African Ancestry Update (2025)

Although we knew Africa was not the focus of the 2025 update for Ancestry, we still thought there might be some changes. Instead, with the exception of a decrease of 1% for Senegal, our sub-Saharan African estimates are essentially the same. For our Haitian parent, nothing changed either except for a minor increase in their Benin & Togo estimate (up by 2%). They retained their minor estimates for various smaller regions while we still have a division of "Nigeria" into Central Nigeria, North-Central Nigeria and Nigeria. 

None of this is too surprising. It looks like the 2025 update is largely unchanged from the 2024 update. And as we already expected, we are more West African than Central African In fact, it would appear that our Haitian parent and I harbor substantial ancestry derived from the Slave Coast and Bight of Biafra, which is also backed by the records of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade and Saint Domingue (colonial Haiti). I personally find it intriguing that so little sub-Saharan African ancestry was passed on through the Hispanic side.

The only real change to our African ancestry was the inflated North Africa estimate of 4%. The first time we got our results, the estimate was 2%. Then, following the update, it dropped to 1%. Inexplicably, it shot up to 4% this year. While we did see an estimate of 1% Canary Islands, we doubt we have substantial :Guanche" ancestry that might explain this. It seems like the creation of new areas for Spain and the Iberian peninsula altered or created problems for other nearby regions or categories. Indeed, this might be why we suddenly see a 2% Sephardic Jewish estimate while previous updates never included that. Of course, we do have very distant Sephardic Jewish matches from the eastern Mediterranean or North Africa as well as North African Muslim matches...

Haitian African Updates

Our Haitian parent's updated results in Ancesty are essentially unchanged. Benin & Togo increased by 2% while Nigeria, Ivory Coast & Ghana, and Western Bantu Peoples each declined by 1%. They retained their minor estimates of new regions from last year (Yorubaland, North-Central Nigeria, Nigerian Woodlands). Our African ancestry through Haiti seems to largely consist of captives sold to Europeans from the Slave Coast and Bight of Biafra. 

23andme Update

 

Our Haitian relative shared their updated ancestry composition report from 23andme recently. As we expected, little changed for their sub-Saharan African ancestry. The "Broadly West African" category disappeared, but merely boosted their "Nigerian" estimate to 43.2%. They also retained the close Igbo match. As for their other African regions, everything is largely the same. Country matches with Liberia, Sierra Leone ad Ghana, but no specific ethnic groups or regions. Their Congolese and Southern East African results are also similar, with the 0.4% Southern East African estimate minor. Again, hardly anything new. In fact, it confirms their overwhelmingly West African ancestry that appears most rooted in Lower Guinea. From the slave trade data to Saint-Domingue, this suggests almost half of her ancestry is rooted in areas that fed the Slave Coast and Bight of Biafra. 

For Europe, however, some changes can be seen. France is finally severed from Germany, and clearly makes up most of her European ancestry. This is hardly surprising for Haitians. The Belgian, Rhinelander, and Southern Dutch is new, but also not too surprising as Belgium neighbors France. We also noticed that our parent and I had distant DNA matches with users from Belgium and the Netherlands on MyHeritage, too. Perhaps 23andme is confirming distant ancestry from that region for both of us. As for the Iberian Peninsula, 23andme's update assigned it to Andalusian, Asturian & Castilian with 0.2% Basque. Very small but there is some overlap with France in the Iberian Peninsula. Haiti, of course, also had people of Spanish origin during the colonial era. Lastly, the Irish ancestry at 0.2% was unexpected. But perhaps to be explained in the overlap of Irish populations with other groups in western Europe?

Fortunately, there is some more precision in the update for our Haitian parent's minor Amerindian ancestry. Like Ancestry DNA, 23andme assigns it to a vaguely South American origin. We would like to think this Central Andean/Amazonian estimate is misreading indigenous Taino ancestry, but our parent does not have any Historical Matches from the indigenous Caribbean. Therefore, if it's not from the indigenous peoples of Haiti or the Greater Antilles, it may be indigenous people who came to Saint Domingue under French rule. Baptismal records indicate Indians from Aruba, today's Colombia, and other regions were in the colony. Perhaps that's the origin of this allegedly South American indigenous ancestry? 

As for trace ancestry, it is now reflected as North African and Northern Indian & Pakistani. The latter appears at all confidence levels, too, while North Africa disappears at 80% confidence level. The North African may be via the minor Spanish ancestry or perhaps West Africa. It is difficult to say with certainty, but North African ancestry is not indicated by this relative's Ancestry DNA results at all. Even for myself, with far more substantial ancestry from the Iberian Peninsula, my North African estimate was only 1% on Ancestry DNA. Thus, is it possible the trace North African ancestry in our Haitian parent is via West Africa? Their South Asian trace ancestry is similarly ambiguous. It is no longer Malayali South Indian but remains an enigma.

Thoughts on the Nago (Yoruba) in Haiti

 

We have been revisiting the few sources on the Nago, or "Yoruba" captives in Saint Domingue. Runaway ads or notices in the colonial newspaper have severe limitations as sources, but they nonetheless provide some details about Africans of Yoruba extraction in the colony. For instance, Adidon, mentioned in the runaway ad above, appears to have a Yoruba name. Adidon could be the Yoruba term for sweatmeats and confectionery. 

Another interesting example from the corpus of runaway slave ads in Saint-Domingue is the case of the Bambara above who spoke Nago. Considering the distance between Yorubaland and the "Bambara" lands of Upper Guinea, one assumes this unnamed "Bambara" captive learned the "Nago" tongue in Saint Domingue. 

Also intriguing is the case of a Nago runaway in 1783 named Sola, also called Ambroise. Sola is likely the Yoruba name Ṣọlá. Although it has long been known that the Nago were from Yoruba-speaking backgrounds, it is still fascinating to see examples of names from that language among Africans in Saint Domingue.

We similarly found the case of a Nago runaway from 1777, Aboky, intriguing. The name Aboky could actually be related to the Hausa word, aboki, meaning friend. If so, one wonders if Aboky actually was Hausa or from the lands north of the Yoruba-speaking peoples. It also appears that most Hausa captives trafficked to Saint Domingue in the 18th century arrived via Slave Coast ports and likely passed through Oyo and other Yoruba-speaking communities before reaching the coast. Perhaps not unrelated, modern Nigerians in the south sometimes use the word aboki in a derogatory fashion when referring to northerners.

Yet another ambiguous case of a "Nago" is the Nago-Taqua, Hector. Taqua appears to have been one of the terms used for Nupe peoples in Saint-Domingue. Was Hector of mixed ethnicity, both Nupe and Yoruba? Or was he a Nupe person who had spent time in Yorubaland before being sold on the coast to Europeans?

