Mewi and Yovó: Blackness and Whiteness in Benin and Vodun

Abstract

The article examines how discourses of race and ancestry interact with both everyday life and the Vodun religion in southern Benin. The researcher uses ethnographic methods to illuminate how discourses of race are unfolding within the racially homogenous country of Benin in West Africa. The researcher examines the Fon terms mewi (Black or African) and yovó (White or non-African) to analyze how Beninese work to situate themselves within larger racial and continental categories. The researcher is also reflexive of her experiences as an African-American in Benin to understand the nuances of Black racial identity. The author argues that Beninese are consistently engaged in their own racialization processes of those who fall outside of the mewi category. Moreover, the Vodun divinities themselves are also able to categorize those who are or are not mewi. This work highlights how ideas of ancestry are relevant to both Black racial identity and Vodun.

1. Introduction

On 14 May 2022, I made my way to the Palace of the Marina in Cotonou to see “Art of Benin: Yesterday and Today” a curated collection of Dahomean and Beninese art that included dozens of looted colonial-era artifacts recently repatriated from France. Known as the “Abomey Treasures”, these artifacts were pilfered in 1892 by a French expeditionary force that broke into the Abomey Palace, home of King Béhanzin, in the southern region of present-day Benin. The royal objects were first housed in the Musée d’Ethnographie du Trocadéro (Trocadéro Museum of Ethnography), in Paris, before being exhibited at the Musée du Quai Branly (Quai Branly Museum), also in Paris. French President Emmanuel Macron’s restitution of 26 artifacts to Benin was the first large scale return of African artifacts to the continent (Nayeri and Onishi 2021; Diop 2024). Conversations around the repatriation of artifacts looted by former colonial powers have grown tremendously over the past few decades as European institutions grapple with the legacies of colonialism and racial inequality, while talks of “full” decolonization in Africa and elsewhere in the Global South have gained traction. The Palace of the Marina, contrary to what its name suggests, was never a royal residence in the pre-colonial era but was built solely for the use of Beninese government officials. It is now the official residence of the President of Benin, Patrice Talon, and his family.

I was accompanied by my facilitator Dr. Babalao, who picked me up on the way to the venue. We then went to pick up Hounnongan Yah Essayele who lived 15 minutes away from me. Yah was dressed in clothes typical for a Vodun1 priestess: an all-white dress, colorful beaded bracelets and anklets, and a particularly large cowrie shell necklace that immediately caught my attention. Once we arrived at the venue, we were joined by roughly 70 other hounnons (priests and priestesses in the Fon language) who were members of the CNCVB (National Community for the Cult of Vodun in Benin). Babalao was the general secretary of the CNCVB. All the hounnons were dressed in traditional priestly clothing, with jewelry that showed which respective divinities they incarnated. They all wore hats with their titles and names on them. Many had scarification on their faces and body to showcase which divinities they worked with. Only Babalao and I were dressed in clothing that the average, non-hounnon, Beninese person wears. I was wearing a bomba (traditional shirt) and avɔ̀ (long wrapper). My hair was in braids.

Yah saw an older male hounnongan (priest) that she knew, and they exchanged hellos. The older man said I was Yah’s “photocopy”. Yah told him I am American. The man looked shocked. They both said that I am “their blood”.

We waited outside the palace for 30 more minutes as the tour—in typical West African fashion—ended up starting later than was anticipated. Babalao and Yah introduced me to various hounnons, who had all come from around the country to visit the art exhibit. I ended up interviewing many of these hounnons later in my fieldwork. We eventually filed into two single-file lines and walked up the steps to the palace entrance. As the hounnons went up the stairs, the other citizens stared and took pictures. Some shouted “Hounnon! Hounnon!” to get their attention. The onlookers knew, based upon the hounnons’ appearances, that they were Vodun officials. The onlookers displayed a mixture of awe, respect, pride, and frankly shock to see so many hounnons gathered in one place. The CNCVB members were adults, but a few children adepts—generally children of the hounnons—were present as well. Most of the hounnons present were male. Roughly 30 percent of the hounnons were female; and most of these women looked to be adepts of Mami-Dan category of divinities. We waited on the steps for roughly 30 minutes before finally being allowed to enter.

The palace tour took place in Fon and no French was spoken. A cameraman and videographer were present. The Art of Benin exhibit represented a milestone in the decades-long fight by African countries to recover works stolen by European colonizers. To capture the historic moment for posterity, the national television channel ORTB was shooting a segment on the hounnons’ visit to the exhibit. Once we entered the palace, it was difficult to see the exhibited pre-colonial and contemporary sculptures, instruments, jewelry, and paintings in their entirety. There were too many objects to look at. The tour seemed rushed, less focused on highlighting Dahomey and Benin’s culture and history and more focused on capturing the amazing number of hounnons attending the exhibit. Benin has spent the last thirty years promoting Vodun (and African Indigenous Religions more generally) as an important component of both national identity and a larger Black identity. Vodun (and its descendent religions in the Americas) has been actively depicted by the state as an important cultural practice that unites Africans all over the world. At the end of the visit, the videographer interviewed some of the priests. We said our goodbyes to the other hounnons and headed to the car.

On the way home, Babalao, Yah, and I made a stop at the national stadium to have dinner at a small restaurant with two other hounnons. Babalao was from Dassa in central Benin. Yah lived in Calavi (next to Cotonou). It was my third visit to Benin. One hounnon was from Cameroon, and the final hounnon was an elderly man from northern Benin. I could tell he was from the north based upon his clothing. He also wore different jewelry, including a lot of silver rings. (This contrasted with the larger, gold pieces that most of the hounnons at the exhibit were wearing.) At the table, Babalao received a phone call and proceeded to tell the person he was speaking with that he was having dinner with different people, including a Cameroonian and an American. Upon hearing that I am American, the northern hounnon looked shocked and exclaimed, “Ah. Elle est Béninoise! [Ah, but she is Beninese!]”. Both hounnons and vodúnsi (Vodun practitioners) have dietary restrictions dictated by the specific divinities they serve. Consequently, it took us a few minutes to decide on a dish that everyone could eat. We ate sheep meat and pounded yam in a peanut-based sauce. Some of us ate cheese with our dish, and others did not. (Dairy is one of many dietary restrictions vodúnsi can hold).

Most of the conversations at the table took place in French. I was not even sure of the Cameroonian hounnon’s level of proficiency in Fon. However, everyone present was in agreement that having Africans from various parts of Benin, Africa more generally, and the diaspora present at the table was important for the promotion of Vodun. Eventually, the elderly northern hounnon voiced: “We are all vodúnnon [those who possess vodun shrines]. It’s not good for us or our ancestors to make divisions by ethnicity, region of origin, etc. Even the Cameroonian has a place”. The other hounnons nodded their heads in agreement.

In many ways, my visit to the art exhibit in Cotonou exemplified how ideas around Beninese identity, Vodun, racial identity, and African identity are currently being re-defined and re-represented. For everyone involved in the tour—as well as for the onlookers who were not expecting to see the hounnons—there was something prideful about having Vodun officials at an art exhibit working to undo colonial legacies. As my larger book project focuses on how Beninese are working to re-represent Vodun, I cannot exclude the ways in which ideas of African-ness and blackness have been crucial to not only past representations, but to attempts at re-representation. In other words, Vodun has been positioned by Beninese as something distinctly mewi. This article examines the Fon terms mewi (Black or African) and yovó (White or non-African) and how Beninese work to situate themselves within larger racial and continental categories. It is based upon nine months of anthropological fieldwork in southern Benin between 2022 and 2023. In brief, I argue that, though the Fon term yovó has primarily race-based, phenotypical connotations, it does not direct any systemic or structural forms of marginalization toward those who fall into its category. In other words, non-Black individuals do not face institutional racism within Benin, even if they are at times exotified. I also look into the role of African ancestry within Vodun to ultimately argue that Benin’s Pan-Africanist religious discourse is mirrored in the ways Black and non-Black individuals are racialized within the country. In other words, one must understand the racial discourse of the country to understand how the Beninese state is using Vodun to bring Africa and the diaspora together. Furthermore, just as regular citizens are able to distinguish people by things like race and religion, the Vodun divinities, similarly, are able to classify individuals via these two categories.

Background and Methods

This article is part of a larger book project examining Vodun’s historical misrepresentation and how the religion is currently being re-represented by both vodúnsi and the state of Benin. My work puts these issues of misrepresentation and representation within a larger discussion of identity (national, racial, and continental). The pre-colonial Dahomey kingdom existed in the southern half of today’s Benin. Dahomey was very involved in selling Africans during Transatlantic slavery. Moreover, Vodun was the state religion of the kingdom. In short, Vodun has been a continuous part of both Dahomean and Beninese history and culture as well as a major part of the country’s image. While Christianity, Islam, and other African Indigenous Religions are also present in the country, Vodun is the largest indigenous religion and has thus remained particularly visible in the country’s discourse of indigenous religion. There are various ethnic groups in the country, but just as Vodun is the largest indigenous religion, the Fon (who hold Vodun as their indigenous religion) are the largest ethnic group. The Fon are concentrated in the southern half of the country, where I do my research. Throughout this work, I use Fon terms when describing different practices and concepts. While I have performed various stints of fieldwork in Benin (2015; 2019; 2022; 2023; and 2025) the current article is based upon 9 months of fieldwork in southern Benin between 2022 and 2023. This stint of fieldwork entailed the following: dozens of interviews of Vodun hounnons, interviews of Christian and Muslim officials, participant observation of rituals, personal initiations and readings, and informal observations of everyday life. Interviews generally focused on the perception of Vodun in the country—how it has been represented and how it is currently being re-represented. These methods were chosen to gain insight on Vodun’s representation and how my Afro-diasporic positionality meshed with Beninese society.

