Assemblage, Occlusion,
and the Art of Survival in the
Black Atlantic
Matthew Francis Rarey
An archival abscess subtly warps the pages
of a manuscript held at the Torre do Tombo
National Archive in Lisbon, Portugal (Feige. 1).
In 1704, agents of the Portuguese Inquisition
sewed this object into the binding of the trial
papers of Jacques Viegas, an enslaved “natural
of Ouidah” about twenty years old.1 Jacques had entered the Holy
Office in June of that year, desperate to confess the sins that bur-
dened him. Reaching into the cuff of his pant leg, he removed this
small green fabric pouch and held it up for inquisitors to see.2 It was
because of this object, he stated, that demons attacked him, grab-
bing his limbs as he slept. Over the next four months, inquisitors
interrogated Jacques about the object’s origins, construction, Und
use. Jacques explained that he acquired it from Manoel, another
black man in Lisbon, who manufactured pouches that could pro-
tect their wearers from knife wounds, gunshots, and malevolent
forces. Through an opened seam in the side, one can still glimpse
the pouch’s contents: black hairs, seeds, cotton, and a folded piece
of paper (Feige. 2). Manoel always filled his pouches with such
empowered substances, later activating their potential through
ritual incantations. The secrecy of their manufacture, Jedoch,
contrasted to the spectacular public performances that confirmed
their efficacy. In one case, Manoel put on one of his pouches and
plunged a sword into his chest “with great force; but it did not hurt
him, only bending the sword.”3 This proved to Jacques that it was
no ordinary object: It was mandinga. To inquisitors, this term con-
firmed Jacques’s pact with the Devil. And so they sentenced him to
an auto-da-fé, a public flogging, and three years of exile to south-
ern Portugal.4 But while Jacques would never return to Lisbon, Das
object remains there, preserved inside the decaying pages used to
imprison it and its owner.
Matthew Francis Rarey is an assistant professor of the arts of Afri-
ca and the black Atlantic at Oberlin College. He received his PhD from
the Department of Art History at the University of Wisconsin-Mad-
ison. His current book project analyzes bolsas de mandinga through
the lenses of black Atlantic art history and the visual culture of en-
slavement. mrarey@oberlin.edu
20 | african arts WINTER 2018 VOL. 51, NEIN. 4
Between the mid-seventeenth and late eighteenth centuries,
apotropaic objects called mandingas circulated in places like
Madeira, Cape Verde, Brasilien, Angola, and Portugal. These diverse
regions were bound together by the governance of the Portuguese
Empire and the movements of African ideas generated through
the transatlantic slave trade, a system of transcultural destruc-
tionen, flows, and reinventions scholars have come to call the black
Atlantic world (Gilroy 1993; Matory 2005). Almost all informa-
tion about these objects, including the only extant mandingas
from this period, survives in the trial records of the Portuguese
Inquisition.5 While these documents emerge from Inquisitorial
efforts to both suppress and demonize the practice, Inquisitorial
records also position mandingas as rich, and heretofore largely
unexamined, archives of Africans’ experiences in the early mod-
ern black Atlantic.
For art historians, mandingas’ forms and uses present a series of
definitional problems. Strictly speaking, mandinga described not
an object’s form, but its function. While mandingas commonly
protected their owners from violence, some could intervene in
sexual and romantic relationships, or even allow enslaved per-
sons to escape the oversight of their masters.6 And while their
forms could vary widely, a mandinga was most often a fabric
pouch (bolsa) into which empowering substances were placed.
Used across all racial and social classes, these bolsas de mandinga
were primarily produced and disseminated by enslaved Africans
whose biographies crossed central and western Africa, Brasilien,
and often Portugal; Africans who—like the objects they made
and disseminated along the way—spent their lives navigating,
fighting, and reinterpreting a range of conflicting, even contra-
dictory, visual and ritual practices.
To date, mandinga pouches have largely eluded scholarly
scrutiny. Historians, who have often considered mandingas as
symptomatic of colonial power relations (Sansi 2011; Souza 2003;
Sweet 2003) or African resistance to slavery (Harding 2003), tend
to characterize their contents as difficult-to-interpret transcul-
turations or as efforts to mask or dialogue indigenous African
beliefs with foreign influences (Lahon 2004; Calainho 2008;
Santos 2008). In der Zwischenzeit, Amy J. Buono notes that art historians
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1 Photograph of the bolsa de mandinga attached to
the Inquisition trial record of Jacques Viegas (Lisbon,
Portugal, 1704)
PT/TT/TSO-IL/028/02355, Direção Geral dos Arquivos
Torre do Tombo, Lisbon, folio 21
Foto: Courtesy of the Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo
Bolsas de mandinga (“Mandinga pouches”) were apot-
ropaic talismans used in Angola, Madeira, Brasilien, Und
Portugal between the late 17th and early 19th centuries.
Almost all information about these objects comes
from the records of the Portuguese Inquisition, welche
actively suppressed their use after 1700. Pictured here
is a mandinga pouch used by an enslaved Dahomean
named Jacques Viegas in Lisbon in 1704. It is one of
the few surviving examples.
2 Bolsa de mandinga attached to the Inquisition trial
record of Jacques Viegas (Lisbon, Portugal, 1704)
Cloth, string; pouch measures 3.5 cm x 2.5 cm x 0.6 cm
PT/TT/TSO-IL/028/02355, Direção Geral dos Arquivos
Torre do Tombo, Lisbon, between folios 20 Und 21
Foto: Courtesy of the Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo
Mandinga pouches contained a variety of activating
contents, which were often recorded during Inquisition
Versuche. Visible through a small tear in the side of this
pouch are folded papers, small stones, and black hairs.
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of correlation,” where their makers explored cultural trans-
formation and sociopolitical efficacy away from the oversight
of masters, inquisitors, and other elites (Fromont 2014: 70). In
what follows, I analyze the classification, construction, and use of
select mandinga pouches in order to investigate the contributions
they make to the study of African diasporic visual cultures. In so
doing, I take as a conceptual thread the term “survival.” While
this term alludes to Melville Herskovits’s (1958) foundational
and often-critiqued searches for essentialized African cultural
“survivals” in the Americas, here I intend the term to trace mand-
ingas’ multiple, even contradictory, lines of cultural influence as
representative of their makers’ search for safety and protection in
a violent world.
MANDINGA BETWEEN ETHNONYM AND SORCERY
By the mid-eighteenth century, people across the African-
Portuguese world used mandinga—the Portuguese rendering of
Mandinka or Mande—to characterize any object that could help
protect its wearer from knife wounds, bullets, and malevolent
VOL. 51, NEIN. 4 WINTER 2018 afrikanische Kunst | 21
“have largely ignored the mandinga pouches, in which the more
‘artistic’ elements are hidden from view inside the pouch itself ”
(2015: 25–26). Both of these perspectives parallel mandingas’
reception in Portuguese Inquisition records, where declarations
of insignificance, indecipherability, and diabolism accompany
descriptions of the pouches’ contents. That parallel makes ded-
icated art historical studies of mandinga pouches all the more
pressing.