Yet another runaway ad alluding to a Nago with what sounds like an African name is the case of Labidan. No obvious Yoruba name comes to mind with Labidan. In fact, there was a kingdom called Labidan on the Gold Coast, an area French slave traders sometimes extended to the Slave Coast.

Our final case of one of the interesting African maroons who was said to speak Nago despite hailing from another "nation" is Medor. Supposedly Ibo, he appears to have been owned by a Rossignol of the Gonaives area. Did he learn Nago in Saint Domingue?

Last, but certainly not least, visiting ANOM's digitized parish registries for Saint-Domingue reminded us of Julien Raimond. His African grandmother, who died in 1761, was of the Nago nation. It is somewhat unclear if her name was actually Marie or Catherine (or perhaps Marie Catherine?), but she married Raimond's grandfather, Francois Begasse, in 1706. To what extent, if any, she shaped the upbringing of her grandchildren is unknown, but her status and the growing wealth of her family in Bainet and Aquin may have made her one of the wealthiest African-born women in this part of Saint Domingue.

Zagada

Source

After reading Geggus's essay on "Kongomania" and seeing his reference to one of the few known African leaders in the North during the early days of the Haitian Revolution, we had to consult ANOM's digitized collection of Moreau de Saint-Méry's papers. Geggus briefly mentioned Zagada as the leader of a band of Aradas and Aoussas (Hausas), but based on his name, we wondered if he was possibly Hausa. Well, after consulting ANOM, we found the source cited by Geggus, a 1792 letter addressed to Moreau de Saint-Méry. According to the document, Zagada's band of rebels were armed with arrows, which is not too surprising. But the combination of Aradas and Aoussas is interesting, since another leader of a band of rebels, La Fortune, was said to lead a group of Nagos (Yorubas) in Limonade. Our guess is that Zagada was Hausa, although we would have to consult the names of various groups sometimes lumped into the "Zagada" category in order to confirm it. 

Exploring Igbo and African Ancestry

Roseline Siguret's tabulation of African slave "nations" in the Quaarter of Jacmel (from "Esclaves d'indigoteries et de caféières au quartier de Jacmel (1757-1791)"

After reading FonteFelipe's recent blog on African ancestry and matches of his sample of 30 Haitians, we decided to reexamine our own African matches on Ancestry. Unfortunately, we could only find 2 obvious African matches, both Igbo-descended individuals. With one of them we share 23 cM of DNA. Our Haitian parent, who, unsurprisingly, has more African ancestry, shared 29 cM with the same Igbo individual. In addition, they also had African matches who, based on their surnames and publicly posted genealogies, hailed from Mali, Congo, Nigeria, and what appears to be Sierra Leone. The known ethnic breakdown is Igbo, Yoruba, and Mandinka. We could not easily determine the ethnic background of the other Africans. Needless to say, our Haitian parent's African matches were usually of a low degree of shared cM of DNA, 8-16. Her ethnicity estimates assigned 1% Yorubaland, 2% Nigeria-North Central and 2% Nigerian Woodlands (in addition to Mali, Senegal, Ivory Coast & Ghana, Benin & Togo, Cameroon, Western Bantu Peoples). She received a whopping 27% Benin & Togo and 21% Nigeria in the latest update. While there are many problems with her results in the update (her European ancestry is assigned mostly to Spain, even though her previous results assigned the largest European percentage to France), looking at her African matches does suggest some generally useful information on Haitian ancestry. The preponderance of Nigerian matches is likely a reflection of the greater number of Nigerian customers of Ancestry as well as the deep ancestry of Haitians in Nigeria, Benin & Togo and neighboring areas that supplied many of the African captives enslaved in Saint-Domingue. Here is a table breakdown illustrating her matches:

After her match with one Igbo person at 29 cM shared DNA, the next closest match was at 16 cM with someone bearing a Yoruba name. As suggested by FonteFelipe and the work of scholars such as Geggus, there clearly was a larger presence of Igbo and people from the Bight of Biafra in Saint-Domingue's south (which included Jacmel, in the calculations of Geggus). This noticeable Igbo presence is attested to by plantation inventories, testaments, and other contracts mentioning the enslaved population in 18th century Bainet. After Creoles, Igbos were one of the most common groups. The Yoruba ancestry and related Benin/Togo is possibly, in part, represented by the large Creole population among the slaves in Bainet during the second half of the 18th century. Many of the Creoles were likely the children of people who were purchased from the Slave Coast, which would have included various groups represented in Saint-Domingue (like the "Aradas"). This also could have accounted for the "Senegalese" results in our parent's ethnicity estimates. After all, if Senegal was important early on in the French slave trade, then some of the Creoles may have harbored ancestry from Senegambia. As for Mali connection, we assume this to be a sign of ancestry from "Mandingues" and, perhaps, Bambara, in Saint-Domingue. The Bambara would have reached Saint-Domingue through slave trading networks in Senegal, as was likely the case for "Mandingues" who may have not always been clearly distinguished from the Bambara. Interestingly, the Bamana were present among the enslaved in Bainet and one of them played a prominent role during the Haitian Revolution in the Sud (Gilles Bambara). 

Sadly, without more data from African customers or better ethnicity estimate information on African reference panel groups (such as directly telling us which ones we share DNA with), we are still left with only a general picture. Nonetheless, the Igbo contribution to our African ancestry seems very likely based on our shared DNA with one Igbo family. Furthermore, it seems our African ancestry probably includes Mandinka or Malinke (and Bambara?) ancestry as well as Yoruba. To some extent there was undoubtedly a Congolese or Central African contribution, though "Congos" in Bainet could have included Mondongues, Loango, Kongo, and others. As for "Senegal" and areas like Nigeria-North Central, we assume that could be Hausa and Wolof or Fulbe ancestry. Perhaps the "Senegal" and Mali ancestry is slightly inflated by Poulard or Fula, while Nigeria-North Central is from the Hausa or another another northern Nigerian population whose name was not recognized or used in Saint-Domingue. There definitely was a small flow of captives from northern Nigeria, but usually of Hausa or Nupe origin in Saint-Domingue's nomenclature for African "nations." 

Mandingue of Morne Rouge

Gerson Alexis's Lecture en Anthropologie Haitienne, a book we randomly encountered at a library today, includes the ethnologue's Notes on the Haitian Mandingues, in French and a slightly different English translation. Supposedly part of an unpublished manuscript, all we have, sadly, are the notes. While Alexis acknowledged the tentative nature of some of his conclusions of his study of the Mandingue cult in Morne Rouge, in Plaine du Nord, some of his conceptualizing of the community he observed struck as bizarre. Indeed, when one reads of this syncretic religious community, perhaps about 1000 people in Balan and a few nearby areas, one reaches the conclusion that this cult perhaps represents what Haitian Vodou was actually like in the 19th century. Indeed, after reading Duverneau Trouillot's ethnographic observations, from the late 19th century, one can see that "Vodou" in those days often revolved around African "nations" with particular rites, taboos, and customs. But over time, some of these distinctions were lost as the Africans and their Creole descendants became Haitian. The intriguing thing about the Mandingues of Morne Rouge, however, is that their distinctive practices and claim to a Mandingue ancestry persisted so late into the 20th century. 