Previous scholarship on West African Vodun has looked a lot at its global dimensions (Rush 2017), influences from non-African peoples (Falen 2020), and the initiations and forays of non-Black individuals into the religion (Landry 2018). Unfortunately, these works on Vodun’s globality and the initiations of non-Black, particularly White individuals, has left the Afro-diasporic experience of West African Vodun almost completely absent. In brief, these representations are problematic as they inadvertently omit the global networks of blackness that are crucial to the project of re-imagining Vodun that Benin has been engaged in over the past thirty years. Moreover, the Western academics who have been studying Vodun have generally been of European descent and have thus not been able to obtain insight on how Afro-diasporic identities are negotiated within Benin. They have given much useful insight on the term yovó but limited insight on the term mewi. My article works to investigate the term mewi just as much as the term yovó. Finally, the racial demographics of Benin—being 99% Black though more and more non-Black individuals including White, Chinese, and Middle Eastern individuals have been moving there—have enabled the term yovó to be present in the aforementioned scholarly works, but the term mewi (which is not something Beninese have to use regularly simply due to the makeup of their country) could benefit from more analysis.

Regarding Vodun, many would argue that it is not inherently closed on the basis of African ancestry. I too found this to be the case during my fieldwork. However, Beninese hold different views regarding the degree to which non-Africans can engage with Vodun. Some officials, such as Daagbo Hounon Houna II of Ouidah, have embraced members of the African diaspora as well as non-Africans of various races. In brief, some individuals are in agreement with yovó initiations into Vodun. Conversely, other individuals are not fond of non-Africans being initiated into Vodun and may even argue that it is simply impossible for a White person to be possessed by the vodun divinities (Landry 2018, p. 8). Moving away from these discussions, the current article looks at the experience of the non-Beninese, diasporic, African with regard to Vodun. This work is not exhaustive of all of the racial dynamics within Benin but instead seeks to give insight on intra-racial dynamics.

During my time in Benin between 2022 and 2023 I was not fluent in French and only knew very basic Fon words and phrases. (This contrasted with the White individuals I mention spending time with later on in this article, who spoke much better French than me). I dressed in a myriad of ways while in Benin (from wearing simple dresses, to traditional shirts and wrappers, to Western-style pants and tops); however, my hair was generally in braids (which is common for Beninese women and girls). I tended to wear traditional wrappers and tops during my interviews with hounnons, though. I was welcomed by the scholarly community at the University of Abomey-Calavi. Moreover, during my interviews with hounnons, my choice as an African-American person to visit Benin and to do research on Vodun was looked upon warmly. The hounnons had a pre-existing knowledge of Transatlantic slavery and positioned me as someone who had been taken from Africa in the past. Outside of the context of my research (where I was inevitably introduced to people), or around people I knew personally, strangers never assumed—or even guessed upon realizing I was not Beninese—that I was African-American. My American identity was generally invisible as I moved around Cotonou and Calavi. This fact may be due to the demographics of the country as well as the fact that Benin (when compared to many other African countries) does not have the same scale of immigrants or foreigners who have moved into the country for business—and thus Beninese are generally around other Beninese. I never organically encountered another African-American while in Benin. Be this as it may, throughout my fieldwork, I used my racial positionality as way to examine how Beninese interact with other Black groups—that citizens would guess I belonged to. This article details how both strangers, and people who my identity had been disclosed to, received me as a foreigner of African descent. Unless my identity was disclosed, people often assumed me to be Beninese. This led to some awkward moments (such as if I were to greet someone incorrectly and resultantly be read as rude or if my French sounded anglophone and someone had to ask me to repeat something one or more times). However, it also enabled me to move through everyday life without being harassed (as my appearance did not paint me as an obvious foreigner). In sum, in this article I works to: understand how the racialized terms mewi and yovó are used; add complexity to our understandings of the term mewi by analyzing intra-racial (and particularly diasporic/continental) dynamics; and discern how ideas of mewi-ness relate to Vodun.

2. Whiteness and Blackness

Throughout my time in Benin, I was assumed to be either Beninese or from a neighboring country. This assumption that I came from one of Benin’s many ethnic groups, or at least from another African country, contrasted radically with typical view of anthropological fieldwork—where the researcher is assumed to be read as, and subsequently, treated as an outsider. Regardless of if I was wearing a traditional wrapper or jeans and a t-shirt, in Benin, I was mewi. The Fon word mewi is derived linguistically from the color black and acts as a racial category for Black Africans. Mewi can be contrasted with the word yovó, which is derived linguistically from the color white and acts as a broad racial category that Whites, Asians, and anyone not of Black African descent falls under. Even Beninese albinos can be called yovó (in the sense of the color)—by virtue of their literally white skin tone. While I was not hypervisible in Benin, non-Black individuals, particularly White individuals, were indeed hypervisible.

The ability to “blend in” that I possessed as a Black woman was exemplified by another visit I made to the “Art of Benin” exhibit one month prior to my visit with the hounnons. In April 2022 I visited the exhibition with four other individuals: one Beninese man and his White Canadian partner (who I will, respectively, call Rodney and Art), another White Canadian woman who had just finished spending time in northern Benin (who I will call Ana), and one White Brazilian woman (who I will call Lisa). I use pseudonyms for these four individuals (as they requested for me to not use their real names). Ana and Lisa were staying in Calavi, in apartments that neighbored mine. Rodney and Art were staying in Cotonou and had access to their car, which they had shipped from Canada. While Rodney and Art had driven to the exhibit, Lisa, Ana, and I met up outside our apartments to call a taxi to transport us into Cotonou. The three of us used the Gozem app (similar to Uber or Lyft) to call a driver.

While waiting outside, I noticed that the home across the street from my apartment had its garage open. A little boy, who presumably lived in the home, ran to the garage doors and upon seeing Lisa and Ana said, “Les Français!” [the French] in a high-pitched voice. Ana, Lisa, and I waited at least another 15 minutes for our driver to arrive. For the duration of our wait the little boy went back and forth to the opening of the garage to see Lisa and Ana; the only difference being that he simply looked and giggled, over and over again—and did not say anything after his initial exclamation.

Once our driver arrived, we made the roughly 30 minute drive from Calavi to Cotonou—not without me noticing that Beninese people (both in cars and on motorcycles) were regularly looking at the car with the two yovó foreigners present. Once we arrived at the Palace of the Marina, we went through security lines. Officers checked our bags and took our IDs. We finally entered the exhibit and were able to take in all the pieces. The tour took place in French. There were no media or hounnons present, and I was able to take as many pictures as I wanted. The five of us finished our visit.

Rodney and Art separated from us to find their car, and Lisa, Ana, and I went to reclaim our IDs. (I had handed in my U.S. driver’s license before the tour). The two individuals working in the ID stall had the IDs separated into two piles: Beninese citizens and foreigners. One worker asked for our names. He then combed through the pile of foreign IDs to find Lisa’s and Ana’s. The worker asked my name and initially proceeded to look through the Beninese IDs. We explained that I am American, and he looked through the foreigner pile to find my ID.

Lisa, Ana, and I decided to stop at a smoothie shop in Cotonou before returning home. For convenience’s sake, we looked for motorcycle taxis (which Beninese call zémidjans or zems). (Motorcycle taxis are not the safest form of transportation, but they are cheap and ubiquitous enough to be found within a minute.) When Lisa, Ana, and I arrived at the entrance of the Palace of the Marina there were dozens of zem drivers to choose from. In addition to zems’ questionable safety, it was also common to see zem drivers transport multiple people at once. Lisa, though from Brazil, was working on her Ph.D. in France at the time and, subsequently, had a very high level of French proficiency. Lisa and Ana decided they wanted to share the same zem.

One driver informed Lisa and Ana that having multiple people on the same zem was not allowed and that they (the drivers) would get in trouble if they allowed it. Lisa and Ana—obviously annoyed by being told this while simultaneously seeing other zems pass with multiple Beninese sitting behind one driver—went back and forth with the driver for a few minutes. At last, the zem driver turned to me and said, in French, “Vous connaissez! Expliquez! [You know! Explain!]”. He assumed I was their local guide. Lisa and Ana began to walk away; and the driver finally gave in—telling them to get on his bike. I took a separate zem by myself.

Our zems made the short drive to the smoothie shop by the beach, and we descended to pay the drivers. Generally, prices are agreed on before starting the ride. My driver asked me for 200 cfa (roughly 30 cents). The other driver asked Lisa and Ana for 400 cfa each, totaling 800 cfa for the ride. Lisa and Ana were upset as they had agreed to pay 400 cfa in total. However, the driver did not accept the price. Eventually, they became tired of haggling and just paid the 800 cfa. I was not wearing a traditional wrapper this day. I went various places with Rodney, Art, Lisa, and Ana during this month and occurrences like the aforementioned ones were quite common.

3. “Foreign” Experiences

To gain a better understanding of race in Benin, I interviewed Lisa, Ana, Art, and Rodney. I interviewed everyone separately, except for Rodney and Art—who were interviewed together. Rodney met Art while studying in Canada and had brought Art to Benin for a few months to meet his family. While Lisa, Ana, and Art all felt very welcome in Benin, they also all had distinct experiences of feeling like outsiders while there.

