Max Siollun has carved a reputation as one of the most prominent chroniclers of Nigeria’s political history. His earlier works on independence and the military era which I have recommended drew attention for their balance of narrative clarity and archival rigor. With The Forgotten Era: Nigeria Before British Rule (2025), Siollun turns his lens back further, to the centuries before colonial intrusion, when empires rose and fell, and when culture and religion shaped identities. And, importantly, when betrayal and conquest were as central to Nigerian life as trade and art.
The book is mildly expansive at about 320 pages, weaving together accounts of the Sokoto Caliphate, Borno’s power, the Yoruba kingdoms, Igbo polities, and the arrival of European missionaries. For a reader who has followed Siollun’s career, it is fascinating to see him step outside the modern political archive into the deeper layers of Nigeria’s past often left unexplored and for which many misconceptions abound. What makes this volume compelling is the sheer range of material: from the Islamic reforms of Usman dan Fodio to the intellectual debates of al-Kanemi, from the fabled artistry of Ife and Benin to the complex political systems of Onitsha and Nri. Siollun should be proud of himself.
The narrative often brims with surprising details. Borno, for example, in the sixteenth century boasted armies better armed than their European contemporaries. While England’s soldiers still fought with bows and arrows, Borno deployed musketeers. Such moments upend the tired myth that Africa lagged behind Europe in technological sophistication at all times and in all places. Siollun is also meticulous in reminding us of the intellectual ferment of the era. Al-Kanemi’s rebuttals to Fulani jihadists, steeped in Islamic scholarship, show that Nigerian history is not only a record of swords and conquest but also of debates and contesting visions of truth.
Yet the book is not free from flaws. As an avid student of history myself, it’s easy to see how Siollun sometimes indulges in speculative leaps. His interpretation of Ife-Benin relations (including the way and manner the Benin came about their famed sculpting prowess) or his reasoning about the Portuguese refusal to arm Benin reads less like history and more like conjecture dressed up as fact. History always contains gaps, but filling them requires careful balance. When he compares African human sacrifices with Old Testament animal offerings of the Hebrews, the parallel feels forced and misleading. Such juxtapositions can distort rather than illuminate.
There are also factual errors that weaken confidence. Maitama Sule was Hausa, not Fulani. Ishaya Audu hailed from Ikara as Hausa, not Kataf. Samuel Ajayi Crowther was the first Black *Anglican* bishop, not the first Black bishop (Henrique Kinu a Mvemba in Kongo was one, centuries earlier). These mistakes, while not frequent, matter in a book that presents itself as a trusted precolonial account. In a society where identity is sensitive, such slips invite unnecessary doubt.
The book’s treatment of brutality is another weak point. While the sophistication of Nigerian societies is given ample spotlight, their darker sides are too often minimized. The bloody realities of the slave trade in Arochukwu is mentioned, yet the implications are not pursued. The horrors of Dahomey’s raids or the devastation the Benin kingdom wrought on its neighbours are touched on but not explored with the same enthusiasm as the grandeur of art or the resilience of religion. The reader is left with admiration for precolonial Nigeria but only a partial grasp of how harsh life could be. The lack of focus on the sheer violence of life in these societies risks romanticizing the past. I assure you, you never want to live in that era.
Btw, I wondered why the women warriors of Dahomey in the country of Benin are enviably treated in a book about precolonial Nigeria.
Still, the book shines in its ability to humanize. Azaro-like — for those who have read Ben Okri’s Famished Road — Siollun peppers his history with anecdotes and personalities that give flesh to names on a page. The Alaafin’s ritual suicide, the tragic fate of Bashorun Gaa, the daring gender fluidity of Igbo societies where women could become husbands and sons – these stories remind us that Nigerian history is stranger and richer than we often admit. His discussion of Samuel Ajayi Crowther also stands out. That man was an intellectual colossus who deserves much more recognition than the Nigerian state has given him. Oh, is he even recognized at all? His encounter with Queen Victoria, his translation projects, and his role as the first Black Anglican bishop underscore the ambivalent legacies of faith and colonialism.
The book also reopens debates on identity. The Yoruba label, resisted by those who did not want to be lumped into Oyo’s orbit, is one example. The puncturing of the saying that the Igbo had no kings, with evidence from Onitsha and Nri, is another. These are important interventions in a discourse that often relies on clichés. Siollun insists that precolonial Nigeria was neither primitive nor uniform. It was a complex arena of power struggles and innovations.
The Forgotten Era is an absorbing read. It opens doors into worlds too often forgotten or dismissed. It reminds us that the history of Nigeria did not begin in 1914 with amalgamation or in 1960 with independence. It began centuries earlier, in kingdoms that rose and fell, in artisans who carved bronzes that astonished the world.
Even as someone currently about publishing a book on African Kingdoms, reading it left me with awe and unease. Awe at the ingenuity and scale of precolonial societies. Unease at the way gaps were filled with speculation and atrocities glossed over. Yet perhaps that is what makes the book worth engaging with. It is a provocation to question and an invitation to learn more.
Siollun may not have given us the perfect account, but he has succeeded in bringing Nigeria’s precolonial world back into public conversation. For readers curious about the roots of the country, the book is indispensable. It will enlighten, and unlike many other books, achieve what history should: it forces us to think critically about who we are and where we came from. This is a book I will read again.
Credit: Tosin Adeoti.