To explain what we mean, consider Alexis's observation of congo, yanvalou and djuba rhythms in the Mandingue ceremonies. He seems to conclude that the Mandingue, perhaps due to their ancient Islamic influences and medieval empires, were culturally "advanced" and influenced the other "nations" of Africans in Saint Domingue/Haiti. Due to their allegedly advanced state, these Mandingues influenced other Africans in Saint Domingue. In fact, Alexis goes so far as to suggest words like mambo and houngan actually come from the Mandingue! However, yanvalou actually comes from Benin and the other rhythms noted by Alexis likely derive from other regions of West and Central Africa. Vodou terms such as houngan and many other aspects of the religion clearly owe more to other parts of West Africa, too. It is far more likely that the Mandingue cult observed by Alexis in 1967 had already been heavily influenced by the same forces that shaped the development of Haitian culture and Vodou. This would explain why Alexis observed rhythms from other traditions in the Mandingue ceremonies or "ordonnances." Indeed, this has to be the case since the "Mandingues" observed by Alexis are scarcely different from the other peasants in the area. In addition, while most of their members were descendants of past members claiming Mandingue lineage, new members could join the community through initiation. This process, in addition to the shared general culture of the region, might explain the appearance of rhythms from other traditions. 

But let us revisit the distinct features of the Mandingues. According to Alexis, the members of the community possessed a strong group consciousness, reinforced through ritual communion and a pact with degue, a type of rice flour with cane syrup. The members of the community claim African authenticity and distinguish themselves from the Canari dances and Vodou. They even claim to be members of the Society of King Mahomet! Unfortunately, the way Mahomet's name is transcribed by Alexis is somewhat ambiguous (MA-RO-MET) but it is probably the Prophet Muhammad of Islamic tradition. Besides referring to Muhammad, the Mandingue believe in a Supreme Being, sometimes associated with the Sun. Their cult is oriented to the adoration of this Creator being and their ancestors. In their prayers, they address Allah, Moussa (Missa?), and Mahomet. Moreover, their rituals take place at two times: dawn or early morning and in the evening. These meetings take place after a member dies, to commemorate the dead. These ceremonies, per Alexis, are called fran-gan-dan-man. 

A Mandingue Muslim wrote the above in 1773 in Leogane.

The leader of the Mandingue community is called mori. According to Alexis's Liberian informant, mori means "patriarch" among in Bambara and Malinke. However, mori is used by the Bambara to refer to Islamic diviners, something closer to the function of the mori among the Haitian Mandingue. By the time Alexis wrote his study, the Mandingue had only 1 mori, Barthelemy Exhalus, son of Exhalus Medard, the previous mori. It is probable that the position of mori was passed down from father to son, though Alexis does not provide evidence to prove it. This would fit, however, Vodou of the past in which the position of houngan was often passed down within the family. As for the Haitian mori, his main function is to communicate with the great Spirit through dreams and serve as a depository of the cult secrets. He understands the messages of the dead, who possess members of the community during ceremonies. Through prayer, song, dance, and sacrifices, to this Great Spirit and ancestors, members can be possessed. Perhaps as a remnant of their Islamic past, offerings excluded pigs (according to the English version). These spirits of ancestors, or zanges (anges) were never called lwa. Much like Haitian Vodou as we commonly know it, the mori used Catholic prayers in ceremonies. Their music, including a dance called Ronde du Mort, featured rhythms familiar to Alexis through other parts of Haitian culture. Unlike other Haitians, the Mandingue mori sang an incantation to Allah. Relying heavily on Balenghien, Alexis interpted one song as a deformation of the Islamic Shahada: Bi si mian y mi alahum- a ki baou Assa dan ila-a ilala. Elsewhere, the mori said Missa, Man-n Ma De, which is interpreted as Missa (Moses, or Musa) and Mamadu (Muhammad). 

To his credit, Alexis consulted specialists of Malian and West African languages and cultures. He relied heavily on a priest, Balenghien, who directed a center for the study of African languages at Taldye, Mali for confirmation of his theories. For instance, the burial practices of the Mandingue of Haiti included placing the corpse in a L-shaped hole, covering the body to prevent contact with the ground. According to Alexis's informant in Mali, the Bambara have similar customs. For identifying the Shahada in the incantations of Barthelemy Exhalus, he also relied on this Mali-based informant. In what may even be a possible reference to past Mandingue kings, Alexis saw a reference to a great Mandingo who introduced Islam when members of the Mandingue society claimed descent from the family of "Popotte Moussa." We, on the other hand, are inclined to think this "Popotte Moussa" may have been a prominent local "Mandingue" in the 19th century. 

Overall, the evidence suggests the persistence and survival of a strong Mandingue identity well into the 20th century in this part of Haiti. That they were influenced by Islam can be seen in the title mori, allusions to Muhammad, and that their religious ceremonies only commemorate the Creator (Allah?) and the souls of ancestors. Since they participated in the everyday rural culture of Morne Rouge, their religious ceremonies unsurprisingly acquired many traits of other contributions to Haitian culture. But Alexis's great contribution is in identifying the survival of one religious community in Haiti that preserved such a distinct, Islamic-influenced tradition. One must assume a sufficient number of Mandingue and West African Muslim captives were in the area so that the community did not die. Unlike, say, the Fulani and Borno Muslims described by Descourtilz, these Mandingue persisted well into the 1900s. Their willingness to accept new members through initiation and veneration of ancestors must have attracted Haitians from other traditions.

Charles the Bambara

Randomly perusing the indexed digitized records of the Haitian Civil Registration on Family Search has truly revived our interest in the African-born Haitian population of the 19th century. Here we have a Charles, of the "Banbara" nation, or Bambara, registering in 1810 in Port-au-Prince. Estimated his age at 40, he was probably born around 1770 and must have came to Saint Domingue relatively young, perhaps as an adolescent. We wish someone could compile enough sources to write a detailed study of some of these Africans in early Haiti. 

The Kingdom of Allada

Robin Law's short history of the kingdom of Allada was a little disappointing. We were hoping for a study of the scope of his other monographs with rich analysis of the kingdom of Allada. Unfortunately, our existing sources are thinner than we realized, often mainly relevant to Allada's active involvement in slave trading and only hints at other aspects of the state's administrative, economic, political, social, or cultural dimensions. Furthermore, as Law convincingly demonstrates, the surviving oral traditions are often problematic and present a number of problems since they have lost the institutional framework of the old kingdom's court and the traditions of Allada and Dahomey have changed over time to express new or different genealogies, historical events, or composite characters. 

