled to within striking range of the enemy, a fortified military camp (sangyere) was established to serve as a safe base. The sangyere also served as a slave market after captives had been taken. The ruler of Ngaoundere profited heavily from these raids, since he claimed a minimum of fifty percent of the slaves taken. When the ruler’s titled slaves commanded such a slaving expedition, he had first choice from the whole take, although he of course would reward his officers well. The bulk of the slaves taken were sold by the successful warriors to Hausa traders who visited the sangeyere for this purpose, and these captives were then exported for resale in the large slave markets of Hausaland and Borno.47 Similarly, Burnham explains that the slaves that Hausa traders purchased from Gbaya tributaries of Ngaoundere were mainly obtained from slave raids in the northwestern margins of Gbaya country.48 While merchants obtained slaves from Muslim communities closely or distantly located to Kano emirate, many of them also acquired slaves from independent non-Muslim communities whose notions of enslaveable people was radically different from those of the various Hausa/Muslim states and their vassals. The acquisition of slaves by Hausa traders from these autonomous non-Muslim communities is a reflection of their weak political allegiances. Driven primarily by profit motives, many Hausa traders therefore acquired slaves from non-Muslim groups like the Ningi, the Gbagyi, and the Gbaya that offered sustained opposition to not only Kano emirate, but also to other Muslim societies and their non-Muslim vassal groups. Since many of the autonomous non-Muslim societies derived Kano citizens and or Hausa/Muslim captives from raids against their enemies, as the above example of the Ningi raid on Kano emirate suggests, it is not surprising that some of the slaves acquired from autonomous

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non-Muslim groups, many of who were subsequently traded in Kano and elsewhere, were also either Kano citizens or Hausa/Muslims from close Kano emirate allies. Apart from acquiring Kano citizens and or Hausa/Muslim slaves from autonomous non-Muslim societies, Hausa merchants also enslaved those within Kano emirate’s notion of non-enslaveable peoples through kidnapping. Although kidnapping was illegal partly because Islam does not encourage the act, random kidnapping became particularly endemic within the emirate whenever the enforcement of sharia law was lax and/or during periods of turmoil.49 It appears that Hausa merchants were mainly responsible for kidnapping citizens and that some of the kidnapped citizens were ultimately enslaved or traded at local slave markets. Besides those kidnapped within Kano emirate, Hausa or Muslims from other regions like Borno were also seized and sold into slavery in the Kano region and elsewhere.50 Overall, the fact that Hausa merchants acquired Hausa/Muslim slaves from autonomous non-Muslim groups and through kidnapping even within Kano emirate makes it unsurprisingly that they also keyed themselves into an existing network of convicted criminals and debtors to obtain slaves of varied background including Hausa/Muslims.51 The fact that Hausa and other merchants obtained and traded both Muslim and non Muslim slaves, including Sokoto Caliphate citizens, was not unnoticed by the leaders of the Kano emirate and leaders of the Caliphate in general. It is no wonder that by 1847 no trans-Saharan ‘caravan was allowed to depart from Hausaland without its contingent of slaves being thoroughly examined to make sure that none was a Muslim.’52 While such searches of caravans indicate the trade in citizens/Muslim slaves in Kano emirate and other parts of the Sokoto Caliphate, Muhammad Bello53 also alludes to the enslavement and trade in free Muslims in his conversation with the European diplomat known as Clapperton in 1824. As a matter of fact, Bello wanted Britain to collaborate with his society to stop the shipment of slaves across the Atlantic based primarily on his displeasure about the enslavement and trade of free Muslims by Hausa merchants.54 Despite the concerns of Sokoto Caliphate leaders and the actions they took to check the enslavement and trade in enslaved Hausa/Muslims, the illegal trade

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in those considered as free persons continued in Kano emirate and elsewhere. To be sure, the reason for the persistence of the enslavement and trade in Caliphate citizens/Muslim slaves is mainly because many traders were, as mentioned, driven primarily by profit motives. But how did these Hausa traders beat state inspection agents at Caliphate frontiers and moved wrongfully enslaved citizens and Muslims into the Caliphate and ultimately to Kano emirate markets? How did they disguise the trade in wrongfully enslaved Hausa/Muslims in the various Kano emirate slave markets considering the illegal nature of the trade? How did both Hausa and foreign merchants disguise the movement of wrongfully enslaved peoples out of Kano emirate markets and ultimately across state inspections points at the frontiers of the Sokoto Caliphate? According to oral sources, non-Muslim communities who were enemies of Kano emirate and the Sokoto Caliphate ransomed Muslim/ Hausa captives, and, at the same time, they sold captives to Hausa merchants who in turn freed some through ransoming.55 Oral sources therefore suggest that Hausa merchants did not only serve as ‘vital communication links between captors and those willing to pay a ransom’ as a previous study seems to suggest.56 As a matter of fact, they appreciated the fact that they could derive more income through ransoming than through the disposal of a slave in the market and this partly explains why they engaged in kidnapping of Kano emirate citizens and knowingly bought Muslim captives from non-Muslim enemies of the emirate and from other Muslim societies. In addition to the knowledge that relatively more income could be derived from ransoming Muslim slaves, Hausa merchants were aware that ransoming was legally permitted in the various Muslim societies in West Africa. Based on such knowledge, they would therefore have informed the state agents of Muslim societies at various inspection points along the trade routes leading in and out of Kano emirate that the Muslim slaves they acquired from non-Muslim communities and from kidnapping were meant for disposal through ransoming. While Hausa merchants might have used the above and other similar excuses to foster the movement of wrongfully enslaved Muslims in and out of the study area and Sokoto Caliphate in general, available evidence

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indicates that they sometimes masked the ethnic and religious identities of such slaves along the trade routes in order to ensure smooth delivery. It is apparent that merchants masked the ethnic and religious identity of wrongfully enslaved Muslims along trade routes through two major means. First, according to one source, Hausa merchants sometimes ripped out the tongue or at least part of the tongue of their slaves so that ‘their Hausa accent would not become normal even after the ripped tongue was healed.’57 Although this evidence must not be taken at face value, it does suggest that the masking of relevant slaves’ ethnic and religious identities involved violence. Second, they assigned new names or ethnic labels to wrongfully enslaved Muslim/Hausa. Thus, along trade routes merchants referred to their Muslim slaves in such ethnic terms as Ba Adame, Gwarawa, and Ningawa while they also often assigned, to the relevant slaves, new names associated to slavery and to non-Muslims.58 Such names included Allah Magani and Nasamu. It is not necessary for me to enter into an indepth consideration of the significance of such names; suffice it to say that we know that Muslim slaves often embraced the names assigned to them by Hausa merchants not only along trade routes but also at slave markets within Kano emirate.59 It seems that the fear of a worse experience, especially violence, was one of the reasons for their acceptance of such names/identities. After the march to Kano emirate, which not only involved shaping the ethnic and religious identities of many slaves but which was also characterized by acute suffering experienced mainly by the enslaved,60 long distance traders often passed on most of their slaves, both rightly and wrongfully enslaved, to local slave brokers for disposal. These slave brokers, as long-distance traders, usually acquired slaves from state officials and from various other sources. For instance, they sometimes received slave supplies directly from residents of Zaria emirate, including from the office of the emir of that society.61 In addition to receiving slave supplies from such external sources, slaves already in the emirate sometimes presented themselves to brokers for disposal partly because of their desire to change masters while slave owners of varied background in Kano emirate, due to financial problems and other similar reasons, sometimes also asked slave brokers to help them dispose off some of the slaves already in the emirate.62

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In general, slave brokers in Kano emirate were relatively few and they were mainly male Hausa and Muslim. In Kano city, for instance, the best known amongst these dealers were Barmani, Malam Na-Dala, Galadima Cilam, Abba Kusu, Darko, Dikko, Mamman, Dan Sakwato, Inyaku, and Musa.63 Each slave broker, as others not mentioned here, was responsible for the feeding, accommodation, and the general welfare of the slaves placed under his custody for disposal. In terms of providing accommodation for such slaves, therefore, a few wealthy brokers like Barmani had separate prison like buildings where they kept the slaves, while other relatively poor brokers accommodated slaves meant for disposal in the inner parts of their own residences.64 Irrespective of where slaves were accommodated, however, their living conditions were usually worse than those of members of the broker’s family and this largely explains why ‘some kind neighbours occasionally helped the dealers to feed the slaves by sending to the slaves the extra food they had, especially in the night.’65 With particular reference to wrongfully enslaved Hausa/Muslims who were brought to slave brokers for disposal at the internal slave markets, some practices of slave brokers are suggestive of continuing masking of such slaves’ original ethnicities and religion.66 One of these practices involved allowing slaves to introduce themselves to potential buyers, when the latter asked them to do so, with the new Hausa names associated with slavery given to them by long-distance traders soon after their enslavement. Another practice involved the smearing of slaves, irrespective of their ethnic or religious background, with ashes before they were displayed at the various slave markets everyday.67 The ashes smeared on slave bodies could mask stereotypical Hausa or Muslim physical identifiers. Therefore, smearing of slaves with ashes could not have simply been for indicating the slave’s servile condition as many sources suggest. A third practice which must have helped to mask the identities of slaves involved confining them to a prison like environment at the end of each day. Finally, sources suggest that brokers primarily sold slaves with special skills and beautiful women from their houses; but disposing off of slaves from such houses could also have served to conceal their identities.68

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Although there were numerous slave markets in several parts of Kano emirate,69 we know more about the slave trading at the Kurmi market, especially at the Yan bayi part of the market, of Kano city. The following discussion will focus on slave trading processes in this particular slave market, since it will shed light on how transactions in slaves took place elsewhere in the emirate. At Yan bayi, slave brokers marketed slaves daily. Often, they wanted to dispose of slaves quickly and for the best price so that they could not significantly incur the costs of feeding and caring for slaves. The entire slaves under the custody of each broker were, therefore, usually put up for sale on a daily basis. However, brokers did not go about hawking slaves. Rather, they sold the slaves entrusted to them in stalls. To limit the cost of feeding slaves in each stall, brokers specifically encouraged each slave to beg for food while on display. Thus they often provided each slave a calabash for this purpose.70 At Yan bayi, brokers took other measures that partly ensured that sales of most slaves would not drag on for a long period. For instance, although in theory a slave could refuse to be sold to a particular buyer thereby prolonging his or her sales period, most slaves did not refuse to be sold and no slave sale is known to have dragged on indefinitely partly because brokers made slave experiences at the market stalls very unpleasant by not only refusing to feed them adequately, but also by, among other strategies, keeping them immobile while at the market.71 Slave buyers who patronized the Yan bayi market were from diverse background. They included residents of Kano emirate, Hausa traders from other parts of the Sokoto Caliphate and foreign merchants. According to oral sources, slave brokers preferred selling wrongfully enslaved Muslims to foreign merchants and to Hausa traders who travelled out of the study area and Sokoto Caliphate in general because such slaves posed more risk of escape or resistance.72 It is difficult to determine how many wrongfully enslaved Muslims were exported from the various Kano emirate slave markets during the nineteenth century. However, Barth reports that the overall number of slaves exported from these specific markets and the total number of slaves bought from these same institutions for local use within the emirate was considerable:

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it is extremely difficult to say how many of these unfortunate creatures are exported, as a greater number are carried away by small caravans to Bornu and Nupe than on the direct road to Ghat and Fezzan. Altogether, I do not think that the number of slaves annually exported from Kano exceeds 5000; but, of course, a considerable number are sold into domestic slavery, either to the inhabitants of the province itself or to those of the adjoining districts.73 Other sources, especially oral and recent research, all point to the accuracy of Barth’s claim that the overall number of slaves exported from Kano emirate markets and the total number of slaves bought from these same markets for local use was considerable.74 These other sources also suggest that at Kano emirate slave markets, including Yan bayi, slave buyers generally favoured closing on slave deals as fast as possible. However, they usually preferred certain types of slaves and also wanted to buy slaves at best prices possible.75 In view of the various complex calculations that informed the decisions of slave buyers, it is unsurprising that upon arrival at Yan bayi a typical buyer did not only examine the eyes, teeth, ears, and other parts of a slave’s body, but also often enquired about a slave’s non-physical qualities prior to any price negotiation.76 However, slaves were chattels as well as persons, and as such while buyers try to identify slaves that match their needs, slaves could help to determine, among others, who bought them. Oral sources suggest that sometimes while helping to determine who bought them, they could also negotiate conditions of servitude with prospective buyers.77 The factors determining the prices of slaves are difficult to estimate. Although physical condition, virtues and vices, and skills were important considerations in estimating the value of a slave. For example, slave values in Kano emirate and elsewhere in the Sokoto Caliphate were assessed primarily according to sex and age distinctions.78 In the 1850s, James Richardson noted the number of age categories for each sex and the prices of slaves under each category.79 Table 2.1 suggests that five major divisions existed for males and six major categories existed for females. Each division for both sexes was designated by a special term which, as David Tambo rightly notes, derives

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Table 2.1: Slave Categories in Kano in the 1850s Men Garzab: male with beard Morhag: male with beard beginning Sabaai: male without beard

Price ($)80 4–6 12 14

Sadasi: grown male child

12

Hhamsi: male child

8

Women Ajouza: old woman Shamalia: woman with breast hanging down Dabukia: female with plump breast Farkhah: female with small breasts Sadasia: smaller girl Hhamasiah: female child

Price ($) 4 and under 8 and under 32 and under 40 and under 16 and under 12 and under

Source: Richardson, Narrative, II, 202–203.

from the Arabic language. The categories with the highest prices for both sexes were young adults. However, female slaves generally brought the more fancy prices. Slave prices in the above table, of course, by no means represent the slave prices in Kano throughout the nineteenth century mainly because slave prices fluctuated according to supply and demand conditions as well as to the particular attributes of the person involved. Irrespective of the slave’s value, however, cowries were primarily used for purchasing slaves during the nineteenth century. In terms of how much profit slave traders in Kano emirate made, one European explorer, Heinrich Barth, indicated that at Yola a slave was priced at four pieces of cloth, turedi, and that at Kano such cloth cost 1,800 to 2,000 cowries (k) each or a total of 7,200k to 8,000k. On the basis of Barth’s account and the fact that another European explorer, Richardson, revealed that once in Kano emirate a slave might bring 25,000 to 30,000k, if a good male and 80,000k, if a good female. Tambo suggests that the gross profits on the round trip between Adamawa and Kano emirate would have exceeded ‘1000 percent.’81 Whether or not Tambo’s estimate is right, a considerable part of any gross profit related to the round trip between Adamawa and Kano emirate and between Kano emirate and elsewhere must have been realized at Yan bayi. Such profits, as already hinted, were shared between those who entrusted slave brokers with slaves, the slave brokers and their assistants, if any, and the state.

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Conclusion This chapter demonstrates that as in Sudan, the political use of slaves in Kano emirate resulted in the capture of many people who were politically and culturally different from free members of society. In the context of the emirate, however, these captives were not only used in strengthening the army, many of them were also either sold or given as gifts by the state to merchants of varied background, who often visited the emiral war camps. While the state is shown to be the major supplier of the slaves marketed within Kano emirate, the chapter also suggests that the state shaped slave trading in several other ways such as by providing market spaces and through the provision of a business environment conducive to slave trading. After highlighting the interaction between state/military activities and slave trading, this chapter shows that in addition to acquiring slaves from Kano emirate war camps, Hausa merchants obtained slaves that they traded within the emirate partly from kidnapping and from other societies closely or distantly located from the emirate. Their kidnapping activities resulted in the wrongful enslavement of many Muslims while they purchased many other enslaved Muslims from varied sources, especially from non-Muslim societies based outside the frontiers of Kano emirate and Sokoto Caliphate in general. I argue that to foster the movement of wrongfully enslaved Muslims to and from regions outside the Caliphate, Hausa merchants shaped their ethnic and religious identities through violent and non-violent means. It is suggested that the latter strategy involved sharp and dubious practices such as smearing slaves with ashes while on display at slave markets. Overall, the observations on identity and ethnicity in this chapter confirm other information on the use of the concept of ethnicity as a tool of historical analysis to explain slavery in Africa and elsewhere. Following scholars like Fredrik Barth, some historians have stressed that cultural approaches to ethnicity are inadequate for analysing experiences of both the slave owners and enslaved people in Africa and in other contexts. 82 They argue that although African groups developed ethnic boundaries/identification or developed social, cultural, and political markers, which distinguished between

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those who were protected from enslavement and those who were not, these boundaries were flexible and somehow amorphous.83 With particular reference to the Central Sudan, a study of slave trading in Kano emirate has accomplished two tasks in relation to this more historical approach to the study of slavery and ethnicity. First, the findings of this study confirm the findings of other studies on Kano emirate and the Sokoto Caliphate in general, which stress the ethnic divide between slaves and traders; connections between religion, ethnicity and slavery; and connections between ethnicity and warfare. As earlier studies,84 the present study found, for instance, that slaves were often ‘non-Hausa’ and referred to as Ningawa and in such other ethnic terms while slave traders were often designated as ‘Hausa.’ Second, earlier studies have emphasized how slave traders of diverse ethnic backgrounds identified as Hausa traders and shaped the identities of enslaved non-Muslims/non-Hausas, but not how they shaped the identities of the wrongfully enslaved Hausas/Hausa Muslims.85 As is clear from the discussion of the process of ethnic identification in the context of the slave trading system in Kano emirate, this paper has further developed that specific argument by stressing that the identity/ethnicity of wrongfully enslaved Hausas/Hausa Muslims was also often fluid and dynamic as those of Kano emirate slave traders. In addition to issues of identity and that of the interaction between the state, foreign, and local merchants in slave trading, this chapter highlights slave trading patterns within Kano emirate. Important patterns identified include: the use of resident popular slave brokers, public display of slaves at slave markets, maltreatment of trade slaves, use of cowries for transactions in slaves, and payment of higher prices for female slaves. Overall, the study is important for it reveals that the slave trading pattern in Kano emirate is not quite different from the slave trading pattern Jan Hogendorn identified in his study of Zaria emirate. It is also important for it shows that we must be suspicious of claims that Muslim traders never ‘keyed themselves to existing network of African war captives, convicted criminals, and debtors in obtaining slaves,’ and that the state exclusively shapes social stratification in any given society.86

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Notes 1. I would like to thank Susan Grayzel, the editors, and the anonymous reviewers of this volume for their comments and support. 2. Paul E. Lovejoy, Transformations in Slavery. A History of Slavery in Africa (New York, [1983] 2000), 15–16. 3. Douglas H. Johnson, ‘Sudanese military slavery from the eighteenth to the twentieth century,’ in Leonie J. Archer (ed.), Slavery and Other Forms of Unfree Labor (London, 1988), 142–156. 4. See for instance, David Carl Tambo, ‘The Sokoto Caliphate slave trade in the nineteenth century,’ International Journal of African Historical Studies, 9:2 (1976), 187–217; Jan S. Hogendorn, ‘Slave acquisition and delivery in precolonial Hausaland,’ in B. K. Swartz and Raymond E. Dumett (eds.), West African Culture Dynamics: Archaeological and Historical Perspectives (The Hague and New York, 1980), 477–493. 5. Sean Stilwell, Paradoxes of Power: The Kano ‘Mamluks’ and Male Royal Slavery in the Sokoto Caliphate, 1804–1903 (Portsmouth, 2004). 6. The Yunusa Collection consists of interviews recorded on cassette tapes in 1975. They have been deposited in the Northern History Research Scheme at Ahmadu Bello University, Nigeria and the Harriet Tubman Institute at York University, Canada. 7. For details on the jihad in Kano, see for instance Abdullahi Mahadi, ‘The state and the economy: the Sarauta system and it’s roles in shaping the society and economy of Kano with particular reference to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Ahmadu Bello University, 1982); Ibrahim Ado-Kurawa, Sullubawan Dabo (Kano, 1990); and Ibrahim Ado-Kurawa, The Jihad in Kano (Kano, 1989). 8. Humphrey J. Fisher, ‘A Muslim William Wilberforce? The Sokoto jihad as anti-slavery crusade: an enquiry into historical causes,’ in Serge Daget (ed.), De la traite a l’esclavage: actes du colloque international sur la traits des noirs (Nantes and Paris, 1988), 537–556. 9. Ado-Kurawa, Jihad, 28. 10. For further details on the Sokoto Caliphate policy see Murray Last, The Sokoto Caliphate (London, 1967), 63–89; Ibraheem Sulaiman, The Islamic State and the Challenge of History: Ideals, Policies and Operation of the Sokoto Caliphate (London and New York, 1987). 11. Birnin Kano refers to the royal city of Kano emirate. 12. Sulaiman, The Islamic State, 281. 13. Hugh Clapperton, Journal of a Second Expedition into the Interior of Africa (London, 1829), 171.

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14. Heinrich Barth, Travels and Discoveries in North and Central Africa Being a Journal of an Expedition Undertaken Under the Auspices of H.B.M.’S Government in the Years 1849–1855, I (London, [1857] 1965), 143–144. 15. Charles H. Robinson, Hausaland; or Fifteen Hundred Miles through the Central Soudan (London, 1896), 113. 16. Yunusa Collection: Interview with M. Muhammadu, Bakin Zuwo, Kano emirate, 9 October, 1975. 17. It refers to titled officers or the nobility. 18. For further details see for instance, Mahadi, ‘State and the economy;’ Mohammed Bashir Salau, ‘Slaves in a Muslim city: a survey of slavery in nineteenth century Kano,’ in Behnaz Mirzai Asl, Ismael Musah Montana, and Paul E. Lovejoy, (eds.), Islam, Slavery and Diaspora (Trenton, 2009), 91–101; Mohammed Bashir Salau, ‘Ribats and the Development of Plantations in the Sokoto Caliphate: a case study of Fanisau,’ African Economic History, 34 (2006), 23–43; Nasiru Ibrahim Dantiye, ‘A study of the origins, status and defensive role of four Kano frontier strongholds (Ribats) in the Emirate period (1809–1903)’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Indiana University, 1985). 19. However, unlike Sudanese military slaves described by Johnson, the slaves used in the army in Kano emirate were also employed in agricultural productions on plantations. For further discussion on the activities of slaves stationed at ribats in Kano emirate see works mentioned in the above footnote. Moreover, as Ibrahim Hamza rightly suggest, as Sudanese military slaves, the distinctiveness of slaves employed in plantations and ribats in Kano emirate was also fostered in ethnic terms. Ibrahim Hamza, ‘Slavery and Plantation society at Dorayi in Kano Emirate,’ in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Slavery on the Frontiers of Islam (Princeton, 2004), 125–148. 20. This refers to ‘land of unbelievers’ or to non-Muslim societies. 21. Abdullahi Mahadi ‘The aftermath of the jihad in the Central Sudan as a major factor in the volume of the trans-Saharan slave trade in the 19th Century,’ in Elizabeth Savage (ed.), The Human Commodity: Perspectives on the Trans-Saharan Slave Trade (London, 1992), 115. 22. Kurawa, Jihad, 52. It is significant to note that Dantunku (or Dan Tunku) mentioned in the above quote was a Fulani warrior, and one of dan Fodio’s fourteen military commanders or flag bearers, who founded Kazaure emirate. Also, it should be noted that the above mentioned war between Dabo and Dan Tunku followed the latter’s refusal to recognize the leadership of the former. Specifically, the war in question was sparked by Dabo’s attempt to punish Dan Tunku’s disloyalty by assigning one of his (Dabo’s) loyal followers, Sarkin Bai Dambazau, an extensive territory, consisting of some areas that the latter acquired in the jihad, to administer.

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23. For further details on the Kano civil war, see Adamu Mohammed Fika, The Kano Civil War and British Over-rule 1882–1940 (Ibadan, 1978). 24. National Archives of Kaduna, Kaduna (NAK), KAN PRO 1/11/6, 1957–58, Tudun Wada History. 25. For further details on such wars and their consequences see, for instance, M. G. Smith, Government in Kano, 1350–1950 (Boulder, 1997). Also see, Yunusa Collection: Interview with Mallam Idrisu Danmaiso, Hausawa ward, Kano, 7 August 1975; and interview with Alhaji Isyaku Yakasai, Kano, 6 August 1975. 26. For more details on the raids on the Ningi region, see Smith, Government in Kano, 274–77, Adell Patton, Jr., ‘An Islamic frontier polity: the Ningi Mountains of Northern Nigeria, 1846–1902,’ in Igor Kopytoff (ed.), The African Frontier: The Reproduction of Traditional African Societies (Bloomington, 1987), 193–213. 27. H. R. Palmer, ‘The Kano Chronicles,’ Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 38:1 (1908), 97. 28. Mahadi, ‘State and economy.’ 29. NAK, KAN PRO 1/11/6 30. Palmer, ‘Kano Chronicles,’ 97. 31. Paul Staudinger, In the Heart of the Hausa States, I (Athens, 1990), 236. 32. Dantiye, ‘A study of the origins,’ 216. 33. E. W. Bovill, Missions to the Niger: The Bornu Mission 1822–25, IV (Cambridge, [1826] 1966), 644. 34. Bovill, Missions to the Niger, IV, 644. 35. Yunusa Collection, Interview with Mohammed Rabiu, Fanisau, 13 July 1975. 36. Bovill, Missions, IV, 645. 37. Mahadi, ‘State and economy,’ 649. 38. Yunusa Collection, Interview with Hamidu Galadiman Shamaki, Fanisau, 3 April 1975. 39. On the shifting political boundary of Kasar Kano, see Smith, Government in Kano, 26. 40. Tambo, ‘Sokoto Caliphate,’ 200–201. 41. Yunusa Collection, Interview with Alhaji Yunusa Mikail, Tudunwada, Kano emirate, 2 August 1975. 42. Literally ‘Yan bayi’ means slave offspring. According to C. H. Robinson, there were usually about 500 slaves at a time on sale in this market. Although this figure must not be taken at face value, there is no any other record that suggests that either more or an equal amount of slaves were sold in any other Sokoto Caliphate based slave markets. Put differently, of

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43. 44.

45.

46.

47.

48. 49.

50. 51.

52. 53.

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the three major slave markets in Kano city as well as of other slave markets in Sokoto Caliphate, relatively more slaves were sold at ‘Yan bayi.’ Charles H. Robinson, Hausaland; or Fifteen Hundred Miles through the Central Soudan (London, 1896), 125. Barth, Travels and Discoveries, 515. John Edward Phillips, ‘Slavery in two ribats in Kano and Sokoto,’ in Slavery on the Frontiers, 111–124; John Edward Phillips, ‘Ribats in the Sokoto Caliphate: selected studies, 1804–1903’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1992). Other merchants from various parts of West Africa were also known as Hausa merchants and many of them also visited the Kano emirate slave markets. In this chapter, a Hausa merchant refers to a long distance trader based primarily in the Kano emirate. For further details on Hausa traders in general see, Paul E. Lovejoy, Caravans of Kola: A History of the Hausa Kola Trade (1700–1900) (Zaria, 1980); Adamu Mahdi, The Hausa Factor in West African History (Zaria, 1978). D. E. Ferguson, ‘Nineteenth century Hausaland: being a description by Imam Imoru of the land, economy and society of his people’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1973), 375. Yunusa Collection: Interview with Alhaji Wada, Shahuchi, Kano emirate, 18 July 1975 and with M. Muhammadu, Bakin Zuwo. Philip Burnham, ‘Raiders and traders in Adamawa: slavery as a regional system,’ in James L. Watson (ed.), Asian and African Systems of Slavery (Berkeley, 1980), 52–53. Phillips, ‘Raiders and traders,’ 63–64. John Weir Chamberlain, ‘The development of Islamic education in Kano City, Nigeria, with emphasis on legal education in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Columbia University, 1975), 126. Also see, Yunusa Collection, Interview with Amadu Daka, Tudun Wada, Kano emirate, 10 July 1975; interview with Muhammadu Rabiu, and with Alhaji Wada. Yusuf Yunusa, ‘Slavery in nineteenth century Kano,’ (unpublished BA Essay, Ahmadu Bello University, 1976), 12. For evidence on merchants connecting themselves into an existing network of convicted criminals and debtors to obtain slaves in Kano, see Yunusa Collection: Interview with Muhammadu Sarkin Yaki Dogari, Kurawa ward, Kano emirate, 28 September 1975, and interview with M. Abdullahi Adamu, Diso quarters, Kano emirate, 3 August 1975. Fisher, ‘A Muslim William Wilberforce’ 546. The second leader or sultan of Sokoto Caliphate.

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54. Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘The Bello-Clapperton exchange: the Sokoto Jihad and the transatlantic slave trade,’ in Christopher Wise (ed.), The Desert Shore: Literatures of the Sahel (Boulder, 2001), 201–227. 55. Interview with Alhaji Wada. 56. Jennifer Loftkrantz, ‘Ransoming captives in the Sokoto Caliphate in the nineteenth century,’ in Slavery, Islam and Diaspora, 131. 57. Interview with Muhammadu Rabiu. 58. Interview Dan-Rimin Kano, Kano, Kano emirate, 12 and 30 December 1975. 59. Yunusa Collection: Interviews with Dan-Rimin Kano, Sani Shuaibu, Hausawa ward, Kano city, 22 August 1975; and with M. Muhammadu, Bakin Zuwo. 60. Yunusa Collection: Interview with Dan-Rimin Kano. 61. Hogendorn, ‘Slave Acquisition,’ 490. Yunusa Collection: Interview with Sallaman Kano, emir’s palace, Kano, 20 September 1975, and interview with Malam Bawa, Dambazau ward, 31 July 1975. 62. See for instance, interview with Muhammadu Sarkin Yaki Dogari, and interview with Muhammadu Rabiu. 63. Interview with Dan-Rimin Kano, and interview with Malam Bawa. 64. Interview with Muhammadu Rabiu, and interview with Malam Bawa. 65. Interview with M. Muhammadu, Bakin Zuwo. 66. While the origin of the practice of denying wrongfully enslaved Muslims, traded by Hausa merchants in various slave markets in the Kano emirate area and elsewhere, their ethnic and religious identities may have predated the nineteenth century, it is apparent that the practice was well entrenched by this period. At the turn of the twentieth century, British colonial administrators in Northern Nigeria outlawed slave trading, but even under the colonial context many people were wrongfully enslaved and traded. We know that for the slave traders who operated under the context of the early colonial era, the disguise of wrongfully enslaved individuals and or the denial of their identities were accepted practices. For discussion on the trade in wrongfully enslaved people in Kano emirate under the colonial context see, for instance, Chinedu N. Ubah, ‘Suppression of the slave trade in the Nigerian emirates,’ Journal of African History, 32:3 (1991), 447–470. 67. Interview with Alhaji Wada. 68. Yunusa Collection: Interview with Gwadabe Madawaki Dogari, Emir of Kano’s palace, 11 July 1975, and interview with Malam Bawa. 69. Interview with Alhaji Yunusa Mikail. 70. Interview with M. Muhammadu, and interview with Malam Bawa. 71. Interview with Malam Bawa.

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72. Interview with Alhaji Wada. 73. Barth, Travels and Discoveries, 515. 74. See Mahadi, ‘Aftermath of the jihad,’ Interview with Malam Bawa and interview with Muhammadu Sarkin Yaki Dogari. 75. Paul E. Lovejoy and David Richardson, ‘Competing markets for male and female slaves: prices in the interior of West Africa, 1780–1850,’ International Journal of African Historical Studies, 28:2 (1995), 261–293. Interview with M. Muhammadu. 76. Interview with M. Muhammadu, and interview with Alhaji Wada. 77. Interview with Muhammadu Rabiu, and interview with Malam Zubairu, Gadun Sawaina, Minjibir District, Kano emirate, 11 September 1975. 78. Tambo, ‘Sokoto Caliphate,’ 191; Lovejoy and Richardson, ‘Competing markets,’ 270–280. 79. James Richardson, Narrative of a Mission in Central Africa, Performed in the Years 1850–51, II (London, 1853). 80. This refers to silver dollars. On the cowries worth of silver dollars, see Marion Johnson, ‘The cowrie currencies of West Africa, part II,’ Journal of African History 11:3 (1970), 337; Lovejoy and Richardson, ‘Competing markets,’ 278. By the mid-nineteenth century the dollar was 2,500 cowries in Kano, while the pound sterling was 12,000 cowries in the same region. 81. Tambo, ‘Sokoto Caliphate,’ 201. 82. Frederick Barth, ‘Introduction,’ in Frederick Barth (ed.), Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference (Oslo, 1969), 9–38. 83. See for instance, Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘Identifying Enslaved Africans in the African Diaspora,’ in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Identity in the Shadow of Slavery (London and New York, [2000] 2009), 1–29. 84. Examples of earlier studies include, Ibrahim Hamza, ‘Slavery and plantation society at Dorayi in Kano Emirate,’ in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Slavery on the Frontiers of Islam (Princeton, NJ, 2004), 111–124, and Paul E. Lovejoy, Slavery, Commerce and Production in the Sokoto Caliphate of West Africa (Trenton NJ: 2005). 85. See, for instance, Paul E. Lovejoy, Caravans of Kola: The Hausa Kola Trade, 1700–1900 (Zaria, 1980), and Paul E. Lovejoy, Salt of the Desert Sun: A History of Salt Production and Trade in the Central Sudan (Cambridge, 1986). 86. Johnson, ‘Sudanese military slavery.’

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3 CONCUBINAGE AND SL AVERY IN BENGUEL A, C. 1750 –1850 Mariana P. Candido

In the 1780s, a Brazilian, born official who served in Luanda as a Portuguese colonial officer, Elias Alexandre da Silva Corrêa, wrote on marriage practices in the Portuguese colony of Angola. According to Corrêa, ‘parents and other relative offered female virginity to anyone willing to pay.’ Bridewealth, or payments made to seal marriage contracts were interpreted as auctions, where family sold their daughters to anyone. Corrêa further wrote: ‘Catholics are the least scrupulous buyers of this indecent market, competing in auctions’ for women.1 In the accounts of European visitors and administrators, marriage among the Ndombe, the group who inhabited the town of Benguela, was characterized by polygyny. Following these accounts, European officials and traders were perceived as incapable of resisting the sensuality of the tropics and the attraction to local women. Corrêa stressed how ‘the fire of sensuality supported by the hot weather, destroy the humanity of its population.’2 In these accounts, women used their sexuality to attract and seduce men. However they were not seen as powerless, but as active sexual agents, seducing men and taking advantage of the ‘weakness’ of foreign men.

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This chapter explores the link between concubinage and slavery in Benguela, a Portuguese colony in West Central Africa, focusing on two types of unions between African women and foreign men, most of them born in Portugal or Brazil. In the first union, foreign men allied themselves with influential elite women, who offered them access to internal trade routes and businesses partnerships in the region. These were the women seen as dangerous and sensual as described by Corrêa. Some foreigners married these women in the Catholic Church; others maintained long-term relationships, which can be called concubinage, without ever making it official in the eyes of the colonial state. The second type of union was the relationship between slave masters and their female slaves, a result of the inherent violence of slave societies. These relationships were not seen as dangerous in the perspective of colonial officers, but simply as ‘natural’ consequences of the slave system. In both kinds of relationships, local women came up with strategies for navigating the colonial arena and, in certain ways, profited from intimate relationships with foreign men. These relationships were ‘not a state of being, but a series of multiple, often overlapping processes,’ of conjugal relationships.3 This study engages with Paul E. Lovejoy’s work on concubinage and on the effects of the transatlantic slave trade on African societies.4 It also fits into the burgeoning literature on marriage reconfigurations under European rule and its implications for gender dynamics.5 Although most of the scholarship focuses on changes within the institution of marriage during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Benguela allows scholars to date these discussions to an earlier period. Colonial state intervention on marriage and family affairs were already present by the mid-eighteenth century. This chapter links Benguela to an Atlantic economy, which enabled African women to engage in long-distance trade, accumulate wealth, and pursue social mobility. Free and slave women entered into unions with foreign men for a variety of reasons and sometimes they did not have a choice. Rather than emphasize the victimization of African women, this chapter stresses their agency and ability to negotiate a relationship with their life partners. During the eighteenth century Benguela became a destination for Portuguese administrators, exiled criminals, and slave traders. A

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Portuguese colony since 1617, most of Benguela’s foreign population was composed of men, directly or indirectly involved in Atlantic commerce. Some of them, discontent with life in a colonial setting, lived in territories controlled by African rulers in the hinterland. Single or married, many of the foreign men maintained stable relationships with African women, both free and enslaved. The offspring of these unions were raised as Portuguese and called filhos da terra (children of the land). By the eighteenth century, the filhos da terra occupied key positions in the administration, in part because Portuguese administrators believed they had a natural resistance to the weather and local diseases.6 Catholic weddings and baptisms occurred at the Nossa Senhora do Pópulo, the only church in Benguela. Portuguese administrators complained, on several occasions, about the lack of priests in town and tried to link it to the low number of Christian marriages among its population. Concubinage was perceived as a moral problem and the result of a combination of tropical heat, African female licentious behaviour, and the absence of clergymen.7 European men’s perception of life overseas are absent from official documents. For some, it was an excuse to engage in sexual encounters with multiple women. The tropics allowed sexual freedom for European men, in part because the sexuality of African women was seen as unrestricted and indecent.8 In 1788, Portuguese priests who had visited Benguela and its hinterland described ‘infidelity, polygamy, incestuous relationships, and other dangerous and vulgar behaviors.’ According to them, white men lived and ‘behaved like blacks and engaged in a superstitious lifestyle, worshiping idols and the ancestors . . . Concubinage facilitated the extreme stupidity of black women who, even if free, were enslaved to the desires of their partners.’9 Accounts like this reveal the weakness of the actions of Catholic priests in Benguela and its interior, where the Portuguese presence was very fragile. Priests opted to turn a blind eye on practices perceived as immoral and in some cases even embraced concubinage. In 1727, for example, the priest João Teixeira de Carvalho openly lived with a local woman.10 Portuguese documents provide rich data on concubinage and slavery in Benguela. Eighteenth-century residential lists described household

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organization, revealing that matrifocal families predominated. The wills of colonial agents highlight the link between domestic work and concubinage among slave women through bequeathing practices. Baptismal records expose the variety of concubinage practices existent in Benguela, which could involve more than one partner. In baptismal records, priests do not use the term concubina to designate women who lived with men without a formal marriage. The term employed was naturais, that is, people who lived in the state ‘of nature,’ without a previous Catholic sacrament. It also designated couples without any impediment to getting married and their offspring. In some cases, it also encompassed adulterous relationships where men were married, but had taken on an additional partner.

