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The Benin Bronzes, some of Africa’s greatest treasures, werelooted in 1897. After a chance encounter, two men made it theirmission to return them.
By Alex Marshall
Published Jan. 23, 2020 Updated Jan. 27, 2020
In 2004, Steve Dunstone and Timothy Awoyemi stood on a boat on
the bank of the River Niger.
The two middle-aged men, both police officers in Britain, were
taking part in a journey through Nigeria, organized through the
Police Expedition Society, and had reached the small town of
Agenebode, in the country’s south. Their group brought gifts with
them from British schoolchildren, including books and supplies.
The local schools had been alerted in advance, and a crowd came
down to the river banks to meet them; there was even a dance
performance.
It was a wonderful — if slightly overwhelming — welcome, Mr.
Dunstone recalled.
In the back of the crowd, Mr. Awoyemi, who was born in Britain
and grew up in Nigeria, noticed two men holding what looked like
political placards. They didn’t come forward, he said. But just as
the boat was about to push off, one of the men suddenly clambered
down toward it.
“He had a mustache, scruffy stubble, about 38 to 40, thin build,” Mr.
Dunstone recalled recently. “He was wearing a white vest,” he
added.
The man reached out his arm across the water and handed Mr.
Dunstone a note, then hurried off with barely a word.
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That night, Mr. Dunstone pulled the note from his pocket. Written
on it were just six words: “Please help return the Benin Bronzes.”
At the time, he didn’t know what it meant. But that note was the
beginning of a 10-year mission that would take Mr. Dunstone and
Mr. Awoyemi from Nigeria to Britain and back again, involve the
grandson of one of the British soldiers responsible for the looting,
and see the pair embroiled in a debate about how to right the
wrongs of the colonial past that has drawn in politicians, diplomats,
historians and even a royal family.
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By the end, Mr. Dunstone and Mr. Awoyemi would have done more
to return looted art to Nigeria — with two small artifacts — than
some of the world’s leading museums, where the debate over the
right of return continues.
World Treasures
The Benin Bronzes are not actually from the country of Benin;
they come from the ancient Kingdom of Benin, now in southern
Nigeria.
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They’re also not made from bronze. The various artifacts we call
the Benin Bronzes include carved elephant tusks and ivory leopard
statues, even wooden heads. The most famous items are 900 brass
plaques, dating mainly from the 16th and 17th centuries, once
nailed to pillars in Benin’s royal palace.
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There are at least 3,000 items scattered worldwide, maybe
thousands more. No one’s entirely sure.
You can find Benin Bronzes in many of the West’s great museums,
including the British Museum in London and the Metropolitan
Museum of Art in New York. They’re in smaller museums, too. The
Lehman, Rockefeller, Ford and de Rothschild families have owned
some. So did Pablo Picasso.
Their importance was appreciated in Europe from the moment
they were first seen there in 1890s. Curators at the British Museum
compared them at that time with the best of Italian and Greek
sculpture.
Today, the artifacts still leave people dumbstruck. Neil MacGregor,
the British Museum’s former director, has called them “great works
of art” and “triumphs of metal casting.”
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There’s one place, however, where few of the original artifacts are
found: Benin City, where they were made.
That may change. Benin’s royal family and the Nigerian local and
national governments plan to open a museum in Benin City in 2023
with at least 300 Benin Bronzes. Currently the site is a bit of land
that’s little more than a traffic island.
Those pieces will come mainly from the collections of 10 major
European museums, such as the Humboldt Forum in Berlin, the
Weltmuseum in Vienna and the British Museum. They will initially
be on loan for three years, with the possibility to renew. Or, when
those loans run out, other Benin Bronzes could replace them. The
museum could become a rotating display of the kingdom’s art.
This hugely complex initiative — organized through the Benin
Dialogue Group, which first convened in 2010 — is being celebrated
as a chance for people in Nigeria to see part of their cultural
heritage. “I want people to be able to understand their past and see
who we were,” said Godwin Obaseki, governor of Edo State, home
to Benin City, and a key figure in the project.
But is the Benin plan — a new museum filled with loans — a more
practical solution than a full-scale return, long called for by many
Nigerians and by some activists? That probably depends on what
you think about how the Benin Bronzes were obtained in the first
place.
Ill-Gotten Gains
On Jan. 2, 1897, James Phillips, a British official, set out from the
coast of Nigeria to visit the oba, or ruler, of the Kingdom of Benin.