It is clear that Allada was probably the dominant kingdom of the Slave Coast (or at least a good chunk of it) but its own origins remain unclear (although it was in existence by the 16th century if not long before) and the exact nature of Allada's authority over its "fidalgos" and vassal provinces or territories is unknown. However, as Law suggests, there does seem to have been more than a little continuity in the court and structure of the state from Allada to Dahomey. That continuity plus the pieces of the puzzle Law endeavors to place in correct order with the aid of European contemporary sources and later traditions, provides the reader with some idea of the chronology of kings, the institutions of the kingdom, and the impact of slave trading on the kingdom's relations economy and foreign relations. Due to our unfamiliarity with the historiography of the Slave Coast, we were surprised how often Law disagreed or felt a need to add nuance to arguments by Akinjogbin, whose study of Dahomey seems to be quite seminal. We feel Law was probably correct about the qualifications he attached to Akinjogbin's interpretations of the impact of the slave trade as a factor in Allada's decline.

Unfortunately, this brief history is a bit too schematic and we wonder if more recent scholarship has uncovered new sources or attempted to integrate more fully studies on the 'Arada" or "Arara" in the Americas. There is a recently published study coauthored by Law on early Allada-Portugal relations, suggestive of important links between Christianity (or interest in it) as a way to strengthen Allada's economic ties to European traders. Perhaps the possible or alleged Christian presence in Allada could also be of interest, with at least one king being educated by the Portuguese in Sao Tome and Allada's ambassador to the court of Louis XIV being fluent in Portuguese and, at least nominally Christian. Who knows, maybe Latin Americanists and Caribbeanists examining so-called "Arada" or "Arara" captives in the Americas could potentially shed light on social, ethnic, religious, or political dynamics impacting Allada and its neighbors in the 1600s and 1700s. Law uses some of this material, particularly the work of Alonso de Sandoval but we are convinced more material might be available. 

Abu Bakr al-Siddiq and Borno?

Although our sources for Abu Bakr al-Siddiq's maternal ancestry consist solely of his short Arabic autobiographies translated into English, it is interesting to consider his life in a "Central Sudanic" context. Incorporating Borno and Katsina into his biography and family background illustrates how connected or integrated West Africa in the precolonial era truly was. Cities in the "Western Sudan" like Jenne and Timbuktu, where Abu Bakr al-Siddiq's family originated (though claiming descent from the Prophet), were closely tied to trading and learning centers such as Kong and Bouna. The ancient cities of Timbuktu and Jenne were also integrated into "Sudanic" trading routes to the east, through Hausaland and Borno all the way to the Red Sea. Abu Bakr al-Siddiq's family history exemplifies this in a variety of ways. Therefore, one can view the family of al-Siddiq in various contexts: Atlantic World, Caribbean chattel slavery, Saharan and Sahelian Africa, and Dar al-Islam. 

First, who was Abu Bakr al-Siddiq's mother? Named Naghodi in one of his autobiographies, a Hausa term meaning "I am thankful," her Islamic name was Hafsa. She was likely a later wife of his father, Kara Musa. Indeed, al-Siddiq's autobiography lists several half-siblings, indicating that his father had numerous children with at least one other woman or wife. His mother was born in the capital of Borno, presumably some time in the second half of the 18th century. However, her Hausa personal name and links to Katsina suggest Hausa heritage. In consideration of the close economic ties between Borno and Katsina, as well as the past history of Katsina as a tributary state of Kanem-Borno, we cannot rule out a Kanuri origin or affiliation for Naghodi through her father. Indeed, both Katsina and Gazargamo were major trading stops for trans-Saharan caravans coming crossing through the Fezzan and Agadez to reach the "Sudan." Migration of traders, Islamic scholars, and other groups between Katsina and Borno must have occurred on a large scale.

As for the identity of his maternal grandfather, al-Siddiq identified him as al-Hajj Muhammad Tafsir of Borno AND Katsina. His mother was an infant during the pilgrimage of her father, and the pilgrimage to Mecca would have left Naghodi and her mother in Gazargamo for an extended period of time. This makes one think her maternal grandfather may have been a native of Gazargamo and perhaps from a large household with dependents, relatives, and economic means to support his children while abroad. Moreover, the inclusion of tafsir in his name points to a scholar with a background in Quranic exegesis. Furthermore, the fact that he went on the hajj at least once would have significantly increased his standing in Borno. Indeed, those who went on the hajj were even absolved of taxes by the Sayfawa rulers of Borno. Consequently, Muhammad Tafsir must have been of means, respected in Borno and Katsina, as well as someone who benefitted from the privileges of the hajj through tax incentives that Mai Ali maintained. Even if he was a Hausa or Fulani from Katsina, performing the hajj undoubtedly aided his business or trading concerns in Borno and beyond.

So, how exactly did al-Siddiq's father, Kara Musa, meet Naghodi? According to al-Siddiq, his father traveled to Katsina and Borno frequently, likely as a trader. A man from a reputable lineage in Timbuktu and the Middle Niger was likely an attractive prospect for al-Hajj Muhammad Tafsir's daughter. Both men were probably traders, and the marriage of Naghodi to Kara Musa would have helped cement trading ties between them. One can surmise that Kara Musa was older than Naghodi and may have already possessed trade connections to Kong and sources of gold and kola nuts through his connections to Dyula trading and scholarly networks. Perhaps a marriage helped ensure honest dealings or trading partnership between Naghodi's father and Kara Musa? Evidence in favor of this can be found in al-Siddiq's allusion to his father sending gold, Egyptian silks, horses, mules, and other goods to his father-in-law. 

This may have been initially part of a dowry, but his father's past of "always" traveling to Katsina and Borno hints at trade in goods, such as gold, motivating his travels from Jenne to Kong, Ghonah, and, eventually Katsina and Gazargamo. Evidence for traders from the Fezzan, Hausaland, and Borno knowing of Kong, Bouna, Dagomba, and the "Gold Coast" can be found in other sources, but the Dyula networks of Kara Musa would have been an excellent network for Hausa and Kanuri traders from the east to tap into for opening up relations with that part of West Africa. Perhaps Kara Musa's network and access to gold (and the possibility of kola nuts) intersected with Muhammad Tafsir's connections to Borno's salt and natron exports to Hausa cities?

Our other references to Hausaland or the 'Central Sudan" in the context of Abu Siddiq are more problematic or impressionistic. John Davidson's Notes Taken During Travels in Africa reports confirmation for al-Siddiq's illustrious pedigree in Morocco and the Sahara. Other informants even claim al-Siddiq was related to the rulers of Timbuktu, Kong, and "Houssa," which must be Katsina or a generalized Hausaland. While one can surmise from the earlier autobiographical fragments that al-Siddiq came from a respectable family with roots in the ulama of Timbuktu and Jenne, the grandiose relations attributed to him may not reflect the realities of post-jihadist West Africa. For example, Borno's capital was destroyed and abandoned by the time al-Siddiq returned to West Africa via Morocco. Katsina was also in a period of decline. The Sokoto Caliphate changed the political map of the "Central Sudan" and al-Siddiq would have been in the dark for about 30 years during these momentous decades. Nevertheless, one can see that several years after his bondage in Jamaica, al-Siddiq could still believably call upon powerful and politically connected relatives in Timbuktu, Kong, and Hausaland. This illustrates just how overlapping the worlds of Islam, "Sudanic" Africa, and the Atlantic were.