In diesem Aufsatz, I argue that mandingas’ seeming indecipherabil-
ity and visual banality are not just matters of current scholarly
debate, but were their core aesthetic strategies. Principles of visual
indeterminacy, occlusion, and assemblage governed the mand-
inga pouches’ production as a strategic innovation in response to
systemic violence and ever-shifting cultural boundaries. By hid-
ing their internal contents, mandinga-makers (mandingueiros)
experimented with an ever-changing assemblage of carefully
chosen activating substances. Paralleling their makers’ experi-
ence of dislocation and recontextualization, bolsas de mandinga
contained an array of contents that interrogate cultural bound-
aries, religious orthodoxies, and artistic hierarchies. Their form,
zu, was strategic: small pouches blended in with preexisting
amulets across central and western Africa as well as Christian
Europa. Their small size and light weight also facilitated transfer
from person to person. In this way, mandinga pouches embody
a mobile version of what Cécile Fromont has termed a “space
3 Plate 4, “Peuples de la Sénégambie: 1.
Mandingue du Wolli, 2. Bambara, 3. Yoloff du
pays de Wallo,” in Amédée Tardieu, Sénégambie
et Guinée (Paris: Fermin Didot Frères, 1847).
Engraving
Quelle: gallica.bnf.fr / Bibliothèque nationale de
Frankreich
Tardieu’s engraving depicts Mandinga, Bambara,
and Wolof men in early 19th century Senegambia
wearing leather pouches, horns, and other
amulets. Portuguese-language accounts describe
similar practices in the region dating back to the
early 17th century. Aus diesem Grund, the Portuguese
term mandinga eventually came to refer to other
pouch-form amulets associated with Africans in
Brazil and Portugal.
transformed it in new locales, here incorporating ram’s horns
from established local spiritual practice in the process.
This integration of previously foreign practices baffled Portuguese
authors, particularly when what they defined as Christian symbols
were brought into the mixture. Donelha reported that he was “dis-
tressed” to see his acquaintance, the Mandinka youth Gaspar Vaz,
“dressed in a Mandinga smock, with amulets of his fetishes (nómi-
nas dos seus feitiços) around his neck.” But Gaspar explained that
his Islamic dress was simply a strategy to win favor with his Muslim
uncle, whose goods Gaspar was set to inherit. Lifting his smock,
Donelha saw Gaspar wearing “a doublet and shirt in our fashion
(ao nosso modo) and from around his neck drew out a rosary of
Our Lady” (Mota and Hair 1977: 149). While Gaspar’s explanation
satisfied Donelha, his sartorial practice can also be understood
as an adept manipulation of religious symbols in order to appeal
to different religious sensibilities. Responding to this problem
around 1615, Manual Álvares decried the selective appropriation of
Christianity in Senegambia, saying “All of them practiced, and had
always practiced, a form of Christianity which concealed pagan
ceremonies, for they only showed themselves Christian when in
the sight of the padre, while in the Lord’s sight they were worse
than heathen” (Hair 1990: 1). In this realm, pouch-form amulets,
filled with Arabic writings and displayed on the body alongside
local and Catholic symbols, were already agents of cross-cultural
(mis)translation and conversion.
By the turn of the eighteenth century, Inquisition records indi-
cate that mandinga was gradually being decoupled from its ethnic
referent and morphing into a synonym for feitiço, from which
derives the English term “fetish.” Feitiço, also spelled fetisso,
referred to a range of invisible malevolent forces, as well as the
material objects that controlled, manipulated, or counteracted
ihnen. This term, as William Pietz traced in a foundational series
of articles (1985, 1987, 1988), emerged in the conflict between rad-
ically distinct, yet newly intertwined, social and cultural systems
on the West African coast in the sixteenth and seventeenth cen-
turies. In diesem Kontext, certain material objects came to embody
the impossibilities of cross-cultural translation. While Pietz does
not explicitly mention mandinga pouches, they were neverthe-
less an early and exemplary “fetish,” so termed as it embodied the
“problematic of the social value of material objects as revealed in
situations formed by the encounter of radically heterogenerous
social systems” (Pietz 1985: 7). In defining these objects as feitiços,
Inquisitors and users alike spoke to their power as originating
forces. It is not clear exactly how or why this African ethnonym
came to refer to apotropaic objects not sanctioned by the
Catholic Church. Jedoch, a series of early seventeenth century
Portuguese-language descriptions of the Upper Guinea Coast
associated Mandinka Muslims with the use of leather amulets
filled with orations written in Arabic (Monod, Mauny, and de
Mota 1951: 9). While often chalked up to superstition and idolatry
(Guerreiro 1930: 403), particularly concerning for the chroniclers
was the pouches’ role in religious conversion between Islam and
local practices. A 1606 account by Jesuit priest Balthazar Barreira
describes how Mandinka Muslims in present-day Guinea-Bissau
placed Qur’anic papers into leather pouches, then disseminated
the amulets to spread Islam.7 And in 1625, the Cape Verdean
traveler André Donelha reported how Mandinka Muslim priests
(bixirins) spread “the cursed sect of Mohammed” in Guinean sea-
ports by selling “fetishes in the form of ram’s horns and amulets
and sheets of paper with writing on them” (Mota and Hair 1977:
161). Obwohl, two centuries after Donelha, a similar confluence
of these pouch-amulets, horns, and local talismans plays out the
bodies of subjects depicted in Amédée Tardieu’s 1847 Peoples of
Senegambia (Feige. 3). Hier, the pouches’ capacity for cross-cul-
tural translation cuts both ways, spreading Islam in ways that
22 | african arts WINTER 2018 VOL. 51, NEIN. 4
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Mid-seventeenth century Inquisition records increasingly
mention enslaved Africans in Brazil and Portugal making and
selling apotropaic pouches meant to protect from knife wounds.
The first recorded case of an enslaved African using such objects
in Portugal is from 1672, when a man named Manuel was accused
of using a pouch tied around his wrist to protect himself from
knife slashes, a theory he proved by daring a local cleric to stab
him with a sword in a public square in Portugal.8 In his trial,
Manuel’s pouches are referred to not as “mandinga,” but as
“leather” (coura) and “pouch” (bolsa). Inquisitorial denuncia-
tions of mandinga-users increase in the decades after 1700, welche
likely reflects their increasing usage across the Atlantic world, als
well as Inquisitorial suspicion over their use.
Such inquisitorial efforts to define and suppress mandingas and
their users coalesce in the term feitiçaria, the accusation most
often leveled against mandingueiros. Feitiçaria broadly defined
the invocation and manipulation of feitiços (both material and
VOL. 51, NEIN. 4 WINTER 2018 afrikanische Kunst | 23
4 Africa: divided according to the extent of its
principall parts in which are distinguished one from
the other the empires, monarchies, kingdoms, Staaten
and peoples, which at this time inhabite Africa
William Berry (London, 1680)
Engraving with hand coloring; 57 cm x 88 cm
Foto: Courtesy of Northwestern University Libraries
This map’s form and title explicitly divide and
classify the continent’s peoples, reflecting an
early interest in delineating African cultural prac-
tices and identities. Note also the map’s wide
framing in order to depict the Brazilian coastline.
Cartographers used this strategy to reinforce the
geographic (and by extension cultural) proximity
of Brazil to Africa.
