Muhammad Bello, al-Kanemi and Borno

Although Muhammad Bello did not reproduce in full all the letters he received from al-Kanemi of Borno, his Infāq al-Maysūr contains a plethora of important details on the conflicts between the jihadists of Uthman dan Fodio and Borno. Translated by Salahudeen Yusuf as A History of Islam, Scholarship and Revivalism in Western Sudan, Being an Annotated Translation with Introduction of  Infaqul-Maisur fi Tarikh Bilad al-Tukur of Sultan Muhammad Bello bin Fodio, the first chapter contains an overview of the lands of the western and central Sudan. Borno, receives mention as an area in which Islam was widely spread and deeply practiced before the jihad, even by commoners. Recitation of the Quran, Islamic scholarship and religious devotion were well-rooted in the area. 

However, for two reasons, Muhammad Bello called into question the Islamic legitimacy of the Sayfawa rulers of Borno. First, certain customs and traditions persisted despite the conversion to Islam centuries ago. Women went unveiled, sacrifices were made in the river (Komadugu?), and sacrifices or ceremonies were held at trees or certain rock sites. Al-Kanemi saw the old rituals involving sacrifices at presumably venerated in pre-Islamic times as customs similar to what was done by people in central Islamic lands, like Syria and Egypt. Bello, on the other hand, was very rigid on this, even condemning the nomadic Fulani for a custom or tradition involving fire, dances, and objects tied around the head of children by agreeing with Shaykh Abdullahi al-Thuqa. Nonetheless, this was seen as justification for the jihad, since it was perceived as shirk by Bello. Furthermore, by lending support to the Hausa rulers who fought against the jihad, Bello argued that the Sayfawa mai had become an unbeliever. If a Muslim ruler supports unbelievers against other Muslims, such a ruler becomes an unbeliever himself. Furthermore, as head of the state, the behavior of the mai called into question the Islamic legitimacy of Borno. Thus, the jihadists were in the moral right. Unsurprisingly, al-Kanemi countered this by drawing on the same sources and evidence as Bello: the Quran, Islamic law, hadith, logic.

Later in their correspondence, which appears to have been infrequent due to messengers failing to deliver letters, al-Kanemi seems to have shifted somewhat his argument. While acknowledging some customs in Borno that were improper, he accuses the allies of the jihad of initiating conflict with Borno on incorrect, false grounds. The Fulani and others who attacked Borno seemed to be more interested in gathering booty and captives, which triggered part of the debate between Bello and al-Kanemi on whether enslavement of said captives was legal in Islam. The two never reconciled, based on the letters reproduced by Bello, but one can see how the conflict between Sokoto and Borno was centered on defining a Muslim. Part of this even drew from the longer history of Islam in West Africa, especially Askia Muhammad of Songhay and his questions posed to al-Maghili. Askia Muhammad's seizure of power was seen as a jihad of sorts by Bello, and a model for a proper Islamic ruler to emulate. Intriguingly, Bello did not cite or reference other works of al-Maghili written to or for Hausa rulers of Kano and Katsina, perhaps since that would have called into question the legitimacy of the jihad against Hausa rulers (sarakauna). Nonetheless, the model of Askia Muhammad and expectations of a Muslim ruler as a pious, just figure who corrects the behavior of his subjects and follows Islamic precepts. One wonders to what extent al-Kanemi would have drawn on the history and legacy of the Sayfawa monarchs to counter Bello's claims. Perhaps al-Kanemi would not have used the past of the Sayfawa due to his own political ambitions?

Mentioning Haiti in Kano

Although we have often wondered what people in African during the 19th century knew of Haiti, there is a brief mention of the Haitian Revolution in Kano. Hugh Clapperton, who traveled to Borno and the Sokoto Caliphate in the 1800s, recounted this particular episode in his Journal of a Second Expedition Into the Interior of Africa: From the Bight of Benin to Soccatoo, published in 1829. According to Clapperton, an Arab merchant residing in Kano was killed by his female slaves. According to his informants, the custom was to sell such slaves toward the coast. Clapperton, when asked what should be done, endorsed hanging the slaves once it was clear they had killed their master from Ghadamis. Naturally, this led to Clapperton's curiosity about the slave population in Kano. Surprisingly, it was thirty slaves for every free man. Given these demographics, Clapperton used the example of St. Domingo (Haiti) as a warning to the people of Kano, since slaves may rise up and seize control when they overwhelmingly outnumber their masters. Besides the example of Haiti, which we presume was either unknown or poorly understood in West Africa, Clapperton cited recent history of the Hausa slaves in Oyo who rebelled. 

