Walk through the streets of Salvador, Brazil, and you’ll hear the drums of Candomblé echoing from centuries-old terreiros. You’ll see women in white lace selling acarajé, a fried bean cake brought to South America by enslaved West African women. You’ll notice that the vast majority of faces around you are Black.
Now walk through Buenos Aires. The architecture mimics Paris and Madrid. The tango fills the air. And the faces you see—the faces the country presents to the world—are overwhelmingly white.
How can two South American nations, both shaped by centuries of the transatlantic slave trade, look so radically different? More importantly, how did an entire continent come to seem so European, when millions of Africans were forcibly brought to its shores?
This is the story of what happened to the Black population of South America—a story not of disappearance, but of deliberate erasure. And, as we shall see, it is also a story of return.
The Numbers That Shouldn’t Be Ignored
Let’s start with a staggering fact: Brazil received more enslaved Africans than any other country in the Americas. Over 4 million people—approximately 40% of the entire transatlantic slave trade—were brought to Brazilian ports. To put that in perspective, the United States received about 450,000.
Today, according to Brazil’s 2022 census, 55.5% of Brazilians—over 100 million people—identify as Black or mixed-race. This makes Brazil home to the largest Afro-descendant population outside of Africa.
And yet, as maybe rightly observed, if not for football superstars like Pelé, Vinícius Jr., or Vinicius de Moraes, one might easily assume Brazil is a predominantly European nation. The faces on magazine covers, in television commercials, in corporate boardrooms, and in positions of political power tell a very different story from the census data.
What happened?
Brazil: The Whitening Project
The answer lies in a deliberate, state-sponsored policy of “branqueamento”—whitening.
When Brazil finally abolished slavery in 1888—the last country in the Western Hemisphere to do so—the elite faced what they considered a crisis: a nation they perceived as “too Black.” Their solution was not integration or reparations, but demographic engineering.
Between 1884 and 1939, Brazil actively recruited over 4 million European immigrants—primarily from Italy, Portugal, Germany, and Spain. The government subsidized their passage and provided them with land and opportunities systematically denied to the formerly enslaved and their descendants.
The message was explicit: European blood would “improve” the Brazilian population.
This project was remarkably successful in reshaping Brazil’s power structure, if not its actual demographics. Today, the inequality is stark:
· White workers in Brazil earn on average 73% more than Black workers
· Black Brazilians make up approximately 70% of the prison population
· In 2023, nearly 88% of those killed by police were Black or Brown
· Every 12 minutes, a Black person is killed in Brazil
And in media? Only about 20% of prominent journalists identify as Black. The stories told, the faces shown, the heroes celebrated—they remain disproportionately white in a majority-Black nation.
This is how you create a country where Black people are everywhere and yet somehow invisible.
Argentina: The Great Erasure
If Brazil’s story is about marginalizing a Black majority, Argentina’s is about erasing one entirely.
Walk through Buenos Aires today, and you’ll hear Argentines describe their country as “a nation of Europeans descended from ships.” Official statistics seem to confirm this: only about 0.7% of Argentines identify as Black.
But this was not always true.
At the beginning of the 19th century, Black people made up a significant portion of Argentina’s population. In some cities, they constituted up to 50% of inhabitants. In Buenos Aires, approximately one-third of the population was Black.
These were not just enslaved people—they were soldiers in independence wars, writers publishing their own newspapers, musicians creating the rhythms that would eventually become tango, and active participants in the nation’s political life.
So what happened?
For decades, historians offered explanations: Black men were decimated in wars; yellow fever epidemics disproportionately killed Black residents; there was simply a smaller slave trade to the region.
But modern research tells a different story.
First: Racial mixing was extensive. Unlike in the United States, where the “one-drop rule” meant anyone with African ancestry was considered Black, Latin American racial classification was more fluid. Over generations of intermarriage with European and Indigenous populations, visible Blackness was diluted—a process sometimes actively encouraged by a state eager to create a whiter nation.