Bibliography

Abú Bekr eṣ ṣiddíḳ. “Routes in North Africa, by Abú Bekr Eṣ Ṣiddíḳ.” The Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London 6 (1836): 100–113. https://doi.org/10.2307/1797559.

Barth, Heinrich. Travels and Discoveries in North and Central Africa: Being a Journal of an Expedition Undertaken Under the Auspices of H.B.M.'s Government in the Years 1849-1855. New York: D. Appleton, 1857.

Cohen, Ronald. The Kanuri of Bornu. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1967.

Curtin, Philip D. Africa Remembered; Narratives by West Africans from the Era of the Slave Trade. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1967.

Davidson, John. Notes Taken During Travels in Africa. London: J.L. Cox and Sons, 1839.

Dewière, Rémi. Du Lac Tchad À La Mecque: Le Sultanat Du Borno Et Son Monde (XVIe - XVIIe Siècle). Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2017.

Gomez, Michael A. Black Crescent: The Experience and Legacy of African Muslims in the Americas. Cambridge ; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005.

Lovejoy, Paul E. “The Kambarin Beriberi: The Formation of a Specialized Group of Hausa Kola Traders in the Nineteenth Century.” The Journal of African History 14, no. 4 (1973): 633–51. http://www.jstor.org/stable/180905.

Lucas, Paul, Lédyard, John, Lallemant, Antoine J. (trans.), Voyages de MM. Lédyard et Lucas en Afrique, entrepris et publiés par ordre de la Société anglaise d’Afrique ; avec le plan de fondation de cette Société, et une carte du nord de l’Afrique, par le major Rennel : suivis d’extraits de Voyages faits à la rivière de Gambie, par ordre de la Compagnie anglaise d’Afrique, et d’un mémoire écrit sous le règne de Charles II, concernant la grande quantité d’or qu’on trouve près de cette rivière ; avec une carte de ce fleuve et de ses environs, tracée sur les lieux. Paris: Xhrouet, 1804.

Wilks, Ivor. The Northern Factor in Ashanti History. [Legon]: Institute of African Studies, University of Ghana, 1961.

Borno and Haiti

 

While perusing the excellent Corpus of runaway slave ads for Saint Domingue, we came across what appears to be one of the few other sources to mention "Borno" Africans in Saint Domingue. Instead of spelling the name of their homeland in the same manner as Descourtilz (Beurnon), it was rendered as Bernon. The 1789 advertisement in Affiches américaines also mentions that one of the "Bernon" fled his owners in the company of 3 Hausa named Aly, Dominique and Aza. Scipion, the man of "Bernon" nation, was likely very familiar with Hausa people due to Borno's long history in northern Nigeria. Perhaps they also shared an Islamic background that may have helped them transcend "ethnic" differences and find some commonality with other enslaved African Muslims in Saint Domingue. The text likewise mentions another maroon, Christophe of the "Bernon" nation. He was stamped Pommier and belonged to a different owner. 

One cannot help but wonder if these "Bernon" captives and runaways were part of the same group of prisoners of war who were sold into slavery and ended up in the Rossignol Desdunes plantation. "Bernon" Africans seem to have been somewhat uncommon in Saint Domingue, and clearly the mai of Borno was unlikely to intercede and ask for the return of his subjects from across the Atlantic. As an empire mostly drawn into the trans-Saharan orbit, and primarily exporting other peoples as slaves rather than their own (with a few exceptions, according to Descourtilz), it is interesting to consider the connections of Haiti with the "Central Sudan" and Borno as another dimension of Borno's global presence. Althoughly surely small in number in Saint Domingue, it is possible the "Bernon" Africans joined alongside Hausa, Fulani, Mandingue, and others to recreate, in some form, their Islamic religion. It would be an interesting find if Haitian archival sources ever point to a Muslim community in Haiti after 1804, perhaps in the Artibonite region. 

Nkrumah and the Ghana Revolution

 In my perhaps foolish quest to gradually read every book ever written by C.L.R. James, I finally tackled Nkrumah and the Ghana Revolution. Focusing on the movement for Ghanaian independence and the relationship between the masses and leadership (as embodied in Nkrumah), the relatively short work provides an interesting avenue to consider The Black Jacobins and the role of colonial peoples in shaping world revolution. Like Toussaint Louverture, Nkrumah emerges as a leader made by the masses, absorbing the best of the West and applying it to the particular conditions of the underdeveloped colony of the Gold Coast. Moreover, Nkrumah would, like Toussaint, make some of his own mistakes once in power to protect the revolution. 

While the appendix material makes one perhaps wonder to what extent James was taken in by charismatic post-independence leaders, there is undeniably much of use to be learned from the experience of the Ghana independence movement, especially in consideration of the all-pervasive myth of African incapacity for self-government. Even the so-called backwards colonial peoples who suffer from illiteracy and allegedly primitive social organizations (tribe and chiefs in the villages) are capable of the most remarkable organization, taking advantage of new technology to demolish every argument of the West against African self-rule. This shows, like the enslaved Africans of Saint Domingue, the capacity of the masses to usher in revolutionary change and shape the course of history.

Unfortunately, the text does not fully analyze the fall of Nkrumah's administration, but it points to the larger structural impediments to the African state (especially the political economy of corruption as intimately linked to the prominence of the state in the control of the economy, unlike the West where corruption could flourish in their more developed private sectors). So, all things considered, Nkrumah and the Ghana Revolution is an interesting work in terms of the larger political significance of The Black Jacobins, which foresaw African independence. Now I must read what James had to say about party politics in the West Indies and more of his analysis of the Russian Revolution.

Muslims in Saint Domingue

Despite some of the strong assertions by scholars of a prominent role played by enslaved Muslims in Saint Domingue, most sources do appear not support that narrative. Two scholars in particular, Diouf and Gomez, promote unsubstantiated or speculative claims of prominent leaders among the slave rebels being Muslim. A Haitian blogger, Salnave, has dedicated several articles to disproving the thesis, albeit adding some of his own speculations in certain cases. So, what do the sources actually reveal about the presence of Muslims among the enslaved in Saint Domingue? And of what import does it come to bear on the history of slavery and Haiti? And how has the narrative of Islamic influences in the Haitian Revolution contributed to or hindered our understanding of it?