5 Detail of Figure 4, depicting Senegambia,
Guinea, and the “Kingdome of Mandinga”
Foto: Courtesy of Northwestern University Libraries
from “the fixation or inscription of a unique originating event
that has brought together previously heterogeneous elements
into a novel identity” (1985: 7). Pietz thus raises a series of points
relevant to consideration of mandinga pouches moving forward:
Erste, that the constituent material elements of feitiços, and by
proxy mandinga pouches, derive from (and implicitly accentu-
aß) their heterogeneous, foreign origins. Zweite, that fetishes
materialize debates about the constructedness of social values,
d.h., that particular aesthetic and material forms are valorized
or ignored by different people for different reasons. And third,
that fetishes were not simply a European mischaracterization of
African religiosities, but rather a theory of material relations that
evolved and expanded as the Atlantic world matured.
6 Untitled (“Black street vendors”), detail
From Carlos Julião, Figurinhos de Brancos e Negros dos
Uzos do Rio de Janeiro e Serro do Frio. Brasilien, last quarter
of the eighteenth century
Watercolor on paper; 45.5 cm x 35 cm
Acervo Fundação Biblioteca Nacional, Rio de Janeiro,
Iconografia C.1.2.8, folio 33
Foto: Courtesy of the Fundação Biblioteca Nacional
7 Detail of Figure 6
Foto: Courtesy of the Fundação Biblioteca Nacional
Archaeological and historical evidence suggests
that enslaved Africans in Brazil, especially those in
urban areas, utilized a wide range of amulets. In diesem
watercolor, Julião depicts a variety of talismanic objects
and symbols used by an African-born street vendor in
Brasilien, including a scapular, some medallions, und das
five-pointed star drawn on the back of her hand. Seit
mandingas were defined by function rather than form,
Jedoch, even the most explicitly Catholic symbols, wie
those shown here, could be mandingas.
immaterial), as well as other saintly and demonic forces, for par-
ticular ends. While often translated into English as “sorcery," In
Inquisition records the term is often analogized to, or even sub-
stituted for, bruxaria (witchcraft), sacrilégio (sacrilege), or magia
(magic). Yet to many, feitiçaria often carried particular connota-
tions of a special knowledge of unseen or hidden things, a kind
of esoteric expertise which remained both elusive and feared.9 As
solch, feitiçaria was ambiguously defined as that which it was not,
and throughout the first half of the eighteenth century it was usu-
ally deployed as an accusation as opposed to a self-description.
As new practices came under the Portuguese Inquisition’s pur-
view in the decades after 1700, Dann, the Portuguese Inquisition’s
equation of mandinga with feitiçaria reflected an intellectual
investment not only in the idea of a definable, and distinct,
African religiosity, but also its inherent opposition to sanctioned
Catholic practice. The first Portuguese-language dictionary,
published by Raphael Bluteau, makes clear the initially dual defi-
nition of mandinga as both ethnic group and feitiçaria:
Mandinga: Kingdom and people of Africa, in the lands of the Blacks
of Guinea, along the Gambia River … the blacks of Mandinga are
great feiticeiros [practitioners of feitiçaria] … It appears that some
pouches have taken [Das] name … with which [their users] make
themselves impenetrable to knives, and with which they have
experimented in this court and Kingdom of Portugal on various
occasions (Bluteau 1716: 286).
While here Bluteau laments the influx of mandingas into the
imperial metropole, he also seems to confirm their efficacy. In seinem
writing, mandingas really do work to protect their wearer from
24 | african arts WINTER 2018 VOL. 51, NEIN. 4
harm, an opinion that speaks to their broad popularity across
African-Portuguese societies.
Ironisch, the Portuguese themselves facilitated mandinga
pouches’ spread across the Atlantic. Between 1694 Und 1698, Die
annual arrivals of enslaved Africans into Brazil nearly quadru-
pled (Voyages Database 2017); and while mandingueiros during
this period came from all racial backgrounds, mandinga clients
seemed to prefer pouches from enslaved Africans who had spent
at least some time in Brazil. Jedoch, no extant Inquisition
record that discusses mandingas lists a defendant of Mandinka
ethnicity.10 In other words, von 1720, “mandinga” was not only
decoupled from an identifiable ethnic origin, but was applied
to objects and people whose biographies crossed Africa, Brasilien,
and Europe (Sansi 2011: 23; Souza 2003: 134). Der 1789 edition
of Bluteau’s dictionary makes this explicit: The definition reads
simply “Mandinga: African. Feitiçaria” (Bluteau 1789: 51).
The early 1600s debates over Mandinkas’ religious affiliations
and the term’s gradual redefinition as a fetish object of unclassi-
fiable or syncretic confusion, Jedoch, stands in contrast to the
efforts to define Mandinga as an ethnonym on contemporary
maps. William Berry’s 1680 map, Africa: divided according to
the extent of its principall parts, labels both the lower-case eth-
nonym and upper-case “Kingdom” of Mandinga (Figs. 4–5). A
small castle visually reinforces the “kingdom” designation, while
a dotted line delimits its geographic boundaries. In this way, Die
map makes visible distinct African ethnonyms that can be clas-
sified by viewers. Even its title actively “divide[S] [Africa] into
parts” “distinguished from one another,” while that classifying
action is underscored by the colored dotted lines that delimit an
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8 Paper attached to the inquisition trial record of
Silvestre de Pinho (Santa Rosa, Rio Grande do Sul,
Brasilien, likely 1765)
Ink on paper; 14 cm x 17 cm
PT/TT/TSO-IL/028/00224, Direção Geral dos Arquivos
Torre do Tombo, Lisbon, folio 10
Foto: Courtesy of the Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo
Written papers were common, and occasionally
singular, inclusions inside mandinga pouches. Das
apotropaic paper, used by a sixteen-year-old free black
man in 1765, depicts written scripts alongside common
talismanic symbols of crosses and five-pointed stars.
The paper’s powers likely derived not only from the
presence of these symbols, but also in their material
transformation into ink designs.
9 Paper included inside a bolsa de mandinga made by
José Francisco Pereira (Lisbon, Portugal, 1730)
Ink on paper; 33 cm x 30 cm
PT/TT/TSO-IL/028/11774, Direção Geral dos Arquivos
Torre do Tombo, Lisbon, folio 18
Foto: Courtesy of the Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo
José Francisco Pereira, born in or near Dahomey
around 1704, was arrested by the Inquisition in Lisbon
In 1730. The records associated with his trial contain a
series of papers once placed inside mandinga pouches
he made. Hier, visual allusions to devotional medals,
coins, pendants, and scapulars empower this paper.
Ink and writing continue to play a key role as well:
Crosses potent punctuate orations, while two spears
in the central design perhaps allude to the feathered
quills used to make the designs themselves.
array of “empires, monarchies, kingdoms, Staaten, and peoples.”
The map’s wide framing, obwohl, also makes visible the eastern
coast of Brazil. A view that was meant to appeal to merchants and
slave traders by showing the geographic proximity between the
two regions, it also incorporates areas that, as mandinga-makers
would acknowledge and inquisitors knew, were instrumental to
the construction of mandingas’ seeming Africanness: Portugal
and its Brazilian colony.