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News reports said he took a handful of colleagues with him, and it’s
assumed he went to persuade the oba to stop interrupting British
trade. (He had written to colonial administrators, asking for
permission to overthrow the oba, but was turned down.)
When Phillips was told the oba couldn’t see him because a religious
festival was taking place, he went anyway.
He didn’t come back.
For the Benin Kingdom, the killing of Phillips and most of his party
had huge repercussions. Within a month, Britain sent 1,200 soldiers
to take revenge.
On Feb. 18, the British Army took Benin City in a violent raid. The
news reports — including in The New York Times — were full of
colonial jubilation. None of the reports mentioned that the British
forces also used the opportunity to loot the city of its artifacts.
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At least one British soldier was “wandering round with a chisel &
hammer, knocking off brass figures & collecting all sorts of rubbish
as loot,” Capt. Herbert Sutherland Walker, a British officer, wrote in
his diary.
“All the stuff of any value found in the King’s palace, & surrounding
houses, has been collected,” he added.
Within months, much of the bounty was in England. The artifacts
were given to museums, or sold at auction, or kept by soldiers for
their mantelpieces. Four items — including two ivory leopards —
were given to Queen Victoria. Soon, many artifacts ended up
elsewhere in Europe, and in the United States, too.
“We were once a mighty empire,” said Charles Omorodion, 62, an
accountant who grew up in Benin City but now lives in Britain and
has worked to get the pieces returned from British museums.
“There were stories told about who we were, and these objects
showed our strength, our identity,” he said.
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He said that seeing the Benin Bronzes in the world’s museums
filled him with pride, as they showed visitors how great the Benin
Kingdom had been. But, he added, he also felt frustration,
bitterness and anger about their being kept outside his country.
“It’s not just they were stolen,” he said, “it’s that you can see them
being displayed and sold at a price.”
Insult to Injury
Benin City has been calling for the return of its artifacts for
decades. But a key moment came in the 1970s when the organizers
of a major festival of black art and culture in Lagos, Nigeria, asked
the British Museum for one prized item: a 16th-century ivory mask
of a famous oba’s mother.
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2020
This Art Was Looted 123 YearsAgo. Will It Ever Be Returned?
184
A display of Benin Bronzes at the British Museum in London. The artifacts were looted by British troops in the 19th century and arenow scattered worldwide. Lauren Fleishman for The New York Times
N I G E RC H A D
N I G E R I AB E N I N
Niger R.
E D O
LagosBenin City
C A M E R O O N
2 0 0 M I L E S
A series of brass plaques are the most famous of the items known as the Benin Bronzes, but the lootedhoard also includes items made from wood and ivory. Lauren Fleishman for The New York Times
A pendant mask at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. Items from the Benin Bronzes are in majormuseums and private collections. Andrea Mohin/The New York Times
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Carved tusks in Benin City, taken as loot by the British in 1897, according to Capt. Herbert SutherlandWalker’s diary. Capt. Herbert Sutherland Walker, via Mark Walker
Rows of artifacts taken in the raid. Prior to being stolen, the artifacts were used in altar displays torepresent departed people like obas or queen mothers. Capt. Herbert Sutherland Walker, via Mark Walker
Officers from the British raid pose in Benin City in 1897, with some of the bronzes in the background.Captain Walker can be seen in the back row, second from the right. Capt. Herbert Sutherland Walker, viaMark Walker
Piles of ceremonial tusks taken by the British in Benin City in 1897, according to Captain Walker, whowrote the caption “more loot” below the photo in his diary. Capt. Herbert Sutherland Walker, via Mark Walker
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They wanted to borrow the work, to serve as the centerpiece of the
1977 event, but the British Museum said it was too fragile to travel.
Nigeria’s news media told a different story, reporting that the
British government had asked for $3 million insurance, a cost so
high it was seen as a slap in the face.
That incident is still fresh in some Nigerians’ minds, more than 40
years later. At a recent meeting of the Benin Union of the United
Kingdom, an expatriate group that meets at a church in south
London, several members brought up versions of the festival
incident when asked about the Benin Bronzes. Then they started
criticizing British museums, which they said never seemed willing
to return stolen items, despite repeated requests.
