The examination of the growth of canoe transport in Buganda in the nineteenth century is an aspect of the kingdom's history that has received little serious consideration to date. This paper focuses on the ways in which the canoe fleet, especially from the 1840s, was systematically developed and utilized in the extension of Ganda power and influence in the Lake Victoria region. The need to protect and promote commerce was one of the driving forces behind Buganda's diplomatic, military and technological policies in the second half of the nineteenth century. This was consistent with objectives of the kingdom that had endured since around the middle of the sixteenth century, although the scale of these objectives had expanded along with the kingdom's horizons. Yet recognition of this basic continuity should not detract from our appreciation of the degree to which the Ganda innovated to meet the challenges of long-distance trade, as well as the challenges to their control of the external environment. The presence of Ganda at Tabora, on the southern shore of Lake Victoria, and even at Zanzibar itself is indicative of the alacrity with which Kabaka Suna (c. 1830–56) and Kabaka Mutesa (1856–84) seized their opportunities and attempted to secure conditions perceived to be favourable to the ‘national interest’ far beyond territorial borders. Yet Ganda also failed to realize the full military potential of their canoes. Despite their considerable efforts, the success of the naval endeavour was never without qualifications, and it is one of the primary aims of this paper to analyze these deficiencies.

Le nom de la ville (qsâr) de Shingîti apparaît tardivement dans les documents médiévaux, au détour d'un texte portugais du début du seizième siècle, dans une liste de toponymes concernant l'Adrar de Mauritanie. Ce n'est qu'à partir du dix-septième et surtout du dix-huitième siècle que Shingîti acquiert une réputation dépassant les limites du Sahara occidental, plus alors par le renom de certains de ses savants et hommes de religion que par ses activités commerciales. A cette époque, comme durant la période médiévale, le principal centre commercial de l'Adrar est Wadàn, dont le destin est étroitement associé au commerce du sel de la Sebkha d'Idjîl, sans doute exploitée depuis les dixième ou onzième siècles.

Au début du dix-neuvième siècle, Wadân connaît un déclin définitif, sans doute en partie lié aux conflits factionnels opposant Idaw al-Hajj et Kunta, ces derniers devenant maîtres du qsâr et de la saline d'Idjîl dans le courant du dix-huitième siècle. Parallèlement, l'on assiste à un essor commercial de Shingîti: à la fin du dix-neuvième siècle, l'importance économique et religieuse de la ville est attestée à travers le fait que l'ensemble du Sahara occidental est connu dans le monde musulman environnant sous le terme de trab ash-Shingîti, le ‘pays de Shingîti’, nom répandu à l'extérieur par les pèlerins qui se rendent à La Mecque et par les caravaniers qui fréquentent la ville. C'est sur cette brusque mutation des activités de la ville que nous nous interrogerons dans cet article en tentant de la replacer dans le contexte plus général de l'évolution des échanges sahariens au dix-neuvième siècle.

The kingdom of Kush (Meroe) represents one of a series of early states located within the Middle Nile. At its greatest extent controlling more than 1,000 km. of the Nile valley from northern Lower Nubia to Sennar on the Blue Nile, its scale, longevity and cultural achievements are remarkable (Fig. 1). While its origins in the early millennium b.c. and its demise around the fourth century a.d. still remain obscure, it is one of the earliest and most impressive states yet found south of the Sahara. This notwithstanding, the place of the Kushite state and its civilization within the history of sub-Saharan Africa remains far from clear.

The early development of complex societies in the Middle Nile within the frontiers of the modern republic of Sudan raises many questions concerning the role of external influences and cultural contacts on the region. The ever present shadow of Pharaonic Egypt looms large in most studies, and very close links are still maintained between Meroitic (and Nubian) studies and Egyptology. One result of the undoubted Egyptocentrism which has for so long dominated research in the region has been the neglect of many research areas likely to be of interest to archaeologists and historians working elsewhere in Africa. The political structuring and organisation of power within the Kushite state still remain little studied, while little interest has been shown in trying to contextualize it, either in relation to later kingdoms of the Middle Nile or indeed in the history of state development in Sudanic Africa as a whole. All too often it seems still implied, if not explicitly stated, that the early development of social/political complexity in the region, with the rise of Kerma, Napata and Meroe and their attendant cultural achievements, may be largely explained by, and understood in terms of, Egyptian models: ‘secondary states’ on the margins of a great civilization, unique within, and effectively unconnected with, other regions of sub-Saharan Africa.