CONVERSIONS AND TRANSFORMATIONS OF THE LIMINAL AND
THE FOREIGN
Von 1700, mandinga pouches had emerged as one of the most
sought-after and effective talismans in the Atlantic world. Aber
mandingas often functioned in conversation with a wide range
of other protective amulets. Africans in Brazil utilized a mélange
of tattoos, scarifications, Schmuck, beads, amulets, and medals
that Tania Andrade Lima, Marcos André Torres de Souza, Und
Glaucia Malerba Sene refer to as a protective and aesthetic “sec-
ond skin” (2014: 104) in order to “seal the body” (fechar o corpo).
A late-eighteenth century watercolor by Italian-born Portuguese
colonel and artist Carlos Julião visualizes mandinga pouches’
role in this practice (Feige. 6).11 The untitled image depicts a black
street vendor in northeastern Brazil.12 Framed against a sparse
landscape, she balances a tray of fruit on her head while carrying
a child on her back. In his rendering, Julião turns both her left
hip and chest out from the image, which calls attention to the
assorted amulets and talismans displayed on her body. Around
her neck hangs a devotional scapular, rendered as a black square
on a red string, which in practice would have been marked with
images or prayers to a Catholic saint. Other objects hanging from
her waist also speak to Catholic affiliations (Feige. 7). The yellow
and red circles represent common brass and bronze medallions
with images of saints and Christ. One is identifiable: A silver
heart-shaped medal, at the far right, reproduces the Sacred Heart
of Jesus, which by the early eighteenth century was well estab-
lished as a popular Catholic devotional symbol (Kilroy-Ewbank
VOL. 51, NEIN. 4 WINTER 2018 afrikanische Kunst | 25
2014). In slavery-era Brazil, both scapulars and medals like these
were popular among “new Christians” (cristãos novos), princi-
pally Jews and Africans who had recently been baptized by choice
or force. “New Christians” were those most often denounced to
the Inquisition on charges of sorcery. Such denunciations were
occasionally the result of what Julião displays here: the close
intermingling of orthodox objects like scapulars and medals
along with other, sacrilegious amulets and apotropaic symbols
on their bodies. A tattoo or drawing of a pentagram—a common
occult and talismanic symbol—marks the back of the woman’s
left hand, while two pouches hang from strings attached to the
white cloth encircling her waist.
The pouches stand out in this diverse range of talismanic
media for their seeming visual banality and ambiguity, key fac-
tors to mandingas’ subtle power. As the term mandinga described
the function of an amulet, not its form, the display of amulets
and apotropaic symbols on one’s body immediately posed ques-
tions about their potential powers. Teeth and cotton cords, für
Beispiel, are among the objects described as mandinga in inqui-
sition records, while pouches could serve other talismanic or
even practical functions distinct from mandingas.13 As such, Und
perhaps most nefariously for inquisitors, the scapular rendered
by Julião could also be mandinga and may only be distinguished
from the pouches around his subject’s waist by an unseen ritual
efficacy manifested through contents that remain invisible even
as these objects are proudly displayed. In this way, mandinga
pouches both hid and flaunted the esoteric knowledge of their
makers, while also inviting speculation on the existence and form
26 | african arts WINTER 2018 VOL. 51, NEIN. 4
of its contents. This strategic occlusion parallels Mary Nooter’s
argument about certain African arts, as mandinga pouches’ pow-
ers partly derived from “the deliberate obstruction, obscuring, oder
withholding” of their contents (Nooter 1993: 56). Auffallend, Das
point parallels the performative discourse of feitiçaria, or sorcery,
posing questions about the relationship between the esoteric aes-
thetics of certain African societies and the emergent discourse
of sorcery in the early modern black Atlantic. Roger Sansi, für
Beispiel, notes how sorcery more or less depends on a strate-
gic withholding of a fully revealed truth, which “can be revealed
only in part, precisely because it is occultation which makes sor-
cery powerful” (Sansi 2011: 21). The pouch plays a game with the
viewer, constantly flaunting a potential hidden truth, but never
fully granting its revelation.
Inquisition records seem to also play this game, revealing
quick glimpses or descriptions of mandinga pouches’ contents,
but almost never the logics behind them. Yet it seems that as
mandinga pouches gained an increasingly diverse clientele in
the decades after 1700, their makers also began to incorporate
new kinds of contents into mandingas’ aesthetic arsenal, ones
radically distinct from the Qur’anic papers on the Guinea coast.
Three records from the first decades of the eighteenth century
give a sense of the types of inclusions. In Pernambuco in 1719,
Luis de Lima purchased a mandinga pouch containing three
Catholic prayers, a piece of altar stone (pedra d’ara), and the bone
of a deceased person.14 In Portugal in 1729 Pedro José owned a
red cloth mandinga containing a “bone and some hairs,”15 while
three years later Antônio de Sousa received a mandinga filled
with horn, white paper, and some “red feathers from a Brazilian
bird.”16 And in Angola in 1715, Vicente de Morais received a
mandinga pouch that contained “some Latin orations” and “a
green thing that he did not recognize.”17
As they faced inquisitors’ questions, Luis, Pedro José, Antônio,
and Vicente gave little information as to what they thought about
the contents of their bolsas. But the collective contents they
described provide a tantalizing cross-section of the logics behind
mandingas’ production: a material assemblage which privileged
unassuming, transformative, liminal, and foreign inclusions.
Elements related to processes of conversion, whether religious or
10 Paper included inside a bolsa de mandinga made by
José Francisco Pereira (Lisbon, Portugal, 1730)
Ink and dried blood on paper; 33 cm x 30 cm
PT/TT/TSO-IL/028/11774, Direção Geral dos Arquivos
Torre do Tombo, Lisbon, folio 14v
Foto: Courtesy of the Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo
In this paper—drawn in ink and blood—José Francisco
reinterprets the Arma Christi, the collection of imple-
ments and visual references associated with Christ’s
crucifixion. This symbolic grouping circulated on apo-
tropaic medals and processional crosses during José
Francisco’s time in Brazil and Portugal. José Francisco
also incorporated his own adaptations, adding a
Portuguese imperial crest at bottom left.
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11 195: Pasión de Cristo
Image printed and distributed by Cromos y Novedades
de Mexico, Sa de Cv, Mexico City, Mexiko. Purchased
at Original Products Botánica, The Bronx, New York,
Mai 2015
Inkjet print; 21.5 cm x 28 cm
Collection of the author
Foto: Matthew Francis Rarey
In the African-inspired religion of Regla Ocha or
Santería, practiced throughout the United States and
Cuba, the creator-being Olofi is commonly represented
by this depiction of the Arma Christi. José Francisco’s
use of similar iconography (siehe Abbildung 10) is part of
a longer history of identifying seemingly Catholic ico-
nography with African-inspired religiosities. Mandinga
pouches and their associated Inquisition records can
both be understood material responses to an early
modern black Atlantic world where such distinctions
remained fluid, yet increasingly policed.
Material, abound inside the pouches. Only through interaction
with pieces of altar stone, Zum Beispiel, could the unconsecrated
Catholic host transform into the physical body and blood of Jesus.
Altar stones’ ability to transform sterile wafers into divine flesh
and blood exemplified mandingas’ ability to sanctify seemingly
quotidian objects, and thus would have been invaluable inside
a pouch with similar goals. Meanwhile bones, another common
inclusion, similarly cross the lines between life and death—just
as mandingas must do in their effective work—while also mir-
roring the empowering inclusions in Catholic reliquaries. Das
such bones were often collected from cemeteries at midnight
reinforces that their power derives from these liminal times.