Marriage options in Benguela Benguela, as other port towns, was a center for cross-cultural interactions between Atlantic traders and the African population. In town for a few weeks or longer, some foreign traders lived with African women, who provided social and sexual companionship. Also included were services such as cooking, washing, cleaning, and translating conversations with other Africans.11 Although Catholic marriages occurred between foreign men and African women, this study focuses on cases where people lived together in concubinage. Cohabitation between foreign men and African women generated new practices, not only in marriage but also in language use. For example, Corrêa noticed the Africanization of the colonial society in Luanda at the end of the eighteenth century. Colonial officials spoke Kimbundu, used as a lingua franca, in the interior and in Luanda.12 In Benguela, the situation was probably the same with Europeans and Africans also speaking Umbundu. In Benguela and in inland societies, women played a central role in subsistence agriculture.13 Wealth for men consisted of the control of many wives and daughters, who would bring in-laws and subsequently increase the number of dependents available to assist with the production of food. Polygyny was a possibility for wealthy men, who could accumulate more resources and affluence by adding wives to his kin, although not every man could have more than one wife. In the region

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of Benguela, especially inland, the demography of the transatlantic slave trade favoured the spread of polygamous marriages. Since trade exports targeted young men, large contingents of women remained in the Benguela Highlands, resulting in social changes to how wealthy men could accumulate dependents.14 The first population estimate shows that Benguela had 2,244 inhabitants in 1797.15 Local Africans represented most of the population. In 1798, there were 65 white men and only eight white women living in Benguela. The shortage of European women was offset by the encouragement of unions with African women. The colonial administration expected lower ranking officials to marry locally, supporting the constitution of biracial marriages.16 In contrast, the mixed population, called mulatto in the colonial documents, at the end of the eighteenth century was predominantly female with 152 women and 93 men. During this same period, 1,259 black men and 1,451 women lived in Benguela, which certainly increased the pool of available women for white men stationed in town.17 The situation did not change in the following decades. By 1833, only one white woman lived in Benguela and she was married. The number of white men was 56, most of them single. The mulatto population consisted of 76 men and 26 women, a change from the end of the eighteenth century, and the black population was almost gender balanced with 639 men and 714 women. Thus, the white population was gender specific in Benguela, predominately male, ensuing the lack of white women as possible wives. African black women composed the majority of the population in both estimates.18 This led to the emergence of local elite, descendents of foreign men and local women, who were perceived and socially classified as Portuguese. Unlike other European powers, the Portuguese Crown did not institute legal prohibitions regarding relationships between European men and African women. In fact, miscegenation was perceived as a way to expand territorial control.

Concubinage and wealth: women’s participation in the Atlantic trade From the inception of the Portuguese presence along the coast in the fifteenth century, African women entered into temporary unions with

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foreign merchants and administrators who lived in Benguela. These unions were not too different from the marriages most of the population experienced. Visiting the Benguela Highlands in the late eighteenth century, Paulo Lacerda described polygamous families, where African men lived with more than one wife.19 In different societies, including that of the Portuguese, the exchange of women was a way to consolidate diplomatic and commercial ties between foreign merchants and political elites.20 Powerful families guaranteed their social position and economic privilege through marriage, which unified assets and increased their symbolic power, a form of capital intimately related to economic capital.21 Thus, marital union forged new kinship ties and facilitated trade relations between foreign merchants and African elites. This type of marriage was not necessarily accepted by Lisbon authorities, but eventually African wives were allowed to inherit their partner’s assets if married.22 While in Benguela, some Portuguese men chose this route and adopted African family arrangements. In 1797, Manuel Francisco da Silva lived in the territory of Fende under the protection of the soba, an African ruler. Silva had married into the ruler’s family, becoming a relative of the soba.23 Acting as brokers, these Portuguese traders acted in a similar fashion to the lançados in the Upper Guinea Coast or the prazeiros in Mozambique. Thanks to their family links, they had access to African markets, which boosted their participation in the Atlantic trade. In 1798, while on his deathbed, the Portuguese trader Antônio de Carvalho admitted to a long and stable relationship with the daughter of the soba Camlocoxo, in the Ngalangue territory, with whom he had two children, Mariana and Agostinho.24 The examples of the traders Silva and Carvalho emphasize the mobility of the Portuguese trade community in Benguela, who also maintained residences inland. A union with the daughter of the soba certainly brought favourable business relationships to the foreign traders. Business oriented unions were common along the coast of Africa and gave origin to mixed populations in Luanda, Saint Louis, Cacheu, Bissau, and in the Zambezi valley.25 Marriage and concubinage was a strategy to consolidate commercial and political alliances. African women involved with foreign traders exercised influence within economic and political spheres. They were endorsed by African

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political elites, in part because they provided access to imported commodities and trade outlets. In 1813, Portuguese trader José Tomas da Cunha married Dona Domingas Romana, a woman from Mbailundu, by then a powerful African state in the interior of Benguela.26 Dona Romana certainly offered Cunha access to commercial networks; she probably also spoke some Umbundu, which could be handy and favoured her work as Cunha’s personal interpreter. Romana also provided more mundane succor like companionship, expert knowledge on how to cure and prevent tropical diseases, and social contacts. Similar roles were assumed by the unnamed black woman, also from Mbailundu, who maintained a relationship with António da Costa, a Portuguese trader from Braga. From their relationship, a daughter was born and baptized as Maria.27 Although not legally married, the trader recognized the girl and baptized her in the local church. As a result of relationships like these and the high mortality rate among foreigners, women raised their children alone. Concubines achieved long-term financial assistance because they retained the possessions of deceased partners, such as textiles, alcohol, or slaves. Some women also inherited senzalas, the compounds around Benguela, where they could produce food. Unlike other places in the eighteenth century where widows had difficulty remarrying in Benguela, these widows were attractive future wives.28 These women had credit and social networks. In their houses, women could easily accommodate a recently arrived foreigner in search of company and a place to live. These practices continued until the mid-nineteenth century, when foreign traders continued to arrive in Benguela despite the abolition of the slave trade in 1836. Silva Porto, who arrived in Benguela sometime in the 1830s, married Luzia Massak, the great-great-granddaughter of the soba of Viye. They lived together until his death and had at least one daughter.29 In customary marriage fashion, Silva Porto gained permission to reside in the area under Viye’s control and established his fazenda or farm of Belmonte where trade was conducted. A few years later, another trader the Hungarian Lazslo Magyar followed the same pattern. In 1849, he married the daughter of Olosoma Kanyangula, the ruler of Viye. This facilitated Magyar’s contacts and enhanced his position among Viye nobles.30

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Trade alliances offered opportunities to African women, who participated in their husband’s businesses and inherited them from their deceased partners. By the end of the eighteenth century, several widows were at the head of ruling households in Benguela. They lived in the colonial centre, possessed large slaveholdings and acted as commercial agents linking communities located far away. Widows like Dona Aguida Gonçalves da Silva and Dona Catarina Pereira Lisboa controlled large numbers of slaves and free dependents in the last decade of the eighteenth century. In their yards, slaves cultivated crops sold in the local market. They also had other businesses, such as a tavern, in the case of Dona Aguida. Dona Catarina’s slaves were skilled coopers and sailors, two important vocations in an Atlantic port.31 These women adopted colonial attitudes, such as baptizing their slaves into the Church at Nossa Senhora do Pópulo. In 1794, Florinda Manoel, slave of Dona Aguida, baptized her son Antônio in Benguela.32 As in other slave societies, Antônio inherited the status of his mother and thus increased the number of people in bondage under Dona Aguida’s control. Slaves of Dona Catarina Pereira were baptized in 1794 and 1806, which shows her ability to remain an important trader and slave holder for more than a decade.33 As the cases of Dona Aguida and Dona Catarina demonstrate, women became essential for the transmission of colonial and western values to their descendents and dependents. African women living in Benguela assumed the responsibility of reproducing social hierarchies that had allowed their existence, emphasizing allegiance to the Catholic Church and Atlantic commerce.34 Their role in maintaining a colonial setting was extended to domestic spaces, where they prevented children and slaves from speaking Umbundu. Heads of households were supposed to follow what was done in Brazil, ‘where Blacks and slaves are forced to speak the royal language [Portuguese], and leave [Umbundu] to be used in the interior where it is necessary to communicate with blacks.’35 Although perceived as subordinate to their husbands by the colonial state, African women took the opportunity to negotiate their positions and capitalized from their association with foreign men.36 Since the slave trade was the main business in town, African women also participated in it. Some, like Dona Ana Aranha and Dona Leonor de

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Carvalho Fonseca, bought slaves in the interior and transported them to the coast.37 They became committed to slavery, in the sense that they participated in the slave trade and employed slave labour in their houses. Some amassed so much wealth that they became lenders of money. In 1805, the Portuguese merchant Aurélio Veríssimo Viana acknowledged in his will the debts with Dona Joana Gomes Moutinho, who had advanced him slaves to be sold in Rio de Janeiro.38 A widow of the trader José Ferreira da Silva, Dona Joana Moutinho lived in a two-storey house, surrounded by a senzala where 50 slaves lived, in a clear display of her wealth and social prestige.39 These examples illustrate that African women played important roles in the political and economic life of the port town of Benguela. By pursuing liaisons with foreign men, they assumed the role of cultural brokers and associated themselves with the colonial state.

Concubinage as social mobility: the case of slave women Many households in Benguela had female slaves who worked as domestic servants or field labourers in the compounds. Unlike the African Donas, these women were enslaved, and had different interactions with the colonial state and foreign men. For many of these women, the close contact with male slave owners also meant sexual exploitation as part of their bondage. As in other slave societies in Africa, concubinage resulted in dependent children who were obliged to obey their mother’s owner. The slave-owning population increased the size of their households through the incorporation of children born to these women.40 A report in 1788, for example, claimed that a white man had more than 75 children with different women in the interior of Benguela.41 Some wills and baptismal records illustrate the long-standing relationship between male slave owners and their female slaves. These documents show that some enslaved women were able to negotiate their intimate relationships with their masters and guarantee freedom for their children and, eventually, for themselves. The colonial official and trader António José de Barros lived in an unfinished two-storey house in 1797. A sergeant in Benguela’s army since 1794, Barros probably spent his time engaging in warfare in

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the interior and selling captives acquired inland. He also had strong links to Rio de Janeiro, where he spent some time and traded slaves.42 By the end of the eighteenth century he had several skilled workers, such as the carpenters Jorge and José, and the apprentice Manoel; the masons Francisco and Manoel, who were probably working on the construction of his house, alongside the mason trainee Joaquim. The shoemaker José and the cooper Joaquim also lived in his household. José and João were slaves listed without métier. Besides these 14 male slaves, Barros also had eight female slaves. Three years after the list was collected, Barros died. His will reveals the intimate liaisons he maintained with some of these female slaves, who had lived with him for at least three years. Vitória, for example, had given birth to two girls: Rita and Rosa. Barros recognized both of them as his daughters. Rita was sent to Rio de Janeiro to be educated by a trader related to Barros, while Rosa had remained in Benguela in the company of her parents. Although their mother was a slave, Rosa and Rita were not classified as slaves. They were freed upon their baptism. Their mother Vitória, however, remained enslaved. Only after Barros’s death was she manumitted.43 A similar case happened to another slave woman freed in Barros’s will. Francisca José had been owned by Barros since 1794, when she baptized Joana, fathered by Barros.44 Like the other girls, Barros freed Joana on her birth, recognizing her as his biological daughter. Francisca, however, only gained her freedom after his death. Francisca José and Vitória’s manumissions were accompanied by 20,000 réis worth of textiles. Textiles were the primary good used in trade operations in Benguela and its hinterland, which probably allowed both women to start life as free people with some capital.45 The cases of Vitória and Francisca José demonstrate how slave women were subject to sexual abuse, beyond the exploitation of their labor. Benguela residents and the colonial state recognized that a slave master could have large numbers of children by different women. Barros had probably maintained relationships with his other female slaves. Beyond Vitória and Francisca, he had five other female slaves: Feliciana, Rosaria, Mariana, Micaela, and Joana, who was a seamstress. In his will, he declared that he had no children with Joana, the

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seamstress. However, Joana was freed and received 20,000 réis worth of textiles, the same as Vitória and Francisca José. Perhaps Joana was more than a seamstress. Like the other slave women, she probably satisfied Barros’ sexual desires, which he publicly recognized after his death by freeing her and giving her textiles. This sexual exploitation was probably common in Barros’s house, since he also stressed that if any other slave claimed to be pregnant by him at the moment of his death, or if any one of his female slaves presented a newborn baby recognized by him, then she should also be freed upon his death and receive textiles like Vitória, Francisca, and Joana. As one of the most powerful residents of Benguela, Barros had six biological children who were his heirs. Three of them, João, Feliciana, and Rita, his daughter with Vitória, lived in Rio de Janeiro with some of his business partners. Joana and Rosa were the only two who lived with him in Benguela. The sixth descendent was Feliciano, who was born from an affair Barros had in Rio with Ana, a mulatto slave woman. Ana belonged to Domingos Rebelo Pereira who was a Rio de Janeiro merchant. Pereira had deceased in 1800. After being notified that one of his slaves was pregnant by Barros, Pereira asked Barros to buy Ana’s freedom in the name of the unborn child she was carrying. Since Ana had had other children before, Barros was reticent about paying for her freedom and recognizing her unborn child as his. However, fearing social condemnation, and under pressure from Pereira, he agreed to free Ana and her son, Feliciano, who was then baptized in the Candelária parish in Rio de Janeiro, as his natural son.46 Also, Feliciano was entitled to part of Barros’s estate. Barros’s will demonstrates that some slave women were granted their freedom after years of sexual exploitation. In this case, Vitória, Francisca, and Joana were compensated for years of sexual exploitation, violence, and abuse. Slave masters, including African men, exploited their female slaves as sexual objects. In this sense Benguela was not different from slave societies in the Americas, where sexual abuse was seen as inherent to enslavement. José da Costa Covellos, a black man from Kiaka, an autonomous African state, recognized and baptized five children from five different mothers, including two of his slaves, Juliana and Micaela, in 1811.47 Covellos’s case shows that concubinage and sexual exploitation

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was not limited to the European or white population living in the port of Benguela. Luso-African men who lived on the outskirts of the colonial setting also baptized their children in the Catholic Church. Through different mechanisms of violence, including sexual, slave masters exercised dominance and control over slave populations.48 While baptismal records reveal concubinage with slave women, they do not provide information on the freedom of slave mothers, only of their offspring. The Benguela captain Mateus Francisco de Souza, for example, had two children with his slave Caetana Francisca de Souza, although mother and children remained in captivity.49 Others, such as Lourenço Pereira Tavares, freed both mother and child during the baptism, indicating that a relationship with a free man could provide benefits for slave women, even if it meant daily violence.50 Slave women who bore the child of a master facilitated access to manumission, as many of the wills demonstrate. At the turn of the nineteenth century, António de Carvalho, a Benguela trader, freed all of his slaves who had given birth to his children as a way to expiate his behaviour.51 Bibiana, with whom he had had three daughters, received her manumission, textiles, and two slave girls as compensation. Another slave, Josefa, also received her freedom, textiles and a slave girl named Mariana. This case is a clear example of how concubinage resulted in freedom and a certain social mobility for slave women. Enslaved until the death of their life partners, the death of the slave owner allowed them to join the world of free people who had some capital in the form of slaves and textiles. As a newly freed person, Josefa inherited a young slave like Mariana. Once freed, Josefa had a chance to become a slave owner herself. A young girl like Mariana would probably help her by farming, preparing food for local trade, or even selling food in the streets. Owning a slave not only provided the opportunity to increase productivity and profit, as well as prestige. Slaves enhanced the social status of their owner.52 Concubinage placed slave women in an even greater situation of dependency. Enslaved women entered involuntarily into sexual unions with slave masters and had few options to resist sexual advances. Yet, for some, it offered a chance of freedom and social mobility, although the way to achieve manumission was not always clear. In 1809, for

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example, Francisco Dias, a Portuguese trader in Benguela, wrote his will and recognized children of three different women, Ana, Josefa, and Joaquina. A fourth slave woman, Francisca, was still pregnant when he wrote his will. All of them lived in the same household. Afraid that the pregnant woman’s child was not his, Francisco Dias came up with a solution to determine paternity. If the unborn baby was mulatto, then the baby was his and Francisca and the baby were to be freed. If the baby was black, then the baby was not his and Francisca and the child were to be sold to anyone who offered a good price.53 Enslaved women who maintained a long-term relationship with their owners could achieve freedom, however, the mechanisms were not necessarily clear and easy.

Conclusion As in other African ports, the population of Benguela was composed of local Africans and Europeans traders and administrators. Very few European women migrated to the African continent during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and Benguela was not an exception. Foreign men and African women engaged in different kinds of relationships. The focus of this chapter was on concubinage between foreign men with free and enslaved African women. The cases explored in this chapter show how women took advantage of these relationships. As cooks, translators, sexual companions, business partners, servants, cleaners, and entertainers; women found mechanisms to achieve social mobility through their relationships with foreign men. Free women inherited property, and the title of Dona. Enslaved women could gain manumission, textiles, and slaves in order to begin a life as free women in a better situation. Foreign traders had multiple partners, sometimes under the same roof, and in most cases recognized and freed the children born from these relationships. For African women, the Portuguese presence along the coast offered new opportunities and introduced an appealing male partner. Foreign traders offered access to Atlantic commerce, including goods highly prized in Benguela like alcohol and textiles. Free women managed to accumulate wealth through these relationships,

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increasing their political and social importance. For slave women, the nearby Atlantic market imposed a slave society similar to what happened in the Portuguese colony in the Americas such as Brazil. Their exploitation went beyond labour to include their availability for sex. Yet their intimate liaisons brought the chance of economic gain for offspring fully recognized as Portuguese by their fathers and the colonial state. There is a tendency to consider concubinage and women’s roles in precolonial African societies as rigid structures, not subject to change. Nonetheless, the arrival of Europeans changed the institution of marriage completely. First, it imposed a sexual imbalance in West Central Africa and facilitated the spread of polygamy. A surplus of women allowed men to have more than one wife. Second, the transatlantic slave trade introduced a new group of appealing men to marry, traders who had access to imported goods. Third, it created a group of former slaves who inherited and lived in the colonial centre as free blacks. In sum, early Portuguese colonialism imposed new ideas and practices for West Central Africans. Marriage and association with Portuguese men introduced a new language, social hierarchy, and source of legitimacy for African women.

Notes 1. Alexandre da Silva Corrêa, História de Angola (Lisbon, 1937), I, 88. For more on the symbolic aspect of bridewealth see Jack Goody and Stanley Jeyaraja Tambiah, Bridewealth and Dowry (Cambridge, 1973). 2. Corrêa, História, I, 92. 3. Victoria B. Tashjian and Jean Allman, ‘Marrying and marriage on a shifting terrain: reconfigurations of power and authority in early colonial Asante,’ in Jean M. Allman, Susan Geiger, and Nakanyike Misisi (eds.), Women in African Colonial Histories (Bloomington, 2002), 241. 4. Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘Concubinage and the status of women slaves in early colonial Northern Nigeria,’ Journal of African History, 29:2 (1988), 245–266; and Paul E. Lovejoy, Transformations in Slavery: A History of Slavery in Africa (New York, [1983] 2000), among other studies. 5. Among others, Lorelle D. Semley, Mother Is Gold, Father Is Glass: Gender and Colonialism in a Yoruba Town (Bloomington, 2010); Elizabeth Schmidt,

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7.

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Peasants, Traders, and Wives: Shona Women in the History of Zimbabwe, 1870–1939 (Portsmouth, 1992); Jean Allman, ‘Of spinsters, “concubines,” and “wicked women”: reflections on gender and social changes in colonial Asante,’ Gender and History, 3:2 (1991), 176–189; Kristin Mann, Marrying Well: Marriage, Status, and Social Change Among the Educated Elite in Colonial Lagos (Cambridge, 1985). AHU, cx. 27, doc. 42, 20 June 1733. Mariana P. Candido, Fronteras de la Esclavización: Esclavitud, Comercio e Identidad en Benguela, 1780–1850 (Mexico, 2011), 134. See also Catarina Madeira Santos, ‘Luanda: a colonial city between Africa and the Atlantic, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,’ in Liam Brockey (ed.), Portuguese Colonial Cities in the Early Modern World, Empires and the Making of the Modern World, 1650–2000 (Farnham, 2008), 263. Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, Lisbon (AHU), Angola, cx. 1, 87, July 2, 1618 and AHU, Angola, cx. 53, doc. 1, January 10, 1769. In 1779, Sousa Coutinho reported that there were 12 parishes in the hinterland of Benguela but only five had priest. See AHU, Angola, cx. 62, doc. 62, June 22, 1779. For more on the struggle between Catholic and local practice marriage see Deborah Posel, ‘State, power and gender: conflict over the registration of African customary marriage in South Africa, c. 1910–1970,’ Journal of Historical Sociology, 8:3 (1995), 223–257; Kristin Mann, ‘The dangers of dependence: Christian marriage among elite women in Lagos colony, 1880– 1915,’ Journal of African History, 24:1 (1983), 37–56. For the interpretation that Portuguese men had relationships with local women because of the lack of white women, see Ivana Elbl, ‘Men without wives: sexual arrangements in the early Portuguese expansion in West Africa,’ in Jacqueline Murray and Konrad Eisenbichler (eds.), In Desire and Discipline: Sex and Sexuality in Postmodern West (Toronto, 1996), 61–87. For the idea that Portuguese men were also motivated by the sexual opportunities that the empire expansion offered see Jennifer L. Morgan, ‘“Some could suckle over their shoulder”: male travelers, female bodies, and the gendering of racial ideology, 1500–1770,’ William and Mary Quarterly, 54:1 (1997), 167–192; Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Conquest (New York, 1995); Ronald Hyam, Empire and Sexuality: The British Experience (Manchester, 1990). See also Selma Pantoja, ‘Women’s work in the fairs and markets of Luanda,’ in Clara Sarmento (ed.), Women in the Portuguese Colonial Empire: The Theatre of Shadows (Newcastle upon Tyne, 2008), 91. AHU, Angola, cx. 73, doc. 28, July 20, 1788. For the fear of Africanization of European men see Santos, “Luanda,” 263–4.

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10. Ralph Delgado, O Reino de Benguela: do Descobrimento à Criação do Governo Subalterno (Lisbon, 1945), 246. 11. Mariana P. Candido, ‘Merchants and the business of the slave trade at Benguela, 1750–1850,’ African Economic History, 35 (2007), 1–30; Philip J. Havik, ‘Comerciantes e concubinas: sócios estratégicos no comércio Atlântico na Costa da Guiné,’ in Fernando Albuquerque Mourão (ed.), A Dimensão Atlântica da África: Reunião Internacional de História da África (São Paulo, 1996); Philip J. Havik, ‘Women and trade in the Guinea Bissau region: the role of African and Luso-African women in trade networks from the early 16th to the mid-19th century,’ Studia, 52 (1994), 83–120; Selma Pantoja, ‘Encontros nas terras de além-mar: os espaços urbanos do Rio de Janeiro, Luanda e ilha de Moçambique na era da ilustração’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Universidade São Paulo, 1994); George E. Brooks, ‘The signares of SaintLouis and Gorée: women entrepreneur in eighteenth century Senegal,’ in Nancy Hafkin and Edna Bay (eds.), Women in Africa. Studies in Social and Economic Change (Stanford, 1976), 19–44. This practice was not exclusive to the African coast. Recent studies indicate that the same happened in the Americas. See Susan Sleeper-Smith, Indian Women and French Men: Rethinking Cultural Encounter in the Western Great Lakes (Amherst, 2001); Frances E. Karttunen, Between Worlds: Interpreters, Guides, and Survivors (New Brunswick, 1994); Clara Kidwell, ‘Indian women as cultural mediators,’ Ethnohistory, 39:2 (1992), 97–107. 12. Mariana P. Candido, ‘Different slave journeys: enslaved African seamen on board of Portuguese ships, c. 1760–1820s,’ Slavery and Abolition, 31:3 (2010), 403; Jan Vansina, ‘Portuguese vs. Kimbundu: language use in the colony of Angola (1575–1845),’ Bulletin des Séances, Académie royale des Sciences d’Outremer, 47:3 (2001), 267–281; Charles R. Boxer, Women in Iberian Expansion Overseas, 1415–1815: Some Facts, Fancies and Personalities (Worcester and London, 1975), 28; Corrêa, História, I, 82–83. 13. ‘Gladwyn M. Childs, Umbundu Kinship & Character (Oxford, 1949), 20. For marriage in Angola see also Jan Vansina, ‘Ambaca society and the slave trade c. 1760–1845,’ Journal of African History, 46:1 (2005), 8. 14. Lovejoy, Transformations, 127–138; John K. Thornton, ‘The slave trade in eighteenth century Angola: effects on demographic structures,’ Canadian Journal of African Studies, 14:3 (1980), 417–427. 15. AHU, Angola, cx. 88, doc. 46, 1798. 16. A. J. R. Russell-Wood, A World on the Move: The Portuguese in Africa, Asia, and America, 1415–1808 (Manchester, 1992), 188. For other examples, see Jennifer M. Spear, ‘Colonial intimacies: legislating sex in French Louisiana,’ William and Mary Quarterly, 60:1 (2003), 75–98.

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17. See the 1798 census AHU, Angola, cx. 89, doc. 88. 18. The 1833 population census is at AHU, Angola, cx. 176, doc. 17, 1833. For a demographic analysis of the population from 1797 to 1850, see Candido, Fronteras, 75–114. 19. Biblioteca Nacional do Rio de Janeiro, Rio de Janeiro (BNRJ), I-28, 28, 29, ‘Notícia da Cidade de Filipe de Benguela e costumes dos gentios habitantes naquele sertão,’ 10 November 1797. In other colonial contexts along the African coast, Europeans were able to maintain the white elite who controlled the colony. See Wayne Dooling, Slavery, Emancipation and Colonial Rule in South Africa (Athens, 2008); Leonard Guelke, ‘The anatomy of a colonial settler population: Cape Colony, 1657–1750,’ in Maria Beatriz Nizza da Silva (ed.), Families in the Expansion of Europe, 1500–1800 (Aldershot, 1998), 293–313. 20. Elizabeth Schmidt, Peasants, Traders, and Wives: Shona Women in the History of Zimbabwe, 1870–1939 (Portsmouth, 1992); Claude Meillassoux, The Anthropology of Slavery: The Womb of Iron and Gold (London, 1991). For the exchange of wives in Portugal as a way to unified power see for example the marriage of Joana, sister of Afonso V of Portugal to Enrique IV of Castile in 1455. See Bailey W. Diffie, Foundations of the Portuguese Empire, 1415–1580: Europe and the World in the Age of Expansion (Minneapolis, 1977), I, 148. 21. Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge, 2004), 159–197; Pierre Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations (Stanford, 2000), 164–202; Joseph C. Miller, Way of Death: Merchant Capitalism and the Angolan Slave Trade, 1730–1830 (Madison, 1988), 43–47. 22. Elbl, ‘Men without wives,’ 65. See also Selma Pantoja, ‘Gênero e comércio: as traficantes de escravos na região de Angola,’ Travessias, 4/5 (2004), 79–97. For examples in other parts of the Atlantic see Pamela Scully, ‘Malintzin, Pocahontas, and Krotoa: indigenous women and myth models of the Atlantic world,’ Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History, 6:3 (2005); Hilary Jones, ‘From marriage à la mode to weddings at town hall: marriage, colonialism, and mixed-race society in nineteenth-century Senegal,’ International Journal of African Historical Studies, 38:1 (2005), 35–36. 23. Instituto Histórico Geográfico Brasileiro, Rio de Janeiro (IHGB), DL31,05, ‘Relação feita por João da Costa Frade, do Presídio de Caconda em Benguela, sobre moradores, escravos, forros, mantimentos e gados existentes no presídio,’ fl. 10, 31 December 1797. 24. Arquivo Nacional da Torre do Tombo, Lisbon (ANTT), Feitos Findos, JU, África, mç. 22, doc. 5, 1803. 25. Philip J. Havik, Silences and Soundbites: The Gendered Dynamics of Trade and Brokerage in the Pre-Colonial Guinea Bissau Region (Münster, 2004); George

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26.

27. 28.

29.

30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

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E. Brooks, Eurafricans in Western Africa (Athens, 2003); Walter Hawthorne, Planting Rice and Harvesting Slaves: Transformations Along the Guinea-Bissau Coast, 1400–1900 (Portsmouth, 2003); Eugénia Rodrigues, ‘Portugueses e Africanos nos rios de Sena: os prazos da coroa nos séculos XVII e XVIII,’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Universidade Nova de Lisboa, 2002); José Capela, Donas, Senhores e Escravos (Porto, 1995); James F. Searing, West African Slavery and Atlantic Commerce: The Senegal River Valley, 1700–1860. (Cambridge, 1993); Miller, Way of Death, 246–50; Allen Issacman, Mozambique: The Africanization of an European Institution: The Zambezi Prazos, 1750–1902 (Madison, 1972). Arquivo do Arçobispado de Luanda, Luanda (AAL), Benguela, Livro de Casamento, 1806–1853, fl. 11v, 6 November 1813. For more information on the title of dona, as associated with nobility and prestige see Maria Beatriz Nizza da Silva, Donas e Plebeias na Sociedade Colonial (Lisbon, 2002), 64–65. AAL, Benguela, Livro de Batizados, 1794–1814, fl. 323V, 30 December 1812. Brooks, EuroAfricans, 127–30; Alida C. Metcalf, ‘Women and means: women and family property in colonial Brazil,’ Journal of Social History, 24:2 (1990), 281. Contança do Nascimento da Rosa Ferreira de Ceita Miguel, ‘A vida e a obra do Portuense Silva Porto no reino Ovimbundu-Bié (1839–1890),’ (unpublished MA thesis, Universidade do Porto, 2001), 71. Linda M. Heywood, Contested Power in Angola, 1840s to the Present (Rochester, 2000), 19. IHGB, DL32,02.02, ‘Relação de Manuel José de Silveira Teixeira sobre os moradores da cidade de São Felipe de Benguela separados por raça, idade, emprego, título de habitação, ofícios mecânicos e quantos mestres e aprendizes existem,’ 1797, fl. 9. AAL, Benguela, Livro de Batismos, 1794–1814, fl. 4, 29 August 1794. AAL, Benguela, Livro de Batismos, 1794–1814, fl. 4V, and fl. 10V, December 9, 1794; fl. 227, 29 March 1806. Ann Stoler, Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power: Race and the Intimate in Colonial Rule (Berkeley, 2002), 112. ANTT, Feitos Findos, Conde de Linhares, L. 1, fl. 68V -70, 9 January 1765. Focusing on Northern Nigeria with Muslim influence, Paul Lovejoy also stresses how colonialism did not alter woman’s subjugation. See Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘Concubinage and the status of women slaves in early colonial Northern Nigeria,’ Journal of African History, 29:2 (1988), 245–266. On Dona Ana Aranha see AHNA, Cod. 443, fl. 108–108v, 23 March 1802; AHNA, Cod. 443, fl. 109, 23 April 1802; and AHNA, Cod. 443, fl. 109v,

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41. 42.

43. 44. 45.

46.

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15 June 1802. On Dona Leonor see AHNA, Cod. 323, fl) 28v-29, 19 August 1811; AHNA, Cod. 323, fl. 30v-31, 20 August 1811. Also see, Mariana P. Candido, ‘African freedom suits and Portuguese vassal status: legal mechanisms for fighting enslavement in Benguela, Angola, 1800–1830,’ Slavery and Abolition, 32:3 (2011), 447–458. For more examples of women acting as slave traders in Luanda see Pantoja, ‘Gênero e Comércio,’ 79–97; Douglas L. Wheeler, ‘Angolan woman of means: D. Ana Joaquina dos Santos e Silva, mid-nineteenth century Luso-African merchant-capitalist of Luanda,’ Santa Barbara Portuguese Studies Review, 3 (1996), 287; Carlos Alberto Lopes Cardoso, ‘Ana Joaquina dos Santos Silva, industrial Angolana da segunda metade do século XIX,’ Boletim Cultural da Câmara Municipal de Luanda, 3 (1972), 5–14; Júlio de Castro Lopo, ‘Uma rica dona de Luanda,’ Portucale, 3 (1948), 129–138. ANTT, Feitos Findos, Justificações Ultramarinas, África, Maço 14, doc. 1, fl. 10. AAL, Benguela, Livro de Batism, 1794–1806, fl. 44, April, 17, 1796. For a similar analysis on the Sokoto Caliphate, see Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘Concubinage in the Sokoto Caliphate (1804–1903),’ Slavery and Abolition, 11:2 (1990), 159–189. AHU, Angola, cx. 73, doc. 28, 20 July 1788. IHGB, DL32,02.02, ‘Relação de Manuel José de Silveira Teixeira sobre os moradores da cidade de São Felipe de Benguela separados por raça, idade, emprego, título de habitação, ofícios mecânicos e quantos mestres e aprendizes existem,’ fl. 7. ANTT, FF, JU, África, mç. 2, n. 3 A, 1800. AAL, Benguela, Livro de Batismo, 1794–1814, fl. 7, 24 September 1794. Biblioteca da Sociedade de Geografia de Lisboa, Lisbon (BSGL), Res-1-E-2, ‘Memoria de Mucanos,’ 13 August 1841. Also see Joseph Miller, Way of Death, 310–11. I was not able to locate Feliciano’s baptismal record in the parish of Candelária in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The lack of information on Feliciano’s age makes it more difficult to track his conversion. However, the existence of specific registers for slave children born of a slave mother and a free father stress the possibility that cases like Feliciano’s were not unusual in eighteenth-century Rio de Janeiro. See Arquivo da Cúria do Rio de Janeiro, Rio de Janeiro (ACRJ), Registro de Batismo de Escravos, livros 1770–1802. Benguela, Livro de Batismo, 1794–1814, fl. 299v, 10 July 1811; fl. 300v, 11, 13, and 15 July 1811; and fl. 300v, 17 July 1811. For more on slavery and concubinage see José C. Curto, ‘“As if from a free womb:” baptismal manumissions in the Conceição parish, Luanda, 1778–1807,’ Portuguese

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48.

49. 50. 51. 52.

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Studies Review, 10:1 (2002), 26–57; Judith K. Schafer, ‘“Open and notorious concubinage”: the emancipation of slave mistresses by will and the supreme court in antebellum Louisiana,’ Louisiana History: The Journal of the Louisiana Historical Association, 28:2 (1987), 165–182. Curto, ‘As if from a free womb,’ 42–46; Lovejoy, ‘Concubinage in the Sokoto Caliphate,’ 159–189; Jacquelyn D. Hall, ‘The mind that burns in each body: women, rape, and racial violence,’ in Ann Barr Snitow, Christine Stansell, and Sharon Thompson (eds.), Powers of Desire: The Politics of Sexuality (London, 1983), 339–360; Martin A. Klein, ‘Women and slavery in Western Sudan,’ in Claire C. Robertson and Martin A. Klein (eds.), Women and Slavery in Africa (Madison, 1983), 87. AAL, Benguela, Livro de Batismo, fl. 21V, 18 June 1795. AAL, Benguela, Livro de Batismo, fl. 55 and 55v, 28 September 1796. ANTT, FF, JU, Africa, mc 22, n. 5, 1803; AHU, Angola, cx. 74, doc. 49, 20 February 1789. Adam Jones, ‘Female slave-owners on the Gold Coast: just a matter of money?’ in Stephan Palmié (ed.), Slave Cultures and the Cultures of Slavery (Knoxville, 1995), 100–111. ANTT, FF, JU, Africa, mc 19, n. 13, 1809.