Historical Materialism and the Kel Ahir

Kathleen O'Mara's A Political Economy of Ahir (Niger): Historical Transformations in a Pastoral Economy, 1760-1860 adopts a historical materialist approach to analyze transformations in the Ahir region's political economy once the Kel Owey federation become the dominant Tuareg group in that region. Focusing on class and a materialist interpretation allows greater clarity on how the Tuareg of this region of the Sahara shifted from a pastoral economy to a more centralized, agro-pastoral tributary economy in the 18th century. Thus, the transformations of the state and economy in the Ahir (or Air) region predate the jihad and establishment of the Sokoto Caliphate. According to O'Mara's view, the Ahir sultanate government's "glorious period" in the 1500s was not fully tributary, although the sultanate administration survived with the rise of Kel Owey hegemony and commercial expansion in order to protect the interests of the Tuareg elites, imajeren. Essentially, the seizure of the Kawar salines, especially Bilma, was an impetus for further trade and agro-pastoral expansion. This, in turn, was accompanied by the increasing centralization and development of a regional economy in Hausaland, particularly after the establishment of the Sokoto Caliphate. In other words, Borno's loss of Kawar in the 1760s favored the Ahir Tuareg, particularly the Kel Owey, who reaped huge profits from the sale of salt to Hausaland, where a burgeoning market and growing manufacturing (textiles, leather, etc.) centers in places like Kano fueled more Tuareg trade. 

Indeed, to O'Mara's view, Ahir became so connected to the larger, regional economy of the Central Sudan that trans-Saharan commerce became less important and Agadez's population moved to lands in the Sudan. The cycle fueled more economic growth as the Kel Owey, as well as other Tuareg groups, increasingly used captives and "free" dependents, often Kanuri, Hausa, or Dagera, to work farmland in Damergu. Agricultural production in the more fertile lands of the Sudan favored Tuareg commerce since the grain from these areas could be used to trade with the Kawar oases (and to ensure adequate grain supplies for the Ahir  region). This, of course, meant that the Ahir Tuareg could be less dependent on the meager agricultural resources of the Ahir region or from grain supplied by the independent Hausa states. With the growth of a Kel Owey commercial class investing in salt, agricultural production, livestock, and trade in textiles, slaves, leather products, and items acquired through trans-Saharan trade via the Fezzan or Ghat, the Ahir Tuareg system became a fully tributary one that maintained the dominance of the "nobles."  In fact, the continuance of the Ahir sultanate structure in Agades as an intermediary of Tuareg groups in Ahir, plus their own source of legitimacy via Islam, provided a balance with Kel Owey elites.

As one might expect in a highly unequal, hierarchical arrangement that was the Ahir political economy from 1760-1860, conflict within the elites (vertical) and between "nobles" and other groups (ineslemen, dependents of various types, etc.) was a constant. Dependents, both "free" and servile, could change masters easily and the Kel Ahir Tuareg had to find ways to maintain a system of exploitation of their labor. Like the free Dagera, Kanuri and Hausa groups conquered by Tuareg groups, the Tuareg "class" system allowed for significant local autonomy to settlements of slaves and others. In addition, manumission was frequent while intermarriage and absorption of captives into the lineage (as fictive children) meant enslavement was, according to Barth at least, less horrific than in other locales. One wonders, however, tow hat extent conditions here were similar with regard to slavery in the Sokoto Caliphate and Borno, where a history of slave settlements and even plantations existed. Nonetheless, O'Mara wishes to highlight how enslavement and exploitation of captives for their labor in agriculture, livestock rearing, carrying goods, or salt production was similar to the tribute extracted from "free" dependents in the Kel Ahir class system. Clerical lineages, too, tried to occasionally resist through the ideology of jihad or even becoming warriors themselves, yet they could not build a diverse enough coalition 

Through an ideology of noble dominance and control of camels, the most important animal in the pastoral economy, these nobles justified their position through the protection they could provide to dependents and clerical lineages. Their ownership of camels furthered their position as guides for caravans from North Africans, traders in their own rights, and for the use of camels to carry salt or other products. However, claims to noble status were always dynamic, and were frequently adjusted genealogically after the fact to legitimize the imajeren domination. This is connected to the purpose of the Agades Sultanate itself, instituted to resolve conflict between Tuareg groups in Ahir as well as to secure the overall interests of an elite group. Ongoing conflicts between the Kel Owey and others, naturally meant that the hegemony of any specific federation was always up for grabs, which in turn justified elite positions as "protectors" of their dependents against other Tuareg or non-Tuareg foes. 

This is all rather fascinating and engaging. However, some of what O'Mara proposes is either implausible or debatable. For instance, many of the political offices in the Ahir sultanate are of Hausa origin. Perhaps this suggests that the transformation of the Kel Ahir from a pastoral economy to a fully tributary one required the adoption of administrative features found in the Sudanic states to their south, especially Borno and the Hausa. Moreover, the increasing sedentarization of some Tuareg and the growth of agricultural ventures owned by Kel Ahir in Damergu, Zinder, or the Caliphate could be seen as similarly following patterns from Songhay, Borno, and Hausa history. Indeed, even the justifying ideology of elite rule via protection offered to dependents could be seen in the case of Borno, which failed to provide the necessary protection for its subjects in Kawar, western Borno, and northern Borno. Unlike Borno, however, the Ahir Tuareg federations structure and "looseness" and the ecological conditions of the southern Sahara could make it rather fragile. But, the exploitation of producers, a free and slave peasantry, seems to be a common for the Central Sudan, where chronic insecurity was also present despite the existence of large Hausa states or Borno (when it was a regional hegemon). 