Lisa really liked Benin; the weather and culture reminded her of her home country Brazil. In addition to working on her Ph.D. in France, Lisa had also traveled to Morocco in the past. Lisa’s roughly 3-month stay in Benin was her first time being an obvious racial outsider, and she found some of her experiences to be “shocking”. According to her, people stared a lot and on one occasion someone (who was an adult) touched her arm. She also noted that, like the aforementioned incident at the art exposition, people assumed she had money due to her race. Random people would ask her for money as she walked to and from her place of research, and motorcycle taxis regularly overcharged her. Lisa thought that this happened because most of the White foreigners there, in her estimation, were there to do business—if they were not there for their partner, like Art was. She theorized that Art had a slightly more relaxed experience in Benin because she was with her partner Rodney.

Ana was from Canada and was working on her master’s degree in Switzerland during her time in Benin. While I met Ana through a contact in Calavi, Ana had actually spent the first two months of her stay in northern Benin working with a development NGO. Though she had traveled to Israel and Morocco before in the past, she always stayed in tourist-heavy areas and thus never felt like much of an outsider in those countries. Ana “had an amazing experience” in Benin, but she “absolutely” felt like an outsider. Northern Benin, according to Ana, was particularly distinct as she was essentially the only White person there. (This contrasts with Cotonou where foreigners of all hues can be found and where foreigners may even congregate in particular areas of the city). Moreover, while Ana was in northern Benin she was told to not explore alone as—though Benin does not have any domestic terrorist groups—“you never know who may have ties to terrorist groups from neighboring countries”. People were kind and welcoming and looked out for her and never discriminated against her. Despite this fact she felt that Northerners had a “fascination” with her as a foreigner because she was “different”. People would hold up their arms to compare skin tones and were particularly intrigued by her hair. She even joked that one person said that they wanted to cut a small piece of her hair to keep as a souvenir because it was so different.

Ana’s whiteness stuck out less in the cosmopolitan south. Still, like Lisa, Ana was routinely overcharged for goods and services. Because of this, Ana preferred using the Gozem app instead of the yellow taxis that were available. The Gozem app confirmed prices beforehand. It was in Benin that Ana felt like a foreigner for the first time. Even in Calavi (right outside of Cotonou), she recounted being pointed at, and on one occasion two people even stopped their zems to take pictures of her.

Art and Rodney stayed in Benin for 5 months. Art, prior to her stay in Benin, had only traveled outside of Canada to visit Costa Rica and a few European countries. Benin was her first time “sticking out” and “feeling strange”. Art found people to be extremely nice to her and always willing to help; however, she was often overcharged when buying things. In her home country, Art would regularly go for walks outside. In Benin, people would look at her even when she would walk a short distance. She found herself not wanting to go outside much without Rodney. Because Art was in a relationship with Rodney, she often went to places that yovós did not frequent. Adults and children would regularly yell out “Yovó! Yovó!” to get her attention.

“Yovós have lots of money in their minds”, according to Art. She also found, though Beninese watched Western media, they did not understand Western cultures “in depth”. On one occasion, Art was eating in the traditional Beninese manner—with her hands—and a Beninese man was extremely surprised by this. In general, she was more comfortable when out with Rodney. Rodney’s family was very welcoming to Art. His family gifted her food, bracelets, and clothes.

Rodney was excited to bring Art back to Benin with him, even if for just a few months. Rodney made sure to bring Art to local places and not just tourist areas. Rodney was born and raised in Benin and only moved to Canada to pursue his bachelor’s degree. According to him, people tried to increase the prices of goods when he was with Art (who was so hypervisible and presumably had money by virtue of her racial positionality); but his knowledge of Fon stopped people from inflating prices. The correlation between race and class is a given for many Beninese according to Rodney: “When you’re from Europe or America people think you have money”. Even though Rodney left Benin on his own volition for his studies, people often incorrectly assumed that he lived abroad solely due to his relationship with Art. Finally, Rodney commented that Beninese like all foreigners and do not even hold animosity toward the French who colonized them. The fascination with foreigners was not limited to non-Black groups, however. Rodney mentioned that if a student in Benin is from another African country, such as Ghana, people are similarly intrigued. Yet, he expounded: “When you’re Black like us, we can’t tell where you’re from”.

4. Defining Yovó and Mewi

At least one anthropologist of Benin has argued that the term yovó refers to either White people or all non-Africans (Falen 2011, pp. 8–9; Falen 2018, pp. 65, 154). Another argued that yovó is used to refer to all “foreigners” from more privileged locales, regardless of their race (Landry 2018, p. 20). One Beninese linguist argued that the term refers to any racially White person but did not outline the perimeters of which groups counted as “White” (Fadaïro 2001, p. 65). The lack of a stable definition of such a commonly used term compelled me to further investigate where the boundaries of the term lie. I was never referred to as yovó during my long-term fieldwork in 2022 and 2023 nor during my stays in 2015, 2019, and 2025; thus, I did not find it to be a term heavily based upon nationality itself. However, the term yovó, though primarily based upon race, does indeed have some cultural, class-based, and even basic color-based connotations.

Culturally, it is possible for a Beninese person to “Faire yovó”. The French verb “faire” means to do or to make. Thus, the phrase “Faire yovó” can be translated as “to act white”. Acting white in Benin, so to speak, differs from its iterations among some other Black populations. Most obviously, the element of language—for example, a Beninese person speaking perfect standard French—does not impart supposed whiteness in the way that having linguistic similarities with Whites does in other locales. Conversely, the concept of “acting white” for African-Americans often revolves around ideas of language or educational attainment (Wilson 2020). Similarly, ideas of whiteness also often revolve around language for Black South Africans (Mckinney 2007). Instead, for Beninese, other cultural markers of African-ness—such as clothing, food, everyday practices, bodily mannerisms, and the like—are used (in addition to one’s racial phenotype) to contrast Beninese citizens with yovós. However, as I will show in this article, phenotype generally surpasses mannerisms and clothing when determining who would be called yovó within Benin.

The word yovó is used to describe anything white. Resultantly, Beninese albinos (though as African as any other Beninese citizen) are called yovó. However, even non-albino Black individuals can be yovó if they are extremely fair. For example, one day I was getting my hair braided by one of my regular hairdressers in Calavi. As she was someone I had known since 2019 and went to regularly, I talked to her about my family on this day. I also showed her photos of my parents and siblings. My parents and siblings ranged in skin tone from very light to very dark. Yet, when I showed the hairdresser my older sister—who is phenotypically similar to me, but no more 2 shades darker than an albino—she responded: “Mais elle est blanche! Pourquoi elle est blanche? [But she is White! Why is [only] she White?]”. My hairdresser, who was from northern Benin and never once questioned my blackness, used the term “white” simply because my sister’s skin approximated the color white—even if my siblings and I all share the same parents.

While my hairdresser did not go on to call my sister métisse (French for mixed-race), her comment highlighted how ideas of blackness vary around the world. The United States has a distinct definition of blackness when compared both Africa and the rest of the diaspora. As the United States has historically classified African-Americans using the “one-drop rule”, whereby anyone with a single drop of Black blood regardless of how much non-Black blood they simultaneously possess is considered Black, it is possible for one to be Black in the United States without necessarily possessing all the stereotypical phenotypical features associated with Black Africans. In Benin, however, my older sister’s very fair skin tone (even with the presence of her coily hair and fuller features) meant that her blackness was up for questioning, so to speak. Even though my hairdresser did not call my sister métisse, she made sure to highlight that something about her appearance (her skin tone) fell outside of her conception of what a Black person looks like.

While these aforementioned examples highlight how yovó does carry cultural and color-based weight, I argue that the term yovó, as well as the term mewi that it is contrasted with, primarily revolve around racial phenotype or appearance. Those who look to be of Sub-Saharan African descent are referred to as mewi. Resultantly, though I was from the United States, and possessed a certain level educational and class privilege, my phenotype (including dark skin, a broad nose, and fuller lips) never enabled me to be read as yovó as I moved around Benin.

I inquired about the terms mewi and yovó in some of my interviews. One of these interviews was with the Queen Mother Kpessi Ko’ndodo of Allada, and another was with Hounnon Antonia Dhossa and Hounnongan Togbe Sèdoamindji in Cotonou.

One day my interlocuters and I made the drive from Calavi to Allada to interview Queen Mother Ko’ndodo at her palace. It took Babalao a few hours to drive there, due to the conditions of the roads, but this gave me the opportunity to thoroughly take in the scenery. While in Allada, we passed a pharmacy called “Pharmacie Toussaint L’ouverture”, and I am told by Babalao that it was named after the Haitian general Toussaint L’ouverture, whose ancestors supposedly descended from Allada. (Toussaint L’ouverture was a major figure in the Haitian Revolution which enabled Haiti to become the first free Black republic in the Americas).

After slight car trouble, we finally arrive to Queen Mother Ko’ndodo’s palace. Babalao introduced me to the Queen Mother and explained my background. The Queen Mother then talked about people in the diaspora and their attempts at finding their family in Benin. She noted that, sometimes at first glance, she cannot tell if someone is African when they are from East Africa; but with West Africans (and their descendants like myself) she can always tell. I asked her my standard questions about the perception of and re-representation of Vodun in Benin, but I also asked her about the meaning of the terms mewi and yovó. She explained that the term yovó refers to anyone who is not racially Black (including Europeans, Arabs, East Asians, Indians, and more). I asked her if I, being a foreigner, could ever be called yovó. She chuckled: “You are mewi”.

In Cotonou, Hounnon Antonia Dhossa, and her father Hounnongan Togbe Sèdoamindji, who I interviewed simultaneously, agreed with Queen Mother Ko’ndodo’s definition. Hounnon Antonia was 30 years old and was a TV journalist in addition to being a hounnon. Her father, Togbe Sèdoamindji, looked to be about 70 years old and had raised Antonia in Vodun for the entirety of her life. Near the end of my interview, I asked them why people of color (who are neither Black nor White) fall under the category yovó, when they can even be darker than Beninese. Antonia responded quickly and succinctly: “It’s their hair and skin! Even if an Indian person is very dark, their hair and facial features are different”. Her father then chimed in to explain that, when Europeans arrived long ago, Dahomeans used the word yovó to mark Europeans as racially different; and over time, this term expanded to include all non-Africans.

