By Ephraim Agbo
A profound question hangs in the air for millions of people of African descent across the Americas: if your ancestors were stolen from a land, sold into bondage, and subjected to centuries of brutality, what would it mean to reconnect with that place?
The West African nation of Benin is now asking that very question, and its answer is both ambitious and unprecedented. In September 2024, the government passed Law No. 2024-31 granting citizenship to descendants of those taken from its shores or region during the transatlantic slave trade. This initiative isn’t happening in a vacuum; it is being championed by high-profile figures like American singer Ciara, one of the first to receive citizenship under the new law. Meanwhile, filmmakers Spike Lee and Tonya Lewis Lee were appointed as thematic ambassadors to the African-American diaspora.
But can a legal passport and a symbolic homecoming truly begin to mend a fracture that is centuries deep? To understand the promise of this move, we must first look back at the layered and painful history that made it necessary.
Confronting a Contested History
The story of the transatlantic slave trade is often told as a European atrocity — and rightly so. From the 16th through the 19th century, around 12 million Africans were embarked across the Atlantic; of those, approximately 10.7–10.8 million survived to disembark in the Americas. The largest share of these arrivals went to Brazil and the Caribbean; only a small fraction (about 4 %) landed in what is now the United States. (This nuance matters.)
However, the story at Africa’s coastlines was more complex. The coastline of modern-day Benin, especially the port of Ouidah (the “Point of No Return”) was a key hub. Historians estimate that some 1.5 million enslaved Africans were deported from the Bight of Benin region (which includes present-day Benin, Togo and part of Nigeria). Much of this trade was enabled by the powerful Kingdom of Dahomey: well-trained armies, slave-raiding, and political control all contributed to a system in which captives became saleable commodities.
The consequences for West Africa were catastrophic. The mass export of young, healthy populations, the redirection of labour, the rise of warfare and raiding as economic activity — all left the region destabilised and vulnerable, setting the stage for subsequent colonial subjugation and underdevelopment. This legacy leaves a difficult inheritance for Benin: it is a land that was both victim of the trade and in some form a participant in it.
The Unhealed Wounds and the Failed First Attempt
The end of the slave trade did not produce immediate healing. Beginning in the 19th century, some formerly enslaved Africans returned to the continent (for instance from Brazil), but their homecoming was fraught. They brought new customs, languages, ideas — and themselves sometimes became intermediaries in local power structures, re-reinforcing social divides.
In the 1990s and 2000s, Benin attempted to reconvene a national narrative by promoting cultural tourism (e.g., the annual Vodun Festival) and heritage routes centered on the slave-trade past. While this boosted tourism, some commentators argue it functioned more as an economic bandage rather than a real confrontation of historical culpability and intra-community divisions.
The New Strategy: Accountability, Talent and “Educated Entrepreneurship”
The law of September 2024 (Law 2024-31) represents a strategic evolution. It moves beyond tourism to a more structural offer: belonging. This is not simply symbolic; it is a calculated effort to attract diaspora capital, skills and networks.
Under the scheme, any person over 18 who does not hold another African citizenship and can prove their lineage to a sub-Saharan African ancestor deported during the slave trade may apply. Proof may include civil status documents, authenticated witness testimony, or a DNA test recognised by the Republic of Benin. The government launched the digital platform My Afro Origins in July 2025 to accept applications.
For Benin, the calculus is clear: by formally inviting the diaspora home, the country hopes to leverage brain-power, investment, global networks — and create new engines of growth domestically. For example, Professor Leonard Wantchékon, a Benin-born scholar and founder of the African School of Economics, notes the country’s potential for eco-tourism, historical tourism, and educated entrepreneurship. He argues the key lies not in mere consumption of culture, but in productive engagement of diaspora talent.
The Human Dimension: Reconciliation and “An Incredibly Empowering Feeling”
Ultimately, the success of this initiative will not be measured purely in economic metrics—but in human healing. That’s where ambassadors such as Tonya Lewis Lee become significant. In an interview she acknowledges the pain and anger that a homecoming can stir: “I did go through a process of feeling angry … How could my Ghanaian ancestors ship us off like that?” This kind of honesty matters.
For Lewis Lee—and others—the opportunity is to shift the narrative: yes, the ancestors were enslaved, yes local actors participated in the trade, but here is a chance to build something beyond guilt: a shared future of agency, mutual respect and co-creation. She observes that Benin is not simply inviting a tourist return, but an honest reckoning: “They were heavily involved in the slave trade, and now they really want to reconcile that history … to tell the story of what reconciliation looks like hundreds of years later.”
Standing on the coast of Benin, looking over the same ocean her ancestors crossed in chains, she did not feel only sorrow. She felt power. “I said to myself, ‘Wow. We survived. We thrived. And we came back.’ … That is an incredibly empowering feeling, much more so than thinking about what was done to us in the past. We’ve come back, and we continue to thrive. And I know my ancestors are smiling.”
Conclusion: A Bridge Across the Atlantic
So, can Benin “win back” its diaspora? The answer is complex. There are real risks: the economic returns might be slower than hoped, social divisions may deepen if diaspora influx exacerbates local inequalities, and the emotional weight of history cannot simply be undone by a passport.
Yet the initiative is one of the most ambitious and poignant attempts at historical reconciliation in the modern world. The country is offering more than access to citizenship; it is offering a chance to co-author a new chapter—one of shared heritage, acknowledged pain, and collective, thriving futures.
When we think about healing such centuries-long fractures, perhaps the symbolic step of crossing the ocean, returning to a land once torn from you, might matter as much as the economic one. If successful, Benin’s move may become a model — not just of heritage tourism, but of restitution, belonging and mobilised diaspora power.
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