Reconsidering Muslim Spain

Hitchcock's Muslim Spain Reconsidered is a short survey of the history of Al-Andalus from 711 to 1502. It would be difficult to do justice to several centuries of complex history, particularly in a region whose legacy has been used for various, occasionally contradictory purposes. For Hitchcock, Al-Andalus is not so much a paragon of interfaith harmony or unity, but rather part of a long history in which political concerns and interests (expediency) trumped religious or nationalist identities. For instance, the chapter in which El Cid is covered emphasizes the non-religious character of the historical El Cid. The cultural importance of Al-Andalus for scholarship, poetry, medicine, and translation of Classical knowledge is further emphasized for its long-term impact in Western Europe, too. Reasonable speculation about Al-Andalus's possible influence on Dante or the significance of Toledo as a center of translation of Islamic knowledge for the West serve to illustrate how Andalusian scholarship, book culture, and poetry made a huge impact on west. One of Hitchcock's particular strengths is his care to include aesthetic developments in poetry, architecture, and literature that illustrate distinctive Andalusian styles and identity, not just its emulation of the Islamic East. We certainly will be attempting to read Ibn Hazm, for example.

An African Khipu System?

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

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

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

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

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

Francisque dit Omore

We are always on the hunt for more information on Borno and its Diaspora across the world, especially before the 19th century. Whilst perusing digitized French National Archive records of the 18th century slave and free people of color population living in metropolitan France, we encountered Francisque dit Omore. He was, by 1777, a free man, married to a white laundress, and working as a domestic in Paris for the marquis de la Solard. Unfortunately, piecing together more of his life and origins in Borno is difficult. However, it is exceedingly likely that he was a victim of the trans-Saharan slave trade. However, unlike many black Africans trafficked to Tripoli, he did not end up shipped to the Levant or Turkey. Instead, he was sold or transported to Malta, where a Frenchman, Pons-François de Rosset de Fleury, purchased him. This European man brought him to France by 1757, where he continued to work for Fleury until his death in 1774. By 1777, it is clear that Francisque was a free man, married to a European woman, and could sign his name. Intriguingly, he chose to sign it as Omor instead of Francisque or Francois. If Omor was an attempt at writing his name in Borno, perhaps Umar, then he still preferred to identify by his original name despite 20 years of living in Europe as a baptized man.

Sadly, trying to uncover more of Francisque dit Omore's Bornoan origins will be very difficult. His age is difficult to establish with certainty. If he truly was 39 years old in 1777, then perhaps he was born in 1738. Alternatively, if he was registered in 1762 as "Francois" of "Borno" as a "lackey" and slave of Fleury, he may have been born in or around 1734. It is probable that he was indeed from Birni Gazargamo, Borno's vast capital city with an even vaster district that encompassed many settlements. Regardless of when in the 1730s he was born, Francisque dit Omore was lived through troubled times in Borno. According to Nur Alkali, a drought that lasted several years coveredthe period of 1738-1753. With drought came famine, including one remembered during the reign of Dunama Gana (r. 1744-1747). Moreover, the drought led to population shifts of nomadic populations like the Jetko, Tubu, Koyam, and Fulani. Undoubtedly, a period of continued drought, famine, and pressure on both nomadic and sedentary agriculturalists probably triggered conflicts, including some that led to slave raids and kidnappings. When one considers the signs of weakness in the face of Tuareg and other raiders or the eventual loss of Borno control of the salt trade at Bilma by 1759, it is perhaps understandable how Francisque dit Omore of Birni Gazargamo may have been captured or sold into slavery during such an unstable time.

The Empire of Wagadu: The State of the Question

Boubacar Séga Diallo's L’empire du Wagadu: état de la question was rather underwhelming. We were expecting a condensed version of his thesis that draws more heavily on Soninke oral traditions, linguistics, and archaeology to sketch a fuller picture of the historical state of Ghana (Wagadu) known from external Arabic sources. However, the reader mainly receives a summary on the history of Wagadu with occasional references to oral traditions, archaeological evidence from Kumbi or Mali, and some undefended assertions about topics like the antiquity of caste or the prevalence of slavery in ancient Soninke society. Perhaps, if Diallo's thesis is published, the reader can benefit from a West African scholars deep exploration of Soninke tradition in light of other types of evidence. Without that, we are sadly left with a very brief summary that also repeats the typical line of Almoravid victory over Ghana. It would also have been interesting if the author tried to speculate about the magico-religious powers of the rulers of Wagadu and how that shaped the political structure of the state.