Second: Massive European immigration transformed the demographic landscape. Between 1857 and 1940, Argentina received over 6 million European immigrants, primarily from Italy and Spain. This influx was so massive that it statistically overwhelmed the existing population. Even if the Black population had remained stable in absolute numbers, its proportion shrank dramatically.
Third: Cultural erasure completed the job. Argentina constructed a powerful national myth: that it was a white, European nation with no significant African heritage. Black history was written out of textbooks. Black contributions to culture—including to the tango itself—were whitewashed. The very idea of Afro-Argentines became unthinkable.
Recent genetic studies tell a different story. They suggest that at least 4% of the Argentine population carries significant African ancestry—and likely much more. The people are still there; the identity was erased.
Beyond Brazil and Argentina
This pattern repeats across South America, with variations:
In Colombia, approximately 10% of the population identifies as Black, but Afro-Colombians face some of the highest poverty rates and have been disproportionately displaced by decades of internal conflict.
In Peru, the small Afro-Peruvian population has fought for recognition, celebrating icons like soccer legend Teófilo Cubillas while battling invisibility in a nation that often emphasizes its Indigenous and Spanish heritage.
In Uruguay, up to 12% of the population has significant African ancestry, but the country promotes an image of itself as the most European nation in South America—perhaps even more than Argentina.
Venezuela once had a vibrant Afro-Venezuelan culture, particularly in coastal regions, but the economic and political crisis has overshadowed these communities’ struggles for recognition.
Ecuador, Bolivia, and Paraguay all have Afro-descendant populations that have historically been marginalized and rendered invisible in national narratives that prioritize Indigenous or European identities.
The next time you watch a Brazilian football match and marvel at the talent on the field, remember: you’re not seeing an exception. You’re seeing a reflection of what half the country actually looks like—if only you knew where to look. And if you ever walk through the streets of Lagos and hear an echo of Salvador in the architecture, know that you are standing at the crossroads of a shared history that refuses to be forgotten.
The Return: How Afro-Brazilians Shaped Modern Lagos
But the story of the Black population in South America does not end with erasure or marginalization. In one of history’s remarkable twists, many Afro-Brazilians—freedmen and women, and sometimes deportees—crossed the Atlantic once more to return to the land of their ancestors. When they arrived on the West African coast, they brought Brazil with them.
Starting in the 1830s, a significant wave of migration began from Brazil to the Bight of Benin. The first major group was actually deported in 1835 following the Malê Revolt, a significant slave rebellion in Salvador led by enslaved Yoruba and Hausa Muslims . Fearing further insurrection, the Brazilian government allowed or compelled these freed Africans to return to Africa . Over the following decades, thousands more followed, fleeing racism, high taxes, and the difficult conditions of post-abolition Brazil . By the 1880s, these “Brazilians”—as they were known—made up about 9% of Lagos’s population .
Today, they are known as the Aguda people (a term possibly derived from “agudão,” a Portuguese word for cotton), and their descendants remain a vibrant and distinct community, primarily in Lagos but also in cities like Abeokuta, Ibadan, and Badagry .
Builders of a New Lagos: Architecture and Legacy
The Aguda returnees were not just escaping hardship; they were carrying valuable skills. Many had worked as masons, carpenters, and tailors in Brazil and brought this expertise with them . They left an indelible mark on the Nigerian landscape, transforming the architecture of Lagos.
· The Brazilian Quarter (Popo Aguda): The Oba of Lagos granted the returnees land on the eastern part of Lagos Island, an area that became known as the Brazilian Quarter or Popo Aguda . This neighborhood, centered around Campos Square (named after a returnee from Cuba), became a hub of Afro-Brazilian culture, with its distinctive architecture, cuisine, and way of life .
· Architectural Landmarks: The Aguda built some of Lagos’s most iconic structures. The Holy Cross Cathedral, completed in 1881, stands as a masterpiece of Afro-Brazilian architecture, financed by the lay congregation and built by master builders like Francisco Nobre, Balthazar dos Reis, and João da Costa . The Shitta-Bey Mosque, opened in 1894, is another stunning example. Funded by a philanthropist of Sierra Leonean-Yoruba descent, it was designed and built by the Brazilian architect João Baptista da Costa, blending Islamic form with Brazilian Baroque influence on its façade .