The concern of this paper is briefly to reassess a number of questions concerning our perceptions of the Kushite state, which also have implications for our understanding of the long-term history of early states within the Middle Nile and their relation to other parts of Sudanic Africa.

The established historical view of the Upper Guinea Coast is that this naturally forested region was at first peripheral to the Manding civilization of the savanna zone. The arrival of Europeans on the coast in the fifteenth century then engendered a southward shift in the centre of gravity of historical processes. The Atlantic trade, in which the savanna states were also deeply involved, gave coastal populations vastly expanded opportunities for wealth accumulation and social mobility. In spite of numerous attempts at political centralization, ‘frontier’ conditions persisted in the region up to – and perhaps after – the establishment of colonial states. These conditions have been held to account for the region-wide importance of cultural institutions which either facilitate social accommodation between heterogenous groups (e.g. Islam, Manding and European linguistic creoles, Manding clan names, and secret societies), or reflect such processes (e.g. bilateral kinship, patron–client relations, and pre-colonial urbanization).

Early in the twentieth century, French and British colonial scholars developed rigid, descent-based models of African pastoral societies. These models emphasized stasis partly because the scholars relied on unrepresentative samples of the pastoralists' views of their own societies, and partly because the scholars simply misinterpreted data. By the 1970s anthropologists had radically revised these models, arguing that although pastoralists generally defined themselves in terms of descent, their societies were nevertheless quite dynamic. In their view, descent was an idiom of social discourse; while pastoral societies may have operated according to the idiom in the past, the economic changes brought about by colonialism had ruptured the connection between the ideology and social practice. More recently, historians have begun to argue that pastoral societies were also dynamic before colonialism, and that there was great flexibility in the ways pastoralists reckoned social identities.

This essay draws on evidence from the nineteenth-century western Sahara to argue that pastoral societies were dynamic long before the colonial period, and that many Saharans perceived their society in this way. This evidence was neglected by the early colonial scholars and many post-colonial anthropologists in favor of those descriptions that emphasized stasis. Saharan accounts that described social dynamism were often based on the explicitly Islamic model of the Prophet Muhammad and his diverse community of supporters. This model, then and throughout Islamic history, has offered the possibility of social improvement, and therein lies the explanation for why some Saharans interpreted society as static while others saw it as dynamic. Social models that fix groups into specific ranks according to descent serve the interests of those at the higher ranks, while dynamic models serve to legitimize social mobility.

Peoples create their own histories by making choices within a framework of opportunities and constraints. In the historical interaction of small groups within a larger state and social formation, the context of constraints and opportunities changes over time, as do the choices and actions of the smaller groups. Such socio-ethnic historical processes must thus be analyzed both diachronically and dialectically.

This comparative study examines the actions of two small groups, the Beta Israel and Kemant, during three phases of Ethiopian history: the centralizing state to 1632; the urban-centered state, 1632–1755; and the regionalized but re-centralizing state, 1755–1900. In contrast to the assumptions of traditional Ethiopian historiography in which small groups were only objects of conquest and inevitable assimilation, this paper demonstrates the construction and reconstruction of group identities during several hundred years extending into the twentieth century.

In a recent study, Fred Cooper argues that strikes and other forms of labor protest had a clarifying effect on official thinking not only about labor policies but also about the aims and, ultimately, the viability of colonial rule. As Africans went on strike, from the Copperbelt to the docks of Mombasa and the Gold Coast Railway, to demand better wages and working conditions, colonial administrators first envisioned and then embraced the idea of an African working class and the possibility that African workers could be managed with the same kinds of labor codes and social welfare policies that obtained in Europe.

Of course, the image of a working class applied only so far in Africa. Colonial officials never fully understood the way African workers lived or the place of wage employment in African society, and were dismayed when their newly acquired understanding of Africans as universal workers was challenged in the 1950s by former strike leaders who began to insist on Africans' rights to political autonomy. Nonetheless, as Cooper shows, the effects of recurrent, often highly effective, strikes were far-reaching. As officials confronted the financial and political implications of providing all Africans with social welfare benefits and economic development comparable to those of Europe, they decided it was time to abandon the imperial enterprise.

Queen Adelaide Province consisted of some 7,000 square miles of Rarabe Xhosa territory annexed by the British Cape colonial government in May 1835 during the Sixth Frontier War. The province was held only until the end of 1836 when it was abandoned under pressure from the imperial government, but it represented the first British attempt to extend direct control over a large body of formerly independent Africans. No such ambitious scheme had ever been attempted before in the Cape, and no such scheme was to be attempted elsewhere in Africa until the late nineteenth century.