Antonia then argued that, in the West, all Black people are called “Black”, but Western countries distinguish between different White groups. In Africa, we distinguish ourselves by ethnie (French for “tribe” or “ethnic group”) and country, but all non-Blacks are just “yovó”.

I then realized that the mewi/yovó dichotomy in Benin is much like the White/people of color dichotomy in the United States. Just as anyone who is not White in the U.S. falls under the broad category of people of color; anyone who is not Black in Benin falls under the broad category of yovó. This inversion of the racial dichotomy I was used to (being from the United States) explained my being able to assimilate in ways that were completely new for me.

While literature on race in Benin is limited, ideas of racial difference have been elaborated on elsewhere in West Africa. One book on race in Ghana found that different nationalities of Black individuals were received differently by many Ghanaians. Diaspora Blacks—in comparison to continental Africans—were thought to be in Ghana to either search for their roots or to visit slavery sites along the coast. African-Americans, in particular, were commonly associated with wealth in the eyes of Ghanaians (Pierre 2012).

Another Afro-diasporic scholar, who looked at slavery remembrance in Ouidah, Benin, highlighted how African-Americans acted as metaphorical stand-ins for slavery and the diaspora in Vodun ritual contexts (Pressley-Sanon 2011)—however, she did not experience ethnic or national othering to the degree that Pierre experienced in Ghana. Pressley-Sanon highlighted how—unlike Ghanaians who were at times reticent to face the issue of Transatlantic slavery with diasporic visitors (Holsey 2013)—Beninese vodúnsi in Ouidah had no problem “acting out” enslavement and the history of slavery through embodied rituals. Pressley-Sanon herself, a Haitian-American, was regularly asked if she was in Benin to find her roots—or was automatically assumed to be in Benin for such a reason (Pressley-Sanon 2011, p. 67). In many ways, she acted as a spokesperson for the diaspora. Both news reporters and regular people—Beninese and European—asked about her personal emotions while in Ouidah and if she could draw similarities between Africa and the diaspora. (I will touch on slavery and tourism later on in this article).

In sum, Hounnon Antonia’s definition of mewi allowed room for both a collective African identity as well as many sub-identities and nuances within mewi-ness. This mirrored theorist Stuart Hall’s ideas on the Afro-Caribbean diaspora. He posited that within the Afro-Caribbean diaspora in Britain there exists both a certain cultural similarity they all hold as Black, Caribbean people and areas of distinct difference that different Afro-Caribbean groups inhabit due to their distinct histories (Hall 1990). In other words, for both Stuart Hall and Hounnon Antonia, Afro-descended people held a shared experience (vis-à-vis non-Africans) as well as distinct cultures—themselves resulting from the different borders and ethnicities that came out of Transatlantic slavery and European colonialism.

Previous work on African immigrants to the West has highlighted the ways immigration to predominantly non-Black countries necessitates the need to label oneself as racially Black (Ibrahim 2020). Other work on the experiences of Black immigrants to the United States specifically argued that intra-racial hierarchies can be created during these immigrations (Matory 2015). However, Beninese are not immigrants nor do their indications of Blackness or African-ness imply competition with Black individuals in the West, other parts of the diaspora, or other African countries. Moreover, conversations around the process of racial formation and racialization have tended to tie these processes to systems of inequality between different races (Omi and Winant 2014). Others have argued that the concept of racialization implies the idea of race but need not imply racism (Hochman 2018, p. 1256). The words mewi and yovó as defined by the hounnons implies that, though Dahomeans did racialize Africans and Europeans, the designation of the term yovó did not uphold any system of oppression toward yovós within the Kingdom of Dahomey or today’s Benin. Thus, in the vein of Hochman, the pre-colonial racialization processes that Dahomeans engaged in did not include the same practices of marginalization that were present in Western processes of racialization (in other words, it did not include something approximating true racism).

5. Transnational Black Identity in Benin

Though race is not something Beninese have to think about all day, a critical exploration into music, fashion, and even the naming of commercial spaces revealed how race shapes popular understandings of identity and belonging. Moving around Cotonou, I found businesses called “PanAF Market”, “Black Swagger”, “Black King Swagg”, “Le Black”, “Black Legends”, “Blackish”, “African Disapora Bank”, and more. There were a myriad of businesses with the term “diaspora” in their names. There was a bridge named after Martin Luther King in Cotonou. There was even a major beach in Cotonou called “Obama Beach”—to honor the United States’ first African-American president. Also in Cotonou, on a street near Fidjrosse Beach, was a mural memorializing George Floyd, the African-American whose killing by a White police officer in 2020 was the catalyst for a large number of demonstrations for racial justice and police reform in the United States. George Floyd’s story gained traction globally and brought the Black Lives Matter movement to a previously unknown global scale. Outside of Cotonou, and very far into the suburb of Calavi, there was a learning center named after Rosa Parks, and with her photo on the sign advertising the space. Musically, artists from Nigeria, the Ivory Coast, and the Congo were commonly played in bars and at events all over Benin.

The connections that Beninese made to Black populations outside the country highlighted how citizens relate to and see themselves reflected within larger, transnational ideas of blackness and how modern Black identities are consistently influencing one another—as is argued in The Black Atlantic (Gilroy 1993). Gilroy primarily analyzed musical exchanges between Black communities; and similarly, many of the stores around Cotonou are influenced by rap and hip-hop culture, something that is reflected in the naming of the stores or the clothing sold there.

Rap music, whose origins are generally traced to a particular Black experience within United States ghettos beginning in the 1970s, has historically acted as a way for African-Americans to engage in discourse that highlights their racial, gendered (in the case of women rappers), and economic marginality (Yasin 1999). While rap music has been around for decades, the strong influence of American music combined with the increased use of social media—Instagram, TikTok, X (previously Twitter), and the like—has made this art form particularly visible around the world. The themes touched on in rap songs can range from political and social issues to much less serious, party music. Yet, something about rap has managed to draw in listeners from all over the world. This has included Black individuals from all over Africa and the diaspora (Perry 2008), who have consistently been marginalized due to either their race (in the diaspora or in countries like South Africa with many European settlers) or due to their nations being marginalized by wealthier, Western nations.

Yet, rap music’s consistent allusions to Black struggle need not position the genre as solely about hardship or despair. While many rappers may write lyrics about things that seem frivolous—such as money or designer goods—and which uphold the larger capitalist, economic system, one could argue that even these themes are subversive. When looking at the persistence of racial inequalities within the United States, one Professor of Law and Social Policy found that though racial inequalities between African-American and White Americans have decreased in some ways in past decades (Shapiro 2003), the average White American family still has ten times more wealth than the average African-American family (Shapiro 2017). Resultantly, US rappers, whose lyrics focus on their wealth, are often both contrasting their current wealth with the less privileged class background they came from and highlighting how they have beat the odds, so to speak. The popularity of rap music among youth in Niger—Benin’s northern neighbor—also speaks to how Nigerien youth hope to beat the odds. In Niger, which is consistently ranked as one of the poorest countries on earth, young Nigerien men are not only influenced by the fashions that have come from rap culture but hope to use rap music to become popular and give themselves a better socioeconomic standing (Masquelier 2019, p. 127). While Masquelier states that most Nigerien men are not very aware of the social roots of rap music (Masquelier 2019, p. 127), their belief that it could indeed bring them money highlights how they are both aware of their own economic marginalization and inspired enough by the glamorous lives of rappers to have hope in rap’s ability to bring social mobility.

Outside of the realms of music and fashion, however, allusions to solidarity with the African diaspora in spaces around Cotonou focused around other, well-known struggles and triumphs of the diaspora. The homages to Rosa Parks, Barack Obama, and George Floyd pointed to discourses on civil rights, societal progress, self-empowerment, police brutality, and politics more generally. As mentioned, Black Westerners’ racial marginalization within the West in many ways mirrors Benin’s marginalization within the larger global system. Routes of Remembrance: Refashioning the Slave Trade in Ghana (Holsey 2008), which examined different discourses surrounding Transatlantic slavery in Ghana, found that, while some Ghanaians were reticent to discuss slavery, many younger citizens were able to better understand global anti-blackness by studying the Transatlantic slave trade and the levels of dehumanization that Africans suffered at the hands of Europeans (223). Saidiya Hartman (2008) and Christina Sharpe (2016) have both written extensively on how members of the African diaspora and continental Africans have been tasked with consistently dealing with the after effects of Transatlantic slavery in their everyday lives. In brief, ideas of blackness were consistently being circulated around Benin even if Benin is a racially homogenous country, and Vodun is one realm where this was clearly exemplified.

After the death of George Floyd in 2020, vodúnsi engaged in rituals to honor both him as well as other African-Americans who have been unjustly murdered by White police officers (Adanle 2020). These rituals were organized by Dada Daagbo Hounon Houna II of Ouidah, who consistently works to highlight the global nature of African and Afro-diasporic religions and who I personally met in New Orleans in 2018. The rituals, which involved singing, dancing, and animal sacrifice, called on various vodun, including Gou—the divinity of war and justice—to bring racial justice to Africans in the diaspora (Adanle 2020; Vodun Hwendo 2020).