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4 COR R ESPONDENCE OF THE L AGOS SL AVE TR ADE, 1848–1850 Olatunji Ojo

In discussing Yorubaland’s participation in the Atlantic slave trade, scholars have relied on documents generated by traders operating in adjacent districts especially Ouidah and Porto Novo, most of whom had no direct contact with Oyo. Accounts left by traders with deep and direct knowledge of Yorubaland have been hard to find. Therefore most of the scholars writing on slavery have concentrated on the nineteenth century when the history of Yorubaland was more accessible through the evidence of eye witnesses. Yet, these were usually accounts from Europeans and Christian missionaries who mostly opposed the trade in humans.1 A reason for the scarcity of sources was that the Atlantic slave trade began late in Yorubaland and reached its peak only after the trade had been abolished and records were either poorly kept or destroyed to avoid prosecution. Thus, very few records on the actual organization of slave marketing have survived from Yorubaland compared to other parts of western Africa. This makes the discovery and confiscation by a British naval expedition on 31 December 1851 of King Kosoko of Lagos’ (1845–1851) letters all written in Portuguese and exchanged between the king, a major slave trader, and his partners

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in Brazil, Lagos, Porto Novo, Ouidah, and Agoué between 1848 and 1850 of great interest to scholars. It is significant that the British seized two separate but related sets of letters when Lagos fell. The first, which is the focus of this study, contains 48 letters written between 1848 and 1850 all of which were seized by Commodore Henry William Bruce (1792–1863), head of the British Royal Naval Detachment in West Africa, and sent to the British Admiralty Office whose personnel transcribed, translated, and published them alongside the Portuguese version in the 1852 edition of the British House of Lord Sessional Papers under the title ‘letters found in House of King Kosoko.’2 The second set of correspondence consisting of about a dozen letters written between 1845 and 1850 and by the same set of traders came into the hands of John Beecroft, British Consul to the Bights of Benin and Biafra, who sent them to the Foreign Secretary, hence their inclusion in the Foreign Office papers of the British National Archives, Kew.3 Certainly there are more letters that are yet to be identified all of which discussed slaving operations. For instance letters in the Admiralty Office show references to not less than 35 other letters: 20 written by Kosoko, 11 by Brazilian traders, and three by a Chief Acheron all of which are yet to be found.4 In two letters the writers said they were tired of waiting for replies to their many letters while three traders sent duplicating letters because the original copies seemed not to have reached their destinations.5 For instance, the firm of Eduard Gantois and Henry S. Marback enclosed in their letter of 5 February 1850 two other letters dated 28 September and 15 October 1849. It is possible that Kosoko did not receive the earlier two letters.6 Together, these two sets of correspondence represent perhaps the richest single set of records to come to light on the organization of the Atlantic slave trade from Lagos because they capture the activities of Lagos-based merchants and their overseas partners, interactions between trade and politics, and how British and Brazilian anti-slavery policies impacted on slaving operations. Apart from identifying by name the individual slave traders, agents, and trade financiers involved in the mid-nineteenth century, the letters also contain information about volume of trade such as identifying at least 20 slaving transactions as well as taxes and tariffs, prices, and on extra-commercial

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activity of Lagos-Brazil relations. Yet, the letters have been largely neglected. Saburi Biobaku, Jane Matheson, and Gabriel Oguntomisin have written excellent works on Kosoko, but do not seem to have been aware of these letters.7 In the 1960s, a French scholar, Pierre Verger, first drew attention to the letters some of which he used to highlight the operations of some Brazilian slavers in West Africa like Eduard Gantois, Domingo Bello, Francisco Jose Godinho, and Domingo Jose Martinez.8 David Eltis, Kristin Mann, and Olatunji Ojo have also used the letters to analyse the organization of slave trading and slaving transactions in Lagos during the late 1840s.9 This chapter is not about the occupation of Lagos, how or why it fell or the aftermath of British occupation as these topics have been adequately studied already.10 Rather, focussing on the first set of correspondence, it introduces these valuable but neglected first-hand accounts of operators of the Atlantic slave trade in Lagos and what they tell us about their activities, and their significance for understanding slaving operations during the last years of the Atlantic slave trade in Lagos. The chapter details commercial organization, social or non-commercial ties between traders of Lagos-Brazil relations, and tactics for coping with the British abolitionist crusade. After an overview of the Lagos-Brazil slave trade, the chapter focuses on the letter writers, some of the subjects raised in their letters, and how these relate to the broad histories of Lagos and the Atlantic slave trade. It also raises some of the challenges posed by the documents. For instance, the letters cover only a small period, less than three of the nearly 100 years of the Lagos-Brazil slave trade and mostly the activities of a single trader, Kosoko (Table 4.1). Certainly, he was the King of Lagos and an important trader but internal evidence indicates he sold very few slaves and the bulk of his income might have come from rent collection. Thus, the letters capture only a snapshot rather than the entire system of trade in Lagos. There is also the problem of not having the original hand written copies of the letters and relying on transcripts with no way of judging their accuracy. In this chapter I use both the published English translation as well as new translations done by Vanessa Oliveira and Daniel Barros Domingues da Silva because the original translation did not always factually represent the Portuguese transcripts. For example, the published version occasionally left out or mistranslated whole sentences. Therefore, in

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letter 46 I use ‘cigar’ rather than ‘cheroot.’11 In addition, I corrected spelling and typographical errors as well as dates where there were inconsistencies. I therefore write Jose Joaquim de Couto rather than ‘J. Y. do Couto.’12 For the purpose of clarity I also inserted a trader’s full name where the translated letter either has initials or does not identify the author. Thus, I have Domingo Jose Martinez and Rodriguez rather than ‘D. Je Mey’ or ‘name illegible’ and ‘Roiz’ respectively.13 Table 4.1: Index of Letters Seized from Kosoko’s Palace Author No Date 1 2 3 4

British Version

17 Apr 1848 Manoel J. de Almeida 16 July 1848 Ditto

5

20 Mar 1849 D. M. Sorion 3 Apr 1849 Franco. J. Godinho 27 Apr 1849 King Kosoko

6 7

21 May 1849 (Name illegible) 10 Jly 1849 (Name illegible)

8

18 Jly 1849

9

14 Aug 1849 Ditto

F. J. Godinho

10 21 Aug 1849 (Name illegible) 11 8 Sep 1849 Ditto 12 11 Sep 1849 D. G. Bello 13 15 Sep 1849 Joaquim Tereira Cardoso 14 19 Sep 1849 (Name illegible) 15 15 Oct 1849 D. G. Bello

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Correct Name Place Author

Place

Manoel Joaquim d’Almeida Manoel Joaquim d’Almeida D. M. Sorion Francisco Jose Godinho Kosoko

Bahia Cocioco

Onim

Bahia Cocioco

Onim

Bahia Cocioco Bahia Cocioco

Onim Onim

Onim F.J. Godinho Je De Santos Ferra Bahia Cocioco José Joaquim de Bahia Cocioco Couto Francisco Jose Bahia Cocioco Godinho Francisco Jose Bahia Cocioco Godinho Domingo Jose P. Cocioco Martins Novo Senhor Locofun Bahia Cocioco Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello Joaquim Tereira Bahia Cocioco Cardoso Domingo Jose P. Cocioco Martins Novo Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello

Bahia Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim

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Table 4.1: Continued 16 16 Oct 1849 F. J. Godinho

Onim

17 8 Nov 1849

Onim

18 14 Nov 1849 19 20 21 22

10 Dec 1849 18 Dec 1849 21 Dec 1849 27 Dec 1849

23 27 Dec 1849 24 28 Jan 1850 25 1 Feb 1850 26 4 Feb 1850 27 5 Feb 1850 28 16 Mar 1850 29 15 Apr 1850 30 30 Apr 1850 31 30 Apr 1850 32 24 May 1850 33 24 May 1850 34 16 June 1850 35 13 Jly 1850 36 13 Jly 1850 37 28 Jly 1850 38 4 Aug 1850 39 7 Aug 1850

Francisco Jose Bahia Cocioco Godinho D. G. Bello Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello (Name illegible) De Ru (Kosoko) Onim D. G. Bello Colonia Colonia Bahia Cocioco Antonio P. Braga Antonio P. Braga Onim Cocioco Mensam Gumu Mensam Gumu Ajuda Cocioco D. G. Bello Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello Ditto Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello Ditto Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello D. J. C. Lire D. J. C. Lire Bahia Cocioco J. L. Gomes J. L. Gomez Onim Cocioco Gantois & Eduard Gantois & Bahia Cocioco Marback Henry S. Marback Captain Captain Desonnais Cocioco Desonnais D. G. Bello Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello F. J. Godinho Francisco Jose Bahia Cocioco Godinho Ditto Francisco Jose Bahia Cocioco Godinho (Name illegible) Domingo Jose P. Cocioco Martins Novo D. G. Bello Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello Ditto Domingo Gomez Bahia Cocioco Bello F. J. Godinho Francisco Jose Bahia Cocioco Godinho Ditto Francisco Jose Bahia Acheron Godinho F. L. Roiz Francisco Lopez Bahia Cocioco Rodriguez King Kosoko Kosoko Onim Ignacio Pereira F. L. Roiz Francisco Lopez Bahia Cocioco Rodriguez

Bahia Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Onim Ajuda Onim Continued

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Table 4.1: Continued 40 13 Aug 1850 Ditto

Francisco Lopez Bahia Cocioco Rodriguez Captain Desonnais Cocioco

41 28 Aug 1850 Captain Desonnais 42 9 Sep 1850 Joaquim Pereira Joaquim Pereira Marinho Marinho 43 11 Sep 1850 F. L. Roiz Francisco Lopez Rodriguez 44 21 Sep 1850 Avoce Avoce 45 28 Oct 1850 D. G. Bello Domingo Gomez Bello 46 5 Nov 1850 J. L. Pereira Joaquim Lopes Pereira 47 21 Nov 1850 D. G. Bello Domingo Gomez Bello 48 22 Dec 1850 (Name illegible) Domingo Jose Martins

Onim Onim

Bahia For Chief Onim Ashoroem Bahia Cocioco Onim Ague Cocioco Bahia Cocioco

Onim Onim

Bahia Cocioco

Onim

Bahia Cocioco

Onim

P. Cocioco Novo

Onim

Source: British House of Lords Sessional Papers (BHLSP), desp. 203, Henry Bruce to Admiralty Office, 3 January 1852, 22 (1852–53), 327–66. Copies of the same letters in the Foreign Office has the date 27 April 1852 so it would appear the FO circulated copies to other British departments. See National Archives, Kew (NAUK) FO881/465X (hereafter Kosoko Letters). I wish to thank Henry Lovejoy and Richard Anderson for their assistance in the British National Archives.

Overview of the Lagos-Brazil slave trade In the Americas, Brazil received the bulk of enslaved Africans originating from Yorubaland during the Atlantic slave trade. Unlike other parts of Africa, this section of the trade developed late because Yorubaland lacked some of the resources available to neighbouring regions. Although the Atlantic Ocean bordered Yorubaland in the south, the coastline had no natural harbour. The beach was muddy and sandy to the extent that Yorubaland was almost completely sealed off from the ocean. In the sixteenth century, European explorers described this part of the coast as ‘all beach.’14 The natural barrier was hard to overcome. More than three centuries later, Joseph Dupuis, a British consul in the Gold Coast again said the ocean front in the Bight of

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Benin had ‘no navigation adapted to canoe voyages, for the sea runs so high, and breaks with such violence upon the . . . coast . . . that the natives of those parts scarcely ever venture out of their rivers.’15 Later in the century, a trader very conversant with the Lagos beach said he could not enter the city because of the turbulent surf. In 1850, on board the French ship Industrie, Captain Desonnais sent a letter to Kosoko in which he said ‘[o]ne day when the bar is favourable, I intend to go on a shore to pay you a visit.’16 The only outlet linking Yorubaland to the Atlantic Ocean was the lagoon entrance at Lagos but this was too shallow from the sand and mud deposited by water erosion that Europeans travelling in large vessels had difficulty making direct contact with Yoruba traders. While some Europeans reached Lagos by travelling in canoes others mostly bypassed Yorubaland.17 When the Lagos port opened to the Atlantic slave trade in the 1760s, Europeans docked far out in the Atlantic and moved slaves in boats and canoes across dangerous surfs. This contrasted with Ouidah or Porto Novo where, though still dangerous, slaves could be loaded into canoes and carried over the rolling waves with less risk. Another possible reason for the slow take-off of the slave trade in Lagos was that for a long time the port town was governed by a college of chiefs whose power derived from their control of land rather than trade, hence the name idejo (land owner). Thus there was no central authority to coordinate trading activities. Certainly, Lagos did not resemble Igbo or Balanta states with a cephalous governmental system but neither was it Asante, Buganda or the nearby states of Oyo and Ijebu where power flowed from the king.18 It possessed an amalgam of both state systems. Well into the seventeenth century Lagos had a king with little or no ‘royal’ power. He was largely a primus inter pares in the council of land owners. Unlike Lagos, Ouidah and Porto Novo, west of Lagos, were centres of small but effective states until their annexation by Dahomey in the 1720s. Although the volume of slaves leaving Ouidah fell after 1727 partly because Dahomey protected its citizens from enslavement, the port town maintained its status as West Africa’s leading slave port until the nineteenth century when it was temporarily overtaken by Lagos.19 Perhaps Lagos could have developed faster and early had it not been a colony of Benin kingdom whose king wielded superior authority until

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the nineteenth century.20 Lagos’ growth in comparison to the status of Ouidah was delayed until the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries because Edo centralized trade activities in its capital, Benin City, and Lagos was too far away to be Edo’s main port. Indeed, while Ouidah grew due to its role in the slave trade Benin was not enthused with the trade and it was no surprise this delayed the rise of Lagos.21 Lagos’ commercial fortunes began to change during the second half of the eighteenth century due to a combination of forces, two of which included the changing political economy of Dahomey and the decline of Benin’s power. In the 1760s, the king of Lagos, Akinsemoyin, working with a Porto Novo trader opened up the town to slave traders. Later in the century, his successor, Ologunkutere, also introduced more protrade laws such as low taxes, less regulation, and free trade, all of which attracted traders to the town. In the 1790s, Dahomey’s renewed efforts to concentrate trade at Ouidah coupled with the anti-slavery policies of the French Revolutionary government, especially France’s naval attack on slave traders on the Slave Coast, forced traders to abandon Ouidah for Lagos, which was beyond the reach of the Dahomean army.22 Lagos also seems to have benefitted from its unique social organization, which Kristin Mann argues gave it some advantages over neighbouring Porto Novo. She speculates that unlike Porto Novo where the rulers concentrated on building it into a militaristic state Lagos chiefs emphasised a combination of military and commercial power. They conceived both as complimentary rather than antithetical forces in state building.23 As a matter of fact, Lagos was an island connected to the Atlantic Ocean with a lagoon and a number of rivulets, swamps, and creeks serving as natural defence lines against potential enemies. Thus, not only was Lagos not subjected to constant attack from its neighbours who were not adept at naval war the water routes provided easy escape routes for Lagosians if attacked. Contrarily, Porto Novo was accessible on land and it was located within a striking distance of the sub-region’s superpowers: Dahomey and Oyo. Finally, its location on a sandy and salty island and limited size meant Lagos relied on neighbouring states for cereals in exchange for fish and salt, which it had in abundance. Trade rather than soldiering was crucial to the growth of Lagos. Consequently, powerful politicians in Lagos emerged from among successful merchants.

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A new census of the Atlantic slave trade estimates that 786,637 slaves embarked in the Bight of Benin in the nine decades spanning 1761 and 1851. Kristin Mann estimates that 297,248 or 37 per cent of slaves departing from the Bight of Benin during this period embarked at Lagos. Before 1786, 11,022 slaves boarded slaving vessels destined for the Americas. Over the next five years (1786–1790), the number of slaves departing from Lagos jumped to 14,077. Slave exports increased with the outbreak of the Sokoto and the Yoruba wars in the early nineteenth century with the sale of thousands of war prisoners annually. Thus, 81,436 slaves embarked from Lagos between 1801 and 1815 and an average of over 14,000 annually were sold over the next five years (Table 4.2). Though export figures later fell precipitously to only 31,776 during 1826–1830 and 16,336 for 1831–1835 the slump was followed Table 4.2: Estimates of Slaves Embarked in the Bight of Benin, 1766–1851 Year 1766–1770 1771–1775 1776–1780 1781–1785 1786–1790 1791–1795 1796–1800 1801–1805 1806–1810 1811–1815 1816–1820 1821–1825 1826–1830 1831–1835 1836–1840 1841–1845 1846–1850 1851 Totals

Slaves Embarked 56,729 55,638 54,248 48,183 65,509 47,594 45,603 45,268 50,160 47,454 26,639 31,533 27,717 38,445 34,636 52,339 56,604 2,337 786,636

Source: For details see and Mann, Slavery and the Birth of a City, 37–44 and http://slavevoyages.org/tast/assessment/estimates.faces? yearFrom=1766&yearTo=1851&embarkation=5.

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by another era of expansion with the number of slaves embarked jumping to 27,582, 35,038 and 37,715 in 1836–40, 1841–45 and 1846–1850 respectively.24 The marketing of such numbers from Lagos would have been impossible without the activities of local trade organisers. Interest in the role of slave traders who shaped the slave trade in the Bight of Benin is growing though disparities exist in our knowledge of individual operators. We know more about two resident Brazilian traders, Francisco Felix da Souza and Domingo Jose Martinez or Domingo Martins, and two local men, a returnee slave, Jose Francisco dos Santos or Alfaite Alidji Djorego, and an Akan immigrant, George Lawson. Francisco da Souza settled in West Africa around 1800 and was the leading slave trader in the Bight of Benin. Within a short time his power and prestige was felt far and wide. In 1818, he sponsored a coup which removed the King of Dahomey, Adandozan, and replaced him with a pliant candidate, Gankpe (Gezo). For his support, Gezo honoured da Souza with the title of Chacha and made him Dahomey’s official slave trade broker responsible for liaising with Europeans at Ouidah. Because of da Souza’s ties and knowledge of European and African cultural practices he became the informal patron of European travellers in West Africa. He hosted them at sumptuous dinners and provided lodging, transportation, credit, and access to local chiefs.25 In 1825, Hugh Clapperton, a British envoy to the Central Sudan, reported that da Souza ‘has had several vessels running between Whydah and Bahia these five or six years.’26 Da Souza’s infamy was rivalled only by Domingo Martinez who, according to tradition, was tutored by da Souza before starting his own business around 1840.27 Martinez’ rise to commercial prowess coincided with the decline of de Souza’s fortunes and by the mid-1840s he had emerged as the leading slave and palm oil exporter in Porto Novo and Lagos. Like da Souza, Martinez also invested in local politics as long as this promoted trade. When the route between Badagry and Abeokuta was closed due to warfare in 1845, he bribed Abeokuta chiefs with gifts valued at about £200 so they would keep the road open. He also paid off Badagry chiefs for the same purpose.28 In the east, he intervened in the Lagos chieftaincy crisis by mediating between the two contenders, Akintoye and Kosoko. After Akintoye was deposed in 1845 and found life in exile difficult,

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Martinez came to his rescue by providing him housing at Ajindo where he (Martinez) had a trade depot. Not everyone was happy with Martinez reaching out to Akintoye and Kosoko. The Reverend John Martin of the Wesleyan Methodist Mission believed that Martinez’ role in Egba-Badagry affairs was a nefarious and evil act driven by ‘an insatiable desire for filthy lucre.’29 Less known than da Souza and Martinez but no doubt powerful was Dos Santos, another influential trader on the Slave Coast. His letters and personal papers reveal deep trade ties with Brazil and other parts of the Bight of Benin. He was also a tailor, hence the name ‘Alfaite’ or tailor in Portuguese.30 Finally, Lawson, son of an immigrant Akan trader from the Gold Coast, settled variously at Little Popo and Agoué mostly selling palm oil to British traders.31 Details about slave merchants in Lagos are hardly existent though cumulatively they sold more slaves than were traded in any other part of West Africa in the nineteenth century. One of such merchants was Kosoko, the prince, soldier, merchant, and later king of Lagos.

Kosoko: the trader and politician Born around 1790 at the same time Lagos was emerging as a slave port Kosoko was the son of Oba Esinlokun and an Ijebu or Mahin woman. Wealth earned from trade translated into political power and access to important social networks. Therefore, it was not surprising that a growing number of princes became interested in the throne. When Kosoko’s grandfather, Ologunkutere, died in 1803, the bid by his father, Esinlokun Ajan, to succeed to the throne was contested by two princes, Adele Ajosun and Idewu Ojulari, with Adele emerging victorious around 1807 and perhaps as late as 1811. Though Esinlokun regained the throne around 1821 the contest factionalized the royal family with his predecessor, Adele, forced to seek exile in Badagry while plotting his return to power. Lagos became engulfed in chieftaincy conflicts with princes becoming war captains. Losers in one contest usually tried again so the succession order became increasingly contentious. This explains Kosoko’s failure thrice in his bids to become king. First in 1835, he lost the throne to his uncle, Adele (1835–1837)

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who regained the throne after fourteen years in exile When Adele died after two years on the throne Kosoko bid for the throne again but lost to his cousin and Adele’s son, Oluwole (1837–41), in what is locally called the Ewe Koko war after which Kosoko like other failed candidates fled into exile living in turn in Porto Novo, Badagry and Ouidah. Kosoko made yet another attempt at the throne in 1841 again losing to another uncle, Akintoye (1841–45).32 After the third loss, Kosoko was unwilling to go down without a fight. In exile, Kosoko met and began a thriving trade in slaves with Brazilians. As we will see below some of these traders helped him to become the king. In Lagos, the new king, Akintoye, had a different mindset. Thinking he had consolidated his power and wanting to reconcile with Kosoko for the purpose of ending the chieftaincy crisis which had Lagos split into multiple factions, Akintoye rejected pleas by his advisers not to pardon his nephew, much less allow his return to Lagos. He allowed Kosoko’s request to return to Lagos but he also made him the Oloja (ward head) of Ereko, the northern part of the city. This was the opportunity Kosoko needed. He wanted to be in Lagos to win over a section of the population and members of the royal family. Soon after he returned to Lagos he revived the plot to overthrow Akintoye. In a short time he had enough support and in June 1845 his supporters, led by his war captains among whom were Dada Antonio, Ajeniya and Tapa Osodi, invaded the palace and deposed Akintoye who with his allies escaped to Abeokuta and later Badagry.33 Kosoko’s usurpation of power marked a major shift in the pattern of slave trading in Lagos. One of his earliest decisions was to restructure slave trading in Lagos. Kosoko expelled traders loyal to Akintoye and brought his own crop of favoured traders. A contemporary, the Reverend Samuel Crowther of the Church Missionary Society, captured this change of regime in Lagos and its implications for commercial favour. In his words, ‘it appears from all accounts that all the property of the Portuguese slave dealers about four of whose number who traded with Akitoye was plundered by Kosoko’s soldiers, who scarcely left a shirt on their backs.’34 One of the traders was Domingo Martinez who during Akintoye’s reign reportedly made a fortune of one to two million dollars selling slaves in Lagos. This was a substantial sum in

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Table 4.3: Identified Ships Embarking Slaves in Lagos, 1841–1851 Year 1841 1842 1843 1844 1845 1846 1847 1848 1849 1850 1851 No. of ships

1

1

3

18

9

7

6

4

2

6

3

Source: See http://www.slavevoyages.org/tast/database/search.faces

the 1840s.35 Kosoko’s coup forced Martinez to relocate his operations from Lagos to Porto Novo, Ouidah and Ajindo. Kosoko ruled Lagos until 1851.36 There is not enough evidence to compare slaving operations under Akintoye and Kosoko and how much royal authority they imposed on commerce. But it is logical that they were influential. Utilizing the slave voyage database, Mann estimates that Kosoko’s era, which lasted from 1845 to 1851 (Table 4.3), witnessed the export of about 43,000 slaves compared to about 35,000 slaves sold during Akintoye’s term so that total revenue may not have been much different.37 Several letters show that Kosoko sold slaves that were of poor quality and had little market value, indicating that either there was a reduced supply of slaves to Lagos or that the British naval patrol did not allow traders enough time to sort slaves based on their value and market worthiness. It could also be an indication of Kosoko’s desperation to sell more slaves as his income dwindled. To the extent that the number of ships loading slaves at Lagos rose rapidly in 1844 it is plausible that income from the high patronage could have induced Kosoko’s coup of 1845 as he wanted to partake in the booming trade. Taxation varied according to whether a merchant traded with the king or commoners. Trade tax was valued at 7.4 slaves when trading with the palace and 9.65 slaves when patronizing non-royal traders. The difference between the two tax rates likely made the palace the market of first choice. Furthermore, unequal market rates indicate that the palace had the power of pre-emption: to sell its products ahead of private operators. It is doubtful that traders willingly bought sick slaves if they could have refused. We will see below how state regulation of market access enabled the palace to attract more traders and credit than did private traders and how this might have driven Kosoko into debt.

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Drawing on Brazilian trade records, Ubiratan Castro de Araújo and Kristin Mann show that each ship trading in Lagos in 1846, paid 126 ounces of gold or approximately £1,764 for the permission to trade at Lagos. A charge of 60 ounces of gold was paid for the right to dock and unload imported goods and 36 ounces of gold as gift to the royal family. Another fee of 20 ounces of gold was charged for the inspection of goods and ten ounces to allow ships to load their goods bought in Lagos. Other fees included three barrels of alcohol to the king valued at 60 ounces of gold from a ship captain.38 These payments reveal that the shipment of slaves from Lagos gave the kings access to a steady stream of revenue. However, the involvement of the king in trade did not mean a royal monopoly on trade. On the contrary, it seems that unlike Dahomey where the state often tried to centralize trade in the palace and limit the functions of private entrepreneurs, Lagos, certainly under Kosoko had no such power.39 During his reign, Kosoko was perhaps the lead Lagos merchant dealing in slaves, textiles, tobacco, ivory, and foodstuff. As the letters show, he had contacts with traders in the cities of Ouidah, Porto Novo, and Bahia. He traded in his own right, collected taxes on goods sold by others in the city, and foreign traders needed his approval to work in Lagos. His involvement in the slave trade put him at odds with the British seeking to end the slave trade but he was able to monopolize slave trading in Lagos. From what we know about the slave ships trading in Lagos between 1848 and 1850 only a fraction of the slaves embarked at Lagos were sold by Kosoko. For example, he sent five slaves by the Felucca Calunia in January 1848 though the vessel had on board 230 slaves. The highest report was 22 slaves shipped on the Segunda Andorinha in March but this pales in comparison with the ship’s cargo of 430 slaves.40 The bulk of slaves were sold by other traders, particularly Brazilians like Senhor Nobre whom Consul John Beecroft described as a leading slaver in Lagos.41 Most of the slaves sold by Kosoko and Lagos merchants came from the interior of Yorubaland and the Central Sudan having been seized during wars. Others travelled through the lagoon trade from Porto Novo and the Niger Delta. However, some Lagosians seized in the chieftaincy wars might have been sold as well perhaps underlining

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Kosoko’s request that one of the slaves sent to Bahia must not be sold but trained in an undisclosed vocation. A Bahian trade agent wrote: ‘as to the one which you told me to write about that he should not be sold, it was unfortunate that when the letter arrived he had been already sold out of the country; he could not therefore be reserved for the instruction which you finally gave.’42 This case represents one of the known attempts at ameliorating cases of illegal enslavement in Yorubaland.

Significance of Kosoko’s letters The letters dealing with the slave trade buttressed what Britain had known for long and wanted to stop, which was the persistence of slave trading from Lagos to Brazil in violation of the 1807 British law abolishing the Atlantic slave trade and failure of Brazilian decrees of 1826, 1831, and 1850 banning the trade.43 They contain valuable information about individual traders, trade data, credit organization, social ties, education, politics, diseases, material possession, and illegal slave trade tactics, the overlap between the slave trade and the shift to legitimate commerce, and the British and Brazilian attempts to suppress the trade. Some of the writers of the letters (number of letters in bracket) include Domingo Gomez Bello (12), Francisco Godinho (8), Domingo Jose Martinez (4), Francisco Lopez Rodriguez (4), the firm of Eduardo Gantois and Henry S. Marback (3), Manoel Joaquim d’Almeida (2) and a letter each from Mensam Gumu and Joaquim Pereira Marinho. Kosoko sent three letters to Bahia. The location from where these men wrote their letters show that all of Martinez’s letters, for example, arrived from Porto Novo. Bello wrote from Bahia. Desonnais wrote on board a French ship, the Industrie, docked at Lagos. Finally, Mensam Gumu wrote from Ouidah. The value of these letters lies in the insights provided on the perspectives of traders in Lagos at a time of Britain’s renewed effort at ending the Atlantic slave trade, which started in 1807. In part, because very direct voices of African and non-European slave operators are heard, the letters provide a lens for exploring the mercantile career of Kosoko and his partners as they navigated the uncertain and risky

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economic environment engendered by global anti-slavery and British imperialism. These people are also unique because records from the era of the slave trade on Yorubaland are rare in that they reiterate the close connection between politicians and traders and how the palace of Lagos functioned variously as the seat of government, market, trade court, and warehouse. Thus, the letters compare with similar accounts from other parts of Africa particularly the eighteenth-century diaries of Antera Duke of Old Calabar and in the nineteenth century and the letters of Jose Francisco dos Santos and George Lawson of Agoué written in the eighteenth and nineteenth century.44 As noted above the letters covered many subjects but mostly commented on commercial activity around Lagos. Given the difficult trade climate of the late 1840s in which Britain intensified its assault on slave traders in Africa, after many failed attempts, Brazil also finally decided to end slave trading in 1850, African and Brazilian slave traders were concerned with how these policies affected their operations and if the profit was worth the risk. For example, the writers expressed angst against seizures of slave ships and liberation of slaves by the British navy with the attendant loss of investment in slaves, ships, and crew among others. Compared to the capture of ten ships buying slaves primarily from Lagos between 1800 and 1825, the number of ships seized by the anti-slavery patrol rose to 44, a 300 per cent increase, over the next quarter of a century. Seizure meant major losses. Kosoko blamed his failure to meet his debt obligations to some Brazilians on the seizure of ships by the British navy. In 1849, Kosoko wrote that ‘[T]he English have made several captures, in which I have had my share.’45 We might speculate that the seizures accounted for the many letters that never reached their destination. Because the letters were sent via slave ships they could have been destroyed to hide evidence of slave dealing from the British navy. Specifically, the 1835 Slave and Equipment Treaty clause, and the 1839 and 1842 laws passed in Britain allowed the British navy to seize ships fitted for the slave trade even if they carried no slaves. This must have led to the loss of some letters with data on the slave trade.46 Of significance were the strategies devised for beating anti-slavery laws. Because slave trading was legal south of the equator for more

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years, Brazilian ships often carried trade permits to Central Africa though West Africa was their primary destination. For instance between 1822 and 1825, the Bahian vessels Esperança Feliz, Creola, Cerqueira, Minerva, Bom Jesus dos Navigantes, and Uniao among others, all carrying permits to buy slaves in Molembo and places south of the equator, embarked slaves in Lagos (Onim).47 It would be interesting to know how many West African slaves were labelled Central Africans in Brazil as a consequence. Second, in the letters slaves were sometimes referred to as ‘bales’ or ‘packages’, thus disguising slaves as inanimate goods like cotton and palm oil, which could be traded legally. However, we do know that many ‘bales’ or ‘packages’, were slaves since the writers in the same letters talked about the ‘illness’, and charged for the care and ‘feeding’ of bales or described them as having ‘bad foot’ and body marks. For instance, on 17 April 1848, a Bahian agent, Manoel Joaquim d’Almeida, wrote to Kosoko that he had ‘received the five bales sent by the [ship] Andorinha.’ But these were not ‘bales’ in the ordinary sense. In a sales record dated on 3 March 1848, d’Almeida wrote that he had sold four of another five ‘packages’ received from Kosoko through the felucca Calumnia for Rs1,360,000 on 19 January 1848. The fifth ‘package’ died on 3 March 1848 for which d’Almeida spent Rs22,500 on medication and Rs2,000 for burial.48 Medical and burial expenses suggest the package was without doubt a slave. Traders seeking to avoid the anti-slavery patrol also concealed their ships. It will be important to establish the identities of slave ships listed in the letters. So far I have identified about 27 ships belonging to several Brazilians, some of whom appear not to be in the Slave Voyages Database (Table 4.4). There are two possibilities as to why this is the case. A ship could have left Bahia under one name and returned from Africa bearing another name and possibly flag. Therefore some of the unidentified ships in the database might have been listed under other names. Another probable reason is that because this was the era of abolition, records about some vessels could have been destroyed hence their non-inclusion in the database. It is unclear how differences arising from the removal of Akintoye affected relations between Kosoko and Brazilian traders who had patronised the deposed king. Despite Crowther’s assertion that Kosoko

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Table 4.4: The Atlantic Slave Voyage Database and Ships Trading with Kosoko Ships Identified in Kosoko Letters

Slave Voyage Database ID

Andorinha Felucca Calunia Mequelina Segunda Andorinha Andorinha Felucca Rozitha Mosquito (Mosca?) Polka Bom Destino Italia União Segredo Pardal Camo Industrie Igualdade Vencedora Felicidade Esperanca Eu nao sei 3a Andorinha Diligente Andorinha Felliz Liberal Dois Irmaos Liberdade

4582 3772 3773 3778 3784 3969 3956 4599 3962

Source: See http://www.slavevoyages.org/tast/database/ search.faces

attacked Brazilian allies of Akintoye and destroyed or confiscated their properties in Lagos the letters show the attack was temporary. The Brazilians soon returned and continued with business as before. For instance, the first record of Pereira Marinho’s involvement in the Lagos slave trade was in June 1839 when he returned to Bahia on the Destemida, a 152-ton Portuguese pollaca under Captain Manoel Francisco Pinto.49 Marinho’s continued to trade until the late 1840s, suggesting he traded during the governments of Oluwole, Akintoye,

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and Kosoko. Further, the differences between Kosoko and Martinez resulting from the removal of Akintoye had been resolved by 1849 was evident in their subsequent exchanges.50 These cases show that the activities of a number of Brazilian traders largely survived the conflicts caused by the Lagos chieftaincy contests. Domingo Martinez relocated his operations from Ajindo on the Badagry-Yoruba interior highway to Ibese, a village on the Badagry creek, nine miles west of Lagos, which was more accessible by canoe in order to maximize the rapport between him and Kosoko. It was no surprise he called Ibese a ‘free port’ because unlike Ajindo under Badagry rule, no one had firm control of this creek village. The advantage of Ibese lies in its accessibility by land as well as by water. Also because of its closeness to Lagos and the Atlantic Ocean its location allowed easy and quick movement of slaves without detection by the British anti-slavery patrol. Relocation to hidden outposts was one strategy for beating the British patrol. In a letter Martinez wrote describing his operations at Ibese: Within these four months I have dispatched my four ships with captives: and six days ago I sent another vessel of mine to Rio de Janeiro. I am now loading three ships in this port, and I shall wait till your young man comes to the free port of Onim that we may agree upon all directly; and I have only to tell you, that if you keep independent of the whites, the people of Onim shall never be without one of my ships.51 Slave trading during the high tide of anti-slavery raised the risks of seizure, prosecution of traders, and high insurance premiums, which raised the cost of trade and some traders began to find the trade less profitable and less attractive. In some cases, Brazilian investors withdrew from financing the slave trade and other people became indebted due to bad investments. For instance, less than two years after Martinez advertised his successes in selling slaves without detection by the British navy, he appeared to have switched to the legitimate trade of palm oil. In 1851, a British naval officer in the Bight of Benin gleefully wrote about Martinez’ trade in palm oil with the British firm of Forster and Smith and how he thought the British occupation of

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Lagos would end slave trading in the region.52 If Martinez really had abandoned the slave trade in 1851, his evolution would be emblematic of traders throwing in the towel in the face of an abolitionist crusade. It was not surprising that traders began to demand payment of debt. Usually, Brazilians credited Lagosians with goods and expected repayment later but they abhorred default. Around this time, several letters show Brazilian investors soliciting payment of old debts. Kosoko owed an unstated amount for ordering a ship so he could sell slaves directly to Brazil and not have to rely on chartered boats. However, falling revenue forced Kosoko to cancel the contract to the dissatisfaction of his partners, the firm of Gantois and Marback, because they had made the initial deposit of their money for the vessel. Had this ship been built, Kosoko would have numbered among the few West Africans ship owners aimed at shipping slaves to the Americas and an improvement over Agonglo, an eighteenth-century Dahomean king who also wanted to own a ship.53 Some letters reveal Kosoko’s anguish with his diminishing trade fortunes. The original contract he had with one of his trade agents, the firm of Gantois and Marback, was to pay for the vessel from money earned on slaves sold for him after deducting their commission. As his trade declined and creditors pressed for payment, Kosoko changed his mind. He variously asked partners like Bello and Godinho to receive payment for what he owed them from the firm of Gantois and Marback but the firm denied that Kosoko had any trade surplus. Indeed, the action of the firm showed that Kosoko was indebted to it for the money it had spent building the ship. Because the firm had technically garnished his money, Kosoko no longer sent them goods and switched to other traders.54 In a letter by Manoel Joaquim d’Almeida, he expressed displeasure that Kosko left him for other traders though Kosoko owed him an undisclosed sum. He vowed to seize any vessel bringing Kosoko’s goods to Bahia to effect payment: I have seen that you sent bales by the Mequelina,55 and that they were not to be delivered to me. I saw that in the Segunda Andorinha56 you sent not less than twenty bales, and that they were also not for me, and that in the next Andorinha57 those

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which you sent were also not for me . . . Let God make the schooner come here and I shall seize her.58 Another merchant, Francisco Godinho, listed four Lagosian debtors and another Brazilian trader wanted payment for ‘330 cloths and fifty five knives with silver handles’ on behalf a third party, which sold the goods in Lagos on credit.59 The Kosoko letters show that credit was not unidirectional but it flowed from Bahia to Lagos and outwards from Lagosians when they credited Brazilians with goods. Credit allowed buyers time to pay either in cash or products like tobacco and liquor among others. Consequently, Bahian trade agents received and stored goods including slaves sent from Lagos until they were sold often on credit. In one case a trader sold a slave in which payment was due in six months.60 From the amount realized, the agents set aside money for transportation, the upkeep, and accommodation of unsold slaves, local taxes, and their own commission valued at five percent of each shipment.61 From the balance, which was to be repatriated to Africa, agents bought goods for shipment to traders in Lagos. In 1848, for instance, Kosoko had a trade balance of 509,620 Brazilian reis with Manoel d’Almeida of Bahia, and in the following year, he sent a letter demanding payments from the Bahian firm of Gantois and Marback. Kosoko told another agent, Francisco Godinho: I have embarked on the felucca ‘Rozitha’ on my own account, four slaves, which I wish you to take account of and to dispose of as convenient, and you will employ the produce in executing the commissions formerly sent, which have not yet been executed, from want of funds belonging to me.62 At times, money collected from a debtor went into paying another trader to whom the payee is in debt. For example, at different times Kosoko had a balance of Rs3,553,350 to 10,987,725 with Domingo Bello in 1849. From this amount he instructed Bello to pay 1,000 dollars to Silva Pereira for 200 rolls of tobacco that he bought on credit in Lagos.63

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Contract enforcement including credit protection was necessary for good trade relations. Social bonds between traders constituted part of the institutions which made the trading effective and profitable. Credit was protected in a variety of ways. Traders kept written records of transactions in the form of contract papers, way bills, promissory notes, and checks. After accepting four slaves for delivery in Bahia, Domos J. C. Lire wrote: I, THE Undersigned, Captain of the felucca ‘Rositta,’ now at anchor in this port, about to proceed to the Port of Bahia, where I am to discharge . . . declare that . . . I have received on board . . . in good condition from King Kosoko, four slaves . . . which I bind myself to deliver . . . in the name of the aforesaid, to Senhor Francisco J. Godinho, receiving for freight 120,000 milreis. To the fulfillment of the above I do bind myself, my goods, and the said ship.64 Another subject raised in the letters is the payment of trade tariffs. Usually Yoruba kings did not leave their palaces. Toll collection, marketing, goods inspection, and negotiations with foreign traders were carried out by royal confidants selected from among local chiefs, palace slaves, and other members of the royal family. It is significant that two of the Lagos traders mentioned in the letters were Antonio Tapa and Ajayi d’Acambi who were royal slaves (ibiga) cum traders.65 Tapa or Ladunji Osodi, a Nupe (Tapa means Nupe in Yoruba) slave originally belonged to Esinlokun, Kosoko’s father. It is reported that Esinlokun sent Tapa and one Dada Antonio as trade representatives to Brazil where both learnt Portuguese and took the name Antonio. Back in Lagos they brokered trade between Brazilians and Lagosians. Tapa also received the title Osodi or royal chamberlain tasked with caring for royal wives. After Esinlokun’s death he supported Kosoko’s ambition to the throne in 1836 and 1852 and twice followed him into exile. On the other hand Akanbi was another of Kosoko’s war captain and royal trader but who also traded in his own right. A Brazilian merchant claimed Akanbi owed him three slaves and he wanted the king to facilitate payment.66

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When a ship arrived at Lagos, the practice was to notify the king about the presence of traders and to inform him, through his agents, of what goods the trader wanted, the quantity, and price. Before any of these could take place, the king received gifts and trading fees. Desonnais of the French ship L’Industrie mentioned these payments in a letter to Kosoko: I have just received on board the ‘Industrie’, your Lordship’s stick bearer. I send you by the boat all the articles which I have for you. I send you this case of Muscatel wine, from my own estate, which you will have the goodness to accept as a mark of the respect which I have for you. One day when the Bar is favourable, I intend to go on shore to pay you a visit.67 The amount payable in tax was usually negotiated between traders and royal agents and as we have shown above, Brazilian traders paid to Kosoko between the value of seven and ten slaves for each shipload of goods exported from Lagos in 1846.