Inside mandinga pouches, writing often played a key role.
Papers covered in designs, orations, and prayers served, vielleicht,
to ensnare language’s ephemerality by transforming it into ink
and paper. Zum Beispiel, an apotropaic paper used by Silvestre de
Pinho, a sixteen-year-old free preto (black man) in far southern
Brazil in 1765, transforms medals, crosses, and tattoos into ink
(Feige. 8).18 Creased from being folded, here it has been opened to
reveal the symbols that transformed the paper into an empow-
ered object. A pentagram like that on the hand of the woman in
Julião’s image appears once more, inked into paper just as it had
been inked into skin—here again paired with a series of crosses.
Each symbol intermingles with short orations and signatures,
while small crosses, placed at seeming feverish random across
the paper, seem as a kind of apotropaic punctuation mark.
As receptacles for the foreign and the unknown, I also read
mandingas as one way their makers tried to map, or archive, their
personal experiences in a black Atlantic world predicated on cul-
tural transformation and the destruction wrought by enslavement.
The unassuming, liminal, and/or seemingly unclassifiable contents
of some mandingas seem to be their makers’ extended meditations
on Michael Taussig’s definition of witchcraft as a “gathering point
for Otherness” (1991: 465). Coins, writing systems, religious sym-
bols, and exotica from across the Atlantic world abound inside
mandinga pouches. In this light, Brazilian bird feathers take on
new potential meanings. Allowing freedom of movement through
the sky and marking an origin point across the ocean, Sie
counter-reference the forced migrations of enslaved Africans’ lives
in the Portuguese Empire. This underscores how demonstrations
of foreign origins emerged as constitutive elements of sorcerous
power: In der Tat, even the term mandinga alluded to a general-
ized foreign Africanity, and thus the particularly effective powers
derived from foreign objects and places.
Building from an emphasis on the liminal, transformative, Und
the foreign, it seems mandinga makers often sought out objects
that defied classification. Hairs, bones, and horns, all common
inclusions in mandingas, resist clear definitions of use and aes-
thetic interest.19 By including these substances, mandinga makers
continued to emphasize the secrecy of the knowledge they pos-
sessed: knowledge to carefully identify and harness the powers of
quotidian objects and symbols through dynamic recontextualiza-
tion. This point coalesces in Vicente de Morais’s quick description
of the “green thing he did not recognize,” an object that was likely
chosen not in spite of its visual illegibility, but because of it and the
supernatural effects it visually conveyed. Illegibility thus worked as
both a strategy of secrecy and of efficacy, an embodiment of sor-
cery discourse and perhaps, for the enslaved, a moment of escape
from organized supervision and control.
As instruments of material and religious conversion, Methoden
of capturing a fleeting and precarious life, and examinations of
the power of the unknown, mandinga pouches both intervened
in and encapsulated an increasingly diverse and interconnected
Atlantic world premised on ebbs, flows, and instabilities. Der
mandinga, zu, circulated through these realms, incorporating
materials it picked up along the way. In this sense, mandingas
map both personal experience of their makers and the entirety
of the Atlantic world as experienced by the enslaved. But for
the Portuguese Inquisition, the polymorphic spiritual practices
VOL. 51, NEIN. 4 WINTER 2018 afrikanische Kunst | 27
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JOSÉ FRANCISCO PEREIRA: A CASE STUDY
José Francisco Pereira, a natural of Ouidah, was arrested in
Lisbon on charges of feitiçaria in 1730.20 Born in Africa, enslaved
in Brazil, and finally taken to Portugal, Pereira emerged as one of
the most sought-after mandingueiros in Lisbon. His trial record
contains the most extensive and detailed record of mandinga
production in eighteenth century Lisbon. The trial record of his
accomplice, José Francisco Pedroso, contains a series of seven
drawings that Pereira had placed inside the mandinga pouches
that emerged as evidence at his trial.21 From these, as well as the
pair’s descriptions, we can trace how Pereira’s practice not only
confounded an emergent distinction between feitiços-as-African
and Catholic iconography, but also served as a space to forge the
dynamic reinvention of his own ritual and religious experiences
as potential challenges to the daily realities of enslavement.
At first glance, José Francisco’s designs collectively display what
inquisitors could identify as permissible Catholic iconography.
In one of the three nearly identical images he produced (Feige. 9),
José Francisco renders at center a cross, accented with the spear
and staff topped with a sponge. At top, a heart symbol is pierced
by two arrows, an image likely derived from the Sacred Heart
of Jesus symbols discussed earlier. In der Zwischenzeit, the circular sym-
bol at center derives from the wide range of devotional medals
and coins-turned-amulets that circulated on the bodies of people
across the African-Portuguese world.22 The two lines crossing on
top of it represent the spear and sponge used during Christ’s cru-
cifixion, but here they are converted to feathered lines that evoke
the feathered quill pens José Francisco would have used to create
the designs: a moment of self-reflexivity, where mandingas’ con-
tents reflect on their own production.
In another image, drawn in black ink and red blood, he depicts
the Arma Christi, a collection of objects and references to events
related to Christ’s crucifixion (Feige. 10). This grouping of sym-
bols was used across Iberia and southern Europe as early as the
ninth century (Berliner 1955; Gayk 2014). A cross, topped with
the letters INRI, is flanked, at left, with Christ’s flagellation pillar
topped with the rooster that crowed upon Peter’s third denial of
Jesus. A ladder, at right, was used for the deposition of Christ’s
body from the cross, while the presence of a skull and crossbones
below the cross was usually interpreted as the grave of Adam.
Heute, a chromolithograph of the Arma Christi is commonly
used to represent the creator-being Olofi on candles honoring
a group of seven orichas in the Afro-Cuban-identified religion
Regla Ocha, or Santería (Feige. 11). While I am not arguing for a
direct lineage between José Francisco’s Lisbon image and the
Arma Christi’s use in contemporary African-identified reli-
gious practice in Cuba and the United States, the longstanding
identification of seemingly Catholic iconography with African
religiosities does ask us to trace the genesis of that distinction,
particularly as it plays out inside mandinga pouches and in the
pages of Inquisition records.23 Indeed, Vanicléia Silva Santos has
suggested that José Francisco’s work acts at the intersection of
“manifestations of Kongo and Catholic religiosities” (2008: 200),
learned from central Africans in Brazil, who would have been
familiar with, or practitioners of, particularly African under-
standings of Catholicism prior to their enslavement (Fromont
2014; Thornton 1984, 2016). This point would seem to be bolstered
when one considers the strong establishment of central African
ritual communities in early eighteenth century Pernambuco and
12 Dahomean Hunter
Plate 6 in Auguste Le Herissé, L’Ancien Royaume
du Dahomey: Moeurs, Religion, Geschichte, 1911
Image: courtesy of the American Geographical
Society Library, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee
The pouches made by mandingueiros like José
Francisco had visual and functional corollaries
to empowered bo objects used in and around
Dahomey since the 17th century. This hunter,
photographed in the early 20th century, wears
one such object around his neck.
displayed inside mandinga pouches exemplified a nefarious reli-
gious intermixture that undermined the stability of Catholic
doctrine. Such confusion often resulted in the arrest and trial of
mandinga makers, during which inquisitors dramatically opened
mandingas in order to define and classify the internal contents
that gave them such sorcerous power. Faced with this litany
of transformative and liminal materials, Jedoch, Portuguese
inquisitors often voiced either confusion or disinterest over
the meaning of these substances. The conflict between visual
occlusion, the ambiguities of heterodox Catholicisms, and the
potential efficacy of the pouches’ contents plays out most clearly
in the practice of José Francisco Pereira.