6. Vodun and Heritage Tourism

Along with the state’s promotion of African Indigenous Religions as something that unites people of African descent around the world, tourism, and particularly roots tourism or heritage tourism, has consistently been championed by Beninese politicians since the 1990s. Furthermore, since Vodun’s spread to other parts of the world occurred primarily through the Transatlantic slave trade, Benin’s embrace of Vodun in its national identity has necessitated the acknowledgment of pre-colonial Dahomey’s involvement in the slave trade. Benin’s strong focus on indigenous religion and the legacy of slavery in its national identity and tourism pursuits is unique for an African country. Elsewhere in West Africa, discourses around showcasing national heritage through tourism have either overrepresented Transatlantic slavery and slave trading sites, worked to downplay discussions on slavery, or have left religion (indigenous or otherwise) out of the narrative of heritage—focusing instead on a shared ancestry from a particular country.

For example, in Mali—whose tourism efforts have been influenced by various actors, some Malian and some not—things like art, museums, musical performances, dances, and monuments have been central in Malian attempts to celebrate and reify Malian identity (De Jorio 2016). Conversations around preserving and maintaining religious sites in Mali have been harder for cultural heritage actors to engage in. Within northern Mali, for example, religious Islamists extremists have at times leveled the mausoleums of Muslim saints because their burial sites were not in accordance with the way burial sites should be formed by those who follow more literal iterations of Islam (De Jorio 2016, pp. 116–33).

In Senegal, Gorée Island has managed to remain a major tourist destination for those interested in learning about Transatlantic slavery. However, the historical evidence has argued that Gorée Island was not one of the more important slave ports in terms of the numbers of enslaved brought from the island and taken to the Americas (Parry 2017, p. 248). Be this as it may, those concerned with Senegal’s tourism have consistently worked to make sure visitors are emotionally moved when they visit the island. Afro-diasporic tourists, who have visited Gorée, have generally left feeling one of three ways: more African/more attached to Africa, more attached to their American identity, or an ambiguous combination of both (Parry 2017).

In contrast with Senegal, the much larger countries of Nigeria and Angola, who were both major players in the Transatlantic slave trade, have not strongly embraced the history of slavery in either their national identity narratives or in their tourism industries.

On the other hand, Ghana, much like Senegal, has made consistent efforts to remember its role in the Transatlantic slave trade. With regard to tourism, the slave castles in the coastal towns of Elmina and Cape Coast have enabled the Ghanaian state to have access to large, historical monuments that act as “sites of memory” (Nora 1989)—sites where memories of a particular thing (in this case slavery) are salient. When Barack and Michelle Obama visited Ghana, it seemed logical for them to visit the slave castle in Cape Coast. Unfortunately, many Ghanaians themselves were eager to forge a more positive and transnational sense of Black identity and wished that Afro-diasporic experiences with Ghana did not necessitate so much focus on slavery (Holsey 2013). Moreover, Ghanaians who live in Cape Coast or Elmina have been reticent to talk about slavery because there is discomfort about the existence of domestic slavery or having ancestors who were once enslaved in one’s lineage (Holsey 2008, p. 22). Moreover, historical Europeans’ depictions of people from the Gold Coast (now Ghana) focused on slave raiding in their depictions of Africans (Holsey 2008, pp. 122–48). In other words, some Ghanaians have purposefully limited their discussion of slavery as to not evoke negative representations of their ancestors as immoral or culturally savage. While the youth have been more outwardly engaged in the history of slavery in Ghana than previous generations (Holsey 2008), Ghana still has its limitations in speaking on slavery. One can also speculate that the high numbers of Afro-diasporic tourists as well as Afro-diasporic people who have moved to Ghana permanently may have added to this discomfort in speaking about slavery.

While Ghana has confronted slavery to a degree, indigenous religion has not typically been part of the country’s discourse around national identity nor slavery remembrance. Holsey noted in her work that the addition of an indigenous religious shrine inside one of the dungeons at Cape Coast Castle was read positively or neutrally by Afro-diasporic visitors but “highly disturbed” many Ghanaians (Holsey 2008, p. 185)—particularly Pentecostals who do not identify with indigenous African religions at all in their own spiritual lives and have completely rejected it.

Meanwhile Afro-diasporic visitors to Ghana have noted being lumped in with other tourists or foreigners who are not Black (Hartman 2008; Mensah 2015, p. 217). Saidiya Hartman’s crucial work Lose Your Mother (2008) painted a vivid picture of how she (as an African-American) both felt like an outsider and was also treated like an outsider by local Ghanaians. My experience in Benin, conversely, was not marked with extreme othering. Mensah noted that Afro-diasporic visitors wanted to feel at home and like they belong, but they inevitably were labeled under the Twi term obroni (which means “foreigner” or “whiteman”) (Mensah 2015, p. 217). However, others have argued that Black foreigners are not called just obroni, but that there are different iterations of the term to refer to non-Ghanaians of different races (Reed 2015, pp. 153–54). Reed posited that the Akan term oburoni literally means “one who comes from beyond the horizon” (a foreigner) (Reed 2015, p. 153). However, White foreigners are called oburoni fitaa (“pure foreigner”); while Asian, North African, or Middle Eastern foreigners are called oburoni pete (“counterfeit foreigner”); and Black foreigners are called obibini-oburoni (“black foreigner”) (Ibid, p. 153)—adding nuance to the term.

In sum, Benin is distinct from the aforementioned countries in that: (1) pre-colonial Dahomey was very involved in the Transatlantic slave trade and was reticent to stop the trade; (2) the Beninese state has been open to discourses on the history of slavery; (3) the indigenous religion of Vodun has been crucial to their discussion on slavery and national identity; and (4) as the Fon term yovó is more focused on racial difference than foreignness, Black visitors to Benin have generally been seen as returned family (Pressley-Sanon 2011) and have not othered to the degree found in Ghana (Hartman 2008; Mensah 2015).

While the relative openness of the Beninese state to discourse around Transatlantic slavery, Vodun as a major component of Benin’s history, and openness to diasporic visitors has positioned the country positively in its aim to valorize and remember its history; economic limitations have remained persistent, and entities outside of Benin have aided in helping promote the country’s tourism:

After independence was achieved in 1960, the Republic of Dahomey underwent a period of political instability. In 1972, Mathieu Kerekou became President and, proclaiming the birth of the Republique Populaire du Benin, established a Marxist-Leninist regime that lasted until the end of the 1980s. In the late 1980s, the growing economic crisis along with popular insurrections and student protests in the streets forced the President to resign (Banegas 1995, p. 31). In 1990, the Conference des forces vives de la nation (‘Conference of civil society’) gave birth to a temporary government until the election of Nicephore Soglo as the President of the Republic of Benin in March 1991. The democratisation process of the 1990s is often cited as an exemplary model of political transition in the African continent because of its peaceful character, its engagement with civil society and its long-term results (Mayrargue 1997; Banegas 2003). Following guidelines from the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank, the economy was restructured according to neo-liberal patterns allowing the opening of the country to foreign capital and investments; equally, the establishment of the tourism industry was strongly encouraged. President Soglo launched a cultural policy that aspired to promote ‘traditional national cultures’ with the organisation of a series of events across the country (Mayrargue 1997, p. 142; Tall 1995, p. 200) The international festival Ouidah 92 was the centrepiece of this project. Through commemorating the Atlantic slave trade and celebrating the diaspora, the objective of the festival was to restore and renew ancient bonds and establish Benin as a homeland of the African diaspora.

(Forte 2007, pp. 127–28)

The democratization processes of the 1990s in Benin not only enabled it to become one of most democratically stable countries in West Africa but also encouraged President Nicephore Soglo to invest in tourism. The Ouidah 92 festival later expanded, and The Door of No Return monument was built by UNESCO (Forte 2007, p. 131) on the beach in Ouidah to commemorate the last view of Africa those enslaved in Dahomey would have had before being sent to the Americas. These monuments built to commemorate slavery and promote the culture of Vodun were, in addition to navigating the history of slavery, meant to draw in an Afro-diasporic market of tourism (in addition to other markets). Even outside of tourism, religion (indigenous or otherwise) can be considered to be its own economic market within Beninese society (Amouzouvi 2014). Benin’s current President Patrice Talon has continued this trend of commemorating history—heavily promoting Vodun as a major component of Beninese identity.

Although Benin has made consistent attempts at growing its tourism industry, economic and structural obstacles have remained persistent. For example, the road one must take to go from Cotonou—Benin’s economic capital—to Ouidah (where these slavery monuments and events take place) was extremely difficult to maneuver prior to Patrice Talon assuming office in 2016. In 2015, prior to his becoming President, for example, it took my interlocuters and myself four hours to make the drive from Cotonou to Ouidah. After Talon assumed office and fixed this important road, the same drive now takes less than 40 min to complete. Outside of structural concerns like roads, the preservation of historical sites has remained a concern. Historical sites, such as the Palace of Abomey and the Palace of Allada, have not been well preserved, and—as is the case in many Sub-Saharan African countries—these palaces and museums do not receive the levels of visitors needed to economically benefit from tourism (Rieucau 2020). Moreover, Beninese citizens themselves have at times been cautious of the heritagization of certain places. For example, in Porto Novo—Benin’s official capital—attempts at preserving the Afro-Brazilian history of the city (including buildings) have at times been seen as a hinderance to modernizing the lives of the city’s residents (Cousin 2015).

Be this as it may, the Beninese state has been consistent in promoting its cultural heritage and the Vodun religion. However, it does not have the sheer quantity of large, easily accessible, historical monuments that have made places like Ghana, Senegal, or Mali (prior to the 2012 rebellion) so appealing to tourists. The tourism industry in Benin is also not very regulated (Forte 2009). Resultantly, individuals have taken it upon themselves to create their own opportunities in the tourism industry (giving tours, setting up Vodun rituals for visitors to watch, etc.). Jung Ran Forte’s article on tourism in Ouidah gives the example of a Beninese woman named Martine who met an African-American woman named Sharon in the 1990s and was hired as her translator (Forte 2009, p. 433). While Martine was not involved in Vodun before meeting Sharon, seeing a non-Beninese take interest in the religion made Martine want to learn more about it.