When friendship promotes business We have mentioned above the political turbulence surrounding appointments to the king of Lagos and specifically the tension between Kosoko and Akintoye. Just as Kosoko was not satisfied with losing the throne in 1841, so too was Akintoye who never gave up his ambition to reclaim the throne when he was deposed in 1845. Akintoye mobilized support from Abeokuta and Badagry to overthrow Kosoko. When this failed, he turned to the Church Missionary Society (CMS) whose leader Charles Golmer convinced the British government that the removal of Kosoko was a necessary condition for the propagation of Christianity and abolition of slavery in Yorubaland. It was the CMS that further stimulated opposition against Kosoko and ultimately rallied the British officers in West Africa, led by Commodore John Beecroft, to plan the occupation of Lagos and reinstatement of Akintoye. Under these circumstances, it was doubtful if Kosoko ever enjoyed his reign. The fear of losing power forced him to continuously

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watch out and prepare for attacks from Akintoye’s supporters, both within the city and outside. Discussions about weapons came up in at least two letters. In a letter from Brazil, the writer said Brazilian custom officials barred the landing of muskets Kosoko sent for repair in Bahia.68 Subsequently, Kosoko turned to his allies in the sub-region. Avoseh, a trader from Agoué, indicated in a letter that he was sending two war canoes to fight rivals who had surrounded Kosoko’s palace and wanted him to vacate the throne.69 The involvement of aliens different from Lagosians based on religious beliefs like the Church Missionary Society and citizenship like people at Agoue, Ajuda (Quidah), and Porto Novo in the affairs of Lagos provides insights into the integration of Lagos into the West Africa sub-regional networks and how social ties underpinned trading operations. Merchants operated simultaneously as trade and social allies. Therefore it was no coincidence traders often addressed each other as ‘My dear Friend’ or ‘My Illustrious friend.’70 Houses of leading merchants like Kosoko, Domingo Martinez, and Francisco Felix da Souza, to mention few traders, served as entertainment salons where people met to drink, eat, sign commercial deals, and exchange gifts. A number of Kosoko letters highlight such ties. Some of the letters sent by Desonnais, a French ship captain and trader, and Godinho, to Kosoko were concerned solely with personal and familial ties. In two instances Dessonais sent to Kosoko a case of Muscatel wine from his (Dessonais) own estate.71 Eight months later Joaquim Pereira apologized for not sending Kosoko some cigars because a ship captain refused to carry them.72 Many scholars have commented extensively on sexual liaisons between African women and European men in Atlantic Africa. Some writers trace the linkage to the scarcity of white women in Africa and sexual drive among the mostly young European male sailors and travellers in Africa who in turn turned to local women. Sexual relationships produced more than libidinal satisfaction. European men accessed African markets through their African wives and concubines while the women accumulated commercial wealth by patronizing and inheriting from their European lovers and fathers.73 A striking distinction between Afro-European relations along the Nigerian Coast and

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other parts of Africa was the general absence of major female actors though ‘Nigerian’ women had long trading traditions. In the nineteenth century the prominence of Yoruba female traders led European travellers to assume the women had no other occupation. Yet a wall, sanctioned by patriarchal control and religious taboos, appeared to have been erected between ‘Nigerian’ women and European traders during the era of the Atlantic slave trade.74 The seeming absence of sex as a commercial tool between Brazilian men and Lagos women did not obviate the role of other family members as cultural brokers and trade facilitator. Traders served as guardians and godfathers to their allies’ children, thereby extending personal and trade ties to familial relationships. More than once in Bahia Desonnais and Godinho met to discuss the status of Kosoko’s sons, attending schools in Bahia and whether the children should be withdrawn from school or not after which Desonnais sent a letter to Kosoko: I inform your Majesty . . . that your three esteemed sons . . . are on board the French boat “Industrie.” You have the satisfaction of knowing that they are in perfect health, although they came on board in the most deplorable condition, being very ill. By the favour of Providence, I saved them from the fever . . . I treated them as though they were my own sons; it was sufficient to remember that they were the sons of one of my best friends.75 Dessonnais letter is significant because it highlights his role in caring for Kosoko’s children especially at a time when Bahia was faced with a yellow fever epidemic, which killed many residents. Indeed it is possible that the epidemic forced Kosoko to recall his children from Bahia. It could also be that he had no fund to pay for their education. Another trader, Colonia, sent greetings from his mother to Kosoko’s wives, indicating the women, if they had not met, certainly knew about each other and perhaps maintained their friendship while living in separate continents.76 Verger also shows that Pereira Marinho and Domingo Martinez were close friends and that in his will Marinho made Martinez an administrator of his estate.77 In West Africa,

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Domingo Martinez befriended not only Kosoko, and Akintoye before him but also the Dahomean king for economic purposes and for leveraging his dealings with Europeans and local chiefs. In a letter he told Kosoko of his planned visit to Abomey to participate in the annual royal festival.78 Martinez’ participation at a ceremony where human sacrifice, drinking, dancing, and eating usually take place show how Euro-American traders were integrated into African social practices – all in the name of building better trade relations.

Brazilian writers and Yoruba orthography The letters also have literary value particularly their contributions and insight on the development of western education and literacy in Yorubaland and the role of educated clerks and interpreters. There is no evidence that Kosoko was literate in Portuguese; it is assumed that he relied on translators to write and translate his letters from Portuguese into Yoruba and his replies from Yoruba into Portuguese. Members of the Lagos royal family numbered among the translators. Like other Nigerian students educated abroad during the pre-colonial era and largely because their parents were involved in the Atlantic slave trade, the training of Kosoko’s three sons, Simplicio, Lorenzo, and Camilio, in Bahia reveals that the foundation of western education in Nigeria was laid long before the British made it official after 1851.79 Kosoko’s three children returned to Lagos in August 1850 after attending schools in Bahia though it is unknown what subjects they studied and how many years they spent in school. Certainly there is no doubt they could read, write, and communicate in Portuguese, which were critical factors needed for the advancement of Kosoko’s trade with Brazil.80 Three years after his removal from the throne and exile to Ijebu he continued to transact trade in Portuguese. The Reverends David Hinderer and Edward Irving, both of the CMS, met a clerk working for Kosoko in Ijebu Remo in December 1854. According to Irving: a great stir . . . [at Ogere] announced the arrival of some important person, and we were . . . joined by a . . . well dressed, clean, very sensual looking man, whom the . . . people told us was Kosoko’s

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brother. We immediately shook hands, exchanged salutations, and, after a few words, he asked us if we could speak Portuguese, as in that case he could tell us a good word.81 Here, ‘good word’ is a metaphor for good trade, probably in slaves, which would have benefited Portuguese-Brazilian traders, given the circumstances. Because the CMS party did not speak Portuguese, and they were missionaries and not traders ‘after a few more words and after shaking hands’ Kosoko’s brother left and the crowd with him.82 Kosoko’s reliance on literate clerks shows a continuation of a trend where Lagos’ kings had literate clerks on their staff. In 1777, on behalf of Ologunkutere (Kosoko’s grandfather), a John Clemison wrote a letter to Richard Miles, agent of the Royal African Company (RAC) at Cape Coast, in which he solicited trade between Lagos and the RAC.83 Three decades later, in October 1807, Kosoko’s father, Esinlokun, on the eve of ascending the throne sent a letter to the Brazilian emperor, he was unaware that Brazil was a Portuguese colony and that the emperor lived in Lisbon, in which he also proposed good trade relations between their peoples and protested the shipment of poor quality Brazilian tobacco to Lagos.84 Lagosians also spoke English. In 1830, Richard Lander noted that some members of the Lagos royal family resident in Badagry spoke pidgin and good English. For instance, in addition to his son who spoke Pidgin English, Adele had with him two mixed-race assistants, one of whom was his interpreter.85 The use of western-educated clerks and interpreters persisted because it was crucial to trade contacts. A related significance was the impact of Brazil on the development of Yoruba studies and writing. In an essay published five decades ago J. F. Ajayi explored how the CMS and its agents in Sierra Leone ‘reduced’ Yoruba ‘into writing.’86 Contemporary with the CMS Yoruba language programme traders involved in the Lagos-Brazil slave trade also envisaged Yoruba as a written language and their writings certainly contributed to its development. Kosoko had people literate in both Portuguese and Yoruba during his rule. These people translated into Portuguese letters dictated in Awori dialect and reduced ideas conceived in Yoruba to writing in Portuguese. We do know that very few

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works on Yoruba language existed at this period so the writers had to render Yoruba names, titles, and numbers into appropriate Portuguese translations. This exercise involved careful listening to phonetic pronounciations, which were then translated into Portuguese. Hence the modern name Kosoko (‘ko si oko’ (there is no hoe)87 became ‘Cocioco’ by replacing ‘K’ with ‘C’ and ‘s’ in Sarah with ‘c’ (in Ciara). The Fon/ Gun name ‘Avoseh’ became ‘Avoce;’ and Ibese was written as ‘Ibexe,’ Ajayi Akanbi as ‘Ajai d’Acambi,’ and Ajeniya. The literary component of these letters complemented such early nineteenth-century Brazilian texts like the Vocabulario Nago based on a collection of words from a number of Yoruba dialects. Following on Olabiyi Yai’s estimation that Vocabulario Nago is a pan-Yoruba text, it contains words from all over Yorubaland. There are words that could be traceable to Ijesa and/ or Ekiti in eastern Yorubaland; from Ketu and/or Anago in the west, Oyo in the north, and Ijebu and/or Egba in southern Yorubaland.88 We might add that the Kosoko letters was an attempt at adding words from Awori dialect into the Yoruba vocabulary. In this case, the dictionary was contemporary to the 1843 publication of the Yoruba dictionary written by Samuel Crowther in Sierra Leone.89

Conclusion This chapter introduces an important collection of letters that provides historians with a vast amount of information on trade relations between Brazil and West Africa, specifically on the activities of slave traders, trade agents, sailors, and financiers in the mid-nineteenth century. Beyond this preliminary study this collection of letters is so rich that they demand a deeper and fuller analysis. Although the letters mostly address a king’s participation in commercial and profit accumulation they also show that royal authority existed alongside and did not replace or even weaken private enterprise. Indeed the letters appear to reiterate the complementarities of royal and private commercial enterprise. They highlight the socio-economic power of the Lagos monarchy, its interactions with traders in West Africa and relationships between merchants and politicians and their counterparts overseas. In very general terms, these letters illustrate the market and non-market relations between

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Yorubaland and Brazil and how cooperation between the two places ensured the success of the illegal Atlantic slave trade. The letters also allow for an exploration of Kosoko’s power and grip over Lagos at a time when he was largely consumed by paying off his debts to Brazilians, the collapse of the Atlantic slave trade, and fear of the British navy. It is worth knowing if Kosoko’s subjects knew his power was collapsing and how this could have emboldened his rivals. It would be interesting to know the outcome of the commercial transactions laid out prior to the cessation of Brazilian slave imports in 1851. Did the creditors write off their debt? If not how did they secure payment when slave trading had become illegal? The only information that has come to light was a report from 1854, nearly a year after Brazilian slave traders were expelled from Lagos, that two Brazilians, Marcos Borges Ferras and Pedro Martins Jambo returned from Brazil to recover a large quantity of palm oil owed to them by Lagos traders like Efunporoye Tinubu to whom Jambo had sold a quantity of tobacco on credit. The original capital outlay was for the purpose of buying slaves.90

Notes 1. 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, 1968); E. A. Oroge, ‘The institution of slavery in Yorubaland with particular reference to the nineteenth century’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Birmingham, 1971); Robin Law, The Oyo Empire c.1600-c.1836: A West African Imperialism in the Era of the Atlantic Slave Trade (Oxford, 1977); Toyin Falola, The Political Economy of a Pre-Colonial African State: Ibadan, 1830–1900 (Ile-Ife, 1984); Caroline Sorensen-Gilmour, ‘Badagry 1784–1863: the political and commercial history of a pre-colonial lagoonside community in Southwest Nigeria’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Stirling, 1995); Francine Shields, ‘Palm oil and power: women in an era of economic and social transition in nineteenth century Yorubaland (South-Western Nigeria)’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Stirling, 1997), Olatunji Ojo, ‘Warfare, slavery and the transformation of Eastern Yorubaland c.1820–1900’ (unpublished PhD thesis, York University, 2004); and Kristin Mann, Slavery and the Birth of an African City: Lagos, 1760–1900 (Bloomington, 2007). 2. Accounts and Papers of the British House of Commons, CIII (1852–53), desp. #195, Henry Bruce to Secretary to the Admiralty, 2 January 1852;

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British House of Lords Sessional Papers (BHLSP), desp. 203, Henry Bruce to Admiralty Office, 3 January 1852, 22 (1852–53), 327–66 (hereafter Kosoko Letters). Copies of the same letters in the Foreign Office has the date 27 April 1852 so it seems the FO circulated copies to other departments. See NAUK, FO881/465X. Richard Anderson of Yale University helped track down these letters in the Foreign Office Papers. The NAUK, FO 84/886, John Beecroft to Viscount Palmerston, 19 February 1852. Unidentified but he could be the Basorun or Osoun-Ejidun, a Lagos war chief. See John B. Losi, History of Lagos (Lagos, 1914), 10. For instance, see Kosoko Letter no. 6, Je. De Santos Ferras to Cocioco, 10 July 1849. Kosoko Letter no. 26, Gantois and Marback to Kosoko, 5 February 1850 and Kosoko Letter no. 38, Cocioco to Ignacio Pereira, 4 August 1850. Born in Ireland in 1788, Henry S. Marback left Liverpool as a young man, settling in the town of Cachoeira near River Paraguaçu.Posteriormente transferiu-se com toda sua frota de navios de cabotagem para Salvador, onde constituiu a firma Marback, Gantois & Cia e se tornou um dos homens mais ricos de Salvador na segunda metade do século XIX, chegando até a possuir a única embarcação de passeio movida a vapor de todo o norte-nordeste do país. He moved to Salvador where he established his business, Marback, Gantois & Co, and becoming one of the richest men of Salvador in the second half of the nineteenth century.Do casamento de Henry S. His marriage toMarback com Augusta da Silva Marback nasceu um único filho, Samuel Augusto Marback, que foi industrial e implantou a primeira fábrica de sabão em barras em larga escala da cidade de Salvador. Augusta Smith produced a son, Samuel Augustus Marback, an industrialist and soap maker in Salvador. Veio a se casar com dona Carolina Amália de Lasssance (Marback), irmã do general Guilherme Carlos de Lassance e Cunha e daí surgiu a introdução do nome “Guilherme” na famílEm 1855 Henry S.In 1855, Henry S. Marback adquiriu o palacete no sopé da Ladeira do Bonfim que ficou conhecido como Solar Marback. Marback bought a mansion now known as Bonfim Solar Marback. Saburi Biobaku, ‘Prince Kosoko of Lagos,’ in Kenneth Dike (ed.), Eminent Nigerians of the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 1960), 25–33; Jane D. Matheson, ‘Lagoon relations in the era of Kosoko, 1845–1862: a study of African reaction to European intervention’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Boston University, 1974); G. O. Oguntomisin, ‘New forms of political organisation in Yorubaland in the mid-nineteenth century: a comparative study of Kurunmi’s Ijaye and Kosoko’s Epe’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Ibadan, 1979); G. O. Oguntomisin, ‘Kosoko and the chieftaincy dispute

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in Lagos (1834–1851),’ Nigeria Magazine, (1980), 130–131, 17–28; and Oguntomisin, ‘Hostility and rapport: Kosoko’s changing relations with the British, 1852–1862,’ ODU: University of Ife Journal of African Studies, 24 (1983), 74–85. Pierre Verger, ‘Notes on some documents in which Lagos is referred to by the name ‘Onim’ and which mentions relations between Onim and Brazil,’ Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 1:4 (1959), 343–350; and Verger, Trade Relations between the Bight of Benin and Bahia 17th-19th Century (Ibadan, [1969] 1976), 400–402 and 414. David Eltis, Economic Growth and the Ending of the Transatlantic Slave Trade (New York, 1987), 261, 395; Mann, Slavery and the Birth, 43; and Olatunji Ojo, ‘The Organization of the Atlantic Slave Trade in Yorubaland, c.1777c.1856,’ International Journal of African Historical Studies, 48:1 (2008), 83–87 and 91–94. J. F. Ajayi, ‘The British occupation of Lagos 1851–61: a critical review,’ Nigeria Magazine, 69 (1961), 96–105; Robert S. Smith, The Lagos Consulate, 1851–1861 (London, 1978). Also see, Mann, Slavery and the Birth; and Oguntomisin, ‘Hostility and Rapport.’ Kosoko Letter no. 46, Joaquim Lopes Pereira to King Cocioco, 5 November 1850. Kosoko Letter no. 7, J. Y. do Couto to Cocioco, 10 July 1849. Couto was Kosoko’s military adviser and he followed him into exile in 1852. Kosoko Letter no. 46, Joaquim Lopes Pereira to King Cocioco, 5 November 1850. Also see Kosoko letters nos. 6, 7, 10, 11, 18, 32, 48. Edward Bold, The Merchants’ and Mariners’ African Guide (London, 1822). Joseph Dupuis, Journal of a Residence in Ashantee, II (London, 1824), lv. Kosoko Letter no. 28, Captain Desonnais to Cocioco, 16 March 1850. Paul E. H. Hair, Adam Jones, and Robin Law (eds.), Barbot on Guinea: The Writings of Jean Barbot on West Africa, 1678–1712 (London, 1992), 354. David E. Apter, The Political Kingdom in Uganda: A Study of Bureaucratic Nationalism (Princeton, 1961); Ivor Wilks, Asante in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 1975); Law, The Oyo Empire; E. A. Ayandele, The Ijebu of Yorubaland, 1850–1950: Politics, Economy, and Society (Ibadan, 1992); Walter Hawthorne, Planting Rice and Harvesting Slaves: Transformations along the Guinea-Bissau Coast, 1450–1850 (Portsmouth, NH, 2003); and G. Ugo Nwokeji, Bight of Biafra: An African Society in the Atlantic World (New York, 2010). Robin Law, The Slave Coast of West Africa, 1550–1750 (Oxford, 1991); and David Eltis, ‘The Diaspora of Yoruba speakers, 1650–1865: dimensions and implications,’ in Toyin Falola and Matt D. Childs (eds.), The Yoruba Diaspora in the Atlantic World (Indianapolis, 2004), 28–31.

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20. The king of Lagos required approval from Benin king until it fell to Britain in 1861 though its power on economic activities was reduced to tribute payment. See Beecroft to King of Benin, 4 January 1851 enclosed in dispatch no. 5, Beecroft to Palmerson, 2 March 1852, British Parliamentary Papers, 42 (1852–53), 311. 21. Allan F. C. Ryder, Benin and the Europeans 1485–1897 (London, 1969). 22. John Adams, Remarks on the Country Extending From Cape Palmas to the River Congo (London, [1823] 1966), 96–105, 218–22; Verger, Trade Relations, 183–90; and 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), 343–48. 23. Mann, Slavery and the Birth, 43–44. 24. For information on these records, see: http://slavevoyages.org/tast/assessment/estimates.faces?yearFrom=1766&yearTo=1851&embarkation=5; and Mann, Slavery and the Birth, 37–44. 25. David Ross, ‘The first chacha of Wyhdah: Francisco Felix de Souza,’ ODU: University of Ife Journal of African Studies, 2 (1969), 19–28; Alberto da Costa e Silva, Francisco Félix de Souza, mercador de escravos (Rio de Janeiro, 2003); and Silke Strickrodt, ‘Afro-European trade relations on the western Slave Coast, 1600–1900,’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Stirling, 2003). 26. Clapperton journal entry on 26 November 1825 in James B. Lockhart and Paul E. Lovejoy (eds.), Hugh Clapperton into the Interior of Africa: Records of the Second Expedition, 1825–1827 (Leiden, 2005). 27. David A. Ross, ‘The career of Domingo Martinez in the Bight of Benin, 1833–64,’ Journal of African History, 6:1 (1965), 79–90. 28. Church Missionary Society Archives (CMSA) Center for Research Libraries, Chicago, CA2/031, Samuel Crowther, journal entry, 12 March 1846; CMS, CA2/067, William Marsh, journal entry, 3 May and 25 June 1846; and Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Papers (WMMP), London 2/2, John Martin, journal entry, Badagry, 12 May and 25 November 1846. 29. WMMP, 2/2, John Martin, journal entry, 7 and 12 May 1846. 30. Pierre Verger, Les Afro-Americans (Dakar, 1954), 53–98. 31. Adam Jones and Peter Sebald (eds.), African Family Archive: The Lawsons of Little Popo/Aneho (Togo) 1841–1938 (Oxford, 2005). 32. Losi, History of Lagos, 16–24; Lockhart and Lovejoy, Hugh Clapperton, 101–103; Robin Law, ‘The dynastic chronology of Lagos,’ Lagos Notes & Records, 2:2 (1968), 46–54 and Law, ‘The career of Adele at Lagos and Badagry, c.1807-c.1837,’ Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 9:2 (1978), 35–59. 33. A. K. Ajisafe, History of Abeokuta (Abeokuta, [1924] 1964), 89–90.

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34. CMSA, CA2/031, Crowther, journal entries on 18 June and 18 August 1845. 35. Ross, ‘career of Domingo Martinez;’ and Verger, Trade Relations, 412–18. 36. Biobaku, ‘Kosoko;’ Matheson, ‘Lagoon relations;’ and Oguntomisin, ‘New forms.’ 37. Mann, Birth of a City, 37–44. For details, see www.slavevoyages.org. 38. Ubiratan Castro de Araújo, ‘1846, um ano na rota Bahia-Lagos: negócios, negociantes e outros parceiros,’ in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Identifying Enslaved Africans: The ‘Nigerian’ Hinterland and the African Diaspora (Toronto, 1997), 457. 39. Robin Law, ‘‘Royal monopoly and private enterprise in the Atlantic Trade: the case of Dahomey,’ Journal of African History, 18:4 (1977), 555–577. 40. Kosoko Letter no. 47, Domingos Bello to Cocioco, 21 November 1850. 41. NAUK, FO 84/892, John Beecroft to Palmerston, 26 November 1851. 42. Kosoko Letter no. 46, Joaquim Lopes Pereira to Cocioco, 5 November 1850. 43. Robert Conrad, Children of God’s Fire: A Documentary History of Black Slavery in Brazil (Pennsylvania, 1994), 29, 416; and Ana Flávia Cicchelli Pires, ‘A repressão ao comércio Atlântico de escravos na rota da Costa da Mina: o caso da Escuna Destemida, 1830–1831,’ in Mariza de Carvalho Soares (ed.), Rotas Atlânticas da Diáspora Africana: os Pretos Minas no Rio de Janeiro (Niterói, 2007), 156–89. 44. Verger, Les-Afro Americans; Paul E. and David Richardson Lovejoy, ‘Letters of the Old Calabar slave trade, 1760–1789,’ in Vincent Carretta and Philip Gould (ed.), Genius in Bondage: Literature of the Early Black Altantic (Lexington, 2001), 89–115; Randy Sparks, The Two Princes of Calabar: An Eighteenth-Century Atlantic Odyssey (Cambridge, 2004); Stephen D. Behrendt, A. J. H. Latham, and David Northrup (ed.), The Diary of Antera Duke, an Eighteenth-Century African Slave Trader (Oxford, 2010). 45. Letter no. 5, Kosoko to Francisco Godinho, 27 April 1849, Kosoko Letters. Vessels departing Lagos and seized around this period included the Miquelina; the brig, Pensamento (voyage id. 3683), owned by Godinho, under Capt J. P. A. Vianna left Lagos on 14 June 1848 with 538 slaves and seized on 28 June; and a schooner, Quantro Andorinha (voyage id. 3760) under Capt M. V. da Cunha which left Lagos with 388 slaves on 5 November 1848. The vessel was captured on 28 November by British anti-slavery patrols. 46. Leslie Bethell, ‘The mixed commissions for the suppression of the transatlantic slave trade in the nineteenth century,’ Journal of African History, 7:1 (1966), 86–90. 47. See Despatch 33, 34, George Rendell to Secretary Canning, 21 November 1825; and Cicchelli Pires, ‘Repressão ao comércio,’ 155–56.

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48. Kosoko Letter no. 1, Joaquim d’Almeida to Cocioco, 17 April 1848. 49. Cristiana Ferreira Lyrio Ximenes, ‘Joaquim Pereira Marinho: perfil de um contrabandista de escravos na Bahia, 1828–1887’ (unpublished MA thesis, Universidade Federal da Bahia, 1998), 72. 50. Letters nos. 10, 14, 32 and 48, Martinez to Cocioco, 21 August and 19 September 1849, 24 May and 22 December 1850. 51. Kosoko Letter no. 14 Mey [Martinez] to Cocioco, 13 September 1849. 52. British Parliamentary Papers, 64 (1852), 221, enc. 3 in despatch #141, Adams to Arthur Fanshawe, 24 Mar. 1851. 53. John K. Thornton, ‘Dahomey in the world: Dahomean rulers and European demands, 1726–1894’ (paper presented at Understanding African Poverty over the Longue Durée, Weatherhead Center, Harvard University, 2010). See, http://www.wcfia.harvard.edu/sites/default/files/Dahomey%20in%20 the%20World%20-%20Thornton.pdf 54. Kosoko Letter no. 27, Gantois and Marback to Cocioco, 5 February 1850. 55. Possibly the 263-ton schooner Bella Miquelina (voyage id. 3773) under Capt. Henry Jose Viera da Silva, and a crew of 17 sailors. It left Bahia on 22 November 1847, and landed 340 slaves on 18 January 1848. It was owned by Domingo Gomes Bello (voyage id. 3680). It left Bahia on 17 February 1848, and left Lagos with 522 slaves on 22 April and was seized some days later. 56. An 80-ton yacht (voyage id. 3778) owned by Joaquim Alves da Cruz Rios under Capt M. J. P. de Fonseca. It left Bahia on 17 January 1848 and returned on March 21 with 430 slaves. See Verger, Trade Relations, 402–403; and Castro de Araújo, ‘1846, Um ano’, 452. 57. The ship left Bahia again (voyage id. 3784) on 17 April and returned on 8 June with 500 slaves. In May 1848, the British navy seized Andorinha (voyage id. 3676) under Capt. A. C. Giraldis with 501 slaves on board. 58. Kosoko Letter no. 2, d’Almeida to Cocioco, 16 July 1848 and Verger, Trade Relations, 403–404 59. Kosoko Letter no. 35, Godinho to Cocioco, 13 July 1850. 60. Marinho to Cocioco 29 August 1850 in Kosoko Letter 42, Marinho to Cocioco, 9 September 1850. 61. See Eltis, Economic Growth, 395, footnote 30. 62. Kosoko Letter no. 5, Cocioco to Godinho, 27 April 1849. 63. Kosoko Letter no. 18, King (Cocioco) to Bello, 14 November 1849. 64. Kosoko Letter no. 25, Lire to Cocioco, 1 February 1850. 65. Kosoko Letter no. 21, Mensam Gumu to Cocioco, 21 December 1849. Also see Losi, History of Lagos, 10; and Edward A. Akintan, Awful Disclosures on Epetedo Lands (Lagos, 1936), 3.

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66. Gantois and Marback to Cocioco, 15 October 1849 in Kosoko Letter no. 27, Gantois and Marback to Cocioco, 5 February 1850. 67. Kosoko Letter no. 28, Desonnais to Cocioco, 16 March 1850. 68. Kosoko Letter no. 7, J. Y [sic] De Couto to Cocioco, 10 July 1849. 69. Kosoko Letter no. 44, Avoce to Cocioco, 21 September 1850. 70. Kosoko Letter no. 5, Cocioco to Godinho, 27 April 1849. 71. Kosoko Letter no. 28, Dessonnais to Cocioco, 16 March 1850. 72. Kosoko Letter no. 46, Pereira to Cocioco, 5 November 1850. 73. George E. Brooks, ‘The signares of Saint-Louis and Gorée: women entrepreneurs in eighteenth-Century Senegal,’ in Nancy J. Hafkin and Edna G. Bay (eds.), Women in Africa: Studies in Social and Economic Change (Stanford, 1976), 19–44; E. Frances White, ‘Creole women traders in the nineteenth century,’ International Journal of African Historical Studies, 14 (1981), 626– 642; Philip J. Havik, ‘Women and trade in the Guinea Bissau region: the role of African and Luso-African women in trade networks from the early 16th to the mid-19th century,’ Studia, 52 (1994), 83–120; Douglas L. Wheeler, “Angolan woman of means: D. Ana Joaquina dos Santos e Silva, mid-nineteenth century Luso-African merchant-capitalist of Luanda,” Santa Barbara Portuguese Studies 3 (1996), 284–97; Lillian Ashcraft-Eason, ‘‘She voluntarily hath come’: a Gambian woman trader in colonial Georgia in the eighteenth century,’ in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Identity in the Shadow of Slavery (London, 2000), 202–222; and see chapter three in this volume. 74. A British trader alludes to an Efik law against inter-racial sexual encounters. See R. M. Jackson, Journal of a Residence in Bonny River on board the ship Kingston during the Months of January, February and March 1826 (Letchworth, 1934), 152. 75. Kosoko Letter no. 41, Desonnais to Cocioco, 28 August 1850. 76. Kosoko Letter no. 19, Colonial to Cocioco, 10 December 1849. 77. On Marinho’s career, see Lyrio Ximenes, ‘Joaquim Pereira Marinho.’ 78. Kosoko Letter no. 32, Mey [Domingo Martinez] to Cocioco, 24 May 1850. British envoy Frederick Forbes confirms Martin’s arrival in Abomey on 1 June 1850. See Forbes, Dahomey and the Dahomans: Being the Journals of Two Missions to the King of Dahomey, and Residence at His Capital, in the Year 1849 and 1850, II (London, [1851] 1966), 58. 79. Kosoko Letter nos. 30 and 35, Godinho to Cocioco, 30 April and 13 July 1850. On African students abroad in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, see David Northrup, Africa’s Discovery of Europe (New York, [2002] 2009); and Paul E. Lovejoy and David Richardson, ‘Trust, pawnship, and Atlantic history: the institutional foundations of the Old Calabar slave trade,’ American Historical Review, 104:2 (1999), 333–355.

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80. Kosoko Letter no. 41, Desonnais to Cocioco, 28 August 1850. 81. Edward Irving, ‘The Ijebu Country,’ Church Missionary Intelligencer, 7:4 (1856), 95. 82. Irving, ‘Ijebu Country,’ 95. 83. Thomas Hodgkin (ed.), Nigerian Perspectives: An Historical Anthology (London, [1969] 1975), 225–26. 84. Verger, Trade Relations, 235–37. 85. Richard Lander and John Lander, Journal of an Expedition to Explore the Course and Termination of the Niger, I, (New York, 1832), 54–56, 72, and 77. 86. J. F. Ajayi, ‘How Yoruba was reduced into writing,’ ODU: University of Ife Journal of African Studies, 8 (1960), 49–58; and Isaac A. Ogunbiyi, ‘The search for a Yoruba orthography since the 1840s: obstacles to the choice of the Arabic script,’ Sudanic Africa, 14 (2003), 77–102. 87. Kosoko is a name given to a child born after the mother had lost a number of children. The idea is that the parents no longer have the desire to dig more graves. 88. Olabiyi Yai, ‘Texts of enslavement: Fon and Yoruba vocabularies from eighteenth and nineteenth century Brazil,’ in Identity in the Shadow of Slavery, 109–12. 89. Samuel Crowther, A Vocabulary of the Yoruba Language (London, 1852). 90. PP, lxiii, Class B; Benjamin Campbell to Earl of Clarendon, 5 December 1854.