“I wouldn’t go there,” said Julie Omoregie, 61, when asked if she’d
ever been to the British Museum, a half-hour away by subway, to
see the mask. It was “an insult” that it was in the museum, she
said. When she was a child, she recalled, her father would sing her
a song about the raid, and she would cry every time. “It is time for
them to give us back what they took from us,” she said.
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David Omoregie, 64, another member of the group, said “The
British are very good at telling you, ‘We are looking after it. If you’d
been looking after it, it would have been stolen by now.’”
He agreed with that once, he said, but he didn’t anymore: “You can
leave your car to rot outside your drive; at least it’s your car,” he
added.
Some pieces stolen in the raid have gone back to Nigeria from
institutions. In the 1950s, the British Museum sold several plaques
to Nigeria for a planned museum in Lagos, for instance, and sold
others on the open market. But those were not the free, full-scale
returns people call for now.
Pressure for those types of returns has grown recently. In 2016,
students at Jesus College, part of Cambridge University,
campaigned to have a statue of a cockerel removed from the hall
where it had been displayed for years. Last November, the college
announced that the cockerel must be returned. (It has yet to say
when or how.)
In the United States too, students have protested the presence of a
Benin Bronze at the Rhode Island School of Design Museum. The
museum has said it is looking to return the item, but was
struggling to find out whom to actually work with: the Nigerian
government, the Benin royal family or others.
But nothing has publicly gone back to Nigeria in decades, except,
that is, for two small items. And, that’s thanks, at least in part, to
Mr. Awoyemi and Mr. Dunstone.
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Heading Back
When Mr. Dunstone got back to England from Nigeria, he couldn’t
shake that note from his mind: “Please help return the Benin
Bronzes.”
He didn’t even know what they were, he recalled recently, but Mr.
Awoyemi did — he’d learned all about them and the 1897 raid as a
teenager in Nigeria — and he filled Mr. Dunstone in.
Mr. Dunstone simply couldn’t understand why Britain still had the
Benin artifacts, he said. That feeling grew one day when he went to
the British Museum to look at its collection. He was blown away by
the 50-odd plaques on display, and more so when a security guard
told him that there were 1,000 more items in the basement. (In fact,
the museum owns around 900 items from Benin, and many are in
storage in another building.)
“We really did steal them,” Mr. Dunstone, now 61, said. “We weren’t
at war, we turned up and hacked them off the walls.”
In 2006, Mr. Dunstone created a web page about the Benin
Bronzes, with Mr. Awoyemi’s input. He added a note at the bottom
of the page asking anyone with information about the whereabouts
of any items to get in touch. The two men, who became friends as
colleagues in the police force protecting the British royal family,
even wrote to the oba in Benin and the Nigerian government,
asking for permission to act as envoys to Britain’s museums to try
and get the artifacts back to Nigeria.
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No one replied, Mr. Awoyemi, 52, said. “We were so passionate,” he
added, “but we were becoming frustrated with the whole thing.”
Mr. Awoyemi and Mr. Dunstone were just about to give up when,
one day, in 2013, an email arrived. It was from a doctor from Wales
named Mark Walker. Mr. Walker said he owned two of the looted
items: a small bird that used to be on top of a staff, and a bell that
had been struck to summon ancestors.
He wanted to give them back.
Mr. Walker, 72, is now retired and spends much of his time sailing.
His grandfather was Captain Walker, who described the looting in
his diary and took the pieces during the 1897 raid. They were once
used as doorstops, Mr. Walker said, but after he inherited them
they sat on a bookshelf, gathering dust. They’d be better off in
Nigeria with the culture that created them, he said.
“My view is the British Museum should use modern technology to
make perfect casts of its whole collection and send it all back,” he
said recently. “You wouldn’t know the difference.”
At first, Mr. Walker didn’t want to go to Nigeria, afraid, Mr.
Awoyemi said, that he might be prosecuted for having had them at
all. But Mr. Awoyemi and Mr. Dunstone convinced him that the
publicity from such a bold move could lead others to return items.
The Nigerian Embassy in London agreed to sponsor the trip, but
pulled out when Mr. Walker insisted the items had to be returned
directly to Benin City and the current oba, rather than to Nigeria’s
president, Mr. Awoyemi said.
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So Mr. Dunstone and Mr. Awoyemi mounted an amateur public
relations campaign, securing appearances for themselves on radio
and TV, to help raise the funds and show the royal court in Benin
City that they were serious.
It worked.