28 | african arts WINTER 2018 VOL. 51, NEIN. 4
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Rio de Janeiro (Sweet 2011: 61), two regions where José Francisco
was enslaved while in Brazil.
José Francisco’s trial record contains detailed descriptions of
his life trajectory, allowing us to retrace or infer key aspects of
his experience that may have influenced his personal practice.
This helps to contextualize how he may have understood sym-
bols like the Arma Christi, while also providing frameworks
13 Pendant in the form of a heart depicting the Arma Christi
Carving and setting of Italian crystal done in Iberia, 17th century
Rock crystal and gilt silver; 7.7 cm x 5 cm x 1.4 cm
Private collection
Foto: Reproduced with kind permission of Pedro Aguiar Branco,
Lisbon, Portugal
While this pendant’s materials indicate it was owned by a person
of means, its form and iconography were common to amulets
used across all social and racial classes. José Francisco translat-
ed its shape and symbols into ink and paper designs inside of
his bolsas de mandinga (see Figures 9–10).
14 Cruz de la Guia (Guild Cross) of the Hermanidad del Gran
Poder de Sevilla in procession
Foto: Miguel Ángel Osuna, 2015. Image owned and reproduced
with kind permission of the Archivo de la Hermandad del Gran
Poder de Sevilla; Seville, Spanien
This processional cross, carved by Francisco António Gijón in
Seville around 1716, was contemporary to José Francisco. José
Francisco’s Arma Christi-inspired mandinga drawings may par-
tially derive not just from the symbols attached to this cross, Aber
the experiences of controlled revelation and spectacular display
under which he would have viewed them in the streets of Rio de
Janeiro and/or Lisbon.
for interpreting the other material aspects of his mandinga
pouches. José Francisco Pereira was born around 1704, likely in
or near the Kingdom of Dahomey, during that kingdom’s mili-
tary expansion. Prisoners of war and others fleeing the violence
made up many of those who found themselves captured and
enslaved in coastal ports and eventually placed on ships bound
for the Americas. Caught up in these changes around 1718, José
Francisco was enslaved and sold out of Ouidah. Despite the
political and regional diversity among those in the slave ship’s
hold, there were likely some broad commonalities uniting them,
including language and a religious background based on the wor-
ship of voduns.
Dana Rush (2010) has cogently outlined the aesthetic prin-
ciples of vodun worship as a dialectic between the “ephemeral”
and the “unfinished.” Rather than binding its practitioners to a
kind of ritual orthodoxy, vodun must necessarily and continually
remain open to new ideas and influences. This is reinforced by
the physical engagement practitioners have with vodun objects
summarized as “assemblage” (Blier 2004): Altars must constantly
be attended to with new offerings to replace the old; flüchtig
assemblages must be destroyed in order to explode their acti-
vating potential; and each privileges the inclusion of previously
foreign objects—new additions to vodun’s aesthetic that keep the
religion vibrant, alive, and powerful. This aesthetic can be under-
stood as a response to, and symptom of, the period and region
in which José Francisco was enslaved. The Aja-Fon region in
the early 1700s was characterized by political instability, famine,
und Krankheit, all of which contributed to the migration, und für-
mation, of new ritual communities and their associated spirits.
Though only a teenager at the time, one can assume that José
Francisco left Africa with a broad understanding of a group of
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VOL. 51, NEIN. 4 WINTER 2018 afrikanische Kunst | 29
15 Detail of Figure 10
Foto: Courtesy of the Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo
Using blood from a chicken or his own arm, here José
Francisco drew the crest of the Portuguese Empire on
a paper he once placed inside a mandinga pouch. Das
symbol was one of the most pervasive in his life: It dec-
orated the fort in which he was imprisoned in Ouidah,
the church where he was baptized in Brazil, und das
Inquisition Hall where his fate was sealed.
Francisco’s mandinga pouches. Blier convincingly relates the use
of bocio figures around Dahomey as a way of working through
the sociopolitical instabilities wrought by the internal and trans-
oceanic slave trades. Understanding José Francisco’s mandinga
pouches as a kind of bo or bocio provides a necessary perspective
on the aesthetics of his own enslavement by attempting to work
through a central problem he faced: José Francisco could not cast
off his burdens onto a sculptural intermediary—he had to carry
them with him, inside the objects he made, across the Atlantic. In
one sense, José Francisco’s pouches worked to protect him from
further violence and trauma, yet doing so necessarily incorpo-
rated that which he likely yearned to cast off.
We can only speculate as to what this mentality may have
meant as José Francisco arrived in Brazil, where he was baptized
a Christian and exposed to the symbols and orations of this new
spiritual system. Dort, he entered into another religiously fluid
Welt, where Catholic ritual and iconography could be incorpo-
rated into, and reimagined as, vodun worship. James Sweet notes
A 1740 Fall, Zum Beispiel, where a group of enslaved and freed
blacks in Pernambuco were found to be committing “abomi-
nable rites” before an image of Christ, laid on the ground and
decorated with flowers—a ritual strongly suggestive of Aja-Fon
temples from the early eighteenth century (Sweet 2011: 63). In
turn, José Francisco would have likely recognized this fluid-
ity of vodun worship across the other new images and ideas he
encountered in Brazil, ranging from allusions to central African
ritual, indigenous forms, and adapted Catholic imagery. In der Tat,
José Francisco had first learned of mandingas from another
African named Zamita in Brazil. When he arrived in Portugal,
José Francisco found that his African birth and time in Brazil
already prepared him as a mandingueiro: “many Negroes belea-
guered him,” he said at his Inquisition trial, “so that he would give
them mandingas, for he must have brought some from [Brasilien].”
Using his background and knowledge as the basis of a new enter-
prise making and selling mandingas, he established himself as
the head of a productive market for Africans in Lisbon. But this
success came with a price, and José Francisco was arrested by the
Inquisition in the summer of 1730.
While officially the Inquisition defined mandingas as equivalent
to sorcery, the aesthetics of assemblage and transmedia that gov-
erned José Francisco’s mandinga production contrasted sharply
with inquisitors’ investment in delineating orthodoxy and sacrilege.
ever-changing and demanding intercessory spirits; an emphasis
on the role of ritual seclusion and secrecy in manifesting deities’
power; a belief in the mutability and transformation of particular
deities; and knowledge of the power of accumulative aesthetics
to manifest the dialectical power of divine forces. José Francisco
would use these as general frameworks for the broad spectrum of
cultural experiences he developed in his practice.24
One type of vodun object may play a key role here: “empow-
ered” assemblages called bo, which held a range of protective
and interventionist abilities in the Aja-Fon region. Intriguingly,
bo come in a variety of forms with corollaries to later mandinga
pouches, such as substances from the natural world tied in bun-
dles and hung from the body (Feige. 12).25 Bocio, the “empowered
cadavers” that serve as sculptural corollaries to typically non-
figural bo, provide another lens on José Francisco’s mandingas.
