Travel tale #5: A West African adventure

On my journey through Benin, Togo and Côte d’Ivoire

At the graffiti wall. Benin, May 2024.

How ironic it was to fly from Paris to Cotonou, in order to explore three countries that I had grown up next to, that I could have been driven to from Lagos: Benin, Togo and Côte d’Ivoire. This trip was a stubborn insistence on joy, as I gritted my teeth through a fraught planning process; as I smiled when my colleagues wondered at the choice of my holiday destinations; as I unclenched my grasp from companions that let me down. And yet, I was proved right, revelling in the beauty and truth that each place offered. There, I was taken by all the things that were familiar. I had dodo by a different name (alloco); eba by a different name (piron); zobo by a different name (bissap). There, I drove down roads that could have been in Lagos, with the hawkers and street-side stalls and the umbrella-clad shops for selling credit. There, I recalled the lines that had been drawn between us. And still, I recognised all that was new, the many ways in which these places carried cultures, context, challenges that were uniquely theirs.

In Benin, a hairdresser who did my braids spoke Yoruba, with a different lilt than in Nigeria, telling me that perhaps her ancestors had come from there. I was most taken by the women of this country. Like the legacy of the Agojie — powerful female warriors who gripped their guns and machetes, who were immortalised by a majestic metallic sculpture poised for battle at Place de l’Amazone. I was told by someone that perhaps I could have been Agojie, and I knew that it was a compliment. Here, I saw women driving “motos”. I saw women rowing boats across long distances in Ganvié, a floating village which reminded me of Makoko — another place with whole homes, whole lives, built on stilts. I was inspired by this place, a solar-powered community with restaurants, hotels, schools and churches, balanced on a lake. I was inspired by art also, as I walked down the graffiti wall in Cotonou, taking in how this long stretch of space was given over to the interpretation of different artists; and how they told vibrant stories of black beauty, black industry, family life, food, and the future. In Ouidah, I was confronted by “vodun”, more powerful, more present, more celebrated here than it was in Nigeria, with temples and snakes and forests that tourists could visit, with festivals where foreign musicians performed. It forced me to think of the clash between modern religion and traditional legacy; to ask myself what should be abandoned and what should be preserved. In Abomey, I saw cows graze in the palace of a former king, and remembered again how time transforms things.

In Togo, I went to the museum, learning about how power settled itself in this country, with Germany, with France, with the President that didn’t want to leave. I loved all the colourful tiled murals on the walls of Lomé. Here was another city that used art to render itself more beautiful. I spent time in beach resorts, watching the waves and sunsets from an easy distance. I walked towards the ocean, lined by tall palm trees, being drawn to a point where men stood in a long row, pulling their weight behind a rope, moving in harmony to bring forth a fishing net. I went on a road trip to Kpalimé, indulging in snacks that reminded me of home (milo cubes, fan yogo, burger peanuts, coconut biscuits); snacks that reminded me of traffic-laden journeys after school was out in Lagos. There, the driver drove up Mount Agou, winding up steep paths that overlooked rich vegetation, green as far as the eye could see. This driver revealed too much — his business plans, his beliefs, the cost of things, or even that he’d briefly fallen asleep while driving me, and as always, I was grateful to have been protected, spared yet again. We went to Château Viale, a sprawling property overlooking the hills, once home to a Frenchman and then a Togolese president. It was stripped of its former grandeur, with exposed brick walls and window frames that revealed greenery. I went to a waterfall, getting in though the circumstances weren’t right that day, knowing that I would regret it if I didn’t enter, if I didn’t submerge myself in the cold, fresh water, if I didn’t get as close as I could to its source without being pulled under.

Côte d’Ivoire made me want to move to Abidjan, which felt like Lagos, another thriving city, but with more nature and less people. The legacy of the country’s victory in AFCON was strongly seen and heard, in the art and the music, even months after. This was one aspect that reminded me of the potential of stronger connection across the continent. I saw so much art— in this sense, it was like Lagos, with many galleries in different points of the city. But even in this, there were differences, in how most of these spaces were not owned by the locals; in how the white visitors were engaged with differently than me. I was proud to discover the artists, the places, that promoted home-grown beauty, like Amani, or Bushman Café. At Bushman, I sat at the plant-filled rooftop and savoured poulet fumé and alloco served on a leaf-layered platter, my best meal of the trip. There, I walked the corridors and took in the art, the charm, sipping on the chocolate drink I had been offered. In Abidjan, I noticed the presence of the French, not just in the language, but in the people, in the brands that were the same as in Paris. I also noticed the presence of nature. I saw palm trees which were plentiful, sturdy, and flourishing. I saw bats flying over the Plateau, cloaking the skies in their thousands as they searched for a collective something on the other side. I saw other people fail to look up at this wonder, because it happened every night here — this strange miracle of nature. I went to Assinie, where I sat in a pool, which overlooked the ocean, which in turn overlooked the dense trees on the other side. I got in a blue wooden boat, staring at holiday homes that showed comfortable wealth. In other places, I saw the reality. Like sailing past slums on the way to a resort, or walking through the struggling Abobo community to get to a gallery. In both cases, I felt exposed by my privilege, sensing the disconnect there. I went to mass on my last day of the trip, and it reminded me of Lagos — with African instruments infused into this form of worship. I hugged a grandmother in Abidjan, and it reminded me of home — with blessings and prayers infused into this form of affection.

I left these countries knowing that I would need to return, to examine them more closely, more deeply, to experience again the beauty, the joy, the wonder that I felt, and this time, on my own terms.  

Prompt:

Have you travelled somewhere new that reminded you of home? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.