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5 THE META MOR PHOSIS OF SL AVERY IN COLONIAL MOMBASA, 1907–1963 Feisal Farah

This chapter explores the different mechanisms and strategies used by the slaves in Mombasa, Kenya, in constructing their identity during the rapidly changing period of emancipation and how their stigmatized status survived into the post-emancipation period. Mombasa, due to the lack of land required for intense grain cultivation, did not develop a plantation economy and its economy mostly relied on trade.1 With a focus on the interaction between people of slave descent and those with free ancestry this chapter considers the shift from slave society under Omani rule in the nineteenth century to the emancipation and post-emancipation periods under British rule. This critical time saw major changes in the way people who had ‘slave’ status negotiated relationships with their former masters. This chapter examines one form of slavery, namely domestic slavery. This form of slavery existed before plantation slavery of the late nineteenth-century Swahili coast. Although slavery was abolished in Kenya in 1907, its stigma did continue many decades later.2 Certainly, ethnicity played a role in social stratification that placed cultural obstacles in the path of emancipated slaves on the Kenyan coast.3 On the other hand, colonial rule led to

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the social transformation in the Swahili-Islamic culture of Mombasa, which created underlying tensions between former slave owners and their former slaves. Indeed slavery ended for some slaves on the coast of Kenya, but for those in Mombasa it endured and metamorphosed.4 The slave-owning elites reacted to the abolition of slavery by transforming their relationship with their former slaves by changing the old social relations of master and the slave system, to one of patron-client system – where class and ethnicity became a distinguishing factor and the former elites were able to ‘monopolize high social status.’5 Historically, Mombasa has existed at times as an independent citystate, Portuguese enclave, and at other times it was part of the Omani empire on the coast of East Africa. Archaeological evidence points to the existence of a pre-Islamic and pre-Shirazi dynasty in Mombasa ruled by a queen named Mwana Mkisi.6 Mkisi’s city was named Kongowea and at times it has been called Gongwa. An area north of the island of Mombasa still carries the name Kongowea. Some Swahili claim that her city was located on the northern part of the island of Mombasa itself at a place called Mzizima. The Shirazi on their part do not acknowledge the existence of this pre-Islamic dynasty. Oral tradition credits Shehe Mvita with the founding of the city of Mombasa. At one time, the city was called Mvita probably in honour of Shehe Mvita. Mombasa Swahilis like their counterparts on the East African coast claim Persian origins. Scholars have concluded that this ‘Shirazi’ presence on the Swahili coast is an outcome of secondary migration from a southern area of what is modern Somalia. Scholars contend that there is no evidence that shows a direct arrival from the region of Shiraz located in modern Iran.7 Mombasa underwent major transformations from island state to falling under control of different rulers both local and foreign, comprising Omani (Yarubi, Mazrui, and Busaidi), Portuguese, and British influences with the modern state of Kenya achieving independence in 1963. The Mombasa Swahili community like other Swahili communities dotted throughout the ‘Swahili coast’ or East African littoral an area spanning 3,000 km from Somalia in the north and to Mozambique in the south. Mombasa has been influenced by the Indian Ocean trade. Swahili-speaking people were able to dominate East African ports

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towns not because of their ‘superior military technology,’ but through trade, intermarriage, and the creation of a patrician (waugwana) institution. They were able to slowly dominate communities on the East African coast by grafting themselves onto the older patrician communities and replacing them with a new one without jeopardizing the system.8 Among the earliest known Swahili groups to establish themselves in Mombasa as a community were the Thenashara Taifa (the twelve tribes), which were further subdivided into Thelatha Taifa (the three tribes) and Tisa Taifa (the nine tribes).9 These two groups have been historically against each other, Thelatha Taifa being the earliest settlers of Mombasa saw the Tisa Taifa as ‘interlopers’; nevertheless, these two groups’ settlers of Mombasa were able to dominate other Swahili groups and become the elites and later other immigrant groups from southern Arabia and Oman joined them. The Swahili incorporated immigrants from southern Arabia through marriage. Some of these migrants used their wealth as a tool to gain access into Swahili society and other used Islamic pedigree, such as being a scholar or claiming to be a sharif, a descendant of the Prophet as away to gain a foothold in the higher stratum of Swahili society.10 Slaves were also incorporated into Swahili society by adopting the Swahili culture or through the institution of concubinage. These slaves occupied the lower end of society.11 This two-tier system of incorporating people into Swahili society has created an ambiguity about their origins and identity. Earlier historians of the Swahili pointed to the Arabian Peninsula and the Persian Gulf as the origins of their culture and civilization.12 Today, linguistic and archaeological evidence clearly shows that Swahili civilization is African and any ‘Arab’ influence, though historically important, remains essentially secondary to Swahili language and culture.13 Today, Swahili identity has been completely adopted by the people with slave ancestry to whom Kiswahili has become their primary language and Islam their religion; nevertheless, their admission into the Swahili community is only ‘symbolic’. Their lack of ‘genealogical pedigree’ has been mark against their full membership, and therefore they and their ancestors are at best considered junior members.

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Swahili society has always had people of slave origin. Most of the slaves in Mombasa arrived from Zanzibar and Kilwa but a few were bought or were obtained through pawnship from the Mijikenda groups living in the immediate hinterlands.14 Mombasa, Malindi, Lamu, and their hinterlands were major recipients of slaves originating from Kilwa and re-exported from Zanzibar. According to Abdul Sheriff, Swahili traders from Mombasa and as far north as Pate in northern Kenya bought slaves at Kilwa and further south in Mozambique in the early eighteenth century.15 In the nineteenth century, there was a dramatic increase in the slave population on the Swahili coast, which coincided with the increase in plantation complexes. The restriction on the transportation of slaves from Arabia, in the nineteenth century, by the British forced slave traders to divert slaves to East Africa to engage in intensified agricultural production. Mombasa by the nineteenth century was a vibrant town with a connection to commercial networks with its immediate hinterlands and deep into the interior trading with the Kamba. In earlier periods of the nineteenth century ivory was the most important commodity that was being exported. By the late nineteenth century, Mombasa’s economic dependency on ivory started to decline and was replaced with agricultural products such as ‘millet, maize, beans, sesame and copra’, which were exported to Arabia.16 According to Sheriff, by the early part of the nineteenth century, agriculture played a major role in the economy of Mombasa and many of the residents of the island had farms on the mainland. Nevertheless, Mombasa’s production could not sustain an export and therefore, it acted as a collection center for regions to its south and north and its hinterland. Grain from Malindi to the north and as far south as Mrima, present-day Tanzania, ended up in Mombasa and was exported to Arabia.17 In 1866, Mombasa imported 720 slaves, according to records kept in Zanzibar.18 According to Sheriff, in the 1860s around 700 slaves were imported into Mombasa and Malindi directly from Zanzibar. Mombasa also received slaves directly from Kilwa but their numbers are unknown.19 In the 1860s, Sherriff estimates that over 1,000 slaves were exported from Zanzibar and shared by Mombasa, Takaungu, and Malindi.20 In the 1870s, while on a visit to Mombasa, Frederic Holmwood, Zanzibar’s consular representative,

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estimated that up to 500 slaves per year were being imported through the land-based slave trade.21 Fred Berg estimates between 1866 and 1872 nearly 3,000 slaves were imported from Zanzibar.22 Specifically, he breaks down the dates and numbers as follows: between 1865 and 1866 Mombasa imported 725 slaves; in 1870 Mombasa and Malindi imported 624 slaves combined; in 1871 Mombasa and Malindi imported 1,600 slaves from Zanzibar. In 1872, the year before the abolition of the Arabian slave trade, a dramatic increase of slave importation to Mombasa, Malindi, and Lamu included the arrival of 5,737 slaves.23 According to Frederick Cooper, the largest slave owners owned up to 40 slaves, but most owned less than ten slaves.24 Cooper admits to the abundance of slaves in Mombasa and attributes it to banning of slave exports to Arabia.25 Hence, the claim by a missionary that a leader of the Nine Tribes, Khamis bin Kombo Mutafi, owned 500 slaves, is according to him, an exaggeration. Nevertheless, this shows that some of the landed families of Mombasa owned a lot of slaves.26 Cooper argues that it is impossible to have exact numbers of slaves in Mombasa. The population statistics that were taken prior to the twentieth century counted Swahilis and slaves as one group. According to an estimate done in 1847, Mombasa had a population of 3,000, those identified as Arabs numbered around 220–230 and the rest were counted as slaves. Ten years later Richard Burton approximated the population to be 8,000–9,000, which included 350 Arabs. Holmwood in his estimation in 1874 recorded a population count of 12,000 and identifying most of them as Swahili. A population count conducted at the end of the century and focusing on the city of Mombasa shows a population breakdown of 496 Arabs, 14,574 free Swahili and 2,667 slaves.27

Slavery in Mombasa There were two types of slaves in Mombasa. The first group consisted of newly imported slaves and the second group included those born into slavery. Slaves were called watumwa and newly bought slaves were called washamba, meaning those from the hinterland. Other names included washenzi meaning uncivilized, wajiga (stupid), m’ja meaning

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one who came, and wajiga (stupid people). The newly imported slaves were considered uncivilized, barbarians, raw, and brutish even lacking ‘culture,’ uncouthness, boorishness. According to the Swahili, they were opposite of everything that ugwana stood for. These slaves occupied the lowest position within Mombasan society. For those born in Mombasa and raised in their master’s home, they were called wazalia, meaning those born here. These slaves possessed the knowledge of Swahili culture and therefore spoke the language and also had rudimentary understanding of Islam. Most of the wazalia were mafundi or skilled tradesmen and were employed as carpenters, fishermen, masons, porters, tailors, and some were vibarua or general labourers.28 Mombasa like other Swahili towns along the east coast of Africa was active in the Indian Ocean trade. Therefore, by the early nineteenth century, Mombasa had grown into an important entrepôt with a flourishing trade in ivory to India and Arabia. Although, by far Zanzibar was the leading Swahili port at this time, nevertheless, Mombasa’s business was expanding exponentially, dhows departing to and from East Africa during their return to the north. Apart from the Indian Ocean trade, Mombasa carried out business with the people of its hinterlands; it was receiving caravans from Ukambani and Swahili caravans were penetrating as far north as Marsabit.29 By the mid-nineteenth century, Mombasa was a highly stratified, prosperous and urban society like many Swahili coastal towns, its society was divided into two classes, the elites which were represented by waungwana (civilized) and watumwa (slaves).30 In Mombasa, slavery was a birthmark transmitted to the children of Ham and they were considered cursed and uncivilized, hayawan, an animal.31 Most experienced cruelty, exploitation, injustice because slaves were considered property to be bought and sold. Owning a slave in Mombasa conveyed ‘wealth and prestige.’32 Mombasa did not develop a flourishing plantation economy like the neighbouring islands of Malindi and Zanzibar. Its economy mostly relied on trade with its hinterland and other ports throughout the Indian Ocean.33 Although slave owners did employ some slaves in their small mashamba (farms) that dotted the mainland, nevertheless, majority of the slaves in Mombasa were not employed in the plantations

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complexes that were mushrooming throughout the Swahili coast.34 Scholarly works that deal with slavery have described slaves as the quintessential outsider. Therefore, slavery can then be defined as utter dependence on the master because the slave’s lack of kin. Kinship in many African societies, including the Swahilis, was an important platform where a person’s economic position, social relations, and legal protection rested. Scholars of slavery and its institutions have mostly described it as a top down, smooth running machinery, with fixed rules and grafted onto a clearly circumscribed ‘culture’ where slaves and slavery are described as rights and obligations. The institution of slavery in Mombasa, like many slave owning societies, was shaped by the interaction between slaves and slave owners.35 Therefore, the slavemaster relationship was to be interpreted not as an individual relationship determined by the ‘invisible hand of reified cultural norms,’ but, a by-product of interaction between different social groups, including the slaves themselves. Therefore, we cannot analyse masters and slaves relations in isolation; therefore, for us to understand slaves and the institution of slavery, it is imperative that we understand the slave owners and the complexities that shaped their societies.36 Slavery in Mombasa followed well-established Islamic patriarchal traditions popular in most of the Swahili coast. Patriarchy appears to be benevolent and religion was used to rationalize their domination of slaves.37 Social stratification on the Swahili coast has been going on for centuries and slavery was one of the pillars that sustained this class division. Class division in Mombasa was both ethnically and class based, prominent freeborn Arab-Swahili families constituted the upper class followed by poor freeborn and slaves born in Mombasa, and at the very bottom were the newly acquired slaves. The only exception was the descendants of the Prophet who transcended social boundaries.38 The prevailing slave ideology that existed in Mombasa was well-established underpinning most of the East African coastal slave owning communities, which was predominantly based on Swahili cultural hegemony.39 The Swahili of Mombasa considered themselves people who embodied Utu, which meant that as a people they possessing civilization, humanity, culture, pedigree, and language.40 On the other hand, slaves in Mombasa were characterized as uncivilized,

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animals, brutes, born with a curse, and without words of their own. Thus, by defining them under the rubric of monstrously mentioned above, they justified their enslavement by juxtaposing ‘familiar with the unfamiliar.’41 The Swahili-Arab masters called themselves waugwana, which equalled urbanity, cultured, and civilized. Therefore, they occupied the highest point in the Mombasa hierarchy. These Swahili/Arab belonged to long-established families of appropriate social and economic standing their position as wenye miji (‘owners of the settlements’ or patricians); they were known as Wenyeji, as the ‘real owners’ of the town. This status was acquired through marriage, allowing them to acquire family and clan links an important quality in the ‘Swahili culture orbit’ to be a Mwaugwana, also meant to have mastery of the Swahili language, have an Islamic heritage and being townsfolk. Therefore, Ugwana was to be civilized and belong to a culture unique to the coast of East Africa. 42 A slave was not defined by his or her duties but by their complete domination by their master over their daily life and even their offspring.43 Commonly, slaves worked as household servants, artisans, and some females were concubines. Slavery in Mombasa was more an urban than a rural phenomenon related to the development of prosperous commercial links with both the hinterland and the Indian Ocean region as a whole. Therefore, the shaping of the slave-master bonds were a long process that slaves themselves had a hand in moulding into what it was at the beginning of the twentieth century.44 To Mombasan Swahilis, slaves were seen as neither possessing religion nor culture; they were considered ‘voiceless, godless, and kinless’ and their place in society was defined by their relationship to their masters. Therefore, the onus was on the slave owners as transmitters of civilization.45 Swahili kinship structure incorporated various groups from all over the Indian Ocean into their society but the larger groups of settlers hailed from the southern parts of the Arabian Peninsula such as Hadhramaut and Oman being the principal areas. Slaves were incorporated into Swahili culture though their status was inferior, they did not enjoy full equality and their social mobility was limited.46 For most cases, slaves in Mombasa were incorporated into the Swahili society at the bottom, therefore, they constituted a distinct social class.47

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The northern distribution center of the slave trade existed in Mombasa during the Busaidi dynastic rule. In the late nineteenth century Mombasa like most of the Swahili coast saw an expansion in agricultural production fuelled by demand from the Arabian Peninsula. This resulted in an increase of importation of slaves from East and Central Africa through Kilwa and Zanzibar. Over 700 slaves arrived in Mombasa from Zanzibar, increasing the slave population to nearly 5,000. Nevertheless, most of the slaves in Mombasa were not employed on plantations but laboured as domestics and petty traders and few worked in small farms as sharecroppers, meaning they gave a percentage of their produce to their master. Therefore, the slaves in Mombasa were employed in households and they were predominately female.48 The nature of slave labour in Mombasa was determined by the absence of grain cultivation, large plots of lands, and the high monetary value placed on fruit trees.49 Slaves played an important role in food production.50 For slaves who were children and young women it was assumed that they ‘had no social identity’, making it easy to adopt the culture and the identity of their masters. Young slave girls were especially quick to adapt to their masters, culture because they were groomed from the beginning to become concubines, mothers, and domestic workers.51 Through manumission and children born by sexual relations between masters and slave women, these slaves were incorporated into Swahili society. Children born to a master by a slave mother were considered free. Females slaves in Mombasa like elsewhere in the Islamic world ended up as domestic servants, petty traders.52 Female slaves, on the other hand, were absorbed into the Swahili community through the institution of concubinage where female slaves who bore children for their masters were able to gain some freedom.53 A domestic slave who was raised or was born in Mombasa like their counterparts in other Swahili societies along the East African coast found it difficult to sever relationship bonds with a former master. In Zanzibar, for example, domestic slaves were treated as ‘family.’ However, it was more difficult for these slaves to claim their freedom. Many domestic slaves remained with their former masters long after manumission and even after the abolition of slavery; they stayed on as junior members in Swahili households. Some even ended up as dependants of their former owners’ children.54 Fear of being

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re-enslaved and being far from their land of origin and lacking strong family ties to protect them forced many slaves to choose to stay within the households of their former masters and their descendants.55 In Mombasa, the role of slaves was defined less by the tasks they performed than by their generalized subordination.56 The Swahili ‘fragility of control’ would later facilitate the subordination and incorporation of slaves into their communities, creating an ideology of dependency and patriarchy. Therefore, earlier European observers of the slave conditions in Mombasa and East Africa in general perceived slavery to be less cruel, with slaves having ‘civic and social rights.’ To European colonial officials slaves on the Swahili coast appeared to be well treated compared to ‘industrialized freemen’ of England in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.57

Islam and slavery in Mombasa Religious symbolism played an important role in helping the maintenance of the hierarchy in Mombasa as in Lamu and other parts of East Africa. The social hierarchy created was perpetuated by notions of ‘purity’ and ‘impurity’ where ritual and symbols were instrumental. Thus, religion, just like culture and society, never remained static; it had undergone a series of changes to its cosmology so as to include or exclude certain groups. Therefore, ‘the deep or unconscious religious’ belief systems in Mombasa like many other parts of the Swahili coast has been and is still being interpreted and reinterpreted by scholars.58 In Mombasan society, religious life and ritual was an instrument to ‘articulate structural tensions and contradiction’ myth and ritual was the language of argument, instead of a language of ‘chorus of harmony.’ For example, masters and slaves used similar Kiswahili myths to articulate different meanings, thus interpreting the myths according to their social status.59 Prior to colonialism, slave owners used religious mechanisms to free their slaves. For example, it was considered a pious act for a slave owner to voluntarily emancipate their slaves. Freeing a slave also was a gesture of thanksgiving and sometimes masters freed their slaves as atonement or expiation for a minor sin. Often slaves were freed

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upon the master’s death through their will. In many occasions when a master freed his or her slave he often provided for them. For example, some slaves received a farm often ones they had worked on or slave owners allowed the slaves to continue working on the farms and benefiting from the fruits of their labour. The slave owners also put the farm and land under trusteeship, guaranteeing security for the former slave to live without being harassed by future creditors or even inheritors. In some instances, slaves were able to own property and even buy a farm. In general, the slave owners did not object to their slaves owning property because they knew that in case the slave dies, they had the right to their property as inheritance in accordance to Islamic jurisprudence. Nevertheless, ex-slaves retained close ties with the families of their former masters, returning to the master’s house for festivities or in time of trouble; masters who acted with leniency and paternal fashion towards their slaves were able to have lasting relationships long after the abolition of slavery. Many slaves were renamed as uledi, which implied that they were legally free and often financially independent but they still remained part of their master’s household. Therefore, when slaves needed protection, they would return to their former slave owner’s home, where this person acted as their protector, which enhanced his self-image within Swahili society.60

Women and slavery Colonialism impacted slave women in Mombasa. The ‘“cause” of the “oppression” of women and in the case of Mombasa Muslim women; some will . . . charge Islam . . . with subordinating women . . . others will blame colonialism and others point to classes system that was spawned by slavery.’61 Colonialism was a double-edged sword for women in Mombasa. On the one hand, by abolishing slavery it changed the ‘economic activities and social relations, even if the changes in work patterns were not always abrupt.’62 On the other hand, it restricted their participation in some economic activities such as the selling of local brewed alcohol (tembo) and at the same time confining them in the informal economic sectors such as ‘domestic service, handicraft, and prostitution.’63

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Concubinage was an institution that grew out of slavery in the Muslim world and Mombasa was no exception. Unions that were formed between a male slave owner and a slave woman produced a category of ‘half-slaves.’64 In the ordinance of 1907, which abolished slavery on the mainland coast of Kenya, concubines were explicitly excluded. Therefore, slave women were the first causality of the legal abolition of slavery because the ordinance did not recognize them as slaves. This practice continued long after abolition.65 Nevertheless, an amendment in 1909 ensured a continued financial support for concubines and allowed them freedom in certain conditions. Many slave owners continued to have control over former slaves well after emancipation. Some slave owners even claimed inheritance from their former slave estate in accordance with Islamic law. One area where slave owners and their former slaves had a bitter struggle was on the issue of slave owners’ right in giving a stamp of approval to marriage between people of slave background. Prior to abolition, slaves had to ask permission from their masters to marry and on receiving the consent gave a gift of two rupees called kilemba (turban), as an act of deference. Islamic scholars and former slave owners claimed that the colonial government did not have legitimacy of freeing slaves only, slaveowners’ were accorded this power by Islamic law. Therefore, as far as Islamic law was concerned no changes in relations between master and their slaves had taken place with legal abolition of slavery and therefore marriage between people with slave backgrounds was deemed ‘adulterous,’ if the former master did not grant permission. British colonial authorities left a Kadhi (Islamic judge) to deal with cases of slavery. Therefore, it was not a shock to hear two decades after the legal abolition of slavery a man claiming in a court of law ‘she is my slave.’66 However, Islamic judges refused to register marriages which were not approved by the former master.

Social stratification during the colonial period Slavery was abolished by the British colonial government in 1907. This colonial intervention to emancipate slaves in Mombasa brought little

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change. Relations between the former masters and their ‘freed’ slaves continued and the ties that bound slaves to their masters were not eliminated with emancipation. Although the British colonial power undermined the economic, political, and social power of slave-owners in Mombasa and other east African areas that fell under their dominion, nevertheless, conditions for the slave did not improve or change immediately.67 In 1880, a group of slave owners attacked a Church Missionary Society (CMS) station that was harbouring fugitive slaves on the outskirts of Freretown.68 British taxation laws also created ‘racial categories’ that strengthened the hands of the former slave owners and solidified their position as elites in Mombasa. The introduction of taxes by the British had a significant impact on social relations in Mombasa. The appointment of Arthur Hardinge as the consul-general of the new British protectorate saw a cadre of junior civil servants coming from the Arab-Swahili elites who took up jobs in the newly created administration. On the one hand, the colonial government created racialized categories by labelling the former slave-owners as non-native, and this new designation gave them a higher status, allowing them separate schools, better housing, jobs, and wages. On the other hand, slaves were classified as native, therefore, subjecting them to discrimination and an inferior position in society. 69 Taxes in Mombasa apart from being a tool of turning slaves into workers, it was also an instrument that created a rigidified social structure. Whereas before colonialism, having wealth was to claim descent from the Prophet, being a townsfolk, and Swahili guaranteed someone a spot on higher stratum of Mombasa society with the new tax policies. An Arab or non-native in Mombasa became an important social category.70 Therefore, ustaarabu or Arabness became the new definition of sophistication and urbanity replacing Ungwana.71 Thus, this new racial tax hierarchy created by the British colonial official made Arabic and Arab culture an important distinction on the Kenyan coast during the colonial period. Therefore, many Swahilis, especially those from the elite groups, started claiming Arab ancestry distancing themselves from their former slaves and other Africans from the hinterlands. Thus,

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this new racial tax hierarchy created by the British colonial office made Arabic and Arab culture an important distinction on the Kenyan coast during this period. Another group of people who occupied a middle position between the European colonialist and the native Africans were the migrants from the Indian sub-continent. Although a small community of south-east Asians had settled on the East Africa coast long before British colonialism. Nevertheless, a significant number of Asians arrived in the middle of the nineteenth century and early parts of the twentieth century as labourers in the newly established British colonies in East Africa. People from the Indian sub-continent and the Arabs of the coast were classified as Asian, a category above native but below European.72 To classify a Mombasa resident as ‘Swahili’ meant he or she was a ‘native’; this designation meant you will be subjected to discrimination.73 Swahilis, especially those from the elite groups, categorized themselves as Arabs, to distinguish themselves from native a category now occupied by their former slaves and other Africans from the hinterlands. To be declared native in Kenya during the colonial period was to be treated as the bottom class where a person is refused access to decent facilities such as a hospital, jail conditions, no political representation and trading licences, and restricted access to agricultural lands so that areas such as the White Highlands was forbidden. Therefore, many Swahilis and other ethnic groups fought to be reclassified as non-native so as to gain privileges in the new colonial hierarchy.74 For example, the Isaq Somali diaspora community in Kenya, who had emigrated from British Somaliland and some through Eden in Yemen, fought by petitioning the British Colonial Office to be reclassified as ‘Asiatics.’ To be classified as Asiatic in the new colonial racial taxonomy resulted in paying higher taxes, but at the same time, it meant enjoying the benefits of a class that was above African.75 The British colonials officials in Kenya refused to give in to the demands of the Isaqs. The Isaqs continued their campaigning by sending letters to other Isaqs in British Somaliland and Britain. In one letter to fellow Isaqs in British Somaliland, a complaint was made about the new regulation that forced the Isaqs to pay native taxes. One Isaq trader declared ‘because we agreed to pay the same taxes as Indians and

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[other] Asiatics and now we are ordered to pay the same as slaves.’76 The terms like mungwana, which, previously denoted townsmen now symbolized being Arab. Therefore, the main ‘polarity’ within ArabSwahili society in Mombasa was transformed into an issue of class and the stratification and the social gulf that was created by the slave system now metamorphosed into class distinction under colonialism.77 Slaves working as agricultural labourers were able to cut their ties with the former owners after abolition, because most of them were newly arrived slaves and had not been incorporated or had solidified their ties with their masters. Hence with the coming of abolition of slavery, they were able to find work as labourers in the ports, railways, and for others they found refuge as small-scale farmers in the watoro settlement.78 But, for those born into slavery, they were fully incorporated through the assimilation of language and religion and it was difficult for this group to cut ties with their former slave owner; therefore, the master-slave relationship was later replaced with a patron-client system that continued along after abolition.79 During British colonial rule, work and occupations became the defining criterion of class stratification in Mombasa. This transition period from slavery to wage labour saw slaves working in more or less the same occupations. If a slave was a tailor, mason, carpenter, and porter, they continued in the same line of work as emancipated people. The casual labourer (Kazi ya Kibarua) in the dockyards in Mombasa transitioned from slavery into free labourer because they were better prepared for wage labour then other Africans from the hinterlands.80 Among the former slaves some still paid a percentage of their earnings to their former masters out of respect and obligation. The ranks of vibarua or general labourer were filled by ex-slaves, the Mijikenda, and even from lower classes of Hadrami Arabs.81 Unlike their counterparts, slaves who were born into slavery and working as domestic slaves for their masters in major towns such as Mombasa their bids for freedom were impeded by the double bind one as slaves and the other, their full incorporation into the dominant ideology of their masters. Many slave owners claimed compensation for their former slaves from the colonial government and at the same time claimed that the manumission of their slaves by the British was illegal

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and not in accordance to the Sharia, Islamic law. There are many cases of former slaves who still continued to work for their former slave owners, long after being freed by the colonial government. These slaves felt obligated to stay with their former masters because of their ‘strong ties of attachment’ and on the other hand, masters for their part claimed they did not want to sever the bonds with their former slaves and continued to take care of their welfare even in their old age.82 In Zanzibar, for example, many former slaves are alleged to have returned their freedom medals back to the manumitting courts and asking to be returned to their former slave owner because they felt that freedom had made them socially irrelevant. The emancipated people believed that they were unable culturally to share with their former slave owner at weddings, funerals, and other social events. For example, community dances were organized with the help and cooperation of all social classes including slaves before 1907. This shows clearly that slave owners asked their former slaves to partake in these ceremonies by helping, for example, in the cooking and preparation of these events. The exslaves asked their former masters to sponsor events organized by them, showing the mutual obligations between the two classes. Therefore, the social hierarchy in Mombasa that was embedded during slavery continued and flourished long after abolition.83 In Mombasa, after emancipation and during colonialism a subculture that was a mix between the culture of the dominant groups and people of slave ancestry developed. This Swahili culture of the upper and lower classes eventually dominated the Mombasa cultural landscape in the twentieth century. Former slaves used music, dance and even Maulidi as a vehicle to lay claim to Swahili culture and Islam. Arab-Swahili resisted the challenges to their hegemony by their former slaves by using genealogy, wealth, and their education to perpetuate their dominance on their former slaves but their efforts were late and unfruitful. Slaves already had embedded their cultures into the Swahili culture for years, thus reversing the Arabization of Swahili and reclaiming its Africaness.84 Therefore, former slave owners also had adopted some of the customs and dances of their former slaves. This did not lead to social acceptance for the former slaves, however, the stigma still remained. The Beni like its counterpart in the United

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States, African-American Jazz, was appreciated by the dominant white citizens. Before colonialism slaves were prohibited and restricted from performing dances. Mtoro bin Mwinyi Bakari, the famous Swahili poet, describes how slaves were prohibited from dancing for ngoma kuu (big drum), and only freemen and local rulers (jumbes) were allowed to. Different styles of dancing were associated with different classes, for example, waungwana were associated with ‘arm-dancing,’ and slaves were associated with ‘foot-dancing.’85 During the transitional period between slavery and colonialism slave ancestry and the poor had separate dances from the Arab and Swahili elites. Many dances were organized around ethnic origins of the former slaves. Slaves in Mombasa like the rest of the Swahili coast belonged to a variety of ethnic groups such as Chagga, Kamba, and Taita, but majority of the slaves were referred to as wanyasa coming from the areas of Nyasaland.86 For example, wanyasa, wangindo, and others recreated their dances from their former lands and Swahilis never participated in them except as spectators.87 During the colonial period the former slaves were able to organize Beni associations, which takes its name from the English word band. Beni associations utilized European musical instruments and its members wore and mimicked European military uniforms. Beni associations were hired to add prestige and fun to a wedding celebration most members were said to be from the ‘rowdier element of the town.’ Inviting people to weddings and entertaining people during weddings was a role that former slaves played. The Benis demonstrate that this role continued after abolition with former slaves entertaining guests at weddings. Former slaves looked to former slave owners for financial help. For example, it was not out of the ordinary for former slave owners to be the financial backers and sponsors of Beni associations.88

Conclusion Mombasa at the beginning of the twentieth century was a highly stratified society with a land-owning and slave-owning Arab and Swahili class occupying the upper stratum. The middle rung was occupied by some not so wealthy slave owners, traders, sailors, artisans, and

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labourers, from various ethnic groups. The bottom rung was occupied solely by slaves previously imported from various parts of East and Central Africa or slaves acquired from the Mijikenda groups that occupy lands in the immediate hinterlands of the Kenyan coast.89 In Mombasa, ‘the emancipatory impulse’ was not ‘organic’ it was imposed by British colonialism and it was accepted reluctantly. It was an experimental process that was fraught with practical and cultural difficulties and therefore the process of abolition was a ‘protracted process.’90 Family and ethnicity which was negotiable prior to colonialism became rigidified and otherwise fluid categories, which allowed for social mobility was now reorganized. The colonial state tried to set rules for access to resources; it slowly and incompletely made identification with social categories increasingly relevant to political and economic life and therefore, ‘a drawing of a boundary around what had been a much more fluid set of relationships.’ Slaves were involved in reproductive labour as well as the generation and transmission of the ideology that supported the slave-free hierarchies by providing their masters with a large following of slaves or blood relations a valued of social status marker among the Swahili.91 Therefore, slaves supported their slave owners, and in return slave owners supported them. Ties of dependence become important long after the institution of slavery was abolished on the coast of East Africa.92 For slaves in Mombasa, abolition was not instrumental in removing their ‘disabling status’ they remained a marked people.38 The trajectory of slave life in Mombasa took different turns with the arrival of colonialism. Although, some slaves in Mombasa were able to witness some changes in a relationship with their former slave owner, majority of them found out that emancipation was a process that saw them ‘in a struggle with their owners and—the colonial state in a struggle to control labor—a struggle which took place in the context of a changing political economy and was part of deeper transformations set in train by colonial rule.’93 Mombasa has undergone various changes from being a city where slavery was once legal, to a city under colonial rule when slavery was formally abolished to now the second largest city in the republic of Kenya. Yet, even today, people of slave ancestry are still struggling to gain their place in the future of Mombasa.

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Notes 1. Frederick Cooper, ‘Islam and cultural hegemony: the ideology of slaveowners on the east African coast,’ in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), The Ideology of Slavery in Africa (Beverly Hills, 1981), 279. 2. Fred Morton, Children of Ham: Freed Slaves and Fugitive Slaves on the Kenya Coast, 1873 to 1907 (Boulder, 1990), 2. 3. Pete Daniel, ‘The metamorphosis of slavery, 1865–1900,’ Journal of American History, 66:1 (1979), 88–99. 4. Fredrica R. Halligan, ‘Metamorphosis: change & continuity, chaos & order, conflict & transformation,’ Journal of Religion and Health, 43:3 (2004), 221–232. 5. Margaret Strobel, Muslim Women in Mombasa, 1890–1975 (New Haven, 1979), 94. 6. Oral traditions suggest that Mwana Mkisi was the first ruler of Mombasa. 7. Colin Breen and Paul J. Lane, ‘Archaeological approaches to East Africa’s changing seascapes,’ World Archaeology, 35:3 (2003), 469–489. For debates on Swahili origins see Kelly M. Askew, ‘Female circles and male lines: gender dynamics along the Swahili Coast,’ Africa Today, 46:3–4 (1999), 67–102; James de Vere Allen, Swahili Origins: Swahili Culture and the Shungwaya Phenomenon (London, 1993), 204–205; John Middleton, The World of the Swahili: An African Mercantile Civilization (New Haven, 1992); Jonathon Glassman, ‘Social rebellion and Swahili culture: the response to German conquest of the Northern Mrima, 1888–1890’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1988); Fred J. Berg, ‘Mombasa under the Busaidi Sultanate: the city and its hinterlands in the nineteenth century’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1971); Carol M. Eastman, ‘Who are the Waswahili?,’ Africa: Journal of the International African Institute, 41:3 (1971), 228–236; Fred J. Berg, ‘The Swahili community of Mombasa, 1500–1900,’ Journal of African History, 9:1 (1968), 35–56; Mbarak Ali Hinawy, Al-Akida and Fort Jesus, Mombasa: The Life-History of Muhammad bin Abdallah bin Mbarak Bakhashweini, with the Songs and Poems of his Time (London, 1950). 8. Allen, Swahili Origins, 199. 9. Louise Rolingher, ‘Originary syncretism and the construction of Swahili identity, 1890–1964: an experiment in history and theory’ (unpublished MA thesis, University of Alberta, 2002); Marc J. Swartz, ‘Politics, ethnicity, and social structure: the decline of an urban community during the twentieth century,’ Ethnology: An International Journal of Cultural and Social Anthropology, 35:4 (1996), 233–248; Allen, Swahili Origins, 1; Berg, ‘The Swahili community,’ 35–56.

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10. Kai Kresse, ‘Knowledge and intellectual practice in a Swahili context: “wisdom” and the social dimensions of knowledge,’ Africa, 79:1 (2009), 148–167; Allen, Swahili Origins, 215. 11. Ali Al’Amin Mazrui and J. M. Ritchie, The History of the Mazru’i Dynasty of Mombasa (Oxford, 1995), 14; François Constantin, ‘Leadership, Muslim identities and East African politics: tradition, bureaucratization and communication,’ in Louis Brenner (ed.), Muslim Identity and Social Change in Sub-Saharan Africa (Bloomington and Indianapolis, 1993), 40; Strobel, Muslim Women, 2–3. 12. Allen, Swahili Origins, 12–13; François Constantin, ‘Social stratification on the Swahili Coast: from race to class?’ Africa: Journal of the International African Institute, 59:2 (1989), 145; Derek Nurse and Thomas T. Spear, The Swahili: Reconstructing the History and Language of an African Society, 800– 1500 (Philadelphia, 1985), vii–1. 13. Randall L. Pouwels, ‘East African coastal history,’ Journal of African History, 40:2 (1999), 285–296. 14. Joan Russell, Communicative Competence in a Minority Group: A Sociolinguistic Study of the Swahili-speaking Community in the Old Town, Mombasa (Leiden, 1981), 18–19. 15. Abdul Sheriff, Slaves, Spices & Ivory in Zanzibar: Integration of an East African Commercial Empire into the World Economy, 1770–1873 (London, 1987), 42–43. 16. Tiyambe Zeleza, A Modern Economic History of Africa (Dakar, 1997), 407. 17. Frederick Cooper, ‘Plantation slavery on the east coast of Africa in the nineteenth century’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Yale University, 1974), 208. 18. Cooper, ‘Plantation slavery,’ 209. 19. Sheriff, Slaves, Spices & Ivory, 71. 20. Sheriff, Slaves, Spices & Ivory, 228–229. 21. Cooper, ‘Plantation slavery,’ 209. 22. Berg, ‘Mombasa under the Busaidi,’ 341. 23. Sheriff, Slaves, Spices & Ivory, 226. 24. Cooper, ‘Plantation slavery,’ 213. 25. Cooper, ‘Plantation slavery,’ 208. 26. Cooper, ‘Plantation slavery,’ 220. 27. Cooper, ‘Plantation slavery,’ 215. 28. Daren Ellsworth Ray, ‘The Christian Watoro of Fuladoyo: competing ideologies on the Swahili coast’ (unpublished BA Hons. thesis, Brigham Young University, 2006), 5–6. 29. E. I. Steinhart, ‘Elephant hunting in 19th-century Kenya: Kamba society and ecology in transformation,’ International Journal of African Historical Studies, 33:2 (2000), 335–349; M. Abir, ‘Caravan trade and history in the northern parts of East Africa,’ Paideuma, 14 (1968), 103–120.