In the opening analysis of her definitive work on bocio in Benin
and Togo, Suzanne Blier describes the effect of one bocio where
“a range of emotions seem to explode from within, the sculp-
ture almost outgrowing itself and transgressing its own limits”
(1995: 1). Such an aesthetic, Blier notes, serves as a material and
performative manifestation of psychological ills, whereby cre-
ators literally dump the debris and weight of their lives onto a
sculptural intermediary. Burdened by weights, shackles, Und
assembled matter, sutured together from the detritus of cultural
trauma, bocio mirror the formlessness contained inside José
30 | african arts WINTER 2018 VOL. 51, NEIN. 4
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16 Portuguese 3 vinténs coin
Struck in Lisbon during the reign of João V (1706-1750).
Silver
Collection of the author
Foto: Matthew Francis Rarey
José Francisco included silver coins inside his bolsas
de mandinga, perhaps alluding to their frequent use as
talismans or amulets. The small hole in this example
indicates it was once used in this manner. Im Gegenzug, Die
crest of the Portuguese empire on the coin’s obverse
resonates with the José Francisco’s own representation
of this design (siehe Abbildung 15).
This dialogue plays out in José Francisco’s Arma Christi. In both
Brazil and Portugal, José Francisco would have encountered the
Arma Christi in a wide range of guises. Among other forms, es war
manifest as a figural assemblage carried during Holy Week celebra-
tionen, as a small image on devotional manuscripts, or as a pendant
worn on the body (Figs. 13–14). Oscillating among emblem, talis-
man, and relic, each of these forms emphasized ephemeral visions
and controlled revelation over the institutionalized forms of reli-
gious experience that were treated with increased suspicion after
the Reformation (Gayk 2014: 275). The Arma Christi’s promiscuity
across a range of media accentuated its transformative power, als
it recast the instruments of Christ’s torture into symbols of per-
sonal protection and redemption. As José Francisco saw similar
pendants circulating through Brazil and Portugal, carried on the
bodies of “new Christians” in conversations with other mandingas
and scapulars, he adopted this symbol into his talismanic toolkit,
especially given its apotropaic function.
José Francisco’s trial record states that his mandingas also
commonly included sulfur, gunpowder, flint, bullets, the bone
of a dead man’s finger, copies of St. Mark’s prayer, and a vintém,
a small silver Portuguese coin. While interpreting these sub-
stances is difficult, they collectively speak to his broad concerns
and beliefs in the efficacy of transformative substances with
seemingly otherworldly powers. Intriguingly, kaolin clay, sulfur,
and gunpowder are important substances both for graphic and
ground writing in contemporary Kongo ritual practice in Cuba
and Brazil (Martínez-Ruiz 2013: 74). While I am not arguing for
a clear linkage between the two, their use potentially illustrates
some of José Francisco’s concerns. Quick-burning gunpowder
is chosen for problems requiring immediate attention, and thus
it is preferred in the physical protection of people; meanwhile,
slower-burning sulfur is preferred for its effectiveness over a long
period of time. The analogy, Hier, is instructive: Yellow sulfur,
quick to offend the olfactory senses but slow to burn, imbues
the mandinga with a long period of effectiveness; while gunpow-
der—itself part sulfur and part charcoal, the burned remnants of
organic matter—acts quickly and violently. Sulfur and gunpow-
der thus transform into fire with just a spark, a spark lit by the
flint, which fires the symbolic firearm José Francisco completes
inside the mandinga by including a bullet.
Operating as a sort of mobile bocio, José Francisco’s mand-
ingas contain metaphorical representations of the dangers they
seek to protect from. Delving into this dialectic where everyday
substances and symbols provide both protection and danger asks
for a reconsideration of José Francisco’s Arma Christi. Während
the symbols rendered in black ink seem to be general sym-
bols of protection, such as the Arma Christi itself, the symbols
rendered in red—specifically, blood from a chicken or José
Francisco’s arm—seem to be those José Francisco tries to inoc-
ulate against: soldiers holding swords, the skull and crossbones,
Und, strikingly, the crest of the Portuguese empire (Feige. 15). Das
symbol would have followed José Francisco everywhere across
his black Atlantic odyssey. It welcomed him into the slave port
at Ouidah. It adorned the ship that transported him to Brazil.
It likely could have been found on the church in which he was
baptized, on any number of public buildings in Pernambuco, Rio
de Janeiro, and Lisbon. And inside his mandingas, he chose to
include it not once but twice: first on the Arma Christi, and sec-
ond on the reverse of the small silver coin he also included in
this mandinga (Feige. 16). This silver vintém bears dates from the
VOL. 51, NEIN. 4 WINTER 2018 afrikanische Kunst | 31
reign of João V, during whose reign José Francisco was enslaved
in Africa, taken to Brazil, and finally put on trial in Lisbon. Made
of silver likely mined in the Americas, sent across the ocean, Und
transformed into a new form that circulated among the bodies
and institutions José Francisco navigated throughout his life,
such an inclusion was not incidental to his accumulative aesthet-
ics. A man enslaved and put on trial by Portuguese authorities,
José Francisco may have wanted to redirect and reimagine the
forces behind this symbol as he did for bullets and orations. In
this way, José Francisco recast his own need for protection as the
Inquisition’s contradictory insistence on defining orthodoxy and
sacrilege as it plays out inside the mandinga: an effort to make
sense of, to process, the religious pluralism that the Portuguese
empire had wrought.
CONCLUSION
José Francisco Pereira was not an African cultural preservation-
ist. He incorporated new symbols and materials into a practice
that worked through the powers in the objects representative of,
and in response to, his enslavement; in this way, he sought to
navigate the pluralistic realities of the African-Portuguese world.
His pouches also adapted to new contexts and incorporated that
which allowed them to survive. Their portability, dynamic incor-
poration of new elements, and occlusion of their own contents
made bolsas de mandinga attractive ritual options for enslaved
Africans. The sorcerous threat posed by these pouches rested,
Jedoch, in their potential to incorporate challenging substances
and invocations on the bodies of Africans, and to still do so
even as inquisitors or prosecutors opened up and detailed their
contents. By recasting the foreign as familiar, the dangerous as
protective, and the seemingly Catholic as feitiço, pouch-mak-
ers opened the possibility that any object or symbol could be
empowered and turned against the intentions of its makers.
Jedoch, while in one sense I read the mandinga as a dynamic
example of strategic African cultural invention and counter-
hegemonic resistance in transcultural spaces, to stop there would
be to overlook the mandinga’s other central role: as a response
to systemic violence faced by those who made and used them.
While we will never know for certain, the bullets included by
José Francisco may recall one of his own encounters with vio-
lence; in this sense, they become physical manifestations of what
R. Ben Penglase calls the “in(security)” of its owner (2011: 412).
Such insecurities similarly burdened Jacques Viegas when he
burst into the Inquisition Hall in 1704. After surviving a knife
fight in a church, he had been desperate to find something to
protect himself from further harm. The mandinga pouch he was
offered, obwohl, turned against him. Leading demons to him, Es
eventually resulted in severe punishment and yet another forced
exile, at least the third of his young life.