In the vein of these transnational Black connections, Afro-diasporic visitors to Ouidah can engage in something called “root divination” whereby a bòkɔ́nɔ̀ (Fa diviner) uses Fa divination to find one’s divinities and bestows upon the person a new name based upon their divinity (Forte 2007, p. 136). While this practice was created for Black tourists in Benin, the practice is generally performed in good faith. This form of divination is also practiced under another name for White visitors (Forte 2007, p. 136).

In sum, Vodun in Benin not only has ties to national identity, or transnational Black identity, but to finding one’s ancestry. While I did not do “root divination” during any of my stays in Benin, I was essentially forced to inquire about my ethnic background throughout my fieldwork. The following section details the nuances of placing Afro-diasporic people who have returned to Benin.

7. Vodun and Ancestry

Being of African descent added a level of familiarity for me while moving through Benin. People generally assumed me to be Beninese and would consistently try to talk to me in Fon. However, if I (or someone else) disclosed that I was in fact not from Benin, people needed to know my national and ethnic origins. If on occasion my French sounded anglophone, people would ask if I was from Nigeria, Ghana, or Cameroon. These guessing games were common during my research and incredibly fruitful in working to understand Beninese identity and ideas of race. Once it was discovered that I was not Beninese, people wanted to know which African country I was from. Once it was disclosed that I was from America, people wanted to know if my parents were from Benin or from another African country. Once it was disclosed that I was African-American, people wanted to know my ethnie, or if I possibly knew my ethnie. The French word ethnie refers to one’s ethnic group or tribe. Because “African-American” is an ethnicity, and not an ethnic group indigenous to Africa, my response of being African-American often left people wanting.

All foreigners were perceived as fascinating by Beninese. However, when the foreigners in question were also of African descent, questions about nationality, ethnic group, and region were plentiful. While some individuals I spoke with were content with my answer of “African-American” to describe my ethnie, some were not—and sought to either place me somewhere within Benin or Africa or stress how important it is for me to find my ethnie.

Finding my ethnie or “roots” was not something I went into the field to do. Nor is it an easy task for any Afro-descendent in the Americas. Nevertheless, as I was told I could use Vodun to find my ethnie, I sought to test out this theory. While I did not formally probe into the issue of ethnie until the later stages of my fieldwork, various comments and experiences throughout my research implied that ancestry was in many ways relevant.

For example, one day I was having a Fa reading performed for me by a bòkɔ́nɔ̀ in Calavi. Hounnon Antonia, Togbe Sèdoamindji, Babalao, and my assistant Herbert were all present as well. The bòkɔ́nɔ̀ gave me insight on my family, finances, relationships, career, and personality traits. He also outlined some of my spiritual gifts, divinities that I incarnate, and recommendations of rituals and initiations I should undergo. After he finished sharing these personal details, he asked me to inquire about any questions I may have had. While I myself did not have any particular questions in mind, Hounnon Antonia and Babalao took it upon themselves to ask the Fa which African countries I am from—as they were curious. The Fa stated that I am from Togo, but as the current borders did not exist in the past I may have also been from Benin or Ghana and that it was hard to be certain.

The Fa then stated that, in the past, my ancestors made a promise to the vodun divinities. I asked the Fa to clarify whether this promise to the vodun occurred in the Americas (in the form of an Afro-diasporic practice) or if it occurred before Transatlantic slavery. The Fa responded that it happened hundreds of years ago before my ancestors were brought to the Americas. While this Fa reading outlined a lot about my life, I was most surprised to hear about this pre-slavery promise to the vodun.

This particular Fa divination session is only one example in which, while I myself was not concerned about knowing my exact ethnie, various Beninese people around me were in fact very interested and implored me to find my exact origin. Moreover, the Fa (having the ability to see the past, present, and future) was also able to see the promises that my ancestors made to the vodun prior to being shipped to the Americas.

During my interview with Queen Mother Kpessi Ko’ndodo, she gave her own definition and of the term Vodun. She broke the Fon word into two parts: “Vo” meaning “very deep” and “Dun” meaning “to pull out”. Similarly, I made multiple attempts to pull out portions of my ancestry through the means of Vodun. I have detailed some of them below. I never engaged in “root divination”—as I was not focused on my divinities or changing my name—but sought solely to place myself somewhere geographically within the African continent.

7.1. The Sorting Hat

I interviewed Hounnon Ghislain in Cotonou. Hounnon Ghislain was a member of the CNCVB and one of the many hounnons I met during my visit to the art exhibition. After entering Hounnon Ghislain’s home and being given sodabi (a distilled form of palm wine commonly used in Vodun rituals), I asked my regular questions and received his responses. When I asked him about the perception of Vodun in Benin, he mentioned that even Beninese Christians know that Vodun is the original religion of Benin. He also spoke of colonialism and how Europeans—having realized the power that Vodun held—introduced Christianity to “blind” Africans. He then posited that Afro-diasporic genres of music, such as Reggae, actually originated from the spiritual practice of going into trance—one common practice in Vodun. (It was common for hounnons to bring up Afro-diasporic people or Afro-diasporic religions during my interviews with them).

Babalao and Hounnon Ghislain then moved onto the subject of ethnie and my possible African origins. I did not bring up the subject of ethnie, but again, those around me felt the need to try to find my exact origins. Ghislain then pulled out a Segbo Lissa hat and stated that, when wearing this hat, one can ask any question they want and ask the hat to go left or right to confirm if the answer to the question is true or false. Hounnon Ghislain noted that Segbo Lissa is another term for Mawu Lisa, the High God in Vodun. He put the hat on his head and asked it to go right if I descended from a particular country. He quickly decided that it would be easier if I wore it myself and asked it whatever I wanted to know about my origins.

The hat did not look like any hat I have ever seen someone wear—in Africa, Europe, the Americas, or Asia. The hat was a large bundle of things covered in grayish-white cloth. It kind of looked like a small, round pillow. The “hat” also did not go directly on one’s head; but rather, one placed a small white stabilizing cloth on their head and then placed the “hat” on top of it. (This practice of placing a round piece of cloth on one’s head before putting an item on top, to balance something on top of the head, is very common in Benin. For example, women who walk around selling goods in markets often put a small piece of bundled cloth on their head before placing their bucket, basket, or bag of goods on top.)

I did not wear the Segbo Lissa hat for a long time, but I was able to inquire about a few countries. I put the hat on my head and said: “If my ancestors descend from Benin, go to the right”. I also asked about Togo and Ghana. The hat only moved slightly when I asked about Benin and Togo but moved much more when I asked about Ghana. However, on none of the occasions did the hat move so strongly that it fell off my head. In other words, there was no one region that made up such a large portion of my ancestry that I was able to receive a resounding yes.

7.2. Names and Limitations

Vodun is indigenous to Ghana, Togo, Benin, and Nigeria. Not surprisingly, some of the hounnons I interviewed either descended from neighboring countries, or—if all of their family was from Benin—regularly traveled to neighboring countries for initiations or events. One hounnon I interviewed during my fieldwork was Hounnon Eklu, whose background was Ghanaian.

I, along with facilitator Babalao and interpreter Herbert, visited Hounnon Eklu on two occasions. The first time my interlocuters and I visited Hounnon Eklu was not for an interview. I had some rituals to do earlier in the day in Ouidah; and after leaving Ouidah, Babalao decided to meet Hounnon Eklu at his home to talk about the CNCVB. Babalao introduced Herbert and me. He then told Hounnon Eklu about my research and that my background is African-American. Hounnon Eklu seemed happy about this and was very interested in the fact that I was African-American, saying things like, “welcome home”. Hounnon Eklu later introduced me as a “sister” to the Vodun adepts at his compound and invited me to do traditional dances with them. Hounnon Eklu clarified to Babalao that the terms “Black American” and “African-American” are different. Eklu stated “there are no Black Americans”, and thus, she must be “African-American”. Finally, he said that my name Sarah is not my “real name”, but that it is possible for me to find my African origins and have an authentic African name. (He said I could visit him again to know this.) He ended his discussion on my ethnicity by saying that Martin Luther King was able to win his battle against inequality, without a physical army, due to the power of his own divinities.

I returned to Hounnon Eklu for a proper interview a few months later and was finally able to parse out some methods of finding my ethnie. Regarding the Segbo Lissa hat that I used with Hounnon Ghislain, Hounnon Eklu noted that, while it was indeed one way to find one’s origins, it was not the most accurate. He confirmed, much like all the other hounnons I spoke with, that there were a plethora of ways to find my ethnie through Vodun. He stressed the importance of Fa readings but also mentioned that these readings were not perfect—as the Vodun divinities themselves can also give indications to a person’s origins.

For example, Hounnon Eklu’s ethnie in Ghana contained a few specific divinities that only people within his ethnie incarnated. Resultantly, if one does not descend from his particular group and its divinities, they would never be able to receive information about these divinities. He stated that his family name showed his ethnic origin and that, if one wanted to be initiated, they would be asked their name. If one’s name had no link, he stressed, they could not be initiated.

I asked how names would apply to those whose ancestors may descend from his ethnie but simply had their names changed during Transatlantic slavery. Hounnon Eklu stated that it is “not easy”. He mentioned that some Afro descendants in the Americas may have scarification. (However, this possibility is not realistic in the 21st century when most Afro descendants in the Americas do not engage in the practice. This explanation, however, could have been plausible 200 years ago when Africans had been more recently transported from Africa and may have had these physical imprints of their ethnie on their bodies.)

