This article focuses on the gambling milieu in Nigeria between the late 1970s and early 1980s. I consider the moment when the Federal Military Government (FMG) banned gambling nationwide, and ask why it became such a divisive issue during this tenuous period in Nigeria's history. I argue that amid impending transitional elections to a democratic regime, gambling embodied three key tensions that saturated Nigerian political and civil society during this period: job creation, the state's relationship with private capital, and the division of political power. Additionally, I propose that examining gambling's recreational value alongside its functional significance opens new avenues for the study of the gambling phenomenon in Africa that move beyond ethical considerations.

Opening its general meeting on 27 December 1966, the state-sponsored National Union of Tanganyika Workers, known as NUTA, proposed a combative response to a presidential commission's investigation into mismanagement in the union. The union's general secretary also issued an azimio (resolution) that prefigured much of the socialist rhetoric and policy prescriptions that appeared a month later in Tanzanian president Julius Nyerere's Azimio la Arusha (Arusha Declaration) that refined his policy of African Socialism or Ujamaa. Although the NUTA azimio circulated widely and was submitted to the Arusha party meeting, it was excluded from both the record of that meeting and NUTA's own file of related material. This elision happened before its main author, NUTA general secretary Michael Kamaliza, was convicted of treason two years later. The suppression of NUTA's azimio offers a point of entry to investigate the diffuse agency of political rhetoric and the history of Nyerere's influential speech.

Beginning in 1900, colonial railway departments in Sierra Leone, the Gold Coast, and Nigeria began turning to the Caribbean for skilled labor instead of hiring African workers. When West Indian railway workers began to arrive in West Africa, Africans were indignant, and they voiced their objections in newspapers. West Indians sometimes responded to these grievances with calls for racial unity, yet their appeals were inflected with colonial hierarchies. Such exchanges were centered on railway jobs, but they were also embedded in larger discussions about empire, race, and the legacies of the transatlantic slave trade. I argue that these exchanges reveal the significance of colonial hierarchies and diasporic tensions in the intellectual history of pan-Africanism in early twentieth-century West Africa. The article draws on newspapers and archival research from West Africa, the Caribbean, and the UK.

This article sheds light on the effects that the unrest created by early twentieth-century colonial wars had on the increasing power of African colonial intermediaries in the Northern Territories of the Gold Coast. By managing interpretation processes as well as developing a monopoly on the use of violence, interpreters, soldiers, clerks, and chiefs created what the officers called an ‘impenetrable hedge’. Analyzing how these different figures deployed their power, the article argues that there was historical continuity in the formation of the intermediaries and the methods employed by them between the years of the colonial wars and the later British administration. Despite their institutional role, however, precariousness remained a central facet of these agents’ experiences. The article shows that they were continually challenged at a grassroots level, and suggests that it was only through the use of coercion that they were able to maintain their position.

On 24 January 1960 nine police were killed in the African settlement of Cato Manor when residents turned on officers conducting a liquor patrol. On 5 September 1961, nine men convicted of the killings were hanged in Pretoria's Central Prison. These deaths produced contrasting narratives, one by the apartheid state and then decades later, another by the current African National Congress government. Apartheid police and judicial authorities vilified the accused as the worst kind of killers who wantonly slaughtered the representatives of law and order. Sixty years later, these murderers of the apartheid period were resurrected as martyrs and their remains were interred at Heroes Arch, a resting place for many antiapartheid activists. Moving past these binary versions allows us to consider a more mundane story that underscores the South African state's commitment to a model of policing that generated an unmatched degree of persecution in colonial Africa.

This article traces histories of the Kru in West Africa from the fifteenth to nineteenth centuries, arguing that divergent identities of fifteenth- to eighteenth-century Kru canoers became unified when that unified identity was necessary for maintaining political, economic, and cultural autonomy during and after the slave trade. In conjunction with earlier multilingual work on the Kru mariners of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, this article seeks to place the narrative of Kru identity and labor in a larger context of maritime history across the region at large. This article argues that the Kru relied on longstanding maritime traditions from localized groups to capitalize on the need for work and cash in a capitalist economy driven by growing European imperialism. The historical narrative of Kru maritime power shows how local and global identities in Atlantic Africa shifted in response to exploitation, blurring the lines between response and resistance.

Bamako, March 1991. 100,000 protesters took to the street challenging Mali's military regime. Both men and women participated in six months of protests, their actions shaped by class, gender, and generation. The press, in its reporting, produced a specific, gendered, image of protest, involving young men protesters and their exceptional mères indociles (rebellious mothers) motivated to protest by the risk of bodily harm to their children.1