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30. James de Vere Allen and Thomas H. Wilson, Swahili Houses and Tombs of the Coast of Kenya (London, 1979), 4. 31. Morton, Children of Ham, xiv. 32. Paul E. Lovejoy, Transformations in Slavery: A History of Slavery in Africa (New York, [1983] 2000), 220. 33. Michael Naylor Pearson, The World of the Indian Ocean, 1500–1800 (Burlington, 2005), 123–124; Cooper, ‘Islam and cultural hegemony,’ 279. 34. Morton, Children of Ham, 2. 35. Frederick Cooper, ‘The treatment of slaves on the Kenya Coast in the 19th century,’ Kenya Historical Review, 1:2 (1973), 87. 36. Jonathon Glassman, ‘No words of their own,’ Slavery and Abolition, 16:1 (1995), 131–145; Frederick Cooper, ‘The problem of slavery in African studies,’ Journal of African History, 20:1 (1979), 103–125; Cooper, ‘Islam and cultural hegemony,’ 277–278. 37. Cooper, ‘Islam and cultural hegemony,’ 275–6. 38. Strobel, Muslim Women, 1. 39. Karim Kassam Janmohamed, ‘A history of Mombasa, c. 1895–1939: some aspects of economic and social life in an east African port town during colonial rule’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Northwestern University, 1978), 327. 40. Marc J. Swartz, The Way the World Is: Cultural Processes and Social Relations among the Mombasa Swahili (Berkeley, 1991), xi. 41. Jennifer L. Morgan, ‘“Some could suckle over their shoulder”: male travelers, female bodies, and the gendering of racial ideology, 1500–1770,’ William and Mary Quarterly, 54:1 (1997), 168; Morton, Children of Ham, xiv. 42. Marc J. Swartz, ‘Illness and morality in the Mombasa Swahili community: a metaphorical model in an Islamic culture,’ Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry, 21:1 (1997), 89–114; Allen, Swahili Origins, 14–5; Marjorie Ann Franken, ‘Anyone can dance: a survey and analysis of Swahili Ngoma, past and present’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of California, Riverside, 1986), 69; A. H. J. Prins, The Swahili-speaking Peoples of Zanzibar and the East African Coast: Arabs, Shirazi, and Swahili (London, 1961), 11. 43. Frederick Cooper, Plantation Slavery on the East Coast of Africa (Portsmouth, [1977]1997); Cooper, ‘Islam and cultural hegemony,’ 279. 44. Cooper, ‘Treatment of slaves,’ 89. 45. Cooper, ‘Islam and cultural hegemony,’ 275–6. 46. Berg, ‘Mombasa under Busaidi,’ 167–8. 47. Cooper, ‘Treatment of slaves,’ 87. 48. Chapurukha M. Kusimba, ‘Archaeology of slavery in East Africa,’ African Archaeological Review, 21:2 (2004), 62; Morton, Children of Ham, 2. 49. Morton, Children of Ham, 214.

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50. Glassman, ‘No words,’ 131–145; Cooper, ‘Treatment of slaves,’ 89. 51. Marcia Wright, Strategies of Slaves & Women: Life-Stories from East/Central Africa (New York, 1993), 2 & 156; Frederick Cooper, On the African Waterfront: Urban Disorder and the Transformation of Work in Colonial Mombasa (New Haven, 1987), 16. 52. John Middleton, The World of the Swahili: An African Mercantile Civilization (New Haven, 1992), 102; Morton, Children of Ham, 3; G. A. Akinola, ‘Slavery and slave revolts in the sultanate of Zanzibar in the nineteenth century,’ Journal of the Historical Society of Nigeria, 6:2 (1972), 216. 53. Lovejoy, Transformations, 32 & 220; Berg, ‘Mombasa under the Busaidi,’ 168. 54. Middleton, World of the Swahili, 25; Akinola, ‘Slavery and slave revolts,’ 217. 55. Morton, Children of Ham, 3. 56. Cooper, ‘Islam and cultural hegemony’, 279. 57. Cooper, ‘Islam and cultural hegemony’, 277–278. 58. Abdul Hamid M. el Zein, The Sacred Meadows: A Structural Analysis of Religious Symbolism in an East African Town (Evanston, 1974), xvi. 59. el Zein, Sacred Meadows, xx-xxi. 60. Cooper, ‘Treatment of slaves,’ 99–101. 61. Cooper, ‘Treatment of slaves,’ 1. 62. Cooper, ‘Treatment of slaves,’ 145. 63. Cooper, ‘Treatment of slaves,’ 145–50. 64. W. G. Clarence-Smith, Islam and the Abolition of Slavery (London, 2006), 74. 65. Ahmed Idha Salim, The Swahili-speaking Peoples of Kenya’s Coast (Nairobi, 1973), 111. 66. Clarence-Smith, Islam, 125. 67. Frederick Cooper, From Slaves to Squatters: Plantation Labor and Agriculture in Zanzibar and Coastal Kenya, 1890–1925 (New Haven, 1980), ix; Strobel, Muslim Women, 2–3. Also see, Janmohamed, ‘A history of Mombasa’; Karim Kassam Janmohamed, ‘African labourers in Mombasa, 1895–1940,’ in Bethwell A. Ogot (ed.), Economic and Social History of East Africa (Nairobi, 1976), 156–179. 68. Akinola, ‘Slavery and slave revolts,’ 224–225; James D. Holway, ‘C.M.S. contact with Islam in East Africa before 1914,’ Journal of Religion in Africa, 4:3 (1971), 200–212. Also see, Willemina Kloosterboer, Involuntary Labour since the Abolition of Slavery: A Survey of Compulsory Labour throughout the World (Leiden, 1960). 69. Franken, ‘Anyone can dance,’ 46–48; Strobel, Muslim Women, 3 & 41; Salim, Swahili-speaking. 70. Kresse, ‘Knowledge and intellectual practice,’ 148–167; Allen, Swahili Origins, 215. 71. Thomas Spear, ‘Early Swahili History Reconsidered,’ International Journal of African Historical Studies, 33:2 (2000), 257–290; Carol M. Eastman, ‘Service,

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86. 87.

88. 89.

90.

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slavery (“Utumwa”) and Swahili Social Reality,’ Afrikanistische Arbeitspapiere, 37 (1994), 97–107. Randall Hansen, ‘The Kenyan Asians, British politics, and the Commonwealth Immigrants Act, 1968,’ The Historical Journal, 41:3 (1999), 814. Strobel, Muslim Women, 2–3. Strobel, Muslim Women, 39–40. Vincent Cable, ‘The Asians of Kenya,’ African Affairs, 68:272 (1969), 220. E. R. Turton, ‘The Isaq Somali Diaspora and poll-tax agitation in Kenya, 1936–41,’ African Affairs, 73:292 (1974), 327–329. Franken, ‘Anyone can dance,’ 70. Salim, Swahili-speaking, 109. Strobel, Muslim Women, 19 & 94. Cooper, On the African Waterfront, 25–26. Cooper, On the African Waterfront, 25–27; Janmohamed, ‘African Labourers,’ 156–176. Salim, Swahili-speaking, 112–113. Franken, ‘Anyone can dance,’ 70–71; Salim, Swahili-speaking, 114; Strobel, Muslim Women, 9–10. Strobel, Muslim Women, 8. Franken, ‘Anyone can dance,’ 277; Ibrahim Noor Shariff, ‘The function of dialogue poetry in Swahili society’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey, 1983), 76. Cooper, ‘Plantation Slavery,’ 239. Charles New, Life, Wanderings, and Labours in Eastern Africa: With an Account of the First Successful ascent of the Equatorial Snow Mountain, Kilima Njaro, and Remarks upon East African Slavery (London, [1873] 1971), 660; R. Skene, ‘Arab and Swahili dances and ceremonies,’ Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 47 (1917), 418. Franken, ‘Anyone can dance,’ 101–103. Margaret Strobel, ‘Slavery and reproductive labor in Mombasa,’ in Claire C. Robertson and Martin A. Klein (eds.), Women and Slavery in Africa (Madison, 1983), 112–117. Rosanne M. Adderley, ‘“A most useful and valuable people?” Cultural, moral, and practical dilemmas in the use of liberated African labour in the nineteenth-century Caribbean,’ Slavery and Abolition, 20:1 (1999), 68. Strobel, ‘Slavery and reproductive,’ 119. Cooper, ‘Plantation slavery,’ 194. Suzanne Miers and Richard L. Roberts (eds.), The End of Slavery in Africa (Madison, 1988), 3.

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6 ECONOMY, POLITICS, AND THE EAR LY FOR M ATION OF A CULTUR AL IDENTIT Y IN BR ITISH VIRGIN ISL ANDS’ SL AVE SOCIET Y Katherine A. Smith

I who am poisoned with the blood of both Where shall I turn, divided to the vein? I who have cursed The drunken officer of British rule, how choose Between this Africa and the English tongue I love? Betray them both or give back what they gave? How can I face such slaughter and be cool? How can I turn from Africa and live? Derek Walcott1 By the mid-sixteenth century, the Spanish had arrived at the British Virgin Islands, followed by the French, Dutch, and English by the mid-seventeenth century. The English ultimately claimed sovereignty of the islands. The British Virgin Islands constitute 59 square miles, divided amongst the larger islands of Tortola, Virgin Gorda, Jost Van Dyke, Anegada, and some 40 smaller islands, cays, and rocks. The

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earliest Africans who accompanied Europeans, involuntarily, came through the Dutch and Danish participation in the transatlantic slave trade. The Akan people from the Gold Coast (now Ghana in West Africa) were in the Virgin Islands, as can be demonstrated from the early Dutch and Danish trades, the existence of camfou or comfoo dances in the early history, and arguably from the presence of certain Akan words like obeah and fungi. From the mid-eighteenth century, when the Islands’ settlers founded major sugar plantations, more Africans, mostly Igbo from the Bight of Biafra, were transported to the Virgin Islands. There were also enslaved Africans, imported from the Windward Coast as well as from West Central Africa which, in the latter case, meant ‘Angolans’ or Kimbundu-speakers and ‘Congos’ or Kikongo-speakers.2 The British Virgin Islands were the last of the English island colonies to be settled. They have been included in a group of islands which were ‘marginal’ to the ‘sugar revolution.’ In this environment, the slaves were able to progress relatively, under slavery. This chapter examines the formation of an acculturated or ‘creole’ Virgin Islands’ cultural identity.

African origins and settlement patterns on Virgin Gorda and Tortola On 27 September 1695, Leeward Islands’ Governor Christopher Codrington indicated that in the Virgin Islands, the enslaved population originated in part from the ‘Coast of Guinea,’ which refers to West Africa, through the Danish trading port at St. Thomas.3 On 15 May 1717, Leeward Islands’ Governor Walter Hamilton referred to the often arrival of slave ships from the island of St. Eustatia, a Dutch colony. Hamilton also referred to these Africans as coming from the Coast of Guinea.4 Between 1676 and 1725, the Dutch drew its enslaved population mainly from West Central Africa, the Bight of Benin, and lastly the Gold Coast – which in the latter case meant Akan people. However, between 1726 and 1750, the Dutch transported the enslaved population from the Gold Coast in the greatest majority, and then from West Central Africa and the Bight of Benin. Kwasi Konadu states, These Danish and Dutch vessels including their European partners, carried not only Akan peoples from one of the principal

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regions of the international enslavement enterprise but also a composite Akan culture to the Americas.5 The Akan presence was also indicated in the existence of certain cultural practices in Virgin Islands’ history. Camfou or comfoo dances existed in early Virgin Islands’ history. Twi is one of the Akan languages, and the word camfou or comfoo is derived from the Twi term o’komfo, meaning ‘priest, diviner, soothsayer.’6 The word o’komfo has also been defined as meaning ‘the interpreter and mouthpiece either of the guardian spirit of a nation, town, or family, or of a soothsaying spirit resorted to in sickness or other calamities.’7 Among the Akanspeaking people, for the Ashanti o’komfo worked for the good of the community and in opposition to the obayifo. It has been suggested that obeah originated from the Ashanti terms obayifo or obeye, meaning wizard or witch or the spiritual beings who inhabit witches.8 However, Kenneth Bilby and Jerome Handler state, Yet, we believe that a convincing argument can be made . . . that the word obeah is most likely derived not from a word denoting harmful power, such as obayi-fo, but from another African term (or terms) with entirely positive or, at least, neutral, meanings. We argue that the term obeah probably derived from Igbo, or a related language of the Niger delta, such as Efik or Ibibio, where the term dibia refers to a ‘doctor’ or ‘healer’, one who enjoys a very positive role in the communities he serves, and where a related term, abia, denotes various kinds of esoteric knowledge, including knowledge of herbal healing.9 In fact, it has also been linked to an Ibibio word, abia, meaning ‘practitioner, herbalist.’10 Fungi has also been linked to a Twi word fugyee meaning ‘soft, mealy of boiled yam’ or Kimbundu funzi meaning ‘cassava mush’ or Congo fundi meaning ‘flour or porridge’ or Yoruba funje meaning ‘given to eat.’11

Population growth: early years There were 15 whites on Tortola in 1678. Governor Codrington’s 1695 report stated, ‘These poor people [on Virgin Gorda] – fourteen men a few women and three negroes in February 1690 – grew by December

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last [1694] to fifty good men and their families and seventy or eighty choice negroes.’12 Table 6.1 shows population growth on Virgin Gorda and Tortola between 1716 and 1720. Table 6.1: Population Growth, Virgin Islands, 1716–1720 Year

Virgin Gorda Whites

1716 1717 1720 1724

Virgin Gorda Blacks

247 317 371 340

125 308 361 650

Tortola Whites

Tortola Blacks

103 159 203 420

44 176 266 780

Source: National Archives of United Kingdom (NAUK), Kew, Colonial Office (CO) 152/10; CO 152/13; and CO 152/14.

By the 1740s, the Virgin Islands were on the way in transitioning to sugar islands. There were corresponding demographic changes, as the increase in Africans was normally related to the increase in sugar production at this time in the Caribbean. By this time, there is an indication of where the Africans were coming from in The Transatlantic Slave Trade: A Database on CD-ROM. In the Database, the first voyage was recorded in 1748. The last was recorded in 1812. According to the Database, the vast majority of Africans came to the British Virgin Islands from the Bight of Biafra – 6,390 – between the years of 1750 and 1812. Second, between the years 1759 and 1803, 2,744 enslaved Africans arrived from the Windward Coast.13 Between 1711 and 1808, 2,329 Africans were brought from West Central Africa. Table 6.2 shows a summary of the Africans arriving from specific ports of embarkation between 1750 and 1812. Table 6.2: Ports of Embarkation from the Coast of Africa to Tortola, 1750–1812 Years

Port of Embarkation

1750–1812 1759–1803 1711–1808

Bight of Biafra Windward Coast West Central Africa

Number of Enslaved Persons Arriving at Tortola 6,390 2,744 2,329

Source: David Eltis, et al., The Transatlantic Slave Trade: A Database on CD-ROM. (Cambridge, 1999).

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According to Gwendolyn Midlo Hall, 90 per cent of enslaved persons from the Bight of Biafra came through the slave ports of New Calabar, Old Calabar, and Bonny.14 From the early eighteenth century, Bonny emerged as the major slave port and shipped mainly Igbo slaves. According to John Oriji, the Igbo constituted 75 per cent of the enslaved persons coming from the Bight of Biafra during the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries.15 In relation to West Central Africa, by the late seventeenth-century Kimbundu speakers from Luanda, the primary exporting centre of Angola, as well as Kikongo speakers from the Loango Coast were being transported from the West Central African area.16 The slaves who came from the Loango Coast came from the interior. As well, the Kingdom of Kongo became involved in the slave trade in such a way that its citizens were exported through the trade to the Americas. According to Joseph Inikori, when the strong centralized kingdoms of Benin and Dahomey, the Oyo Empire, and the Asante state formed, they all had laws that specifically prohibited the sale of their subjects for export.17 It was unusual for the citizens of a state or kingdom to be sent through the transatlantic slave trade, although this happened in the case of the Kingdom of Kongo. From the previous discussion, it is highly probable that the Akan presence was in the Virgin Islands having come through the early Dutch and Danish slave trades. In addition, the Akan presence cannot be denied in the existence of the camfou dances, and possibly in the words obeah and fungi. Furthermore, it is certain that Igbos were represented in the Virgin Islands, and probably in large numbers. It is also certain that West Central Africans were in the Virgin Islands.

The economic environment The creation of a mono-cultural economy with agricultural plantations based mainly on the cultivation of one crop was not easily successfully achieved in the Virgin Islands. The Virgin Islands, the last of the English colonies to be settled, were included in the group of islands which were ‘marginal’ to the sugar revolution. Islands such

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as Anguilla, Barbuda, the Bahamas, and the Cayman Islands never experienced the ‘sugar revolution.’ Even though the Virgin Islands did engage in sugar production, these plantations developed over a century after they developed in the other Leeward Islands, and lasted for a short period of time. While the external economy in the Virgin Islands was dominated by the planters and free blacks, the internal economy was dominated by free blacks and the enslaved population. The subject of settling the Virgin Islands was a source of debate in the early history – with interested parties attempting to convince Britain of the economic worth of the islands. In 1734 it was reported that ‘Anguilla, Spanish Town and Tortola are not sugar islands, at least not for export. They chiefly produce cotton and provisions.’18 By 1740, there were improvements and by 1759, the value of sugar exported to Britain had exceeded that of cotton.19 By 1773, the Virgin Islands had improved sufficiently and Britain decided to grant legislative government, on the condition that the colonists would pay a four and a half per cent duty on all produce exported – for the privileges of legislative government.20 An extract of a letter from President Richard Augustus Fahie to Governor Thomas Shirley dated 5 April 1784 stated: It is here as it is elsewhere, the large fish swallow up the small. The estates of the small cotton planters which were contiguous to sugar estates have been swallowed up by them: This besides many of the cotton estates being converted . . . themselves into sugar estates, has been cause of a decrease in the cultivation of that article. About 15 years ago, the Virgin Islands produced 1,000 bales of cotton: but the annual produce at this time does not exceed 500.21 Sugar plantations were concentrated on Tortola. Isaac Pickering’s map, published in 1798, showed on Tortola itself that out of 104 estates, 73 were listed, out of which 56 were sugar plantations; 10 were cotton; 3 were leased for sugar; 2 were on lease; and 2 were for pasture.

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Map 6.1. Isaac Pickering’s 1798 Map of Plantations on Tortola. Courtesy of Dr. Michael Kent, Senior Lecturer, H. Lavity Stoutt Community College, British Virgin Islands.

Certainly, the Akan were familiar with agriculture and trade. The Akan states located in urban Africa conducted long distance trade with the cities of the Sudan as well as maritime trade with the Ivory and Slave coasts. In the capital of the Asante kingdom, plantations surrounded Kumasi and on them vegetables, fruit, and foodstuffs were produced and carried to the trading centre for sale. Markets in outlying districts were held on specific days.22 The Igbo were also familiar with agriculture and trade. As successful yam cultivators, for example, they were held in high esteem. There were also craftsmen and specialists such as iron workers, blacksmiths, and woodcarvers. The Igbo also engaged in manufacturing salt and textiles. In their markets they had abundant and varied currencies. They fitted their markets into fourand eight-day cycles the latter known as izu ukwu – the big week.23 It has been shown that the Akan presence came into the British Virgin Islands during its early plantation era, and that the Igbo were probably

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the largest ethnic group brought into the islands after the sugar plantations developed. It can therefore be concluded that these persons brought their agricultural, trading and marketing skills and knowledge bases with them into the early Virgin Islands’ economy.

The internal economy: skilled and wage labour It was reported in the early 1800s that the enslaved population had replaced white overseers as drivers, boilers, and watchmen especially on the island of Tortola.24 In addition, it is likely that they were paid to work on the public works. Governor Shirley stated in 27 July 1783: With regard to the very large sum for negro hire and carts I can only say that a great number of negroes have occasionally been employed upon the public works from time to time and I believe nearly to the amount of what is therein mentioned.25 It was reported that land and black labour had amounted to 46,866 British pounds eight shillings and eight pence one penny sterling, causing the public tax to be raised.26 It is highly probable that black labour included free blacks as well as the enslaved population. The transition to wage labour was thus underway in the Virgin Islands as early as 1783.

Marketing African activities on these provision grounds led to the development of what has been referred to as the ‘internal economy’ – where slaves and free blacks sold their produce in the island markets. In 1726, Governor Matthew himself, in discussing the use of a coin, referred to the need to be able to pay slaves for their provisions ‘at their own time raised on the little plots of land allowed them in each plantation.’27 In 1803, Governor Lavington wrote regarding discussions about the use of a coin: But when it is considered that the Road Town of Tortola, like all other West India towns, is entirely supplied with bread, fresh meat, poultry, vegetables, grass for the horses of the inhabitants,

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and all the smaller articles of daily consumption, by the negroes living in different parts of the country . . . no negro would bring his grass, or the produce of his grounds to market, when the only coin in which he could be paid for it, would not pass current.28 Governor Lavington was drawing reference to the effect which business carried out by slaves in the Virgin Islands had on decisions to use a coin.29 Therefore, it can be seen that in the Virgin Islands’ context, the enslaved population and free blacks dominated the ‘internal economy.’ In addition, Michael O’Neal refers to the development of ‘customary ownership’ of the grounds they cultivated, so much so that the slaves bequeathed those grounds.30

Planting and selling cotton Enslaved persons also played a role in the external economy. In 1751 Deputy Governor James Purcell provided insight into the activities within the external economy. He reported that from the mid-1730s, several vessels visited annually from Britain, North America, and the Windward Islands and received cotton, sugar, and lignum vitae for the commodities they brought.31 In addition to this, clandestine trade or ‘smuggling’ with Danish St. Thomas had played an integral role to the British Virgin Islands’ economy since earliest times.32 The role of the enslaved population in these activities was indicated by the President of the Virgin Islands’ Council, John Fahie, in a letter to Governor Shirley dated 5 April 1784. In the letter Fahie indicated that for many years the rich sugar planters had given permission to the enslaved population to plant and sell cotton: The cultivation of cotton has been on the decline in these Islands for many years owing chiefly to the permission granted by the rich sugar planters to their slaves to plant and vend that commodity. Under this permission, they availed themselves of every occasion of committing depradations on the little plantations of the poor cotton planter without being liable to detection as they passed it off for their own growth . . . This inconvenience was,

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at last, about twelve months ago, remedied by an act to prohibit planting and selling of cotton by any slave.33 Up until that point, slaves along with whites were producing and selling cotton. The slaves had been usurping the small cotton plantations of the planters. The act which forbade slaves from planting and selling cotton was the Virgin Islands Slave Code of 1783. Yet, it was reported that in the 1820s, blacks on Virgin Gorda monopolized the export of cotton grown there.34

Seamen and boat-builders Furthermore, John Nugent’s Report, dated 26 June 1774, referred to the vessels belonging to these islands as generally small sloops, schooners, and shallops. ‘Their number may be about 20, their tonnage 500 tons and they are navigated by about 100 seamen principally slaves.’35 Smaller islands, such as the Virgin Islands, used smaller vessels, and persons had to make their own small boats; this was the work of poor and enslaved persons in the Virgin Islands.36

Property ownership: slaves Manager, Gordon Aitken’s report on Ruth Lettsom’s Lower Estate explained that the slaves were allowed to cultivate their grounds a day in each week out of crop exclusive of Sunday – between July and January. They were allowed to keep as many cattle or other stock namely goats and hogs as they chose. Many of them sold considerable quantities of milk and any other private property – ‘now as much their own as any other individual.’37 Aitken recalled an incident where an old woman died while he lived on the estate that left 90 British pounds to be divided among her children. She also left a cow or heifer to many of her grandchildren. In fact, it was reported by Trelawney Wentworth, an observer, that many of the enslaved population in the British Virgin Islands owned cattle. 38 In fact, in the 1828 Legal Inquiry Commission, the Chief Justice stated that in the Virgin Islands slaves: ‘do acquire property for

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themselves . . . by law they cannot . . . they do however acquire and are permitted to dispose of property to a considerable amount.’39 According to John Stobo, they owned property in 1815 amounting to 29,000 British pounds. In 1823, they owned property amounting to 30,064 British pounds (Table 6.3).40 Table 6.3: Value Property Holdings of Free and Enslaved Persons in British Pounds (£) Virgin Islands, 1815 and 1823 NonMortgages Resident Resident Free African in Britain Whites Whites Coloured Slaves Apprentices 1815 1823

335,000 349,000

510,000 151,000

235,000 63,000

138,000 91,000

29,000 30,064

396 1,000

Source: NAUK, CO 239/03.

It has been shown that slaves in the Virgin Islands advanced into skilled positions, planted and sold cotton, and worked as seamen and boat-builders, and dominated, along with free blacks, the internal economy; they engaged in a variety of occupations. They owned property. According to Michael O’Neal: In aggregate, these contradictions which had developed in British Virgin Islands’ plantation society were ultimately incompatible with the perpetuation of “normal” slave-master relations. The Blacks, while still in bondage, had begun to acquire many of the attributes normally associated with freedmen, particularly as regards land rights and property ownership.41

The political environment Certainly, the process of establishing or imposing English political institutions on the islands was very difficult. The neglect of these islands, as a result of the dubious economic worth, meant that the Virgin Islands developed its own political culture, at times contrary to the nature of British colonial administration. For the colonists, land grants along

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with the creation of a system of law and order was essential in order to legitimize these grants and settle disputes. The establishment of a legislature was the only way to guarantee that local laws were shaped according to local conditions and needs. Yet, the Virgin Islands were not granted a legislature until 1773. This meant that a slave code could not be enacted until after 1773. It was enacted in 1783.

Virgin Islands’ Slave Code Frank McGlynn alludes to the fact that the title of the Virgin Islands Slave Code ‘indicts the system of slavery in practice on Tortola as untenable.’42 The slave code was entitled ‘An Act for the Good Governance of Negro and other Slaves, for the Preventing of Harborage and Encouragement to Runaway Slaves, and for Restraining and Punishing All Persons who shall Abet the Pernicious Practices of Trafficking with Slaves for any of the Tock or other Commodities of these Islands.’ This title gives insight into the problems with runaway slaves as well as with their economic activities; the ‘contradictions’ to the ‘normal’ slave-master relations to which Michael O’Neal refers are clear. The nature of the Virgin Islands’ Slave Code with its emphasis on control of the slave population indicates the need to control the advancement of this population in the minds of the planters. The first clause established a slave court for the trial of slaves. The court was composed of three justices who had jurisdiction over all offences committed by slaves. All such offences were tried by a bench of magistrates. The slave courts were held, not at any fixed time, but as often as required. Immediately following this, the next 14 clauses were devoted to the problem of runaway slaves. The subject matter is returned to again in clauses 26 and 33. Seven clauses were devoted to the prevention of slaves possessing weapons of any kind, beating drums, blowing horns or having meetings on the plantations, planning any sort of muting rebellion or escape, striking or opposing any white person, or attempting any means of poisoning. The last three categories were punishable by death. Four clauses are concerned with controlling the mobility of slaves, requiring tickets to travel off the plantations. Two restricted the economic activities of the slaves.

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In the 1828 report of the Commission of Legal Inquiry, which provided more information regarding the practical rights of slaves in the Virgin Islands, the Commissioners did not find the slaves ‘starved, wretched, or habitually ill treated’ and further referred to cases with circumstances of atrocity or cruelty as rarely happening. In fact, the statistics related to natural increase were much higher in the Virgin Islands than in the other Leeward Islands, as demonstrated in Table 6.4.. This suggests that despite the Arthur Hodge examples, slaves in the Virgin Islands were much healthier than the other Leeward Islands. Table 6.4: Rates of Natural Increase/Leeward Islands, 1817–1828 Colony/Years

Years

Natural Increase per 1,000

St. Kitts

1822–1825 1825–1828

-0.4 1.8

Nevis

1822–1825 1825–1828

-1.0 0.3

Antigua

1821–1824 1824–1828

-0.5 0.2

Montserrat

1821–1824 1824–1828

-0.6 4.5

British Virgin Islands

1822–1825 1825–1828

9.1 10.9

Source: B.W. Higman, Slave Populations of the British Caribbean, 1807–1834 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1984), p. 308.

It was in this environment, one in which slaves worked skilled positions, were paid wages, planted and sold cotton, dominated the internal economy, and were healthier by far compared to the other Leeward Islands, that a Virgin Islands culture and identity was formed.

Formation of British Virgin Islands’ culture and identity during the plantation era The early cultures of Europeans and Africans interacted, impacted, and influenced each other in the Americas. There have been many debates on the nature of the culture or identity which emerged. One

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idea which has emerged has been the theory of creolization. This is a mixture of two or more cultures so that what emerges is a new, mixed culture. It has been argued that neither European nor African remained culturally but instead became creole.43 As a counterpart to creolization, it has been strongly argued that that underneath everything, the Caribbean/diasporic identity remained African, although reinterpreted or reformulated.44 Alongside these views, it is believed that Caribbean culture is largely an extension of African culture although the African culture is greater in some areas than others.45 More recently, Paul Lovejoy states that there should be a shift away from the idea of a new diasporic culture to the idea of continuities, extension, and maintenance with the homeland.46 Essentially, either Caribbean cultures became new mixed cultures, or African cultures adapted or acculturated to the new environment. This process will be explored through an examination of four sub-units of culture: food culture, language, music, and religion.

Food culture Where this mixture is seen, African foods predominate. According to Judith Carney and Richard Rosomoff, subsistence staples were all loaded on slave ships as provisions for the enslaved Africans on these ships.47 These food crops of African origin from the Savanna complex included rice, okra, hibiscus, watermelon, Guinea millet, Guinea squash, Guinea corn, and Guinea pepper.48 Food crops of African origin from the West African Savanna Forest complex included spinach, cucumber, ackee, potato, pumpkin, tamarind, yam, pigeon peas, and coffee.49 It so happened that the tropical climate and topography were more similar to the African continent than the climate in Europe, and therefore African foods were better able to grow. The tropical climates of the islands were not suitable to grow wheat, barley, rye, and oats of Europe. However, a number of foods made it over from Europe such as onions, leeks, carrots, cabbages, asparagus, and artichokes. These foods were also incorporated into Caribbean cuisine. In addition, Amerindian contributions include Indian corn, cassava, sweet potatoes, squash, hot pepper, beans, and fruits. In fact,

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whether as fellow slaves or runaways, through exchanges with native people, or through their own tropical knowledge systems, Africans adapted to New World environments. They grew Amerindian tropical foodstaples such as cassava and sweet potato, and they learned to identify wild foods and autochthonous medicinal of plant genera found only in the Americas.50

Illustration 6.1. Cassava Griddle found at Belmont Site. Courtesy of the Virgin Islands Folk Museum.

Yet African crops predominated not only because it grew in tropical climates but also because black women cooked on the plantations. They cooked what and how they knew. The cultivation of African yams was so common on the provision grounds that they also became known as ‘yam grounds.’51 Crops which did not require constant attention such as root crops like plantains, yams, taro, and pigeon peas were grown on these provision grounds. Other crops and animals which needed more care such as vegetables, herbs, spices, medicinal, pigs, goats, and fowls were grown and reared in the ‘kitchen gardens.’ According to Alberta Brown, before development, the majority of homes had a food garden planted with cabbage, lettuce, okra, peas, thyme, celery, parsley, carrot, banana, and potatoes on a bed of land in the yard . . . A larger version of the yard garden was known as “The Ground”,

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where a wider range of produce was grown including cassavas, avocados, carrots, toilesmois, yams, tannia, corn, pumpkins, plantains, breadfruits, sugarcane and mangoes. Some of the dishes they enjoyed included fish, which was fried, steamed, scalloped, loafed, stewed, baked or broiled and served with either plantain, breadfruit, fungi, or okra soup, and green corn soup. A bowl of soup was never complete, however, unless accompanied by a dumpling, be it made of cornmeal, guinea corn, toilesmois, coconut . . . or just plain . . . Callaloo, ducknoor, and corn meal papp were also dishes thoroughly enjoyed in the past.52 It can be seen that British Virgin Islands’ traditional cuisine emerged out of a mixture of diverse cultural foods. Yet, the African influence is paramount even as this population acculturated to the new environment they found themselves in. This can also be seen in the contemporary British Virgin Islands’ national dish – ‘fungi and fish.’

Creole language Certain retention words such as camfou, obeah, and fungi have previously been identified. Yet, the discussion of the origin of ‘creole’ language goes much further than the existence of retention words. Creole language was formed through the historical processes which occurred on the plantations over time; the mixture of two or more languages. It is important to note that there is a distinction between creole and non-standard English. In creole languages, while the vocabulary is English, the sound, tone, meanings, sentence structure and grammar come from African [and other] languages (Table 6.5). Mervyn Alleyne states, Creole languages were traditionally viewed as derived from European languages [previously viewed in terms of deficiencies, corruption, mutilation of the English language]. Linguists now tend to agree that only the vocabularies derive from such sources, and they attribute the phonology, syntax, and lexico-semantic structure to other origins [Amerindia, Africa].53

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Table 6.5: Examples of Virgin Islands’ Creole Creole ‘Everyman Jack’ ‘Talk People Business’ ‘Which Part?’ ‘Ah Here’ ‘Yoh Hear?’ ‘Wutless’

English ‘Every Man to the Last’ ‘Gossip’ ‘Which way?’ or ‘Where?’ ‘Not Too Bad’ or answer to ‘How Are You?’ ‘Do You Understand?’ ‘Worthless, Low in Character’

Source: Lito Valls, What a Pistarckle! A Dictionary of Virgin Islands English Creole: New Supplement (St. John, USVI, 1990), 1, 18, 60, 68, 71, and 72.

Interestingly enough, many African languages were highly proverbial. The following comparison between Igbo proverbs and Virgin Islands proverbs is instructive as illustrated in Table 6.6. Table 6.6: Comparison of Virgin Islands and Igbo Proverbs Proverb Virgin Islands: Longer story run de bigger he grow de worse he smell. Igbo: Ozi nzizi na amu asiri. Virgin Islands: If yo(u) play wid puppy he’ll lick yo(u) mout(h). Igbo: Nwata fukaria enyi nne ya, o gbue yam ma ekwu. Virgin Islands: Yo(u) could hide de fire bu(t) wha(t) yo(u) goin(g) do wid de smoke? Igbo: Nsi ojoo nwere isi.

Translation Virgin Islands: Piece of news or melee loses the original facts as it is circulated by word of mouth. Igbo: Reported speech or message generally differs from the original. Virgin Islands: If one gets too familiar with those beneath him, they take too much for granted. Igbo: Familiarity breeds contempt Virgin Islands: You cannot conceal or destroy all traces of evidence for what is done in darkness sooner or later comes to light. Igbo: Evil deed throws itself open from secrecy.

Sources: Jennie N. Wheatley, Bohog Put in Gol’ Teet (2004); F. C. Ogbalu, Ilu Igbo: The Books of Igbo Proverbs (Onitsha, 1965).

As the enslaved population adapted to the English language, it incorporated linguistic elements of its own languages, in the process creating what is often referred to as creole language.

Fungi music Fungi music has mixed origins – the ‘cook-up’ of the fungi dish applied to music as a mixture of sounds which came together to ‘sound sweet.’

