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7.45 pm. Heading home from Avlo. Utter darkness. We walk for about 50 minutes through the village dirt tracks and along the main beach road in search of a zem. Nothing.

Mr Addra asks if I’d mind getting on the back of a tricycle. He has a friend who owns one further up the road who he’d ask to give us a ride. We stride purposefully in the direction of his friend’s house, where we encounter a woman with a basket of fresh fish, the day’s catch, and a man with a hoe standing outside, waiting, hoping Mr Addra’s friend will emerge from his home and shuttle us all to the town.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Our equipment is becoming heavier by the second. After half an hour, we perch on the edge of a well, take the weight off our feet, the load off our backs. “I just went to the house to call him,” Mr Addra says, seeking to reassure us. “He says he just got home from work. He’ll come soon.”

Forty-five minutes later, the tricycle owner emerges, singing raucous songs of work and play that disturb the relative peace of the village night as he loads his passenger’s assortment of goods onto the tricycle.

We thank Mr Addra and wish him good night, journeying home safe in the knowledge that patience is not only a virtue, it’s a necessity, as is the kindness of strangers who soon become friends.

Video by Ernest Ankomah.

The first stop on Mr Addra’s tour of his ancestral village was his aunt’s house, about a five-minute walk from his own. Kougbla Agninssi, an estimated 86 years old and physically strong, despite first appearances, was sitting alone on a bench in her compound when we arrived at her door, peacefully passing the time, the image of serenity. Mr Addra explained to her that we had come by to say hello, and she looked at us curiously before inviting us to sit down. Though she wasn’t expecting us, she received us well.  

Mr Addra didn’t think his aunt, his father’s sister, would have much to contribute to the project. “She’s too old,” he said. “She doesn’t remember much.” But we insisted that, if she was willing to talk, we were eager to listen. She said yes, and we sat down beside her and began the process. 

Our conversation lasted about an hour and, in her native tongue, Mina, Madame Agninssi had a lot to say – about her childhood and family life in pre-independence Benin, about Avlo, the village she was born in and never really left, and about her husband and her five children, most of whom are now deceased.

Mr Addra was surprised at his aunt’s articulacy and desire to tell her story. I wasn’t. I’ve met many women in villages, towns, and cities across the region, who were more than willing and able to tell their story, but who’ve never been asked. Kougbla Agninssi had something to say. All we had to do was ask. 

Pictured above: (L-R) Seth Avusuglo, my Mina (Ewe) to English translator, Kougbla Agninssi, and me, Sylvia Arthur | Avlo, Benin | 11.01.23 | Images by Ernest Ankomah

Sylvia Arthur, Kougbla Agninssi, and Mr Addra | Image by Ernest Ankomah