0004. A Treatise on African Art: Dahomey — A Legacy of Power and Art
The Rise of Dahomey
To the west of the Yoruba, where the land rolls toward the coast, live the Fon and their kin, the Aja. Legends whisper of Agasu, the forebear of kings, whose clan once ruled in Tado, a city in present-day Togo.
Seeking a new domain, they journeyed eastward and founded Allada, a bustling center near the Atlantic. There, in the 16th and early 17th centuries, power pulsed through its streets, its markets thrived, and its rulers commanded respect far and wide. But power begets conflict.
In 1625, a quarrel over the throne split the realm. One brother, unwilling to submit, marched inland and carved out a new stronghold — Abomey. Here, the Agasu mingled with local peoples, forging the identity of the Fon. They built Dahomey, a kingdom like no other — militant, disciplined, and fiercely centralized.
By the late 17th century, it stood as a mighty force, sending warriors into the night to capture men and women, feeding the insatiable hunger of the transatlantic slave trade. King Agaja (1708–1732) extended Dahomey’s grasp along the southern coast, his conquests fueling a grim but lucrative commerce. In his time alone, some 20,000 souls passed through the Slave Coast each year, torn from their lands, never to return.
The Royal Arts: Power Cast in Iron and Thread
The Fon, like the Yoruba, understood that power was not just wielded — it was displayed. Art, in its many forms, became a language of authority, a bridge between rulers and the divine. The divination process known as fa (akin to Yoruba ifa) dictated much of the kingdom’s creative expression, shaping not only religious practice but also the very symbols of kingship.
Upon ascending the throne, each Dahomean ruler received a unique fa name, a strong name, drawn from the threads of oral tradition. This name was not mere identity — it was destiny, an emblem woven into the palace itself. Artists transformed these names into grand tapestries, sculpted figures, and elaborate metalwork, ensuring that no king would be forgotten.
In Abomey, the royal city, artisans were more than mere craftsmen; they were custodians of legacy, organized into guilds by their medium. Textile workers embroidered pavilions, umbrellas, and banners, each stitch narrating the exploits of kings. Metalworkers cast deities and royal insignias in iron and brass, shaping amulets and symbols that carried the weight of divine protection. Woodcarvers, guided by fa, crafted portraits of rulers, not as mere likenesses, but as visions of power itself.
Each king of Dahomey built his own palace, adding to a sprawling complex that once covered nearly two hundred acres. But time and conquest took their toll. When the French seized Dahomey, the palaces fell into neglect, their grandeur fading into ruin. Today, only those of King Guezo and King Glele stand, restored and preserved as echoes of a lost era.
The walls of these palaces once bore painted clay reliefs — stories frozen in color, tales of gods and warriors, triumph and bloodshed. Beneath towering pavilions, the court gathered for ceremonies, their canopies alive with appliquéd symbols of strength and conquest. In 1849, a European visitor described a scene of dazzling spectacle:
a pavilion of deep crimson, soaring forty feet high, emblazoned with skulls, bulls’ heads, and human figures. Beneath it, the king sat in majesty as six thousand carriers paraded through the market, each bearing a portion of his immense wealth for all to see. Around him, chiefs stood beneath ornate umbrellas, their canopies marking their rank like stars in the firmament.
Bo: Sculptures of Power and Protection
In Dahomey, art was never passive.
Sculptural forms known as bo, infused with spiritual force, stood as protectors against evil, disease, and treachery. These were no lifeless statues — they pulsed with energy, empowered by the vodun spirits. Among them, bocio figures stood apart, their carved forms acting as guardians of the royal lineage.
Kings, it was said, could assume the shapes of beasts — lions, panthers, buffalo — slipping through the night to spy on enemies or flee unseen from the battlefield. And so, the royal bocio reflected this belief, their animal forms imbued with the essence of kingship.
One such piece, a towering anthropomorphic lion, was carved in the late nineteenth century by Sosa Adede, its form imbued with supernatural vigor.
Among the greatest works of Dahomean sculpture is Agoje, an iron warrior, its massive feet planted as if marching into war. Crafted by the master blacksmith Akati Akpele Kendo for King Glele, it bore a crown of weapons, a shrine to Gu, the god of war. Another legendary figure, Daguesu, depicted a being with the head of a ram or buffalo — both called agbo in Fon — channeling the might of Hevioso, the thunder god. It was said to march with Dahomey’s warriors, summoning lightning and the roar of battle.
Spirits and Shrines: The Ties Between the Living and the Dead
To the Fon, death was no end but a transition. The spirits of ancestors watched over the living, their presence woven into daily life. To honor them, families built asen — iron staffs topped with intricate brass figures.
These memorials stood within the home, silent yet ever watchful, connecting past and present in an unbroken lineage of reverence.
Vodun shrines, too, bore the mark of artistry. The famed painter Cyprien Tokoudagba, initiated into the worship of Tohosu, adorned temples with vivid reliefs of gods and spirits. In 1987, he was called to restore the royal palaces of Abomey, reviving their lost splendor. His work, later celebrated in European galleries, bridges two worlds — sacred and modern, local and global.
Blacksmiths like the Dakpogan family, who once forged weapons for Dahomey’s kings, turned their craft to new forms, sculpting from the discarded remnants of modern industry. Car parts, bicycle chains, and metal scraps became their medium, melding history with innovation.
Art in the Age of Change
The nineteenth century saw the foundations of Dahomey shaken. European powers encroached, the slave trade waned, and the tides of history shifted. Yet, from this upheaval emerged transformation.
Yoruba and Fon returnees from Brazil brought with them architectural mastery, reshaping the skylines of Lagos, Porto-Novo, and beyond. Their buildings, blending European, African, and Islamic elements, stood as monuments to survival and adaptation.
In time, Nigeria became a crucible of artistic modernism. Aina Onabolu, self-taught in European oil painting, defied colonial expectations, proving that African hands could master Western techniques. His influence led to the rise of a new artistic generation — Akinola Lasekan, whose bold strokes carried political weight, and Ben Enwonwu, whose work captured the attention of British royalty.
In Oshogbo, the Mbari Mbayo movement flourished, where artists like Prince Twins Seven-Seven wove Yoruba tradition into contemporary expression. Nike Davies-Okundaye, drawing from the deep well of Yoruba textile arts, built a legacy of indigo-dyed storytelling, her works carrying whispers of the past into the modern world.
In Ile-Ife, the Ona Group emerged, redefining African modernism. Moyo Okediji, its founder, reached back to the earth, blending traditional Yoruba color palettes with contemporary forms, rejecting the colonial gaze in favor of indigenous perspectives.
The past, the present, and the unseen — these are the threads that weave the story of Dahomey. In iron and wood, in cloth and color, the spirit of the kingdom endures, speaking through the art it left behind.
As we share this African art corpus, we express our deepest gratitude to great art historians, like Frank Willett, Peter Garlake, Dennis Duerden and Monica Visona; whose works have formed the foundation of this story. On other online sources we also relied.
Coming soon: Arts Along The Nile.
Part of this writing was contributed by Denis Chiedo.