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This was a unique Virgin Islands’ creation; it is clear that Africans adjusted to their environment in their creation of this early form of music. According to Elmore Stoutt, Fungi music has its roots among field slaves who worked the islands’ sugar plantations. These slaves sang while they worked in order to forget the crushing monotony and toil of their daily labours. They sang along to rhythms which they created with their bodies, with their tools, and with the very work they were doing.54 The components of fungi music were the blend of wind and string instruments, percussions and vocals. Wind instruments such as the fife, pipe, or flute have been said to be European instruments. Although described as being made from ebony coloured wood, Stoutt described the Virgin Islands’ flute as being hand-made sometimes from bamboo or papaya stems.55 The string instruments in fungi music were the ukulele, banjo, and box guitar. These were sometimes made from sardine cans. The guitar has been described as originally an African instrument which was introduced to Europe. Stoutt also states that the rhythm was maintained using several different percussion instruments, including the washtub or ‘ghut bucket,’ the steel triangle, the squash, the ‘ass-pipe,’ and maracas.56 Although made in the Virgin Islands, these were taken from African percussion and drumming styles. Bilby states, ‘African instrumentation [consisted] of a variety of drums (usually of African design, and most often played in ensembles of two or more) and other percussion instruments such as rattles, scrapers, sticks, bells or bell-like metallic objects).’57 Vocals were sung in creole, this cultural creation, fungi music, originated on British Virgin Islands’ soil, merging and incorporating elements of two musical traditions. Elmore Stoutt states, The rhythm of the waltz and the two-step were brought to the islands by Europeans, and found their way into fungi music. Even the type of dancing that traditionally went along with fungi music, called quadrille, is closely patterned after traditional European dancing.58

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Akan and Igbo religious cosmology African-derived practices were significantly represented in the early slave society of the British Virgin Islands – where they encountered Christianity in a variety of forms including Quakerism, Anglicanism, and Methodism. African beliefs and practices did not disappear completely; rather, they continued alongside, Christianity. Many civilizations in the past have, in their religious systems, emphasized ritual as well as a belief in a pantheon of deities related to the natural environment and other important principles. Societies in the past also relied on religious specialists – priests, priestesses, medicine men and women. Such societies included Egypt, Mespotamia, China, Amerindia, Greece, Rome, even the Germanic ethnic groups which formed what was to become early modern Europe. Africans were no different. Among the Akan, the Supreme Being, Onyame or Nyame was the creator of the world and determined its destiny; he was seen as the ‘essence of cosmic totality.’59 The universe was full of spiritual entities over which God ruled supreme. The o’komfo was the medicine man or priest, as stated previously. Among the Akan, the ancestors formed a part of the extended family. After death they were believed to live in proximity to God; they ‘had clout’ with God.60 They sanctioned the moral life of each and every person as well as the entire community by reward or punishment. The ancestors could be thirsty or hungry, and foods or drink were often left at their shrines for them. Igbo religious cosmology centred on Chukwu, the supreme god to whom the invisible world of gods and spirits and the visible world of men, animals and plants owed their origin. Ala was the earth goddess; Igwe was the sky god; Anyanwu was the sun god; and Amadioha/ Kamaiu was the god of thunder. There were spirits associated with streams, hills, forests, valleys, and plain land, farm work, health, and fertility. The chi was seen as a personal guardian spirit or personalized providence or fate which was given to each person by Chukwu at birth, and which reverted back to Chukwu at death. Lastly, it was believed that the ancestors continued their lives in the spiritual world. Those who had achieved traditional leadership status could be appealed to, as they had certain power and knowledge. The Igbo believed in

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reincarnation and believed that some ancestors reincarnated among their earthly families and perhaps even among friends.

Obeah: Dibia or Obayifo The priests or ‘human mediators’ in African societies exercised a certain amount of control over the invisible world; indeed, without these mediators, society would disintegrate into chaos and confusion.61 As mentioned before, among the Igbo, the medicine man was known as the dibia was patronized by Agwu, the deity associated with herbal medicine and divination. In the early English-speaking Caribbean slave societies, African religious leaders continued in the person of the obeah man or woman. It has been pointed out that these persons were the first religious leaders to be recognized as authentic on the plantations rather than European priests.62 It has been argued that the term obeah probably derived from Igbo where the term dibia refers to a ‘doctor’ or ‘healer,’ rather than from the Akan term obayifo, which has been identified with more negative meanings. Yet, Kwasi Konadu states that the practices subsumed under obeah were not generally present when the Akan presence was absent.63 Konadu asserts that the term obeah is in fact derived from the Akan term bayi – ‘a concept linked to the optimistic utterance ebeye yie (it will be good or well), made to provide hope to those who need to consult the obayifo – the one who does or uses the neutral force of bayi – and, in the Americas, the suffix – foo might have been dropped to produce obayi or oby.’64 Bilby and Handler further state, We contend that in many, if not most, parts of the Anglophone Caribbean the supernatural/spiritual force that the obeah practitioner attempted to control or guide was essentially neutral, but largely directed toward what the slave community defined as socially beneficial goals . . . True, obeah could also have a negative or antisocial dimensions. However, the entirely negative view of obeah promulgated by Whites during the period of slavery in the British Caribbean – a view no doubt influenced by the fact that it was sometimes directed against them – has

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distorted understandings of the social role that obeah played in the lives of many enslaved West Indians and their descendants in post-emancipation times.65 This fear is evident in an 1824 report, in which President of the Virgin Islands Council, Dr. Porter, wrote, Obeah men and women were to be found on almost every estate . . . too often lending their aid by furnishing poisonous preparations by which I have every reason to believe many and valuable lives of both blacks and whites were sacrificed . . . Almost four years since a dying negro . . . confessed that he had hears before furnished poison which had been administered to fifteen different white persons – several of whom died in consequence thereof.66 From the Virgin Islands’ example it would seem as if these obeah practices were harmful not only to the planters, but also to the enslaved population. But this point needs closer examination. The problem here is that obeah men and women are poisoning ‘massa.’ This indicates a form of resistance; and, indeed, obeah has been linked to resistance in the English-speaking Caribbean. These actions would in fact have been seen as being beneficial by and to the enslaved community. In fact, attention has recently been given to the medicinal, herbal, healing functions of obeah. For example, Juanita De Barros refers to obeah as part of an attempt to reconstruct African cultural practices, serving a vital medical function and drawing on previous knowledge in the process.67

Camfou dances The camfou or comfoo dances of the British Virgin Islands have been linked to the Akan or Ashanti term o’komfo, meaning ‘priest.’ Bilby describes ‘cumfa’ in Guyana as a tradition which integrated nation dances into one single complex; the purpose was to achieve unity among different ethnic groups. The ancestors were important to these

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dances. Kean Gibson also writes about the comfa ceremony in Guyana which he defines as an Africa-originating practice.68 The different spirits are recognized by their attire, behaviour, dance, and music.69 The Akan dance, akom, has been described as a series of dances performed to aid the priests for a certain deity.70 The dance used a series of drums of different sizes called fontomfrom. At some point the priest or o’komfo arrived in full regalia. An expert at dance, he or she danced until the deity took possession and at this point the priest performed acts of healing and delivered messages from the deity to the community of worshippers. The aim of the entire ritual was to help people with their problems; the spirits were present to serve the human society in its origins and its ends.71 In the British Virgin Islands’ camfou dances, one can see the ancestors, possession, and divination – all characteristics of African diasporic religions. In a letter from Tortola dated 8 February 1808, Charles Hodgson, a Methodist missionary, wrote: Before the arrival of Dr. Coke . . . the negroes in particular were given up to a . . . practice termed the Camfou – a . . . dance. . . . the negroes in this island pretended at times, they pretended to receive information from their dead relations . . . This information, like that of the delphic oracle, proceeded . . . from one or more persons concealed for the purpose.72 The Akan cultural impact in the Americas has been credited to the arguments that they transported a ‘composite’ culture having come from regions that were culturally bonded by language, religion, and a common sense of shared history.73 It has also been pointed out that earlier arrivals of a particular ethnic group as well as certain cultural characteristics which led to stronger cohesiveness were factors that led to the domination and setting of the cultural pattern by a particular ethnic group.74 As previously stated, the Akan presence was most likely one of the earliest in the British Virgin Islands, having come through the Danish and Dutch participation slave trades. It should be no surprise, then, that camfou dances were featured in early British Virgin Islands’ history.

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Jumbies: the ancestors In the Spanish- and French-speaking islands of the Caribbean, African deities and ancestor spirits survived through various identifications with a host of Roman Catholic saints. There was little room for this kind of inclusion into the varieties of Protestantism that prevailed on the Englishspeaking islands. Thus, the elaborate forms of mixed ritual found in Cuban Santeria, for example, did not exist in the British Virgin Islands. The importance of the ancestors within African religious cosmology has already been demonstrated, and they were important to early Virgin islanders as well. Well-known in the Virgin Islands were the jumbies or duppies – spirits associated with the ones who had died who were called upon to help or to cause harm. J. Brownell, a Methodist missionary in the Virgin Islands and a chronicler of African practices, wrote: [They] believe in the existence of spirits which they call jumbies and sometimes spread victuals on the graves of those who were recently dead, that their spirits might return and eat. I have often seen the graves made up with lime and stone in the form of a coffin, and a small earthen cup placed on the breast, for the purpose of containing meat or drink.75 In his study of the jombee dance in Montserrat, Jay Dobbins refers to the jombees as the most well-known spirits or deities either because they are good, recently deceased, and identifiable, or because they are as spirits that cause harm. According to Dobbins, the jombees could be visible or sensed by smell or touch, but were generally understood to be invisible spirits who used the living as mouthpieces.76 People prepared jombee tables – with elaborate food and drink set out for them. In Jamaican Myalism it was believed that when a person died, his or her spirit returned to the ancestral land to dwell with other ancestral spirits. Since the spirit hovered before departure, there were elaborate burial rituals to please the spirit and facilitate the journey. As African practices were acculturated, precautions were taken to placate the spirits of relatives and friends known as duppies or jumbies elsewhere.77 The discussion thus far leads to the probable conclusion that the early Virgin Islands’ slave society remained ‘African’ in significant ways: obeah was

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practiced or, in other words, medicine men and priests continued their work; camfou dances were part of the community’s spiritual life; the presence of jumbies or the ancestors was taken for granted.

Christian denominations in the British Virgin Islands: Quakers and Anglicans The actions of the early forms of Christianity which were introduced into Virgin Islands’ society support the previous conclusion that African belief systems proliferated during early Virgin Islands’ history. The Quakers arrived in the British Virgin Islands in the early eighteenth century. The question immediately arises as to the effect of the Quakers on the enslaved population’s religious beliefs. In fact, there was probably not a great effect. The Quakers had been punished for allowing enslaved persons to attend meetings where, it has been pointed out, they were not seen as real members or equals. Furthermore, in their letters the Quakers refer to ‘a Priest lately come from England whom some Islanders have hired among them;’ one of their members married him.78 Isaac Dookhan asserts that to combat the growth of Quakerism the first Anglican clergyman was appointed by the inhabitants in 1745.79 Before the early nineteenth century, though, the Anglicans addressed the small white population mainly.80

Methodists On the contrary, by the last quarter of the eighteenth century, the Methodists had established stations in Antigua, St. Kitts, Nevis, St Eustatius, Saba, Jamaica, Barbados, Dominica, St Vincent, and Grenada, and Tortola. The Leeward Islands were the most successful stations in the Methodist effort at the beginning of the nineteenth century.81 On Tortola a station had been established by 1790. The Methodists had a certain organization. Their practice of transferring missions from one station to another ensured that they were able to achieve a certain cohesiveness.82 The key point is that in order to accomplish the task of conversion, their impetus, the Methodists were led to do what few whites had done; they reached out directly to the great majority of blacks.83 Overall, this Methodist effort was relatively successful. Charles Hodgson writing from Tortola in 1808 stated,

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When the negroes have done labouring in the plantations . . . they come from the different parts of the island to our little chapel and bring us some refreshments with them which is generally fish and yams. And, after preaching we sleep on benches in the chapel . . . the black people are also very useful and contribute not a little by their advice and example . . . Many have been awakened under the word and some of them I believe truly converted. Blacks and coloured I have not taken an account of the number yet . . . 84 Furthermore, this Methodist effort resonated more with the enslaved population than with the white population, firstly, and the coloured population, secondly (Table 6.7). In an 1804 letter J. Brownell stated: I find Religion [Christian religion] has made a great alteration for the better among the Blacks in this island; a larger proportion of the enjoying Peace with God than in most islands to windward . . . but there are fewer coloured or white people who attend the preaching than in any island I have seen.85 Table 6.7: Number of Whites, Free Blacks and Coloureds, and Enslaved Africans in Methodist Society on Virgin Islands, 1807–1823 Year

Whites

1807 1808 1809 1810 1811 1812 1813 1814 1815 1816 1817 1818 1819 1820 1821 1822 1823

38 39 52 53 56 56 107 107 76 75 67 64 63 62 54 41 42

Blacks and Coloureds 1,775 2,134 2,285 2,245 2,120 2,120 2,832 2,832 2,072 1,717 1,664 1,674 1,739 1,782 1,959 1,930 2,090

Enslaved Population 7,715 7,645 7,570 7,500 7,400 7,330 7,255 7,185 7,115 7,040 6,970 6,900 6,750 6,600 6,530 6,460 6,120

Source: NAUK, CO 239/11.

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A partial explanation for this resonance may lie in the ‘social death’ which the enslaved population experienced when they entered plantation life in these societies.86 In these societies, the enslaved person became an object – a socially dead person. It was mainly in their own communities that enslaved persons retained social identities. The acceptance into Methodist society provided this recognition for their personhood, for their humanity. Elsa Goveia notes that in Methodist society enslaved persons were able to rise to positions of responsibility and leadership for the first time in a ‘respectable’ form of social organization.87 A part of this ‘creole’ identity, adapted or acculturated, which increased as creole-born slaves began to outnumber African born ones, included the conversion to Methodism in the British Virgin Islands. Of course, the hegemony and feeling of cultural superiority of the creole identity was caused, or assisted, by the widespread racism which so much was a part of the plantation and slavery era. Instead of being understood and respected, many African ways of being were cast in the light of being somehow wrong, as can be seen in Methodist Missionary Charles Hodgson’s reference to camfou dances. Hodgson, writing from Tortola in 1808, stated, Before the introduction of the gospel all the power of the magistrates could not suppress this hellish custom [camfou]. But since the word of life has been preached it is so completely extinguished so that the practice now is only remembered with horror. I had the foregoing . . . from some of the most intelligent people in our Society who had formerly practised the camfou themselves . . . 88 Furthermore, Porter’s report, written in 1824, states, ‘Comfoo dances have been wholly abolished and obeah men and women are scarcely to be found.’89 Yet, W. C. Fishlock writing on the Virgin Islands in 1912, a little over a century later observed, There is still a belief in obeah though not manifested in any conspicuous manner still affects the life of the people, and has

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considerable influence on their actions. Salutory legislation, together with the infliction of severe punishment on the socalled obeahmen is, however, having a good effect in helping to stamp out this pernicious belief.90 In terms of religion, the process of acculturation or creolization seems to have favoured English Christianity, in particular Methodism in the British Virgin Islands. Unlike in the Spanish and French island colonies where mixed, syncretic religions which combined European Christianity and African religious cosmology emerged, in the English colonies this process did not have the same opportunities to coalesce. Instead, a few African beliefs persisted alongside Christianity, as stated before. In the British Virgin Islands, the camfou dances completely died out. However, the belief in jumbies remained, although remembered only in tales and not with any great religious significance. Certainly, the practice of obeah continued, as mentioned by Fishlock. However, this was apart and distinct from Christianity rather than being integrated into the religion.

Conclusion Under slavery, the enslaved population occupied skilled positions, received wages for their labour, planted and sold cotton, and dominated the internal economy. They were much healthier than the enslaved populations in the other Leeward Islands. In that environment, Africans had acculturated to the Virgin Islands’ environment, whether this adjustment took the form of a new, creole identity, or an acculturated identity. A traditional food culture had developed, based on African foods and ways of cooking, in combination with Amerindian and English influences. Elements of creole language had emerged on the plantations when persons had to learn English, and mixed in linguistic elements of the African languages in the process. Virgin Islands’ traditional music, fungi music, developed through the creative methods of musicians who remembered their musical heritage, learned and mixed in new styles, and used their natural and physical environment to fashion musical instruments. In the meantime,

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although African derived religious practices must have flourished during the early period, great numbers of slaves converted to Methodism, and aspects of African derived practices continued, although not integrated, alongside Christianity. This early period – the plantation era – contributed in great part to the formation of what would be the foundations of a British Virgin Islands’ culture and identity that would be further developed during the next phase which was about to take place – the phase of legal emancipation and full citizenship.

Notes 1. Derek Walcott, Collected Poems, 1948–1984 (New York, 1987), 17. 2. Gwendolyn Midlo Hall, Slavery and African Ethnicities in the Americas: Restoring the Links (Chapel Hill, NC, 2005), 158. 3. National Archives of the United Kingdom (NAUK), Kew, Calendar State Papers (CSP) 1695, (Letter from Governor of the Leeward Islands, Christopher Codrington, 27 September 1695), 4261. 4. NAUK, CSP 1717 (Letter from Governor of the Leeward Islands, Walter Hamilton, 15 May 1717), 568. 5. Kwasi Konadu, The Akan Diaspora in the Americas (Oxford, 2010), 95. 6. Gibson, Comfa Religion, 1. 7. Richard Allsopp (ed.), Dictionary of Caribbean English Usage (New York, 1996), 165. 8. Margarite Fernandez Olmos, Creole Religions of the Caribbean: An Introduction from Vodou and Santeria to Obeah and Espiritismo (New York, 2003), 131. 9. Kenneth Bilby and Jerome Handler, ‘Obeah: healing and protection in West Indian slave life,’ Journal of Caribbean History, 38:2 (2004), 163. 10. Allsopp, Dictionary, 412. 11. Allsopp, Dictionary, 247. 12. NAUK, CSP 1695/4261. 13. David Eltis, et al., The Transatlantic Slave Trade: A Database on CD-ROM. (Cambridge, 1999). 14. Hall, Slavery and African Ethnicities, 126. 15. John Oriji, ‘Igboland, slavery, and the drums of war and heroism,’ in Sylviane A. Diouf (ed.), Fighting the Slave Trade: West African Strategies (Athens, 2003), 121. 16. Hall, Slavery and African Ethnicities, 65. 17. Joseph E. Inikori, ‘The struggle against the transatlantic slave trade: the role of the state,’ in Sylviane A. Diouf (ed.), Fighting the Slave Trade: West African Strategies (Athens, 2003), 188.

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18. NAUK, CSP 1734/314/ii. 19. Isaac Dookhan, A History of the British Virgin Islands 1672 to 1970 (Essex, 1975), 46. 20. NAUK, CO 152/54 (Letter from Ralph Payne, Governor of the Leeward Islands, 6 October 1773). 21. CO 152/58 (Richard Augustus Fahie, President of the Virgin Islands Council, to General Shirley, Governor of the Leeward Islands, 5 April 1784). 22. Konadu, Akan Diaspora, 81. 23. Elizabeth A. Isichei, A History of the Igbo People (New York, 1976), 29–32. 24. Richard Watson, A Defense of the Wesleyan Methodist Missions in the West Indies (London, 1817), 70. 25. NAUK, CO 152 (Letter from Governor Thomas Shirley, 27 July 1783), 63. 26. NAUK, CO 152 (Humble Address, Memorial and Petition of the Council and Assembly of the Virgin Islands, 29 December 1801). 27. NAUK, CSP 1736 (Letter from Governor of the Leeward Islands, Matthew, 31 May 1736), 329. 28. NAUK, CO 152 (Letter from Governor Lavington, 1803), 85. 29. NAUK, CSP 1736 (Letter from Governor of the Leeward Islands, Matthew, 31 May 1736), 329. 30. Michael O’Neal, ‘The slave rebellion of 1823 in Tortola, British Virgin Islands: the socio-historical context,’ in Arnold R. Highfield and George F. Tyson (eds.), Negotiating Enslavement: Perspectives on Slavery in the Danish Islands (St. Croix, 2009), 187. 31 NAUK, CO 152 (Letter from Deputy Governor James Purcell, 11 July 1751), 27. 32. NAUK, CO 152 (John Walton’s Memorial, 14 March 1710), 9. 33. NAUK, CO 152 (John Fahie, President of the Virgin Islands Council, to Governor Thomas Shirley, 5 April 1784). 34. John M. Chenowith, ‘Religion, archaeology, and social relations: a study of the practice of Quakerism and Caribbean slavery in the eighteenth century British Virgin Islands’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of California, Berkeley, 2011), 270. 35. NAUK, CO 152 (Letter from John Nugent, 26 June 1774), 54. 36. Chenowith, ‘Religion, archaeology,’ 270. 37. NAUK, CO 239 (Gordon Aitken Report. 21 December 1830), 26. 38. Trelawney Wentworth, The West India Sketch Book (London, 1834), 178. 39. NAUK, CO 318 (Commissioners of Legal Inquiry in the West Indies, Third Report, 5 October 1826), 64. 40. NAUK, CO 239/03. 41. O’Neal, ‘The slave rebellion,’ 188.

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42. Frank McGlynn, ‘Marginality and flux: an Afro-Caribbean community through two centuries’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Pittsburgh, 1980), 37. 43. M. G. Smith, The Plural Society in the British West Indies (Berkeley, 1965), 7. 44. Melville Herskovits, The Myth of the Negro Past (Boston, 1938), 19. 45. Mervyn Alleyne, Roots of Jamaican Culture (London, 1988), viii. 46. Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘The African Diaspora: revisionist interpretations of ethnicity, culture and religion under slavery,’ Studies in the World History of Slavery, Abolition and Emancipation, 2:1 (1997). 47. Judith Carney and Richard Rosomoff, The Shadow of Slavery: Africa’s Botanical Legacy in the Atlantic World (Berkeley, 2009), 47. 48. Carney and Rosomoff, Shadow of Slavery, 20. 49. Carney and Rosomoff, Shadow of Slavery, 21. 50. Carney and Rosomoff, Shadow of Slavery, 89. 51. Carney and Rosomoff, Shadow of Slavery, 129. 52. Alberta Brown, ‘Reclaiming Virgin Islands’ customs and heritage,’ The Journal of Virgin Islands Studies, 1:1 (2006), 12 and 14. 53. Mervyn Alleyne, ‘A linguistic perspective,’ in Sidney W. Mintz and Sally Price (eds.), Caribbean Contours (Baltimore, 1985), 162. 54. Elmore Stoutt, ‘Fungi music – a BVI cultural expression,’ VI Fungifest (2008), 14. 55. Stoutt, ‘Fungi,’ 15. 56. Stoutt, ‘Fungi,’ 15. 57. Bilby and Handler, ‘Obeah,’ 186. 58. Stoutt, ‘Fungi,’ 14. 59. Harry Sawyerr, God, Ancestor, or Creator? Aspects of Traditional Belief in Ghana, Nigeria, and Sierra Leone (Harlow, 1970), 31. 60. Robert Fisher, West African Religious Traditions: Focus on the Akan of Ghana (Maryknoll, 1998), 92. 61. John Mbiti, African Religions and Philosophy (Oxford, 1990), 131. 62. Will Coleman, Tribal Talk, Black Theology, Hermeneutics, and African/American ways of “Telling the Story” (University Park, 2000), 39. 63. Konadu, Akan Diaspora, 140. 64. Konadu, Akan Diaspora, 142. 65. Bilby and Handler, ‘Obeah,’ 155. 66. NAUK, CO 239 (Colquhoun to Earl Bathurst, 24 March 1824, Enclosure: Report by Reverend Dr. George Porter), 11. 67. Juanita De Barros, ‘“Setting things right”: medicine and magic in British Guiana, 1803–38,’ Slavery and Abolition, 25:1 (2004), 28–50. 68. Gibson, Comfa Religion, 1.

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Gibson, Comfa Religion, 158 and 163. Fisher, West African Religious, 17 Fisher, West African Religious, 18. Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society Archives (MMSA), London, West India Correspondence General (WIA), Box 1 (Letter from Methodist Missionary Charles Hodgson, 8 February 1808). Konadu, Akan Diaspora, 3. Alleyne, ‘Linguistic,’ 159. Watson, Defense of the Wesleyan, 19. Jay Dobbins, The Jombee Dance of Montserrat: A Study of Trance Ritual in the West Indies (Columbus, 1986), 24 and 46. Dobbins, Jombee Dance, 44. Jean R. Soderlund, Quakers and Slavery: A Divided Spirit (Princeton, 1985), 181. Dookhan, History of the British Virgin Islands, 88. Dookhan, History of the British Virgin Islands, 91. Elsa Goveia, Slave Society in the British Leeward Islands at the End of the Eighteenth Century (New Haven, 1965), 298. Goveia, Slave Society, 293. Goveia, Slave Society, 301. MMSA, WIA, Box 1 (Letter from Methodist Missionary Charles Hodgson, 8 February 1808). MMSA, WIA, Box 1 (Letter from Methodist Missionary J. Brownell, 16 July 1804). Orlando Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cambridge, 1982), 38. Goveia, Slave Society, 303. MMSA, WIA, Box 1 (Letter from Methodist Missionary Charles Hodgson, 8 February 1808). NAUK, CO 239 (Colquhoun to Earl Bathurst, 24 March 1824, Enclosure: Report by Reverend Dr. George Porter), 11. W. C. Fishlock, The Virgin Islands B.W.I. – A Handbook of General Information (London, 1912), 25.

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7 R EMEMBER ING AFR ICANS IN DIASPOR A: ROBERT WEDDER BUR N’S ‘FR EEDOM NAR R ATIVE’ 1 Nadine Hunt

The Offspring of an African Slave. Robert Wedderburn2 In 1824, Robert Wedderburn published his autobiography, The Horrors of Slavery: Exemplified in the Life and History of the Reverend Robert Wedderburn. It is difficult to know how much Robert recalled about his early life in Jamaica, because he was in his 60s when he was imprisoned and sat down to write his autobiography. According to him, he was born in the parish of St. Mary, Jamaica in 1762. His mother, Rosanna, was an enslaved woman and his father, James Wedderburn-Colvile, emigrated from Scotland to Jamaica in the early 1750s.4 The purpose of Wedderburn’s autobiography was to inform the British public about the condition of enslaved Africans and their descendants in Jamaica. Wedderburn not only depicted the ‘horrors of slavery’, but illustrated intimate relationships that were based on power also led to companionship which crossed

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Illustration 7.1. Robert Wedderburn, c. 18243

ethnic, racial, and social boundaries. Wedderburn presented a different view of slavery that is from the eyes of a mixed-race child, who was born enslaved, but eventually emancipated by his Scottish father. Following Wedderburn’s service in the British Royal Navy, he emigrated from Jamaica to Britain. The Horrors of Slavery is an invaluable contribution to the literature on slavery in Jamaica as written by a mixed-race Jamaican who attempted to understand slavery in his country. Wedderburn adopted the ‘freedom narrative’ writing style following the successful published autobiographies by several emancipated Africans, while writing in London.5 In most cases, freedom narratives were facilitated by anti-slavery activists and groups, including politicians and Christian missionaries who encouraged emancipated Africans based in London to share their life story. African writers generally opened the narrative with an account of their early life in West Africa, a description of how they became enslaved as well as details on lived experiences during enslavement, and finally they informed readers on how he or she achieved freedom.6 This chapter examines how Wedderburn remembered and was influenced by Africa and Africans in his writings, specifically Horrors of Slavery, public lectures, and other writings. The first section explores the veracity of Wedderburn’s autobiography, and portrayal of his intimate

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history, including his African and Scottish heritage. In his narrative, Wedderburn vaguely wrote about his African heritage. In Horrors of Slavery, Wedderburn also recognized his Scottish heritage by his father’s family, the Wedderburns, who originated from Perth, Scotland.7 The second section compares Wedderburn’s Horrors of Slavery with that of two well-known freedom narratives written by emancipated Africans, Gustavus Vassa or Olaudah Equiano and Samuel Ajayi Crowther.8 Wedderburn’s writing style is appreciated when compared with other narratives written by emancipated Africans. The third section explores how Wedderburn became a voice for two enslaved women, his mother and grandmother by recalling their experiences of enslavement in Jamaica, which became the basis of his autobiography and radical view against slavery in the British Caribbean. African women loomed large in freedom narratives, as they were also documented in Vassa’s and Crowther’s narratives. The importance of kin and the loss of family are important, because Wedderburn, Crowther, and Vassa were enslaved as children, and losing a grandmother, mother, or sister meant the loss of a caregiver. Despite separation Wedderburn, Crowther, and Vassa showed a desire to reunite with loved ones. Thus, freedom narratives and autobiographical accounts written by formerly enslaved men can be read to share insight on the enslavement of women in Africa and the Caribbean.

Robert Wedderburn’s The Horrors of Slavery Philip Curtin points out that several freedom narratives written by emancipated Africans were in fact fictitious pieces of writing. According to Curtin, the invention of an African birth or adopting ‘the style of romans africains’ by some Africans was employed as a technique by various anti-slavery societies in hopes to further their activism to abolish the Atlantic slave trade to the Americas.9 The authenticity of a freedom narrative is important, since many readers take for granted that a writer’s personal details are in fact true, but scholars and biographers alike have challenged the content found in these narratives. For example, debates on whether Vassa was born in Africa or in North America, has sparked some renewed concerns over slavery, memory, and autobiography, but also the ability to separate facts and fiction. On

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the one hand, Vincent Carretta argues that Vassa was born in South Carolina, and was of Igbo heritage or possibly influenced by a minority Igbo community.10 According to Carretta, ‘Vassa had no obvious reason before 1788 to suppress an African identity.’11 On the other hand, Paul Lovejoy maintains that Vassa was born in West Africa, since he recalled that the men in his Igbo village bore a facial marking of the ‘igbu ichi’ scarification ritual, for example.12 Determining Vassa’s birthplace is an important fact, because it proves his ability to remember his life, and an African background and forced travel via the ‘Middle Passage’ meet the criteria for him to write his freedom narrative.13 In the era of the Atlantic slave trade, a British audience likely read Vassa’s account as factual, which compelled some readers to support the efforts to abolish the forced migration of Africans to the Americas. Of course, the writer was not meant to narrate every detail about their life, but the readership expected a freedom narrative to be crafty and truthful. In Horrors of Slavery, Wedderburn like Vassa omitted many important details about his life in Jamaica and Britain. It is difficult to determine whether he purposely concealed his past, or, he simply was unaware of certain aspects of his life. Additionally, he might have forgotten some key details of his life, since he wrote Horrors of Slavery when he was ‘upwards of sixty years of age.’14 For instance, he misinformed his readers on his enslaved status at birth in Jamaica. According to Wedderburn, ‘my mother was five months gone in pregnancy; and one of the stipulations of the bargain was, that the child which she then bore should be FREE from the moment of its birth. I was that child.’15 However, he was not born a free person in 1762, because James Charles Sholto Douglas owned his mother, Rosanna.16 Wedderburn appears not to have recalled the process of his own enslavement that of coming from his enslaved mother’s womb and naturally inheriting her enslaved status.17 On 5 June 1765, a ‘Practioner in Physick and Surgery [SIC],’ James Wedderburn-Colvile paid £200 to manumit his children, ‘James and Robert,’ who were the property of Sholto Douglas.18 Wedderburn became free when he was three years old. Edward Long19 argued that ‘the lowest [free black and mixed-race people] comprehended those who were released from slavery by their owner’s manumission, either

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by will or an instrument sealed and delivered, and registered either in the toll-book or the secretary’s office.’20 Many free black and mixedrace people resided in Kingston, working as domestics, porters, and some men were skilled labourers.21 If Wedderburn was aware of the stigma attached to his freedom, as explained by Long, because he was born enslaved, it might explain why he offered an alternative story to his readers.22 However, Wedderburn must have possessed his manumission papers in order to leave Jamaica for work in the British Royal Navy as a free person when he was about 16 years old.23 Assuming that Wedderburn read his manumission paper, it is unclear why he credited Rosanna in bargaining for his freedom. Lucille MathurinMair notes that not all European men who fathered enslaved mixedrace children emancipated them. However, she argues that ‘where white men did arrange freedom for their coloured mistresses and their coloured offspring, it was more likely to be in a rural than an urban environment.’24 Mathurin-Mair’s criteria fit Rosanna’s circumstances, because her children were born and raised in a rural community. It is unknown whether there was a request made by Rosanna for James’s and Robert’s manumission. If she did make this request, it shows agency on the part of Rosanna to secure her children’s freedom. Following Wedderburn’s service in the Royal Navy, he immigrated to England, settling in London. In 1786, he made his way north from London to Scotland to visit his father at Inveresk Lodge, however, James Wedderburn-Colvile refused to see his son. According to Wedderburn, ‘I had one draught of small beer, and his footman gave me a cracked sixpence-and these are all the obligations I am under to my worthy father and my dear brother, A. Colville.’ Following this incident, Wedderburn detailed the financial hardships he and his wife faced in London. According to Edlie Wong, Wedderburn married Elizabeth Ryan in London.25 Wong notes that Wedderburn sought some form of assistance, plausibly financial, from his father shortly after his marriage to Ryan in 1781.26 Wong argues that Ryan and Wedderburn were expecting their first child, which is why Robert went to visit his father in Scotland. However, the Wedderburn family’s biographer, Alexander Wedderburn, wrote that Robert Wedderburn’s children Jabez and Jacob were born around 1798 and 1806, respectively.27

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Regardless of Wedderburn’s immediate family crisis, he was justified in seeking financial, moral and emotional assistance from his father. However, Robert’s confrontation with his father did not inspire him to write his freedom narrative. In the opening pages, Wedderburn described himself as ‘an oppressed, insulted, and degraded African.’28 Wedderburn failed to clarify who in his family was born in Africa. It is unclear what he meant by African, because he was not born in Africa, but in Jamaica. Iain McCalman argues that Rosanna was born in West Africa, but Wedderburn did not state where she was born.29 Therefore, it cannot be assumed that she was born in Africa. Rather, determining Wedderburn’s African heritage helps us to understand what he meant by a ‘degraded African.’ It appears that Rosanna was born in Jamaica, while her mother, Amy, and unnamed father were likely born in Africa. More importantly, in James’s and Robert’s manumission paper, Rosanna was described as a ‘mulatto woman.’ The fact that Wedderburn did not specify his mother’s, grandmother’s, and even unnamed grandfather’s places of birth suggests that either he did not know this information or purposely omitted these details. However, it is likely that he did not know this information, because he probably was not concerned with his maternal origins before his permanent settlement in London. In Jamaica, he knew that his mother and grandmother were enslaved women and this hindered their ability to have control over their daily life. As a mixed-race child in Jamaica, Wedderburn did not necessarily envision his participation in the anti-slavery cause so he did not value the significance of Amy’s and Rosanna’s birth. However, he understood that social inequalities in Jamaica were based on race. It was in London where Wedderburn’s black consciousness and African identity intensified. As an anti-slavery activist, Wedderburn learned that a connection to Africa allowed him to speak and write credibly on behalf of other ‘Africans’ like himself and his brother, mother, and grandmother. As a consequence, he developed his African identity by invoking Africa through his grandmother’s and mother’s enslavement in Jamaica. Wedderburn’s anti-slavery activism went beyond campaigning to end the slave trade to the Americas, but to abolish slavery in Jamaica and elsewhere.