He then used phenotype to try and place me. He said that I look like I am from Porto Novo, or eastern Benin more generally. He also said I may be from Ouidah—as the town of Ouidah contains a mixture of many ethnic groups. Ouidah was a major slave sport during Transatlantic slavery. He added that my first name, Sarah, is actually an “authentic” African name—contradicting his view of my name upon our first meeting. He stated that Sarah is a common in Bohicon, Benin. Bohicon is located near Abomey—which was the capital of the Dahomey kingdom.

Throughout my research, my first name garnered some comments from vodúnsi. I was told that the name Sarah means “generosity” or “spiritual generosity” on a few occasions. It can also refer to the act of giving, sacrifices, spiritual sacrifices, spiritual offerings, alms, and the like. The Yoruba word saraa means alms (Peel 1990, pg 478) or sacrifices (Adegoke 2011, p. 165). This term is commonly used in the Orisha tradition—which has the same structure as Vodun. The Yoruba concept of saraa (also spelled sara or saara) takes inspiration from the Arabic term sadaqa, which also refers to alms giving (Diouf 1999, p. 25). Thus, the Yoruba word saraa—though commonly used in Yoruba indigenous religion—has been influenced by Islamic terminologies. Variations of the term saraa, such as the word saraka among Orisha worshippers in Trinidad, can also be found among Afro descendants in the Americas (Diouf 1999; Aiyejina and Gibbons 1999). Looking outside of religion, and outside of West Africa, there even is an ethnic group in Central Africa called the Sara people.

Finally, Hounnon Eklu not only stressed that one’s phenotype and name can be used to trace one’s African origin, but that physiognomy can also be used to know one’s divinities. For example, throughout my research I had no less than six hounnons tell me—simply while sitting across from me in interviews—which form of the divinity Dan I incarnated. All of them said the same form; and this form was also confirmed in all of my Fa readings and during my Fa initiation. As my interview with Hounnon Eklu was one of my later interviews, I asked him how he, and all the previous hounnons, simply knew such information. Hounnon Eklu explained that the shape of one’s nose can sometimes give insight on which form of Dan one incarnates; and while reading one’s facial features is not a 100 percent accurate way to know a person’s divinities, I had—according to Hounnon Eklu—the quintessential nose shape for my type of Dan.

The insights I received from Hounnon Eklu highlighted how Vodun is indeed a “closed practice”—because some information is limited to initiates. Going further however, and in the case of Hounnon Eklu’s ethnie, some initiations are limited to individuals within one’s own ancestral line. At the same time, Vodun is an open practice, in that anyone of any background—even if they have performed no initiations whatsoever—can receive a Fa reading from a bòkɔ́nɔ̀ or spiritual healing work from a hounnon. Hounnon Eklu’s examples also highlighted how one’s spiritual background, or the religious culture of one’s ancestors, can be a crucial facet of one’s identity.

7.3. African Ancestors Only?

This attempt at finding my ethnie came at the very end of my fieldwork. This was the most detailed attempt at using the vodun to know the exact African origins. I visited Hounnon Togbe Lodonou Tozé Aloni on two occasions: once for an interview and once to consult the divinities about my African origins. Hounnon Lodonou was one of the youngest hounnons I interviewed, looking to be in his mid-30s. He lived in the Godomey neighborhood, roughly halfway between Calavi and Cotonou.

Hounnon Lodonou’s life story was a testament to his spiritual power. His mother tried to abort him multiple times during her pregnancy; and she eventually had her period. However, even after menstruating, she remained pregnant. She then took biomedicines to attempt to have an abortion; but these medicines, too, were unsuccessful. She returned to her doctor for another abortion, but the doctor refused—and she eventually gave birth.

Hounnon Lodonou was a high-level priest of the divinity Dan, from the Mono district in southwestern Benin. From the time he was a baby, people consistently said that he was meant to be a hounnon. Lodonou’s grandfather knew of Lodonou’s abilities from the moment of his birth. However, Hounnon Lodonou was not made aware of his own abilities until he was eighteen years old. Lodonou’s mother was very Catholic and wanted him to become a Catholic priest; and as a result, his mother hid the knowledge of Lodonou’s abilities. Lodonou’s father, however, was involved in Vodun.

Lodonou was a very good student and even attended a technical school where he mastered all of the content. Yet, for unknown reasons, teachers refused to let him progress to the next level of schooling. Lodonou’s father then consulted the Fa on his son’s behalf. During the reading, the Fa priest became angry at Lodonou’s father. The Fa priest explained that Lodonou was “a thousand times more powerful” than he himself—meaning the priest doing the reading. (Ideally, someone like Hounnon Lodonou would have started doing ceremonies and studying in a Vodun convent in childhood). The Fa priest then suggested that Lodonou do Fa initiation and stay with him for 3 months to study. Lodonou’s father did not let Lodonou stay because the Fa priest would “steal his power” had he stayed. The Fa priest had fathered thirty children in hopes of having one with the level of spiritual power Lodonou possessed naturally. Hounnon Lodonou then went on to study to become a priest, but under the tutelage of someone else.

Lodonou’s compound was a normal size and did not have any art on the walls outside implying he was a hounnon. Upon entering the door to the compound, however, one could see a painting of the divinity Mami Wata on a wall. She had brown skin, long dreadlocks, and her customary mermaid tail. The first visit that my interlocuters and I made to Hounnon Lodonou’s home was solely for an interview.

During my interview, I asked Hounnon Lodonou why Benin is so highly associated with witchcraft, relative to other African countries. Lodonou answered this quickly and succinctly. He explained that the reason many people consider Benin to be “a land of witchcraft” is because all of the divinities that exist throughout Africa could be found in Benin in particular. He also defined witchcraft as a certain type of power, which individuals can use for either positive or negative ends. (This resonates with the distinction between black magic and white magic that Falen (2018) made in his work on central Benin). In other words, Hounnon Lodonou did not view witchcraft as inherently bad or malicious. I followed up my question by asking Hounnon Lodonou why Benin, of all the countries in Africa, is the space all African divinities decided to congregate in. To this, Lodonou did not know the answer. He said it was “destiny”.

Finally, we chatted about the process of finding my ethnie. Like the previous hounnons I had consulted, Hounnon Lodonou confirmed that the Fa and the divinities can aid in this. He made plans to see me the following week. He noted, however, that the divinities speak in code and someone has to be able to decipher the code to understand their answers. After paying Hounnon Lodonou 20,000 cfa (roughly $33), he stated that he gave me the information for free but that he would use the money to make sacrifices to my particular Dan. He was one of the many hounnons who could easily see the type of Dan I incarnated. Lodonou was excited about my research: “It’s like your origins are calling you”, he said.

I returned to Hounnon Lodonou a week later. After sitting down and waiting for a bit, my interlocuters and I were able to enter his shrine room. His shrine room had a more modern appearance. The floor was not made of cement or dirt but a white, marble-like tile. The shrine room itself was broken into two rooms: one where visitors were able to sit and one where only he was allowed to enter. This second room was divided from the first with a large sheet.

The room where I sat contained a shrine resembling a white raised platform. To the right of this white shrine was a wooden statue of another divinity. The white, platform-like shrine had different items on it, including three white candles that Lodonou lit. There was also a covered bowl with a root on top of it. This root looked like the High John the Conqueror Root commonly used in African-American Hoodoo. The statue to the right of the white platform had chickens’ feet around its neck. Again, I was reminded of Hoodoo.

Hounnon Lodonou told us to silence our phones. Lodonou then entered the second, blocked off room to start his work. Lodonou rang a bell for a while, saying different things, and calling upon different divinities. He came back into the visitors’ room to get a bowl of water and pour it on the shrine. He returned to his separate room and started shaking a calabash shaker for some time. At last, a divinity had arrived.

The divinity spoke in a high-pitched, bird-like voice. During my time in the shrine, the high-pitched voice of the divinity alternated and had conversations with Hounnon Lodonou’s regular voice. Babalao and Herbert had also heard the voice. This was the first time Herbert or I had heard a divinity speak in this manner. For the remainder of my description, I will use “Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities” to refer to both Lodonou and the divinities that he is simultaneously incarnating.

Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities began the session by relaying personal information about my character, career, family, and more. After Hounnon Lodonou translated the divinities’ messages into Fon, my facilitator Babalao translated them into French. Babalao explained to Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities that I was there to inquire about my African origins. Babalao then gave the divinities my name. Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities responded that it was difficult to place me because my name was not an “authentic” African name.

Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities inquired about the African origins of both sides of my family. They began with my father’s side and then my mother’s side. Throughout the consultation, I inquired about specific countries. I inquired about Benin, Nigeria, Togo, Senegal, Burkina Faso, Niger, and Mali, among many others. The session lasted for over two hours.

Regarding my paternal ancestors, I was told that my paternal grandmother and grandfather came from different ethnies. However, Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities informed me that part of ancestry comes from Niger and Mali; however, I was more Malian than Nigerien. They added that these ancestors come from “a desert region” and “were Muslim”. Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities did not say no to me being from Benin; however, they informed me that my ancestors left the Oyo region (of today’s Nigeria) for Dahomey (today’s Benin).

