From Dahomey to Lagos: The untold story of the Ogu (Egun) people

When people talk about Lagos, the conversation almost always revolves around Yoruba culture, the hustle of the mainland, or the shiny skyscrapers on the Island.

The Ogu (more commonly known as the Egun) are, however, a people with a far older story than Nigeria itself.

They are originally from the old Dahomey Kingdom (present-day Benin Republic) but now inseparably tied to Lagos.

With more of their history recorded in oral tradition than written documents, the Ogu have remained steadfast in upholding their cultural legacy.

The Ogu people trace their ancestry to Dahomey, modern-day Benin Republic. Oral traditions suggest some settled in coastal Nigeria as early as the 15th century, while others fled during the Dahomean wars of the 18th century. Whatever the version, migration was about survival.

Despite settling among Yoruba speakers, the Ogu held on to their Gun language and cultural identity. This insistence on preservation is part of what makes them remarkable.

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As historian Toyin Falola once observed about minority groups in West Africa, “they survive by remembering,” the Ogu people not only remembered but also adapted.

Today, Badagry is considered the stronghold of the Ogu. They make up around 15% of Lagos State’s indigenous population and are also found in Ogun State and across the border in Benin.

Badagry itself carries heavy historical weight — once a major slave port, today a town of coconut groves, lagoons, and heritage sites.

Yet beneath its global associations with slavery lies the heartbeat of the Ogu people who built their lives there.

The Ogu’s relationship with water and land defines their economy. They are master fishermen, salt makers, and sand miners. Women weave mats and pottery, creating goods that have traveled beyond Nigeria’s borders.

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A historical review of the tribe even notes that mats woven in Badagry once made it to markets in Côte d’Ivoire.

Coconut cultivation is another Ogu hallmark. After Nigeria’s independence, the Lagos State government established coconut plantations in Aradagun and Ikoga, encouraging what was already a thriving practice. Till today, the sight of coconut sellers dotting Badagry’s roads is a reminder of that heritage.

It’s not just about survival; it’s about identity. An elderly Ogu farmer once told researchers, “The coconut tree is like us — it bends in the storm but does not break.”

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No portrait of the Ogu is complete without their spiritual and cultural practices. Their festivals are vibrant, mysterious, and deeply symbolic.

The Sato Festival, for instance, is marked by towering drums beaten in rhythm while dancers swirl in celebration of ancestors. Children born during this festival are named in its honour — Satome for boys, Satosi for girls.

Then there is Zangbeto, the “night watchman” masquerade, a living symbol of Ogu spirituality. To outsiders, it looks like a tall, swirling heap of raffia. To the Ogu, it is both cultural police and spiritual guardian, believed to chase away evil and uphold community order. Even today, many Ogu people say, “When Zangbeto comes out, crime disappears.”

Other deities like Hevioso (god of thunder) and Mawu (the creator) also shape their cosmology. Among the most fascinating taboos is the belief that looking in a mirror while it rains invites Hevioso’s wrath.

For decades, the Ogu barely featured in Nigerian history books. Their story was overshadowed by dominant Yoruba narratives. Much of what we know comes from oral accounts and the efforts of researchers trying to preserve fragments of their past.

A historical review published in 2015 made this clear: “The Ogu tribe remains one of the most obscured in Nigerian historiography, despite their contributions to Lagos State’s socio-economic fabric.”

But invisibility is not the same as absence. The Ogu were always there, working the creeks, dancing at festivals, and passing down songs and proverbs in their Gun language.

Today, the Ogu stand at an intersection between heritage and modernisation. Badagry is earmarked for infrastructural projects (a deep seaport, a free trade zone) that promise economic revival. Whether these developments will benefit the Ogu directly remains an open question.

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Tourism offers another path. Every year, the Badagry Festival celebrates the town’s history with Sato drumming, masquerades, and parades. Visitors come for the slave trade relics but leave with glimpses of Ogu culture. Still, the challenge lies in making sure their heritage is not commodified without their voices at the centre.

In a city as noisy as Lagos, minority voices can be easily drowned. But the Ogu remind us that Lagos is not just Yoruba land.

Their resilience is, definitely, a lesson: despite migration, marginalisation, and the weight of history, the Ogu people continue to dance, to fish, to weave, to drum.

They bend like coconut trees, but they do not break.

And that, perhaps, is the real story: that in the heart of Lagos, there exists a people who embody the quiet strength of survival.

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