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In London, Wedderburn earned the reputation as a radical orator and writer, while publishing the short-lived journal, Axe Laid to the Root, Horrors of Slavery, and delivered several controversial lectures. On 9 August 1819, Wedderburn delivered a lecture entitled ‘Has a Slave an inherent right to slay his Master, who refuses him HIS LIBERTY?’ at the Hopkins-Street Chapel. The event’s poster read ‘The Offspring of an African Slave will open the Question,’ which referred to Wedderburn. It was at this event that Wedderburn publicly acknowledged his African heritage. A local informant at the event described Wedderburn as ‘one of those men who appeared to be the principal in their concern is a Mulatto and announced himself as the Descendant of an African Slave.’30 It is difficult to know how audience members and anti-slavery activists reacted to Wedderburn’s connection to Africa. It is likely that these people believed that Wedderburn’s mother was born in Africa because of his mixed-race ancestry. If this was the case, it illustrates that anti-slavery supporters in Britain did not appreciate that Rosanna might have been born in Jamaica and that she also might have been mixed-race. By the mid-eighteenth century, not all enslaved people in Jamaica were born in Africa. Moreover, it is unclear whether Wedderburn knew where Rosanna was born when he delivered this lecture. So why did Wedderburn claim to be born of an African. It is difficult to determine what Wedderburn knew about the Atlantic slave trade to Jamaica in the eighteenth century; he might have imagined that Rosanna arrived on a slaving vessel from West Africa with Amy. Barbara Bush shows that African women crossed the Atlantic Ocean with infants and even delivered children onboard ship or shortly after disembarkation in the Americas.31 Several cases of selling mother and child to the same master in the Americas did happen, and if this was Rosanna’s and Amy’s scenario, then Wedderburn’s mother was born outside of Jamaica. For Rosanna to be born in West Africa, it suggests that an owner purchased Amy and Rosanna as a family unit in Jamaica. If this were true, it would present an interesting story of a single-parent African family who were forced to migrate to Jamaica in the era of the Atlantic slave trade. More importantly, Wedderburn does not shed light on who Rosanna’s father is, suggesting that this man did not reside near or was a significant factor in

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his mother’s or even grandmother’s life. The lack of evidence to demonstrate Rosanna’s birthplace will continue to remain a mystery. In London, Wedderburn shows that he was empathetic to the plight of enslaved Africans in Jamaica and beyond. Wedderburn’s pride for his African background could also be simple curiosity or one of many ways to remember his mother’s family in Britain. Over the course of Amy’s life, she was enslaved in several places on Jamaica. According to Wedderburn, Amy ‘though a slave, such was the confidence the merchants of Kingston had in her honesty, that she could be trusted to any amount.’32 It is unclear how or why Amy gained the trust of Kingston merchants largely comprised of British men. If Amy also was trusted by the enslaved community on the rural plantations she resided in Jamaica, like her mother, Rosanna appears to have been expected to perform the role of intermediary between the enslaved population and Wedderburn-Colvile on his sugar estates in the parishes of Westmoreland and Hanover.33 Wedderburn-Colvile patented his first piece of land in Westmoreland, as early as 1755.34 The liaison between Wedderburn-Colvile and Rosanna likely influenced the management of the enslaved population on these estates. For example, Trevor Burnard argues that Phibbah, an Igbo woman performed ‘a useful role as intermediary between slaves and master.’35 Africans and in some cases Europeans held domestic positions on plantations before a sizeable creole or mixed-race population emerged.36 Wedderburn was wise not to invent an African birth for himself, because he could not deny his Scottish ancestry. For example, Wedderburn published a portrait of himself in the opening pages of the book. It was clear that he possessed European physiological traits. In addition, the surname Wedderburn denoted a Scottish connection. A suspicious individual would have learned that his father was born in Scotland and not in Africa or even Jamaica. Before universal emancipation in most of the British Empire in 1834, individual naming practices were important for formerly enslaved people, because in most cases it was one of many ways to identify an individual as African or creole and as a free person. It also illustrates why Vassa consciously chose to publish under his African name, Olaudah Equiano to prove his Africaness and to associate freedom with this name. Many enslaved

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Africans had nicknames usually an African name and European names – so only young people and adults who left Africa, remembered their former names. Scholars do not question Crowther’s Africaness despite adopting a biblical forename and Welsh surname.37 The London police arrested and charged Wedderburn following his controversial lecture. He was ‘found guilty of uttering a blasphemous libel’ and sentenced to two years, illustrating that harsh antislavery opinions were not accepted in Britain.38 Wedderburn began to furiously write Horrors of Slavery during his time served in the Dorchester jail between 1820 and 1822.39 As an imprisoned man, he had time to think through his connection to Africa. So, the question becomes why an African birth or why a person of African heritage was still an important factor in writing freedom narratives published after the abolition of the slave trade to the Americas in 1807. Wedderburn received many visitors in jail, including William Wilberforce, who paid him a visit in 1822, and encouraged him to write Horrors of Slavery.40 He also dedicated the narrative to Wilberforce, the antislavery activist.41 Wilberforce might have recommended Wedderburn to read other freedom narratives before embarking on his own writings, since John Wesley had recommended him to read Vassa’s Interesting Narrative in 1791.42 In 1824, Bell’s Life in London, and Sporting Chronicle published a series of letters between Wedderburn, his half-brother Andrew Wedderburn-Colvile, and the Bell’s Life’s editor, Vincent George Dowling. The editorial exchanges in Bell’s Life became the basis of Wedderburn’s Horrors of Slavery.43 Later that year, Wedderburn edited the letters printed in Bell’s Life and self-published his autobiography.

Comparing narratives: Wedderburn, Vassa, and Crowther In general, emancipated Africans wrote freedom narratives in their old age mainly due to long years of servitude and after acquiring freedom and appropriate language and writing skills. In addition, some Africans worked to achieve freedom not only for themselves, but also to free a wife, sibling, and children, or even to start a family following manumission from slavery. The problems faced by many writers

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no doubt contributed to the late start, for example, African writers had to establish themselves in literary circles and locate a sponsor or a publisher usually in London. They had to find necessary financial resources so that they could afford time to write. Many freedom writers adopted a style that engaged a particular audience, which means that they took the time to read similar texts. Wedderburn acquired satisfactory literary skills to achieve his publishing aim. In Horrors of Slavery, he did not write on where he obtained his educational training, but might have attended Wolmer’s all-boys school in Kingston, Jamaica, which accepted free-mixed race pupils provided that they paid their tuition.44 According to Lovejoy, Vassa was around 47 years of age when he published the Interesting Narrative.45 In this respect, Crowther’s narrative was exceptional, because he attended a school on Liverpool Road in Islington for a few months on the outskirts of London in 1826 when he was around 20 years old.46 Subsequently, Crowther published his autobiography in 1837 and a revised edition was published in 1841.47 In Britain, Wedderburn’s political views were shaped by Scottish radicals such as Thomas Spence who called for land reform in Britain.48 Peter Linebaugh and Marcus Rediker argue that Wedderburn adopted Millenarianism and the biblical jubilee.49 Wedderburn’s early writings show that he was persuaded by Spence’s calls for agrarian reform and believed that the same could be achieved in Jamaica with the enslaved population demanding their freedom or killing their masters and obtaining a plot of land to cultivate. In addition, Wedderburn was a Methodist and believed that Jesus Christ would return to rule the world for 1,000 years and following seven cycles of sabbatical years land and possibly slave ownership and management would be redistributed in Jamaica. Although Wedderburn was sentenced to jail for his radical writings and speeches in Britain, the pro-slavery stance adopted by plantation owners and the ruling European population would not have allowed for Wedderburn to publish his writings on abolishing slavery and agrarian reform in Jamaica.50 The main centre of the anti-slavery lobby was in Britain. On the one hand, a minority of free black and mixed-race people might have acquired literary skills to read Wedderburn’s writings.

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On the other hand, his sermons would have been a powerful tool to advocate an end to slavery in Jamaica, if the enslaved population were able to watch and listen to his lectures. Wedderburn concluded Horrors of Slavery by writing that I should have gone back to Jamaica, had I not been fearful of the planters; for such is their hatred of anyone having black blood in his veins, and who dares to think and act as a free man, that they would most certainly have trumped up some charge against me, and hung me. With them I should have had no mercy. In a future part of my history I shall give some particulars of the treatment of the blacks in the West Indies, and the prospect of a general rebellion and massacre there, from my own experience. In the mean time, I bid my readers farewell. An analysis of Wedderburn’s freedom narrative allows for a comparison with written accounts by Africans about their enslavement and emancipation. For the most part, freedom narratives documented the experiences of African men, who were interviewed or obtained adequate literary skills, which enabled them to write on their experiences of enslavement and freedom. To compare and contrast Horrors of Slavery with Vassa’s and Crowther’s narratives calls for a closer examination of what ‘Africa’ meant to individuals who formed the African Diaspora.51 More importantly, adopting the freedom narrative style was a noticeable departure from Spence’s agrarian reforms and other European writers that influenced Wedderburn’s early writings. Also, Wedderburn was alive at the same time as Vassa and Crowther. All three men resided in London for various reasons and signed onto the anti-slavery cause. Wedderburn permanently resided in London with Ryan from the 1780s onwards. He or Ryan might have met Vassa or even his wife, Susanna Cullen, when the inter-racial couple decided to settle and raise a family in London around the same time. Of the three individuals in question, Vassa was the first to keep track of his life, and noted that he began to prepare a journal during his travels to the North Pole, while onboard the Racehorse in June

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1773.52 In 1788, Vassa published the first edition of The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, the African: Written By Himself. Although Vassa only started to record his life events in 1773, in the opening chapters of the Interesting Narrative, he offered cultural information about his ‘countrymen’ the Igbo. He described the terms of his enslavement in Africa, which was a consequence of a slave raid on his village. The raid immediately separated Vassa and his sister from their family. Vassa also described that he was forcibly transported across the Atlantic Ocean from Africa to Barbados.53 On 11 July 1766, Vassa purchased his freedom from Robert King in the Caribbean island of Montserrat.54 Although Vassa’s narrative raised concerns in Britain about enslavement in West Africa and contributed to the movement against abolishing the Atlantic slave trade, Crowther and others were living testaments that slavery in Africa and the slave trade was still a major cause for concern throughout the nineteenth century. It is unclear whether Wedderburn had read and was influenced by Vassa’s writings. Both writers forgot to acknowledge their children in Horrors of Slavery and the Interesting Narrative. For example, Vassa wrote that ‘I then went to Soham in Cambridgeshire, and was married on the 7th of April to Miss [Susannah] Cullen, daughter of James and Ann Cullen, late of Ely.’55 Yet, he failed to mention that the couple had two daughters, Ann Mary and Joanna Vassa.56 Wedderburn like Vassa did not acknowledge his children with Ryan, Jabez and Jacob Wedderburn in Horrors of Slavery and suggests further that that he might have been influenced by Vassa’s writings.57 Crowther recalled that he was enslaved in Yorubaland. Like Vassa, Crowther was enslaved as a child, and was also separated from his family when his village was raided for slaves in 1821. Crowther recalled that he ‘was thus caught – with his mother, two sisters (one an infant about ten months old), and a cousin, while endeavouring to escape . . .’58 While Crowther remained with his family after the raid, he was eventually bartered in exchange for a horse in a town called Iseyin. He wrote that ‘Thus was I separated from my mother and sister for the first time in my life . . .’59 Crowther also noted that he was marched to the coast over an extended period of time. It is difficult to state how

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long, because on 17 June 1822, Crowther noted that he and others were landed at Bathurst, Sierra Leone.60 Crowther wrote that ‘they assured us of our liberty and freedom; and we very soon believed them.’61 Crowther concluded his narrative by writing that: I was married to a Christian woman on the 21st of September 1829. She was captured by His Majesty’s Ship ‘Bann,’ Capt. Charles Phillips, on the 31st of October 1822. Since, the Lord has blessed us with three children – a son, and two daughters.62 Crowther’s ability to remember the details of his capture are remarkable. The Nigerian historian, J. F. Ade Ajayi, has determined a timeline for Crowther’s initial capture at Osogun in March 1821. Between March and the beginning of the rainy season in May, Ajayi argues that Crowther worked as a domestic slave to a horse merchant in Iseyin. In August, he was sold again to an Oyo woman trader and brought to Itoko. On 7 April 1822, Crowther was embarked on a Portuguese sailing vessel probably destined for Brazil, but as noted by him, he was saved by British patrolling vessels and brought to Sierra Leone.63

Reconstructing African women’s narratives of enslavement The freedom narrative genre was largely dominated by emancipated men. Therefore, these narratives generally highlight the experiences of enslaved men and how they achieved freedom. There are few exceptions, which include the narrative by Mary Prince of Bermuda, and a handful of African-American women in the United States.64 Nonetheless, women loom large in freedom narratives. Beyond the hope of reuniting with mothers – women generally are assigned the role of childcare. And in Africa – more so in polygamous families children were closer to their mothers because a father had other wives and children to maintain and sometimes went off to war or participated in long distance trade. More important, in a polygamous family, the child’s primary contact is with their mother until five or six years

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of age. Intense attachment to mothers is a theme in African culture. Enslaved Africans who left as adults possibly had different experiences and might refer to wives and children rather than mothers and sisters. Women in African societies usually held the role as care giver so that separation from these women during childhood left a lasting impression on emancipated men, in their quest to achieve freedom, but also a desire to rescue these women from slavery. In Horrors of Slavery, it was Rosanna’s and Amy’s daily confrontation with slavery that shaped how Wedderburn recalled the enslavement of Africans and their descendants in eighteenth century Jamaica. Wedderburn provided information about his mother’s and grandmother’s life, but there are many empty holes, since these women did not have access to education or literary opportunities, which were required to document their life experiences. Wedderburn’s writings ensured that these two enslaved women were not forgotten in the historical record and showed the physical, sexual, and emotional abuse they faced over the course of their life in Jamaica. For instance, Wedderburn detailed his father’s infidelity in Horrors of Slavery, stating that he cheated on his mother by entering into a second conjugal relationship with a free mixed-race woman, Esther Trotter. Wedderburn wrote that his mother was pregnant with him, when she became enraged with WedderburnColvile for having an affair with Trotter. Rosanna panicked when she learned about Wedderburn-Colvile’s affair with Trotter, however, as an enslaved woman, it is clear that she was not in a position to question an unfaithful partner. It is unclear what act Rosanna committed, but she was described as ‘rebellious,’ and was sold to a plantation owner half-way across the island in the parish of St. Mary. It appears that Rosanna’s enslaved status and her resentment towards Wedderburn-Colvile after his alleged affair with Trotter resulted in the removal of James and Robert from her care. James remained in Westmoreland and was apprenticed to his uncle, Peter Wedderburn, as a millwright and worked on one of his uncles’ sugar estates.65 Robert eventually was sent to live in Kingston to be raised by his grandmother. The fact that Rosanna was unable to raise her children or to dictate the terms of her conjugal relationship with Wedderburn-Colvile demonstrates that she had no control over her physical and emotional well-being. More importantly, she was sold again

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from her second owner to another Scot, ‘Dr. Campbell,’ who resided on Mathews Lane in Kingston in 1769.66 Subsequently, Rosanna bore a child for Campbell, Elizabeth Campbell. In Horrors of Slavery, Wedderburn wrote that he was raised by his elderly grandmother in Kingston, but he did not explain why. Wedderburn stated that his grandmother, Amy, was owned by a Kingston merchant, Joseph Payne, whose commercial trade centred on the Caribbean world via Jamaica. In Kingston, Payne assigned Amy the task, to sell his property – cheese, checks, chintz, milk, gingerbread, etc; in doing which, she trafficked on her own account with the goods of other merchants, having an agency of half-a-crown in the pound allowed her for her trouble.67 Enslaved Africans, free blacks and mixed race peoples faced social, economic, and political discrimination in Jamaica throughout the eighteenth century. It was common for enslaved women like Amy to enter into the petty market trade in urban centres such as Kingston on their owner’s behalf.68 In Horrors of Slavery, Wedderburn detailed the brutal treatment of Payne’s nephew towards Amy. He recalled that when he was around eleven years of age, his poor old grandmother was flogged for a witch by her [new] master . . . To punish her, therefore, he tied up the poor old woman of seventy years and flogged her to that degree, that she would have died, but for the interference of a neighbour.69 The flogging of Amy in public illustrated that she and other enslaved women were vulnerable to their master’s will. Amy like her daughter had no control over her physical and emotional well-being. The accusation of witchcraft is important because it reaffirms Amy’s connection to Africa. Wedderburn described his grandmother as a ‘witch’ because he resided in Britain and such a term was well known and understood. In Jamaica, European planters believed that enslaved Africans

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practiced myal or obeah an African-derived religion by seeking out a male or female practitioner for bad reasons such as harming individuals and organizing rebellions which disrupted plantation life.70 Although Amy lived in urban Kingston in her elderly years, she had spent most of her life in Jamaica on various rural plantations. Thus, her master likely assumed that she had exposure to myal or obeah ceremonies and knowledge. According to Long, Not long since, some of these execrable wretches in Jamaica introduced what they called the myal dance, and established a kind of society, into which they invited all they could. The lure hung out was, that every Negroe, initiated into the myal society, would be invulnerable by the white men; and, although they might in appearance be slain, the obeah-man could, at his pleasure, restore the body to life.71 Wedderburn dismissed the witch accusation made against his grandmother because he held the title Reverend in the Methodist church and did not want to be associated with a mystical religion. It also shows a Wedderburn who chose how to identify with Africans. Wedderburn claimed that he included this story to show the brutal treatment of the planter class in Jamaica. Yet, it also shows Amy’s African heritage that she could not escape despite being a 70-year-old woman who lived most of her life in Jamaica. He also noted that the enslaved woman who initially accused Amy of witchcraft later retracted her story by making a ‘public confession of her guilt in the market-place at Kingston, on purpose to ease her guilty conscience, and to make atonement for the injury she had done.’72 Wedderburn claimed to have been reunited, at least through a written note with his ‘aged mother.’ It appears that Wedderburn’s half-sister, Elizabeth Campbell, contacted her older brother after learning about or reading one of his journals, Axe Laid to the Root.73 Wedderburn did not shed additional light on his mother’s health or well-being so little is known of her after he departed Jamaica. Crowther and Vassa provided eye witness accounts on the process of enslavement and separation of families in Africa. They both highlighted their vulnerability as children

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who were not able to protect their mothers, sisters, and female relatives from enslavement. Crowther’s and Vassa’s experience of separation from their family was typical and faced by most enslaved Africans trafficked into the Atlantic slave trade. Crowther commented that ‘in many cases a family was violently divided between three or four enemies.’74 In West Africa, Vassa experienced the loss of family when he was separated from his sister. He wrote that: The next day proved a day of greater sorrow than I had yet experienced; for my sister and I were then separated, while we lay clasped in each other’s arms. . . . I cried and grieved continually; and for several days I did not eat any thing [sic] but what they forced into my mouth.75 Later in the Interesting Narrative, he recalled that: One evening, to my great surprise, whom should I see brought to the house where I was but my dear sister. As soon as she saw me she gave a loud shriek, and ran into my arms. I was quite overpowered; neither of us could speak, but, for a considerable time, clung to each other in mutual embraces, unable to do anything but weep for scarcely had the fatal morning appeared, when she was again torn from me for ever! I was now more miserable, if possible, than before.76 Vassa was unable to connect with his sister or family following his departure from West Africa to Barbados. Crowther was able to reunite with his mother and several family members as a young man when he embarked on the Abeokuta mission. The fact that Crowther did not leave for the Americas and participated in exploration and religious crusades in Africa suggests that he was looking for his family. On 6 February 1848, Crowther baptised his mother, Afala who took on the biblical name ‘Hannah.’77 By recalling women’s experiences of enslavement in Africa and Jamaica, these narratives illustrate that Wedderburn, Crowther, and Vassa did not forget their mothers and sisters.

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Conclusion This chapter focused on Wedderburn’s Horrors of Slavery by examining the freedom narrative genre in the Caribbean, Britain, and West Africa by focusing on the writings of formerly enslaved people Gustavus Vassa or Olaudah Equiano and Samuel Ajayi Crowther. Freedom narratives and autobiographical accounts written by emancipated Africans demonstrate the multi-cultural dimension of the people, who struggled for first the abolition of the Atlantic slave trade and later to end slavery in the Atlantic world. Wedderburn was emancipated as a small child and had little recollection of his enslavement. Rather he focused on the experiences of his enslaved mother and grandmother in Jamaica. Crowther, Vassa, and Wedderburn all noted their sense of loss in being separated from female relatives. Moreover, Wedderburn’s family illustrates the complex types of relationships formed in a slave society, demonstrating that enslaved Africans did not arrive in Jamaica solely to work on plantations. Intimate relationships of power and companionship crossed racial boundaries, illuminating that a person’s life in the Atlantic world in the eighteenth century was not about being black or white, because for many enslaved people and their descendants born in the Americas and in coastal communities in Africa, they represented both races, as was highlighted in an earlier chapter by Mariana Candido. Overall, as an anti-slavery activist in London, Wedderburn embraced his African heritage to assist in his moral cause to advocate against slavery in Jamaica and beyond.

Notes 1. I would like to thank Martin Klein, Olatunji Ojo, and two anonymous reviewers for sharing comments on a version of this chapter. I also thank Edmund Abaka, Judith Byfield, and participants at the 2010 Canadian Association of African Studies Annual Conference for comments and discussion. 2. National Archives of United Kingdom, Kew (NAUK), Home Office (HO) 42/191/402 (Letters and papers: 1–12 August 1819). 3. Robert Wedderburn, The Horrors of Slavery; Exemplified in the Life and History of the Reverend Robert Wedderburn (London, 1824), n.p.

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4. James Wedderburn married Isabella Blackburn-Colvile and adopted his wife’s name after their marriage in 1774. Alexander Wedderburn, The Wedderburn Book: A History of the Wedderburns in the Counties of Berwick and Forfar (Edinburgh, 1898), I, 307. 5. According to Paul Lovejoy, ‘Their [Africans’] stories often focus on the quest for and achievement of freedom through escape, self-purchase or other means but always resulting in freedom. The lives and experiences of individuals who had been born in Africa, and free, stand out from those individuals who were born in slavery in the Americas. I am therefore emphasizing a distinction between narratives of freedom composed by individuals who had once been free in Africa from accounts by those who were born into slavery in the Americas. Whether or not these accounts should also be referred to as ‘freedom’ narratives is contested’. Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘“Freedom narratives” of transatlantic slavery,’ Slavery and Abolition, 32:1 (2011), 91–92. Also see, Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘The memorialisation of slavery and the slave trade in freedom narratives,’ in Swithin R. Wilmot (ed.), Freedom: Retrospective and Prospective (Kingston, 2009), 16–17. 6. Also see Yacine Daddi Addoun and Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘Muhammad Kaba Saghanughu and the Muslim community of Jamaica,’ in Paul E. Lovejoy (ed.), Slavery on the Frontiers of Islam (Princeton, 2004); Robin Law, ‘Individualising the Atlantic slave trade: the biography of Mahommah Gardo Baquaqua of Djougou (1854),’ Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 6th series, 12 (2002), 113–140; Robin Law and Paul E. Lovejoy (eds.), The Biography of Mahommah Gardo Baquaqua: His Passage from Slavery to Freedom in Africa and America (Princeton, 2001). 7. Wedderburn, Wedderburn Book, I, 505–507. 8. James F. Schön and Samuel A. Crowther, Journals of the Rev. James Frederick and Mr. Samuel Crowther who, with the Sanction of her Majesty’s Government, Accompanied the Expedition up the Niger, in 1841, in behalf of the Church Missionary Society (London, 1842), 347–350; Olaudah Equiano, The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano or Gustavus Vassa, the African: Written by Himself, 9th edition (London, 1794). Also see, ‘Bishop Crowther: his life and work,’ Church Missionary Gleaner, 59 (1878), 129; ‘Bishop Crowther: his life and work,’ Church Missionary Gleaner, 57 (1878), 103–104; ‘Bishop Crowther: his life and work,’ Church Missionary Gleaner, 56 (1878), 92–93; ‘Bishop Crowther: his life and work,’ Church Missionary Gleaner, 50 (1878), 21–22. 9. Philip D. Curtin, ‘General introduction,’ in Phillip D. Curtin (ed.), Africa Remembered: Narratives by West Africans from the Era of the Slave Trade (Prospect Heights, [1967] 1997), 6–7.

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10. Vincent Carretta, ‘Response to Paul Lovejoy’s “autobiography and memory: Gustavus Vassa, alias Olaudah Equiano, the African”,’ Slavery and Abolition, 28:1 (2007), 115–119; Vincent Carretta, ‘Olaudah Equiano or Gustavus Vassa? New light on an eighteenth century question of identity,’ Slavery and Abolition, 20:3 (1999), 96–105. On Igbo communities in South Carolina, see Michael Gomez, ‘The anguished Igbo response to enslavement in the Americas,’ in Carolyn A. Brown and Paul E. Lovejoy (eds.), Repercussions of the Atlantic Slave Trade: The Interior of the Bight of Biafra and the African Diaspora (Trenton, NJ, 2011), 103–118. 11. Vincent Carretta, ‘Revisiting the identity of Olaudah Equiano or Gustavus Vassa, the African,’ in Repercussions of the Atlantic Slave Trade, 165. 12. Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘Autobiography and memory: Gustavus Vassa, alias Olaudah Equiano, the African,’ Slavery and Abolition, 27:3 (2006), 327. Also see, G. I. Jones, ‘Olaudah Equiano of the Niger Ibo,’ in Africa Remembered, 60–98. 13. Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘Personal memory and the collective experience of the slave trade in the autobiography of Gustavus Vassa, alias Olaudah Equiano,’ in Ana Lucia Araujo, Mariana Pinho Candido, and Paul E. Lovejoy (eds.), Crossing Memories: Slavery and African Diaspora (Trenton, 2011), 15–34; Paul E. Lovejoy, ‘Issues of motivation – Vassa/Equiano and Carretta’s critique of the evidence,’ Slavery and Abolition, 28:1 (2007), 121–125. 14. Wedderburn, Horrors of Slavery, 4. 15. Wedderburn, Horrors of Slavery, 9. 16. Wedderburn, Horrors of Slavery, 4–5. 17. Hilary McD. Beckles and Verene A. Shepherd, ‘Introduction,’ in Lucille Mathurin-Mair, with the assistance of Hilary McD. Beckles and Verene A. Shepherd, A Historical Study of Women in Jamaica, 1655–1844 (Kingston, 2006), xv. Also see, Claire C. Robertson and Martin A. Klein, ‘Women’s importance in African slave systems,’ in Claire C. Robertson and Martin A. Klein (eds.), Women and Slavery in Africa (Madison, 1983), 5–6. 18. Jamaica Archives, Spanish Town (JA), 1B/11/6/9 (Manumission of Slave Registers), 37–38. 19. Edward Long fulfilled many political roles in Jamaica, including, planter, private secretary to the Governor Henry Moor, and a colonial judge. Long resided in Jamaica from 1757 through 1769. He trained as a lawyer at Gray’s Inn before moving to Jamaica. See, Kenneth Morgan, ‘Long, Edward (1734– 1813),’ in Lawrence Goldman (ed.), Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (electronic) (Oxford, 2004); Howard Johnson, ‘Introduction: Edward Long, historian of Jamaica,’ in Howard Johnson (ed.), The History of Jamaica: Reflections on its Situation, Settlements, Inhabitants, Climate, Products, Commerce, Laws and Government (Kingston, 2003), i–xxv.

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20. Long, History of Jamaica, II, 320. 21. Lorna E. Simmonds, ‘“That little shadow of property and freedom”: urban slave society in Jamaica, 1780–1834’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of the West Indies, 1995); Wilma R. Bailey, ‘Kingston 1692–1843: a colonial city’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of the West Indies, Mona, 1974). 22. Wedderburn, Horrors of Slavery, 4. 23. Iain McCalman, ‘Anti-slavery and ultra-radicalism in early nineteenth-century England: the case of Robert Wedderburn,’ Slavery and Abolition, 7:2 (1986), 101. 24. Mathurin-Mair, Historical Study of Women, 273. 25. Wedderburn, Horrors of Slavery, 23. 26. Edlie L. Wong, Neither Fugitive nor Free: Atlantic Slavery, Freedom Suits, and the Legal Culture of Travel (New York, 2009), 66. 27. Wedderburn, Wedderburn Book, I, 505–507. 28. Wedderburn, Horrors of Slavery, 3. 29. Iain McCalman (ed.), The Horrors of Slavery and Other Writings by Robert Wedderburn (Princeton, 1991), 3. 30. NAUK, HO 42/191/402. 31. Barbara Bush, ‘African Caribbean slave mothers and children: traumas of dislocation and enslavement across the Atlantic world,’ Caribbean Quarterly, 56:1–2 (2010), 78–79. 32. Wedderburn, Horrors of Slavery, 10. 33. Geoff Palmer, The Enlightenment Abolished: Citizens of Britishness (Midlothian, 2007), 38–39. 34. JA, 1B/11/1/26 (Patents: Land Grants), 133–134. 35. Trevor Burnard, Mastery, Tyranny, and Desire: Thomas Thistlewood and his Slaves in the Anglo-Jamaican World (Chapel Hill and London, 2004), 233. 36. On African and creole enslaved people and work regimes on plantations in Jamaica, see Kamau Brathwaite, The Development of Creole Society in Jamaica, 1770–1820 (Kingston: Ian Randle Publishers, [1971] 2005), 296–305; Richard S. Dunn, ‘The story of two Jamaican slaves: Sarah Affir and Robert McAlpine of Mesopotamia estate,’ in Roderick A. McDonald (ed.), West Indies Accounts: Essays on the History of the British Caribbean and the Atlantic Economy in Honour of Richard Sheridan (Kingston, Jamaica, 1996), 188–208; Michael Craton and Garry Greenland, Searching for the Invisible Man: Slaves and Plantation Life in Jamaica (Cambridge, 1978). 37. ‘Bishop Crowther: his life and work,’ Church Missionary Gleaner, 50 (1878), 22. 38. Erasmus Perkins (ed.), The Address of the Rev. R. Wedderburn, to the Court of King’s Bench at Westminster, on appearing to receive judgement for blasphemy, when

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INDEX

Abolition (slavery), 4, 71, 101, 107, 122, 125, 129, 131, 132, 135, 137, 138, 183, 192 Abolitionist, 87, 104 Adamawa, 47, 48, 56 Ajayi, J. F. A, 111, 187 Akan, 94, 95, 145, 146, 148, 150, 162, 163, 164, 165 Atlantic Ocean, 90, 91, 92, 103, 181, 186 slave trade, 3, 4, 6, 66, 69, 78, 85, 86, 87, 90, 91, 93, 99, 109, 110, 113, 145, 147, 148, 177, 178, 181, 186, 191, 192 world, 192 Badagry, 94, 95, 96, 103, 107, 111 Bahia, 6, 88, 89, 90, 94, 98, 99, 101, 102, 104, 105, 106, 108, 109, 110 Bahian, 99, 101, 105 Barth, Frederick, 13, 29, 57 Barth, Heinrich, 40, 54, 55, 56 Basa, 13, 14, 20, 22, 26, 27, 30 Benguela, 6, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77 Highlands, 69, 70 Bermuda, 187

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Bight of Benin, 91, 93, 94, 95, 103, 145 Brazil 4, 6, 66, 72, 78, 86, 87, 90, 95, 99, 100, 106, 108, 111–113, 187 Brazilian, 4, 6, 65, 86, 87, 94, 96, 98, 99, 101–113 British Virgin Islands or Virgin Islands, 1, 2, 144–156, 158–162, 164–171 Britain, 2–4, 50, 99, 100, 134, 149, 152, 154, 176, 178, 181–184, 186, 189, 192 Camfou dance, 145, 146, 148, 159, 164, 165, 167, 169, 170 Candido, Mariana P., 6, 65, 192 Caribbean, 1–5, 7, 147, 157, 163, 164, 166, 177, 186, 192 world, 7, 189 Catholic Church, 66, 67, 68, 72, 76, 166 Children, 1, 2, 6, 42, 44, 67, 70–77, 109, 110, 126, 129, 153, 177, 178, 179, 181, 183, 186–188, 190 Church Missionary Society (CMS), 23, 24, 26, 96, 107, 108, 110, 111, 133 Clapperton, Hugh, 40, 46, 50, 94 Colonialism, 2, 12, 78, 130, 131, 133–138

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Comfoo dance (see camfou dance), 145, 146, 164, 169 Concubinage, 65–70, 73, 75–78, 123, 129, 132 Concubine, 27, 71, 108, 128, 129, 132 Cotton, 7, 24, 44, 101, 149, 152–154, 156, 170 Creole, 145, 157, 159, 160, 161, 169, 170, 182 Crowther, Samuel Ajayi, 2, 7, 21, 24, 96, 101, 112, 177, 183- 187, 190–192 Culture, 14, 22, 30, 31, 33, 122, 123, 126–130, 133, 134, 136, 154, 156, 157, 165, 170, 171, 188 Curtin, Philip D., 177 Da Souza, Francisco Felix, 94, 95, 108 Dabo, Ibrahim, 41, 42, 46 Dahomey, 91, 92, 94, 98, 148 dan Fodio, Uthman, 11, 40 Dar al-Harb, 19, 28, 41 Dar al-Islam, 19, 28 Dendo (Mallam), 16, 21, 23 Dibia (see obeah), 146, 163 East Africa, 1, 3, 38, 122–124, 126 Eki/Bunu, 13, 14, 20, 23, 26, 27, 31, 32 Emancipation (see manumission), 3, 4, 7, 121, 132, 133, 136, 138, 171, 182, 185 Post-emancipation, 164 Equiano, Olaudah (see Gustavus Vassa), 2, 177, 182, 186, 192 Estate (see plantation), 75, 108, 132, 149, 153, 164, 182, 188 will and last testament, 109 Family, 2, 5, 7, 53, 65, 66, 70, 95, 96, 98, 106, 109–111, 128–130, 138, 146, 162, 177, 179–183, 185–187, 191, 192 Fanisau, 46 Farah, Feisal, 6, 121

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France, 4, 92 Freedom narrative, 7, 175–180, 183, 185, 187, 192, 193 Fungi (music), 145, 146, 148, 159–161, 170 Gbagyi, 13, 49 Gbebe, 21, 23, 24, 26, 28 Gold Coast, 90, 95, 145 Hogendorn, Jan, 58 Horrors of Slavery, 7, 175–178, 181, 183–186, 188, 189, 192 Hunt, Nadine, 1, 7, 175 Igbira, 13, 17, 21, 23, 26, 30 Igbo, 91, 145, 146, 148, 150, 160, 162, 163, 178, 182, 186 Indian Ocean, 122, 126, 128 slave trade, 3 Internal economy, 149, 151, 154, 156, 170 Isaqs, 134 Islam, 2, 5, 16, 19, 21, 22, 27, 28, 31, 33, 40, 50, 123, 126, 130, 131, 136 Jamaica, 1, 167, 175–182, 184, 185, 188–192 Jamaican, 7, 166, 176 Jihad, 5, 9, 11–16, 18, 19, 21–23, 26, 31–33, 40, 41, 48 Johnson, Douglas H., 38, 39 Jumbies, 166, 167, 170 Kakanda, 13, 14, 17, 20, 21, 22, 27, 30, 32 Kano, 6, 28, 38–58 Kenya, 6, 121, 124, 132, 134 Kenyan, 133, 134, 138 Kingston (Jamaica), 179, 182, 184, 188–190 Kolapo, Femi J., 5, 9 Kongo, Kingdom of, 148 Kosoko, the King, 2, 4, 85–91, 94–113

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INDEX Lagos, 4, 6, 19, 24, 85–87, 90–113 Lamu, 124, 125, 130 Lawson, George, 94, 95, 100 Leeward Islands (Caribbean), 145, 149, 156, 167, 170 Lisboa, Catarina Pereira, 72 Lokoja, 23–26, 28 London (England), 4, 176, 179–185, 192 Lovejoy, Paul Ellsworth, 3, 38, 39, 66, 157, 178, 184 Luanda, 65, 68, 70, 148 Malindi, 124–126 Manumission (see emancipation), 1, 2, 74, 76, 77, 129, 135, 178, 179, 180, 183 Marriage, 16, 28, 65–71, 78, 123, 128, 132, 179 Intermarriage, 15, 123 Martinez, Domingo Jose, 87, 88, 94, 95, 97, 99, 102–104, 108–110 Masaba (Emir), 2, 16, 17, 18, 19, 21–25 Massak, Luzia, 2, 71 Methodist Society (see Wesleyan Methodist Mission), 165, 167, 168, 169, 190 Methodist, 166, 167, 184 Miscegenation, 69 Mixed-race, 1, 5, 6, 7, 111, 176, 178–182, 184, 188 Mombasa, 6, 121–138 Mosque, 19 Myalism, 166 Niger-Benue Confluence, 5, 9–11, 13, 17, 18, 21, 23, 26–30, 32 Nigeria, 2, 9, 11, 15, 26, 28, 45, 63 Nigerian, 108–110, 187 Nupe, 5, 9, 11–33, 48, 55, 106 Obayifo (see obeah), 146, 163 Obeah, 145, 146, 148, 159, 163, 164, 166, 169, 170, 190

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223

Ojo, Olatunji, 1, 6, 85, 87 Oman, 123, 128 Omani rule, 121 Ouidah, 85, 86, 91, 92, 94, 96–99 Plantation, 7, 121, 124, 126, 129, 145, 148–156, 158, 159, 161, 163, 168–171 Polygamy, 67, 78 Polygamous families, 70, 187 Polygamous marriage, 69 Portugal, 2, 4, 66 Prince, Mary, 187 Provision grounds, 151, 158 Quakers, 167 Rabah/Bida, 11, 16, 18, 21, 22, 27, 30, 31 Ryan, Elizabeth, 179, 185, 186 Salau, Mohammed Bashir, 5, 6, 38 Scotland, 175, 177, 179, 182 Sexuality, 65, 67 Sierra Leone, 19, 111, 112, 187 Slave Coast, 92, 95, 150 Smith, Katherine A., 7, 144 Social Mobility, 66, 73, 76, 77, 128, 138 Sokoto Caliphate, 5, 6, 9, 11, 39, 40, 44, 47, 48, 50, 51, 54, 55, 57, 58, 93 Jihad, 14, 15 Swahili, 122–124, 126–131, 133–139 Coast, 121, 124, 127, 129, 130, 137 Tambo, David, 55, 56 ‘Talkee’ Amy, 2, 180, 182, 188–190 Thelatha Taifa, 123 Thenashara Taifa, 123 Tisa Taifa, 123 Tortola, 7, 144–147, 149, 151, 155, 165, 167, 169 Uledi, 131

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SLAVERY

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Vassa, Gustavus (see Olaudah Equiano), 2, 4, 7, 177, 178, 182–186, 190–192 Violence, 13, 19, 20, 52, 66, 75, 76, 91 Virgin Gorda, 144, 146, 147, 153 Walcott, Derek, 144 Wedderburn-Colvile, James, 175, 178, 179, 182, 183, 188 Wedderburn, Robert, 4, 7, 175–186, 188–192 Weselyan Methodist Mission (see Methodist Society), 95

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Windward Coast, 145, 147, 152, 168 Yagba, 11, 14, 20, 22, 31, 32 Yam (food), 146, 150, 157–160, 162, 168 Yoruba, 6, 12, 22–24, 26, 30, 91, 93, 103, 109–112, 146 Yorubaland, 85, 90, 91, 98–100, 106, 107, 112, 113, 186 Zanzibar, 124–126, 129, 136 Zaria, 43, 48, 52, 58

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