Regarding my maternal ancestors, Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities stated that it would be more difficult to place my maternal grandmother than my maternal grandfather. Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities began by looking into my maternal grandmother’s line, and they had trouble. “I’m not getting anything”, they said. Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities then asked, “Is your mother Black?” I was a bit shocked by this question as it was the first time I have ever had someone ask about the racial background of my parents. At the same time, I immediately knew why they were having difficulty. My maternal grandmother was mixed-race—her mother was Native American and White, and her father was African-American. Resultantly, the inquiry about my mother’s, mother’s mother did not show up in the catalog, so to speak, of African groups. Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities stated that my African-American ancestor had married someone who was “already there” (in other words, indigenous to the Americas). While the non-African portion of my maternal line created a sort of road block, Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities were still able to discern the African portions of my maternal line. They stated that my mother’s ancestors come from “a country with gold”, Ghana. They also said I have ancestors from southern Africa.

I inquired about Central Africa, but Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities voiced that the regions already named make up the majority of my ancestry. They also noted that the previous hounnons I spoke with were also correct in their assessments of my origins. Finally, Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities stated that I technically have ancestors from all regions of Africa (West, Central, South, East, and North). Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities told me to not be discouraged and that over time I would know my exact ethnie.

Hounnon Lodonou then emerged from his private shrine room. He appeared exhausted after the two-hour session of consulting the divinities. I paid him 10,000 cfa ($16) for the consultation. Babalao later informed me that such a long consultation would normally cost 30,000 to 40,000 cfa, but as Babalao personally knew Hounnon Lodonou, I was given a better price.

7.4. Deciphering the Divinities’ Answers

The consultation with Hounnon Lodonou/The Divinities was the most detailed of any of my attempts to find my ethnie. Most of the countries the divinities’ named were major participants in the Transatlantic slave trade. However, I would like to analyze two other things that came up during the consultation: me having ancestors from southern Africa and my ancestors being from all regions of Africa. While people from West Africa and Central Africa made up the majority of those enslaved during Transatlantic slavery, enslaved people also came from other regions. In southeast Africa, Delagoa Bay (in today’s Mozambique) was one such place. Regarding the assertion that I have ancestors from all five regions of Africa, it is important to note that groups from further inland were brought to trading ports along the coast. Moreover, as the vodun divinities possess ancient knowledge, they can see longer histories than the average person. Thus, my ancestors from other regions of Africa (such as North, East, and Central) may have been engaged in much older migrations or movements within the continent—such as the Bantu Migration.

The obstacles that the divinities encountered with my non-African ancestry were another interesting point of analysis. Much like how Benin has all the divinities found throughout Africa—as Hounnon Lodonou himself stated—the divinities could only give me detailed insight on my African ancestors’ regions and countries of origin. I had not performed any genealogical research prior to my fieldwork to confirm or deny the places listed. However, I did do a DNA ancestry test roughly a decade prior, and I did know some of the exact regions that made up my non-African ancestry. While ancestry tests and databases in the U.S. privileged non-African groups—that made up the minority of my ancestry, the Vodun divinities, conversely, privileged my African ancestry and could not decipher the non-African parts of my ancestry.

The unfurling of my ancestry mirrored the Beninese, and Vodun itself, index difference. Much like in real life (whereby people could recognize my being of African descent), the divinities were able to recognize me as being from Africa. However, slight cultural differences were also apparent in both contexts. In the context of the divinities, I was marked as different from Beninese by virtue of my first and last names not being “authentic”. In the context of everyday life, I was marked as different from Beninese by virtue of not being able to name an exact ethnie that I belonged to. However, these two distinguishing factors (my name and my lack of an ethnie) are inescapably tied together. As first and last names were changed during slavery, my family name changed under the same conditions whereby my exact ethnie was lost. Moreover, my parent’s choice to name me Sarah was purposeful and proved useful for making my life as a racial minority in the U.S. somewhat simpler. (My name, on paper, did not mark me as racially non-White). The survival technique that made my navigating U.S. society easier, conversely, made my interaction with the divinities in Benin more difficult.

Finally, and most saliently highlighting the intersection of religion and race, the divinities were able to easily recognize both racial and religious difference. They were able to recognize racial outsiders (when confronted with my Native American ancestry), but they were also able to recognize religious outsiders (in the case where they pointed out that certain ancestors “were Muslim”). Presumably my African ancestors from various regions of the continent practiced different African Indigenous Religions, yet the divinities only designated Islam as religiously different—and felt the need to specify the spiritual practices of those ancestors that did not practice an indigenous religion.

8. Conclusions

In this article I examined how Beninese understand racial difference by considering mewi and yovó, the Fon terms used to distinguish and classify people according to race, nationality, and ethnicity. To aid in this process, I inserted myself in the discussion and analyzed my first-hand experiences to understand Beninese ideas of race. What I have shown is that Beninese continuously engage in their own racialization processes toward non-Africans. However, these forms of racialization do not include structural inequality regarding what yovós can and cannot do within Benin. Those who fall under the category of yovó, particularly if they are of European descent, are hypervisible and prone to being viewed, first and foremost, through the lens of racial difference. This is exemplified in the ways Beninese call those of European descent yovó in public spaces, as the vignette about Ana and Lisa being called “Les Français” [the French] by the little boy suggests.

Beninese identify themselves with others who fall under the mewi category. They intake media and are inspired by other Black groups throughout Africa and in the diaspora. However, anyone who is mewi—including Afro-diasporic individuals like myself—is assumed to have an African ethnie they belong to. As all mewi individuals are assumed to belong to a particular African ethnie, and as indigenous religion and ancestry are so tied together for many Beninese, I was consistently asked about my ethnie and implored to consult the vodun to find my ethnie. Moreover, though Beninese are intrigued by all foreigners and though Vodun is open to people of all racial backgrounds, a myriad of everyday experiences as well as Vodun-related experiences implied that I—being an African-American—was inhabiting a space where I was both foreign and indigenous at the same time. Everyday racial norms were inverted for me, and most people just took me to be Beninese. Similarly, the divinities I consulted to find out my ethnie had much information about my African ancestors but drew blanks when confronted with my non-African ancestors. Just as everyone outside of the category of mewi is indexed as different; the divinities were not able to give insight on any of my non-African ancestry and, similarly, indexed it as different.

Mewi identity is complex. However, unlike scholars of other West African countries (Hartman 2008; Pierre 2012) who noted being othered for their diasporic Black identities, people in Benin often tried to fit me into or associate me with continental African identity. Be this as it may, there were limitations. Though my physical blackness enabled me to have a certain level of invisibility and to blend in while in Benin; once people began to pry more deeply into my identity, they were unsure of how to fully integrate me as an African-American person into Beninese society. Instead of emphasizing my cultural difference, people sought to re-integrate me as best they could—even when I could not be fully integrated, for example, by not being able to list off an exact African ethnie I belong to. Moreover, those who were aware that I was an African-American researching Vodun voiced that I could use Vodun to find my ethnie. The hounnons I consulted on the issue of my ethnie used various methods (my name, Fa divination, my phenotype, my physiognomy, the Segbo Lissa hat, seeing which divinities I incarnate, and even speaking to the divinities themselves) to try and place my African origins. While I did receive some answers (including regions and countries my ancestors descended from), none of the hounnons were able to provide me with an exact African ethnie.

Had I prolonged my sessions with the hounnons, and had I followed up on the countries and regions named by inquiring about exact ethnic groups, I may have eventually guessed a correct ethnie that my ancestors belonged to. However, time constraints did not allow me to spend hours and hours guessing particular ethnies.

Vodun and ancestry are connected in various ways. First, every individual inherits, from their parents, the particular divinities they incarnate. Ancestors are also revered, looked towards for guidance, and given regular offerings. Thus, an Afro-descendent in the Americas could in theory share some of the same ancestors with a Beninese citizen—even if this family overlap was hundreds of years back. Finally, the Beninese national holiday Traditional Religions Day—which has been expanded as of 2025 into a three-day holiday known as Vodun Days—was formed in the 1990s to highlight a shared religious heritage between Benin and Afro descendants. Thus—and though those of all backgrounds can generally celebrate the holiday and even participate in and learn about Vodun—the country has been engaged in a continuous narrative whereby people of African descent can be brought together via religion.

Vodun’s mewi-ness, and the power Vodun holds, is acknowledged by all Beninese regardless of religion. Thus, it is not a surprise that an organization like the CNCVB would see it fitting to have dozens of hounnons visit an art exposition that highlights Beninese history. There is an implied relationship between indigenous religion and ancestry in Beninese national discourse. Not surprisingly, practices like “root divination” are popularly suggested to Afro-diasporic visitors to Benin. Moreover, though Vodun (and its descendent religions) have many similarities, non-Beninese Black groups (notably from the diaspora) are consistently using Vodun for an aim that most Beninese do not think to use consultations for. Even though one can, in theory, ask the Fa or the divinities about any realm of life, a Beninese person (who presumably knows their own ethnie) would simply not utilize Vodun in the same way that I did during my various consultations.

Race was fundamental to how Benin as a colony was structured, and it remains a critical, if unacknowledged, dimension of its social fabric. Here, I have traced the forms that historical notions of race and difference are taking in contemporary Benin and how they inflect people’s understanding of both their (and others’) positions in Beninese society, as well as Benin’s position on the global stage. In some parts of Africa, campaigns against racial injustice have led to the removal of colonial monuments and memorabilia that celebrated the Europeans who enslaved and exploited Africans. In Benin, such efforts to address the legacies of a brutal past are seen in the calls for the return of stolen artifacts. The racial reckoning these calls for the repatriation of artworks evoke are muted, I have suggested. There is no unified conversation about colonial exploitation of the African continent and the resultant legacies of colonialism and the slave trade. As a result, one could easily overlook the role race plays in informing people’s sense of belonging and difference. However, the consistent assertion that Vodun is something distinctly Beninese, as well as a particularly African or Black form of spiritual expression, suggests that ideas about race and racial difference cannot be segregated from the contemporary discourse on religion.