· The Tragic Loss of Ilojo Bar: Perhaps the most famous—and now infamous—example was the Ilojo Bar, also known as Olaiya House or Casa da Fernandez . Built in 1855 by the Fernandez family, who employed returnee craftsmen, it was a quintessential example of the style and a declared national monument . In a devastating blow to heritage preservation, the building was illegally demolished in September 2016, its loss a stark reminder of the fragility of this shared history .
A Living Culture: Names, Faith, and Food
The Aguda legacy is not just in stone and mortar; it lives on in the cultural DNA of Lagos.
· Portuguese Names: Open a Lagos phonebook today, and you’ll find a striking number of Portuguese surnames—Pinheiro, Da Silva, De Souza, Moreira, Da Rocha—a direct line back to these returnee families . The current Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria, Olayemi Cardoso, is himself of Afro-Brazilian descent .
· Religion: The Aguda were predominantly Catholic, and their presence helped establish Catholicism in Lagos . They maintained a close-knit community where, unlike in the hinterlands, religious differences with Muslims or traditional worshippers were not divisive .
· Cuisine and Festivals: They brought with them tastes of Bahia, introducing dishes like mingau (porridge) and feijão-de-leite (coconut milk beans) . They also popularized the use of cassava as a food crop . Cultural celebrations, such as the Caretas (masked figures) at Easter and the Fanti Carnival, remain living remnants of this heritage .
A New Era of Reconnection
Today, the ties between Brazil and Nigeria are being actively renewed. In a powerful symbol of this reconnection, Nigerian President Bola Tinubu and Brazilian President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva have jointly endorsed the Heritage Voyage of Return (HVR) . Championed by Nobel Laureate Prof. Wole Soyinka, this initiative aims to offer descendants of enslaved Africans a symbolic sea voyage back to Africa, a journey of “dignity, belonging, and spiritual reconnection” . It is a formal recognition by both nations of their shared, painful, and ultimately resilient history—a history written in the bricks of Lagos’s oldest churches and the bloodlines of its oldest families.
The Resistance: Writing Themselves Back into History
Across South America, Afro-descendant communities are fighting to reclaim their place in the national story.
In Brazil, Quilombola communities—descendants of enslaved people who escaped and formed independent settlements—are fighting for land rights and recognition. The 2022 census was the first to formally count these communities, documenting over 1.3 million Quilombolas across the country.
In Argentina, activists and scholars are challenging the myth of whiteness. The discovery of a vibrant 19th-century Black press—newspapers written by and for Afro-Argentines—has revealed a community that was anything but marginal. These publications documented political debates, cultural events, and social organizing, proving that Afro-Argentines were active participants in building the nation that later erased them.
Across the continent, Afro-Latin American journalists, artists, and academics are connecting across borders. They’re demanding that census forms include appropriate racial categories. They’re pushing for affirmative action policies in universities and government. They’re reclaiming cultural traditions—from music and dance to religion and cuisine—that were always African but were repackaged as simply “national.”
What We Get Wrong
The great misconception about race in South America is that it’s somehow “better” than in the United States—that racial mixing means racial harmony, that the absence of Jim Crow laws means the absence of racism.
The reality is more complex. South American racism is not about segregation; it’s about invisibility. It’s not about separate drinking fountains; it’s about a complete absence from television screens. It’s not about explicit “whites only” signs; it’s about a million subtle messages that beauty, power, intelligence, and success are white.
But as the story of the Aguda people shows, this history cannot be contained by national borders or erased by state policy. It flows across the Atlantic, it is etched into city streets, and it lives on in the names we carry and the foods we eat.
When you look at South America and see only European faces, you’re not seeing the continent as it is. You’re seeing the successful result of a century-long project to erase Blackness from the national image—even in countries where Black people have always been, and remain, central to the population.
The Black population of South America did not disappear. It was hidden. And now, against tremendous odds, it is fighting to be seen.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 