Audience with the King of Dahomey (today’s Benin)
It seems that securing an audience with the King of Dahomey isn’t so difficult. His Highness is known to be approachable and open-minded, both with his subjects and with visitors.
It doesn’t seem particularly difficult to be granted an audience with the King of Dahomey. His Highness is known to be accessible and open-minded, both with his subjects and visitors alike. He’s not aloof; during the audience, the King of Dahomey is open to discussing any topic, though nobility and monarchy are his favorites. Our conversation—or rather, the audience—was introduced by his private secretary. The royal palace faces the main street, with an ancient, sprawling tree in front and, to the side, a less regal execution block. I couldn’t find out when it was last used, but it must have been before the Russian presence, when the monarchists were swiftly dismissed, thrust into exile, secrecy, and eventual oblivion.
A portico leads to the first courtyard of the royal palace, where guards, Amazons, and dancers are trained.
The entrance, framed by the portico, is guarded by two invisible sentries who only materialize when someone approaches. The secretary mentions this very seriously, and I’m not sure if he’s joking or if he genuinely believes it. At the gate to the second courtyard, Amazons once stood watch. They used to be numerous, tasked with safeguarding the sovereign. After passing through this second gateway, I was ushered into the ceremonial courtyard. Until now, there was little evidence of luxury or grandeur: packed earth, sand, mud walls, and a few simple designs on the walls. Ahead of me was a rectangular building with a central hall entirely open to the courtyard. This was the audience hall, and here the ex-sovereign awaited me. I felt a bit awkward; after all, he was the first monarch I had ever met.
During the audience with the King of Dahomey, His Highness Gbehanzin Houedogni sat at the center of the throne hall.
The “throne” was a well-worn faux-leather armchair from the 1970s (a retro piece, one might say). He wore a colorful traditional outfit, topped with a classic cap, and held a wooden scepter in hand. To his left sat his wife, the Amazons, and the princesses, though they were more sprawled on the floor than seated. On his right were the princes, some even lying down, a few already asleep. All wore expressions akin to zoo bears during a particularly humid summer—indifferent to everything happening beyond the bars. Here, instead of bars, there was a courtyard, where tourists are admitted for a fee. Occasionally, some are even granted an audience.
We talked about a bit of everything.
I obliged him on the subject of monarchy. He spoke of Cavour and Mussolini: “He was Italian, wasn’t he?” Of course, I assured him. He also mentioned a visit from the Italian ambassador to Accra, Massimo Baistrocchi, and his charming wife. Massimo and Adriana, friends from Florence and Ghana, had certainly left an impression.
I sat on the guests’ bench.
I engaged respectfully with His Highness, observing this ramshackle court forced to sell itself for a couple of dollars per visitor (the admission price for the royal palace). No longer wealthy, perhaps no longer respected. Adrift from the modern world, floating in an illusory realm where people have far more pressing concerns. His Highness is educated, with a university degree, a former army officer and colonel, but he doesn’t work. His role is to uphold tradition. He manages “The Firm,” as Queen Elizabeth might call it—a different world, a different story (and a different budget).
After the audience, the King of Dahomey graciously thanks me for my visit and invites me to continue the “palace” tour.
Bare walls surround me; in one corner, there’s a slightly worn litter—the only object aside from the PVC throne and a mat for the court.
The farewell.
I hadn’t yet finished the visit when His Highness decided to return to his private quarters. He moved majestically, frowning, across the dusty courtyard. An Amazon shaded him from the sun with an elegant, brightly colored pink-and-orange parasol, followed by the rest of the court. The small, subdued procession reached the gate and vanished, lost in the sleepy indifference of those around. For a moment, I wondered if I had dreamt it, but the secretary brought me back to reality. It’s true: clothes don’t make the king (or the monk). I thought of our own royal hopefuls and found Monsieur Houedogni infinitely more dignified and regal. African paradoxes.