In June 2014, Mr. Walker, Mr. Dunstone and Mr. Awoyemi headed
to Benin City to return the artifacts to the oba.
The ceremony at the oba’s palace was as overwhelming as the
welcome on the river bank that had begun the whole journey, Mr.
Dunstone said. It was filled with so many dignitaries and
journalists, there was initially no room for him.
Mr. Walker said he handed over the objects quickly, without fuss. In
return, the oba gave him, just as calmly, a tray of gifts, including a
modern sculpture of a leopard head’s that weighed about 20
pounds.
“I was horrified,” Mr. Walker said. “I’d gone all that way to get rid
of stuff, not get more.”
Where Next?
If there aren’t more individuals like Mr. Walker on the horizon,
looking to give unwanted artifacts back, is the new museum full of
items on loan the best Benin City can hope for?
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Maybe.
Nigerian government officials have played down the need for items
to be permanently returned. Mr. Obaseki, the state governor, said
at a news conference at the British Museum last year: “These
works are ambassadors. They represent who we are, and we feel
we should take advantage of them to create a connection with the
world.” His message: Nigeria wants them on display in the world’s
museums, not just in Benin City.
Some museums do appear open to returning looted objects
permanently, rather than lending them. Last March, the National
Museum of World Cultures in the Netherlands launched a policy to
consider claims for cultural objects acquired during colonial times.
Nigeria could claim the museum’s 170 or so artifacts from Benin
City under the policy, if it proves that the items had been
“involuntarily separated” from their rightful owners, or that the
items are of such value to Nigeria that it “outweighs all benefits of
retention by the national collection in the Netherlands.”
German museums have agreed to a similar policy.
Given how many Benin Bronzes are in Western museums, it seems
likely some requests made under those policies would be accepted.
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Until the museum in Benin City is built, however, nothing is likely
to be returned permanently unless it is done by individuals. No one
has a firm idea how many looted items are in private hands, but
they used to regularly come up at auction. (The record price, set in
2016, is well over $4 million.)
Mr. Dunstone said he had hoped that dozens of people would have
come forward with items to return by now. The ceremony in 2014
received a flurry of media attention, and he went back to England
expecting new Mr. Walkers to appear.
It didn’t happen. He got one email from a man in South Africa who
claimed to have fished a Benin Bronze out of a river. He was willing
to mail it to Mr. Dunstone for $2,500.
Mr. Dunstone, ever the police officer, suspected a scam and didn’t
write back.
“I’m less proactive now,” he said. “But my heart’s still open.”
Mr. Awoyemi said he was disappointed, too, that no one came
forward, but was excited by the museum plan. He was even willing
to help with security, he said, if the oba would let him.
Mr. Walker can’t put the Benin Bronzes behind him, either. A few
months ago, he was looking online at Benin Bronzes held by the
Horniman Museum in London and came across an intricately
carved wooden paddle. It was almost identical to two he had in his
home, which he thought his parents had bought on vacation.
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Then he realized his grandfather must have looted them from
Benin City, too.
In December, he lent the paddles to the Pitt Rivers Museum in
Oxford — a member of the Benin Dialogue Group — with one
condition: They had to be returned to Benin City within three
years.
He wasn’t going to be getting on a plane with Mr. Dunstone and Mr.
Awoyemi this time. “It would be harder to get two six-foot paddles
through customs,” he said. He also didn’t want his motives
questioned. He wasn’t returning the items for glory, he said: They
should just go back. It’s the right thing to do.
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A carved ivory mask, worn by the oba, or ruler, of Benin during ceremonies, now in the collection of theBritish Museum. Lauren Fleishman for The New York Times
Steve Dunstone at the British Museum in December. Before he traveled to Nigeria in2004, he had never heard of the Benin Bronzes. Tom Jamieson for The New York Times
Timothy Awoyemi was born in Britain and grew up in Nigeria. He remembered learningabout the Benin Bronzes in school. Tom Jamieson for The New York Times
Prince Edun Akenzua, left, and Mark Walker in 2014, at a ceremony in Benin City to return twoartifacts. Kelvin Ikpea/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images
An undated, carved elephant tusk from Benin, held in the collection of the British Museum. Suzanne Plunkettfor The New York Times
An archivist’s note, written when the tusk was taken into the British Museum collection in 1897. It says thetusk came from “Expedition 1897” in Benin City. Suzanne Plunkett for The New York Times
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