First, the sources can be uncertain or vague, and it is wrong-headed to attribute a Muslim identity to an African based on the name or assigned "nation." Our nearly encyclopedic source of information about the colony, Moreau de Saint-Méry, mentioned that many of the enslaved West Africans coming from the regions of the Senegal River to Sierra Leone were Muslims, but they mix Islam with idolatry. These aforementioned "nations" of Africans consisted of the Senegalese, Wolof, Poulards, Bambaras, Quiambas, Mandingues, Bissagots, and Soso, groups whose islamization, in some cases, postdates Haitian independence. In addition to some Islamic influences among captives from that region of West Africa, he claimed there were some Muslims from other areas of West Africa who mixed some Islamic practices with their idolatry (these "nations" coming from the lands from Cap Apollonie to the Gold Coast and Galba). However, Moreau de Saint-Méry's proves himself somewhat unreliable because he claims one of the few ways to tell if some West Africans were Muslim is if they were circumcised. He appears to think circumcision in Africa is linked to Islam, so one must question his claims of Islamic practices and influences upon the enslaved population. But his assertions of a Muslim presence among some of these groups is supported by Charlevoix, whose history of Saint Domingue mentions some Senegal Muslims in the colony.

Moreover, he also reveals himself to be a questionable witness because he claims the "Congo" included some with Islamic practices. The presence of Islam in West Central Africa during the 18th century was likely minimal, far less influential there than West Africa. Unless some of the captives came from areas of what are now eastern Congo, the Central African Republic, or Chad, their exposure to Islam was probably non-existent. Furthermore, many of the aforementioned "nations" who may have been Muslim or exposed to Islam, were largely practicing "traditional" religions until the 19th and 20th centuries (the Bambara come to mind). It is certainly possible that some of the previously mentioned West African "nations" included Muslims, as well as the Hausa, Yoruba, and Nupe, and additional captives from southeastern Africa. Indeed, there is also a remote chance of Muslim captives arriving in the colony from the Swahili Coast, Madagascar or India, though very unlikely. However, without more sources, assuming a significant Muslim presence among the enslaved population of Saint Domingue is speculative.

Another source used by Diouf and Gomez, Colonel Malenfant, attests to the presence of some literate Muslims in the colony. During the Haitian Revolution, slave rebels sometimes wore amulets with Arabic writing, a practice that was also common among non-Muslim groups in West Africa. Malenfant also describes an encounter with a literate African, named Tamerlan, who claimed to have come from a kingdom where writing and the production of books was common. Gomez deduced that Tamerlan was likely from a Muslim kingdom in West Africa, and the example of writing he produced for Malenfant, a long prayer of twenty lines written in a script Malenfant could not recognize, may have been ajami. Nonetheless, based on Malenfant's account of Tamerlan's literacy (one in a script associated with "long-haired mulattoes," perhaps the Tuareg or another population in the Sahel), Tamerlan assured him it was not Arabic. But, if it was ajami writing, however, one would think Tamerlan could have explained that to Malenfant? 

But, other details of Tamerlan's life before captivity do suggest a possible Muslim background. In addition to his role as a priest, instructor to a prince and maker of books or manuscripts, or so he claimed, he revealed to Malenfant that his hometown possessed 300,000 inhabitants. This is probably a reference to the total population the surrounding area of the capital city, not the royal capital itself. Intriguingly, the former capital city of the Bornu kingdom was, according to Dixon Denham, 200,000, before its fall during the early 19th century. It is likely that the majority of the structures in the city were constructed with wood or straw, like other cities of West Africa. Is there a chance Tamerlan was from the Kingdom of Bornu? He also said that he had not seen whites in his city, but the aforementioned long-haired mulattoes, probably a reference to the Tuareg or Berbers. He probably would have met other "whites" from Arab populations connected to Bornu via trans-Saharan networks, so uncertainty lingers. When he was captured, it took more than 3 months for him to reach the coast, where whites loaded the captives onto slave ships. This suggests he was from deep in the interior of what was most likely West Africa. The city of his king was built in wood, mostly of single-story homes. If true, then Tamerlan came from a very large city ruled by a powerful king. It is possible Tamerlan exaggerated some of these details to give an image of greater grandeur to his African past, but he clearly longed to return. According to Malenfant, he was one of the "few" Africans who wised to return to the continent, which suggests he probably enjoyed a position of great status. In consideration of all of the above, it is possible Tamerlan was indeed a Muslim from West Africa, but Malenfant's account is shrouded in hazy memory and doubt to prove it. Either way, Malenfant's memory of Tamerlan was linked to accounts of Muslim slaves in Saint Domingue.

Our next, and perhaps best source on Muslims in Saint Domingue, may corroborate a Muslim origin of Tamerlan. Etienne Michel Descourtilz, while at the Rossignol-Desdunes habitation in the Artibonite, collected details and accounts of the various African "nations" he encountered in Saint Domingue. For most, there is no mention of Islam. "Nations" which may have contained Islamic practitioners were not mentioned as Muslim. For instance, the Mozambiques are classified as Catholic and "Vaudoux" adherents, suggesting that most of the captives from southeastern Africa were not Muslim. There could have been a few who were, either from Mozambique, Tanzania, or Madagascar, but without sources it remains speculation. If anything, Descourtilz's experiences with Africans in Artibonite and Saint Domingue attests to the limited presence of Muslims among the enslaved, as the vast majority are mentioned with any reference to Islam.

Yet, Descourtilz does provide the best direct evidence of practicing Muslims in Saint Domingue. His two groups are the Phylani (Fulani), the Islamized among the Poulard of West Africa, and the "Beurno." His account of the former compares them to the Jews, although he describes their god as being Allah. The Phylani lived a nomadic lifestyle in Africa, stressed filial piety, and referred to their priest as "alpha." The Phylani group's religious holidays, abstention from pork, and prayers clearly demonstrate Islamic practices. Their priest or alpha was also literate, like Tamerlan. Besides the Phylani Muslim community in the colony, who were probably a very tiny one, Descourtilz wrote about the "Beurno" and their kingdom in Africa with some detail. According to Descourtilz, some slaves from "Beurno" toiled on the Rossignold-Desdunes plantation, thereby giving him multiple chances to speak with and observe the customs of "Beurno" Africans. 

"Beurno" is undoubtedly a reference to Bornu, a long-established kingdom in West Africa with roots in ancient Kanem. Their kings had converted to Islam several centuries before, and many of its subjects appear to have converted to Islam long before the Fulani jihads of the 1800s. Evidence of the Islamic influence upon the "Bornu" Africans can be found in what Descourtilz described as their strict submission of women to men, and gender separation of married women and men. According to Descourtilz, the religion of the Bornu resembled that of the Phylani, and they shared in their abstention from pork (they only consumed meat blessed by their alpha, or priest). Literacy was also present among the Bornu, who can read, write, transmit the code of their divine law. Descourtilz even described their custom of writing on wooden planks, a custom still seen in parts of Muslim West Africa. The religious texts produced in Bornu were highly valued, and many were willing to pay dearly or sell their livestock to purchase said texts. In short, the "Beurno" described by Descourtilz were, in at least some cases, devout Muslims whose social practices were influenced by Islam. The description of the king of "Beurno" and the prevalence of the slave trade also confirms the Bornu identification, although the specific "Beurno" captives met by Descourtilz were the defeated in a battle with rivals of Bornu.

