From June 19 through June 20, I followed local and regional reports on the arrival of 119 Benin Bronzes in Nigeria, returned from the Netherlands and now in the hands of the National Commission for Museums and Monuments (NCMM) and the Royal Court of Benin. The images, footage, statements, and ceremonial remarks have made clear that this is no longer a theoretical process. These artifacts are indeed back. The returns are happening. What’s unfolding now is history, built from objects that were once stolen, dispersed, and withheld, and are now being received, identified, and reintegrated.
The coverage brought me back to “Dahomey”, Mati Diop’s hybrid documentary about another act of restitution—the 2021 return of 26 artifacts from France to the Republic of Benin. Her film, which premiered at Berlinale in 2024, stages that return through the eyes of a statue, artifact #26, whose voice carries the memory of its displacement and arrival.
(To avoid confusion: the Republic of Benin is a country bordering Nigeria; the Kingdom of Benin was a precolonial empire located in present-day Edo State, Nigeria.)
The two developments—Diop’s film and the ongoing events in Benin City—are not versions of each other. But they share the same root system.
In “Dahomey”, the story unfolds gradually: transport, debate, ritual, uncertainty. The film does not simplify the event. It tracks the complexity of return, including what’s addressed directly, what’s avoided, and what remains unresolved.
In Nigeria, the reception of the 119 bronzes has involved years of negotiation, verification, and collaboration across federal, state, and traditional institutions. The Oba of Benin has described the artifacts as ancestral property. The NCMM has made clear that these are permanent returns, not replicas, not loans.
Public record exists already. Each handover has been documented via ceremonies, statements, technical reports, and logistical planning. What Diop’s film shows is how a creative record can offer something different. “Dahomey” uses sound, rhythm, and narrative structure to animate what might otherwise remain static. It turns repatriation into a sensory and political encounter, told from the perspective of the object itself and grounded in student debate.
What’s happening now in Nigeria is part of the same extended timeline, the same long process of reentry and reattachment that Diop’s film captures with the return of the 26 artifacts. The June 2025 arrival is one moment in an evolving sequence that includes prior returns from Germany, the U.S., and Sweden. New storage facilities are being constructed. The Benin Royal Museum is being expanded. Institutions are aligning not just to receive these objects, but to care for them, display them, and reassert their value on Nigerian terms.
I hope Nigerian filmmakers—if they’re not already—feel drawn to this. Not to recreate what Diop has done, but to respond to what is already happening. This is history in the making, built from a history that was stolen. A history denied, scattered, and suppressed, and now, piece by piece, coming back into view.
There are myriad stories here to be told. The Benin Bronzes are sacred, political, and also—clearly—creative. They reflect a depth of design and symbolic expression that forms part of Africa’s interrupted creative record. Their forced removal was one blow of several to Africa’s narrative continuity. That interruption certainly didn’t begin with cinema, but cinema has inherited the rupture. The moment connects to a longer creative lineage that predates archives, grants, and filmmaking itself.
The objects are here. The story is ongoing. The documentation can take many forms.
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