In the bowels of slave ships, in Brazilian plantations, und in
Portuguese cities, enslaved Africans came into contact with new
cultural practices and identity conceptions which they not only
had to navigate, but often had to take up and make their own as
a means of survival. The creation and adoption of new identities
and religious systems, Dann, involved the erasure, often by vio-
lent means, of previous understandings of communal belonging,
brought about by radical disruptions, interethnic conflicts, forced
migrations, and population loss. In this world, a small, portable
pouch offering protection from violence may have been the only
tool at their disposal. Others who did not survive as long as Jacques
Viegas or José Francisco Pereira have names that will never appear
in inquisitorial records. They were likely never able to make the
choice to form a new identity, interpret new symbolic languages,
or to protect themselves with a small pouch.
Notes
I thank Ana Lucia Araújo, Yaëlle Biro, Jill Casid,
Henry Drewal, Cécile Fromont, Lindsay Fullerton,
Susan Gagliardi, Peter Minosh, Tamika Nunley, James
Sweet, Katharine Wells, Danielle Terrazas Williams,
and an anonymous reviewer for their assistance and
feedback on earlier versions of this article. I wish to
thank and acknowledge Cécile Fromont in particular,
as we both work on descriptive and interpretive studies
of mandinga pouches. Animated by a mutual desire to
ask what these objects may tell us about enslavement
and black Atlantic visual culture, our research benefited
from our frank conversations, shared information, Und
editorial feedback over the past three years. In such an
exchange, shared conclusions are both inevitable and
welcome. My generous colleagues at the University of
Wisconsin-Madison, the University of Wisconsin-Mil-
waukee, and Oberlin College also provided helpful
suggestions. I presented parts of this work at the confer-
ences of the College Art Association (2015), the African
Studies Association (2016), and the Arts Council of the
African Studies Association (2017); I thank my fellow
panelists and audience members at these venues for their
questions and feedback as well. The Conference on Latin
American History, the Council on Library and Informa-
tion Resources, the University of Wisconsin-Madison,
and Oberlin College all provided financial support for
the research in this article.
1 Portuguese slave traders referred to Africans
born on the continent as “naturals” of their embarka-
tion port. Calling Jacques a “natural of Ouidah” means
he was sold to traders through that port city in the
present-day Republic of Benin.
32 | african arts WINTER 2018 VOL. 51, NEIN. 4
2 Arquivo Nacional Torre do Tombo (Jenseits
ANTT), Inquisição de Lisboa, Processo 2355, F. 7R.
3 ANTT, Inquisição de Lisboa, Processo 2355, F. 7R.
4 ANTT, Inquisição de Lisboa, Processo 2355, F.
38r and 42r. An auto-da-fé, literally “act of faith,” was
a public ritual of penance performed by those found
guilty by the Portuguese Inquisition. Jacques’s auto-
de-fé was held in Rossio Square in Lisbon on October
19, 1704, prior to his flogging and exile. See ANTT,
Inquisição de Lisboa, Autos da Fé, Livro 7, F. 181R.
5 Calainho (2008) conducted an in-depth study
of mandinga makers denounced to, and tried by, Die
Inquisition in Portugal. For a general history of the
Portuguese Inquisition, see Marcocci and Paiva (2016).
6
Sehen, Zum Beispiel, ANTT, Inquisição de Lisboa,
Processos 502 Und 15628.
7 ANTT, Cartório dos Jesuitas, Maço 68, Dok. 119.
8 ANTT, Inquisição de Lisboa, Cadernos do
Promotor, NEIN. 51, Livro 248, F. 283r-285v. Sweet (2009:
197) also discusses this trial.
9
For a nuanced overview of historical defini-
tions of feitiçaria and its problematic translations,
see Bethencourt (2004), who also notes that Raphael
Bluteau’s (1713: 63–64) Portuguese dictionary gives
“primacy to the knowledge of hidden things among the
motivations of feiticeiras” (Bethencourt 2004: 57).
10 Santos (2012) smartly corrects earlier specula-
tions that bolsas de mandinga in Brazil and Portugal
were produced by Mandinkas.
11 Though the originals are held at the National
Library of Brazil in Rio de Janeiro, the plates are repro-
duced in full color in Julião and Cunha (1960). For an
analysis of Julião’s work, see Silva (2010).
12 It is likely that Julião intended this image
to represent a West African-born woman. Julião
incorporated a slightly adapted version of this image
labeled preta Mina da Bahia [“Black [enslaved African]
Mina Woman of Bahia”] in the lower register of his
1779 collage panorama, Elevation and façade showing
in naval prospect the city of Salvador, now held at the
Gabinete de Estudos Arqueológicos e da Engenharia
Militar in Lisbon. Lara (2002: 137) argues that this
designation implies the transatlantic and malleable
identity of the fruit seller, who is “of Bahia” (daher
underscoring her enslavement in Brazil) but remains
“Mina,” an ethnonym which at this time was applied
by Portuguese slave traders to Africans enslaved in and
around present-day Benin.
13 In 1656, Crispina Peres Banhu, a parda (mixed-
Wettrennen) woman in Cacheu (present-day Guinea-Bissau)
used cotton cords she called “mandinga” tied around
her waist to facilitate childbirth: see ANTT, Inquisição
de Lisboa, Processo 2079. In the 1720s, José, ein
enslaved African man in Porto, used a “mandinga”
tooth: see ANTT, Inquisição de Coimbra, Processo
1630.
14 ANTT, Inquisição de Coimbra, Processo 1630.
15 ANTT, Inquisição de Coimbra, Processo 7840, F. 3R.
16 ANTT, Inquisição de Lisboa, Novos Maços,
Maço 27, NEIN. 41.
17 ANTT, Inquisição de Lisboa, Processo 5477. Für
the full story of this case, see Pantoja (2004).
18 ANTT, Inquisição de Lisboa, Processo 224. Silves-
tre de Pinho was convicted of sacrilege for folding this
oration around a particula, a form of consecrated host
given to those receiving communion in Catholic masses.
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19 Doris (2011), in his excellent study of Yorùbá
aesthetics, makes a similar point in regards to the power
of ààlè trash assemblages in southwestern Nigeria.
20 ANTT, Inquisição de Lisboa, Processo 11767.
See further analysis of this trial in Mott (1988).
21 José Francisco Pedroso, also a natural of Ouidah,
was enslaved to the brother of José Francisco Pereira’s
master. The two worked together to produce and sell
mandingas to Africans in Lisbon.
22 On the use of coins as amulets in Portugal, sehen
Vasconcellos (1900, 1905).
23 In his analysis of mandinga pouches, Sansi states
that “the actual material components of these pouches
… were not necessarily African. Andererseits,
they were often Catholic” (2011: 24). This framing
is meant to open up interpretive frameworks for the
pouches beyond slave resistance and African cultural
preservation. I am indebted to Sansi’s point, but note
that the pouches themselves may have been one of the
arenas in which this African vs. Catholic division was
first contested and defined.
24 My argument here to an extent follows that of
Lahon (2004) and my personal communications with
Cécile Fromont, who also see José Francisco’s practice
as derived from vodun bases in Dahomey.
25 On these various types of bo, see Herskovits
(1967, 2: 256–88). This argument parallels that of
Sweet (2009: 197), who also sees bo as one line of
influence for mandinga pouches made by Dahomeans.
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