So, via Descourtilz, we have direct accounts of at least two Islamized groups in Saint Domingue. It is unclear what their total numbers were, but a group of the "Beurno" were working at the Rossignol-Desdunes plantation. For the Phylani Muslims, their numbers were likely small, too. Descourtilz does not offer much in terms of understanding the influence of these two groups on other slaves, and their small numbers and distinct religion may have encouraged them to look inward and try to preserve some of their customs and practices. If they were like African Muslims in other parts of the Caribbean, they may have been able to survive as a small community for a few generations. But, if evidence from Trinidad and elsewhere is relevant to Saint Domingue and Haiti, one would think most of the Muslims in Saint Domingue vanished after a few generations or merged into the general population, possibly converting to Catholicism or joining Vodou adherents. I have yet to come across any sources attesting to Muslim communities after independence, and claims of Muslim Mandingue in Balan are likely exaggerated. 

 To conclude, one must admit the idea of an Islamic contribution to the making of Haiti clearly resonates with some of the African Diaspora. To me, it seems to be a reflection of inaccurate histories of Islam in Africa, black nationalist romances of Islam as "our religion" and, in some cases, an outdated civilizationist and vindicationist discourse used by some Haitian intellectuals to elevate the status of some of our forebears. Clearly, Price-Mars and Jean Fouchard thought very highly of the famous kingdoms and empires of the medieval Western Sudan. Some, like Fouchard, attribute literacy and refinement to these people through their contact with Arabs and Islam. Thus, they can foment a counter-narrative that suggests our African ancestors were not all illiterate peoples removed from the most important aspects of civilization. Of course, one would hope proponents of the Islamic theory distance themselves from that paradigm, but there is still a remnant of it in the way some scholars describe the esteem enslaved Muslims received from their masters. Undoubtedly it lives on through the legacy of Edward Blyden and 20th century Black Muslim movements. Regardless, we are stuck at the impasse described in Reed's Mumbo Jumbo, with Islam, Vodun, and "Atenism" as competing forces. 

Ultimately, the benefit of this revisionist scholarship, for what it's worth, is that it does shed light and add nuance to our understanding of the various peoples in Saint Domingue. It helps piece together who the forced migrants were, what their values may have been, and the kinds of societies from which they sprang. Indeed, Descourtilz's essay on the African "nations" of Saint Domingue was intimately linked to a history of Africa. Malenfant recognized the great use captives like Tamerlan could have for the European exploration of the African continent. Consequently, studying the origins of the African populations of Saint Domingue is also a study of the history of Africa. But until new evidence emerges, the tale of Islam in Saint Domingue will be one of a small minority who have contributed to the mosaic of Africa that is Haiti. The blog of Salnave has already demonstrated how limited the Islamic presence was and its role in the Haitian Revolution, but there will always be room for new interpretations and conclusions about the birth of Haiti.

Bibliography 

Charlevoix, Pierre-François-Xavier de, and Jean Baptiste Le Pers. Histoire de l'isle espagnole ou de S. Domingue: ecrite particulierement sur des memoires manuscrits du p. Jean-Baptiste le Pers, Jesuite, missionnaire à Saint Domingue, & sur les pieces originales, qui se conservent au Dépôt de la marine. Amsterdam: F. L'Honoré, 1733.

Denham, Dixon, Hugh Clapperton, and Walter Oudney. Travels and Discoveries in Northern and Central Africa: In 1822, 1823, and 1824. London: J. Murray, 1831.

Descourtilz, Michel Étienne. Voyages d'un naturaliste, et ses observations faites sur les trois regnes de la Nature, dans plusieurs ports de mer francais, en Espagne, au continent d'Amerique septentrionale, a Saint-Yago de Cuba, et a Saint Domingue, ou l'Auteur devenu le prisonnier de 40,000 Noirs revoltes, et par suite mis en liberte par une colonne de l'armee frangais, donne des details circonstancies sur l'expedition du general Leclerc, 3 vols. Paris: Dufart, 1809.

Diouf, Sylviane A. Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas. New York: New York University Press, 1998. 

Geggus, David. "The French Slave Trade: An Overview." The William and Mary Quarterly 58, no. 1 (2001): 119-38. Accessed October 3, 2020. doi:10.2307/2674421.

Gomez, Michael A. Black Crescent: The Experience and Legacy of African Muslims in the Americas. Cambridge ; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005. 

Khan, Aisha. "Islam, Vodou, and the Making of the Afro-Atlantic." NWIG: New West Indian Guide / Nieuwe West-Indische Gids 86, no. 1/2 (2012): 29-54. Accessed October 5, 2020. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41850693.

Malenfant, Col. Des colonies, et particulièrement de celle de Saint-Dominique: mémoire historique et politique, ou l'on trouvera, 1o un exposé impartial des causes et un précis historique des guerres civiles qui ont rendu cette dernière colonie indépendante, 2o des considérations sur l'importance de la rattacher à la métropole et sur les moyens de le renter avec succès, d'y ramener une paix durable, d'en rétablir et accroître la prospérité. Paris: Audibert, (C.-F. Patris), 1814.

Moreau de Saint-Méry, Méderic Louis Élie. Description topographique, physique, civile, politique et historique de la partie françoise de l'isle Saint-Domingue. 3 vols. Philadelphia:  1797.

Salnave, Rodney. "Saint Domingue's islamized were submissive". September 29, 2020 ; Updated Sept. 30, 2020. [online] URL : https://bwakayiman.blogspot.com/2020/09/Saint-Domingues-submissive-islamized.html ; Retrieved on October 1, 2020.

The Mystery of Tamerlan's Writing

 

The case of Tamerlan, an enslaved African living in Boucassin, Saint Domingue on the eve of the Haitian Revolution, has sparked interest and debate about the presence of Islam among captives in the French colony. A few revisionist scholars assume Tamerlan was a Muslim because of his name and the account of him left to posterity by Colonel Malenfant, who managed a plantation. His position ensured he had easy access to diverse captive population. Nonetheless, based on Malenfant's account of Tamerlan's literacy in two non-Arabic African languages (one associated with "long-haired mulattoes," perhaps the Tuareg), historians know a few details of Tamerlan's life before captivity. Unfortunately, Malenfant lost the examples of writing Tamerlan gave him, and, writing decades after this encounter, could not recall in detail the appearance of Tamerlan's script. He knew it was a long prayer, based on what Tamerlan told him. And Tamerlan assured him it was not Arabic, although some scholars speculate it could have been an example of Ajami writing (adapting the Arabic script to write local West African languages). This has not stopped some scholars (Gomez, Diouf) from asserting a Muslim identity for Tamerlan or concluding his writing was Arabic or an adaptation of Arabic script). But if Tamerlan was indeed using an adapted Arabic script, wouldn't he have been able to communicate that to Malenfant?

