Togo’s striking brutalist architecture

Togo has some unexpected and striking architectural gems. They are concentrated mostly in the capital city of Lomé and date back to the two or three decades the following independence from French colonial rule in 1960. Even Manuel Herz in his African Modernism – a publication by Park Books in 2015 which explored a late, massive and mostly béton brut modernism and its post-independence architecture in Ghana, Senegal, Ivory Coast, Kenya, and Zambia – made no mention of Togo’s contributions. Citing the subtitle of the volume, Togo’s brutalist structures are also an “Architecture of Independence,” a genealogy of buildings that symbolize and physical constitute the infrastructure of a finally independent nation.

Their rediscovery – after a long, undeserved period of obscurity that seems almost cyclical in architectural criticism – has been sparked by Togo’s first-ever participation in the Venice Architecture Biennale, now in its 19th edition. Tucked away in the alleyways near the Arsenale, the Togolese exhibition titled Considering Togo’s Architectural Heritage showcases a series of architectures from before and after the long centuries of colonization, spanning from the 17th to the 20th centuries. At the heart of the exhibit there is Lomé’s post-1960s Brutalism represented by thirteen institutional buildings in a broad sense: banks, hotels, various ministries and public institution headquarters, markets, and fairgrounds.

Lomé’s architecture stands out not because it is singular, but because it is representative of wider continental narratives. Like other “peers,” in the latter half of the 20th century, Togo entered the international architectural scene as a nation rooted in local tradition, eager to assert its own identity, yet open to aesthetic and spatial models influencing the globe. African Brutalism, including Togolese Brutalism, fed on a dialogue and hybridization between the local and the global, the national and the International (Style), accompanying a quest for a “modernity” that was no longer imposed from outside, but cultivated from within. This path was often contradictory, involving the adaptation and appropriation of imported technologies, expertise, and aesthetics from the Western world.

The variety of the buildings featured in Venice speak to this spirit of exploration and experimentation, defining feature of the architectural projects of that time. Their diverse authorship reflects both deep lingering ties to their former colonizer France and a growing cultural and professional mobility at a regional and international level. Take, for example, the Hotel 2 Février (1980–1981), designed by Greek-French architect Comianos Agapitos and his Togolese partner Franck Christian Diego Anthony. The sleek, modernist parallelepiped shape, with its gently curved glass façades, appears almost abstract and synthetic amid Lomé’s more incremental urban landscape.

Other buildings demonstrate a more deliberate and refined fusion of modern materials with local vernacular references. Senegalese architect Pierre Goudiaby Atepa designed the headquarters of the West African States Bank (1980–1982) with a curved curtain wall inspired by the shape of a balafon, a traditional West African percussion instrument. Meanwhile, the roof of the Togolese Union Bank (1967–1969), designed by Frenchman Georges Coustère, draws from the zipki, a traditional Togolese throne. The Marché Hédzranawoé (1985–1988), designed by local architect Blèce Afoda-Sebou, features a trefoil floor plan evoking a symbolic key of African femininity, a tribute to the women who run the market.

The term “tropicalized modernism” was originally coined to describe mid-20th-century South American architecture, particularly in Brazil, where European modernist principles of the entre-deux-guerres (especially those of Le Corbusier) were reinterpreted in response to the local climate and culture. Togo’s Brutalism can likewise be seen as tropicalized: in the sense that it was enriched with architectural devices and details that make it more adequate to the difficult local environment. For instance, The Hôtel de la Paix (1972–1973), by French architect Daniel Chenut, uses concrete partitions as both structural elements and sunshades, and The Hôtel Sarakawa (1975–1980), designed by Italian Eugène Palumbo, features continuous horizontal openings to enhance natural cross-ventilation.

The exhibition Considering Togo's Architectural Heritage presents an Africa of reinforced concrete, that is solid, monumental, and in stark contrast to the raw earth and thatch often emphasized in contemporary narratives. It captures a hopeful moment in time, when Togo, like many of its neighbors, sought to “define its own path within the broader discourse on modernity.” At the heart of the exhibition is a fundamental question posed by its curators regarding the specificity and relevance of the architecture on display: “What can be considered Togolese architecture, and what can we learn from it?” The answer remains (thankfully) open-ended, awaiting deeper study, perhaps extending across multiple African nations.

Opening image: Pierre Goudiaby Atepa, Banque d'Investissement et de Développement de la CEDEAO, 1988. Photo Wody Yawo