Dancing Zangbetos of Benin
“You do know it’s real, don’t you?” he said, apparently with the utmost sincerity. “It’s Voudoun, it’s magic”. We weren’t sure whether to laugh or nod seriously, but settled on a nervous smile as we reflected on a particularly bizarre encounter.
We were chatting with Herman, our Beninese guide who’d taken us to witness a Zangbeto dancing ritual. Zangbetos are the traditional ‘night-watchmen’ or policemen of the Ogo peoples of Nigeria, Togo and Benin – vigilante voodoo spirits that patrol the streets to hunt down and mete out justice to anyone casting evil spells or harming the innocent. They manifest themselves in colourful costumes that look like giant haystacks. Nowadays their law enforcement duties are supplemented by entertainment for those willing to pay to see them, but like all voodoo practices, everything is taken very seriously and is not to be messed with.
An hour before we’d been led into the Zangbeto enclosure, a small field acting as the ‘dance floor’ faced by a concrete pen with a worrying notice – ‘Interdit – danger du mort’ – and with a colourful daub of something resembling Captain Caveman smoking a long pipe.
The Zangbeto pen
There were no introductions or explanations. We were seated at a table full of voodoo fetishes and the ubiquitous bottle of Bony’s dry gin (we’d encountered that particular delight in our own voodoo ceremony in Togo a few days before). Then a rustling of straw, some clattering, a strange incomprehensible squeaking noise and out from the pen waddled our first Zangbeto, a green and purple stack of rafia topped with a porch and wearing a rather fetching frilly bonnet. A piece of cloth attached to his back told us this was ‘Zinguidi’. Swishing his way towards the centre of the enclosure, Zinguidi picked up speed. He was followed by a sprightly young lad who was acting as an intermediary between the spirit world and ours. Musicians appeared out of nowhere and struck up a rhythmic, pounding drum beat.
Through either encouragement or goading, or both, the intermediary quickly whipped-up Zinguidi into a veritable frenzy, yelling and waving at him as the Zangbeto spun around madly, wheeling from one end of the enclosure to the other and back again at alarming speed. He careered towards us, he knocked fetishes off the table, he careered off the other way again, all the while being harried by his manic handler. He stopped at one point and just spun around on the spot. Then he shot off again. This went on for a good five minutes. It was unclear exactly why. It was however, most impressive.
Zinguidi being put through his paces
Clearly somewhat knackered from his exertions, Zuiguidi then decided he’d had enough for the time being and slowly wandered off into the next door village and stopped for a chat with a few of the locals. Whilst he was relaxing, out sashayed our next Zangbeto, ‘Noussovi’, a slightly smaller and very pink ball of hay. Rather than a porch, Noussovi sported a bull’s horn helmet and some coquettish braided pigtails. After his own exhausting ten minute display of revolving prowess, Noussovi also retired for a rest. Another Zangbeto then emerged from the pen and the same dance was repeated.
Cup of tea would be nice….
Noussovi in action
Where’s that gin….
This latest dancer, after performing a varied repertoire of hip sways, plopping up and down and mad dashes for the corner, turned out to be the real star of the show as he / it (we were unable to sex this one) was used to demonstrate the true mystery and power of the Zangbeto.
The voodoo priest in charge of the whole proceedings, until now hidden in the concrete pen, suddenly emerged and corralled the haystack into the centre of the enclosure. He took a hefty swig from the Bony’s gin, muttered something and gently patted at the hay as if attempting to pacify an angry beast. Then he grabbed the bottom of the haystack and flipped it over on its side. We were amazed to see absolutely nothing inside – all we could make out was the thin inside framework of the Zangbeto’s body…..
Nobody home…..
There was, however, a small statue on the ground at the centre of the space. The priest picked it up, dusted it off and brought it over to us at the fetish table to inspect. We held it in our hands. It vibrated ominously.
“It’s the spirit. It’s in here. It’s what makes it work”, he said. We weren’t sure whether he meant the manifestation of a divine voodoo presence or the gin, but we let it go.
Returning the vibrating statue to whence it was found, he flipped the stack back down and in less than five seconds the Zangbeto was off again, whizzing enthusiastically with a new lease of life.
In the course of the next hour, both Noussovi and a resurgent Zinguidi rejoined the party and entertained us with their energetic whirls & swirls. On another two occasions we were left spellbound by the flipping over ceremony – each time with a new manifestation to behold. The next object apparently in control of proceedings was a small, live and perfectly contented tortoise. The one after that was a statue with a massive orange penis.
Luckily, the latter was not brought for inspection but remained in situ in the centre of the enclosure. Luckily, as I was feeling comparatively inadequate even at that distance. Instead the priest showered the idol with incantations and a rain of fine gin mist he managed to produce from his pursed lips.
This’ll cool your ardour….
Zinguidi was selected to round off the occasion. Translated though the intermediary, he squeaked that he’d appreciate a token payment for his efforts. We obliged and as the paper note was tied like a bow in Zinguidi’s hair, we thanked them all for an entertaining and enlightening few hours. Whilst the former was true, the latter couldn’t be further from the truth – like all voodoo ceremonies we attended the meaning of it all remained totally opaque to us.
Zinguidi thanks us all for coming
“It was definitely ‘magical’ ”, I conceded to Herman, as we strode over to the spot where the up-ending had occurred. There was no sign of anything, no concealed trapdoor, no hollow echo as we placed our feet heavily on the ground. Was it really the orange willy fetish managing the choregraphy? Was it the wee tortoise projecting his power? We were both bemused and amused in equal measure.
We still don’t know what really occurred, but then I guess we weren’t supposed to. If the point was to leave us in awe at the ‘mystery’ of the experience then it very much succeeded.
Our overriding memory though, was of Hermans’s face when we asked if he’d go into the pen and thank the other Zangbetos on our behalf. “No, no”, he said, visibly aghast, “it would be certain death.”
Simon (23rd November 2023)
Such a funny story
Cheers Zo!