However, a Haitian blogger and historian who opposes the lazy historical reasoning of revisionist scholars who thrust a Muslim identity upon Tamerlan, has demonstrated quite clearly how unlikely it was Tamerlan was Muslim or wrote in Arabic or even Ajami. Using Malenfant, he demonstrates quite clearly that the Frenchman would have probably known if Tamerlan was a Muslim based on their rarity and the knowledge of other slaveholders familiar with Muslim slaves. He also, in a series of blog posts, demonstrates how one cannot assume a Muslim identity based on the names of Africans. Names of Arabic or Islamic origin appeared in the colony from European sources, and were sometimes assigned to Africans from non-Islamic parts of the continent (like Central African "Congos). Consequently, the name of Tamerlan and the fact that did not identify his writing as Arabic suggest he probably wasn't a Muslim. If true, however, who was Tamerlan and what was the script he used?

The aforementioned blog posits an intriguing theory. Salnave's article suggests an attractive theory linking Tamerlan to the Bambara kingdom of Segu. It is plausible that Tamerlan had been an instructor to a prince of Segu, and maybe, although there is no evidence for it, was using a proto-N'ko script. Supposedly, at least one Segu leader spent time in Timbuktu centers of learning, and it is not surprising that some West African peoples were familiar with Arabic, Tuareg tifinagh, and Ajami. However, all established theories of the N'ko writing system point to a 20th century origin. If it is true Tamerlan wrote in N'ko, or another Bambara or Mande script (like Vai, which appears to have been invented in the 1830s in Liberia), then researchers or scholars should, hopefully, encounter it in Segu, Timbuktu, or other towns and villages in West Africa where manuscripts were found (assuming they exist and were not destroyed). 

Ajami manuscripts and texts have been located, but Salnave has demonstrated somewhat convincingly that it probably was not Ajami writing, at least based on how Malenfant vaguely recalls it. But if it is not Ajami, does it point to a proto-N'ko or pre-Vai Mande-speakers script? The Vai peoples probably had some form of contact or trade with Mande-speakers further north (not to mention the Americo-Liberians, and the Cherokee among them), so maybe the Vai script in some form or another may have ties to an older system of writing from the Bambara or other groups in Mali? If so, what were the conditions of writing and literacy for non-Muslim West Africans in the 18th century? If most West African writings in local languages, that we know of, have been Ajami and tied to Islamic cultures or scholars, shouldn't there be evidence for non-Islamic manuscripts and book production, besides the Vai syllabary?

What else can one possibly surmise from Malenfant's brief account of Tamerlan? In addition to be an instructor to a prince and maker of books or manuscripts, or so he claims, he told Malenfant that the city from which he came had 300,000 inhabitants.  When he was captured, it took more than 3 months for him to reach the coast, where whites loaded the captives onto slave ships. This suggests he was from deep in the interior or what was most likely West Africa. The city of his king was built in wood, mostly of single-story homes. Salnave speculates that this could be a description of Segu, which Mungo Park estimated to have 30,000 inhabitants and mostly built in clay. If any of this is accurate, then Tamerlan came from a very large city ruled by a powerful king. Segu would fit the bill, although other large urban centres in West Africa did exist in the 18th century (although none would have contained 300,000 people, unless you count the surrounding countryside?). It is possible Tamerlan exaggerated some of these details to give an image of greater grandeur to his African past, but he clearly longed to return home. According to Malenfant, he was one of the "few" Africans who wised to return to the continent, which suggests he probably enjoyed a position of great status. 

Unfortunately, Malenfant's account is too brief and vague to fill in the dots, but it is clear that Tamerlan came from a part of Africa with a history of writing, manuscript production, and large urban centers. One of the forms of writing he was familiar with was possibly the tifinagh of the Tuareg, which was often used for poems, short correspondence, funerary inscriptions. Considering all these factors, one can understand why some historians assume Tamerlan was a Muslim and possibly wrote his prayer in Ajami. With the exception of parts of West Africa, North Africa, Ethiopia and the Horn, and the Swahili Coast, writing systems in Africa with a history of manuscript production were quite limited. One can surmise from Malenfant that Tamerlan was not from North Africa or the Swahili Coast (where a tradition of ajami writing also exists). It is possible but unlikely that he was from Ethiopia or the Horn of Africa. If he was from Ethiopia, who were the long-haired mulattoes he described to Malenfant (fairer-skinned Habasha who maybe wrote in Ge'ez or Amharic)? Where was this large city he described? Gondar? Surely, if Tamerlan was from Ethiopia, it is possible he was a Christian and described the castles of stone in Gondar? And last, but worthy of consideration, was Tamerlan literate in a Central African language, like Kikongo? But that would have likely been composed in a Portuguese-inspired Western script that Malenfant should have recognized.

So, what can one say about the mystery of Tamerlan and his lost text? It seems he was not a Muslim, and presumably did not write Arabic or in Ajami. He was probably from West Africa, which is what Malenfant seems to believe when he later mentions how useful someone like Tamerlan would have been as a guide or navigator to explorers like Mungo Park. If one of the writing systems he was familiar with was tifinagh, then he was probably from the West African Sahel or savanna regions. Salnave's theory of a Segu origin is plausible, although he could have been from other parts of that eco-region. Since the origin of N'ko is most likely traced to the 20th century, although maybe inspired by earlier Ajami writing, Tamerlan's mysterious script could point to an older script that may have existed among Bambara, Mandinka, or other West African peoples. It is possible that he was promoting a system of writing akin to the Vai syllabary, and books were made on paper imported via the trans-Saharan or other trade networks. The chances of an Ethiopian or East African origin of Tamerlan appear unlikely, although some East Africans were sold into slavery in the Caribbean. One cannot completely deny the possibility that Tamerlan was indeed writing in Ajami, but surely he could have explained that to Malenfant when the latter asked if he was writing in Arabic. The mystery endures, at least until one finds documents written in African languages or Arabic from Saint Domingue. Malenfant mentions amulets with Arabic inscriptions used by some of the rebel slaves, but that does not prove they were Muslim (except that some literate Muslims were involved in their production). 

Bibliography

 

Rodney Salnave. "Tamerlan wasn't muslim". February 26, 2017 ; Updated Sept. 25, 2020. [online] URL: http://bwakayiman.blogspot.ca/2017/02/tamerlan-wasnt-muslim.html ; Retrieved on 10/1/2020.