Given its short-lived nature, Queen Adelaide Province has not been extensively analysed in any of the prominent histories of the eastern Cape. However, while the treatment is brief, its significance has been widely recognized. This early, temporary colonization of Xhosa territory has served as a lens through which to view colonial extension in the eastern Cape as a whole. In the late-nineteenth and early twentieth-century settler histories of George Cory and George McCall Theal, the annexation of Queen Adelaide Province represents a temporary advance within a much broader colonial progress. One episode in the epic attempt to extend colonial civilization across ‘Kaffraria’, expansion within the province was unfortunately thwarted by misguided Cape and metropolitan philanthropy. In W. M. Macmillan's liberal critique of the late 1920s and early 1930s, the disputes over the province between the land-hungry settlers, the strategically-minded Governor D'Urban and the humanitarian Secretary of State for the Colonies, Lord Glenelg, are again viewed as part of a much broader struggle. But rather than Cory's struggle between civilization and savagery, this is seen as a contest between malicious and benign conceptions of colonialism. The province represents an early collision between, on the one hand, evangelical and humanitarian versions of cultural colonization that guaranteed Xhosa access to their land (a kind of trusteeship that Macmillan advocated for his own times) and, on the other hand, the practice of colonization founded upon settler-led conquest and dispossession.

For a number of years the historiography of Southern Africa has been dominated by a materialist framework that has focused upon modes of production and forms of socio-political organization as the determining factors in historical change. Those historians concerned with the history of women in pre-colonial societies – even those who have privileged gender relations in their analyses – have largely been content to construct women's history by applying the insights of socio-economic and political analyses of the past to gender dynamics, and by projecting the insights of anthropological analyses of present gender relations into the past. Some of these historians have concluded that until the arrival of capitalism no substantial changes in the situations, power or status of women took place within Zulu society, even during the period of systemic transformation known as the mfecane in the early nineteenth century.

More recently, Zulu gender history has become part of a larger debate connected to the changing political and academic milieu in South Africa. Representatives of a revived Africanist tradition have criticized materialist historians for writing Zulu history from an outsider's perspective and of focusing overly on conflict and power imbalances within the nineteenth-century kingdom in an effort to discredit contemporary Zulu nationalism. To counter this, historian Simon Maphalala has stressed the harmony of nineteenth-century Zulu society, the power advisors exercised in state government, and the lack of internal conflict. Maphalala also claims that women's subordinate role in society ‘did not cause any dissatisfaction among them’, and argues that ‘[women] accepted their position and were contented’. In recent constitutional debates many South African intellectuals including members of the Congress of Traditional Leaders of South Africa (CONTRALESA), invoked this ‘benign patriarchy’ model of pre-colonial gender relations to oppose the adoption of gender-equality provisions in the new constitution. As Cherryl Walker has noted, the hegemonic definition of traditional gender relations to which such figures have made rhetorical appeals often masks not only the historicity of these relations but also hides dissenting opinions (often demarcated along gender lines) as to what those relations are and have been.

There are good reasons why the remarkable outpouring of work on Southern African urban history that has taken place over the last twenty years has largely bypassed Malawi. To the overwhelmingly rural character of the Malawi economy must be added the weak impact of settler colonialism in the interwar period and hence the failure of Blantyre, one of the oldest colonial settlements in Central Africa, with a history going back to the foundation of the Blantyre mission in 1876, to develop as a substantial commercial centre. This feature was reinforced in turn by Sir Harry Johnston's decision, taken in 1891, to site the colonial capital at Zomba and by the construction in 1907 at Limbe, five miles from Blantyre, of the railway terminus for the protectorate.

Urban development in Malawi was therefore not concentrated on a single dominant commercial and administrative centre, as was the case in neighbouring Tanganyika. Rather it was split between three equally impoverished settlements, containing small populations ranging in size in 1945 from approximately 4,600 in Blantyre and Zomba to 7,100 in Limbe. Far more Malawians, in consequence, experienced urban culture as labour migrants in Johannesburg or Salisbury, where an estimated 10,000 Malawians were living in 1938, than they did working at home.

Pemba Peremba

Ukija na winda, hutoka na kilemba

Ukija na kilemba, hutoka na winda.

(Proceed cautiously in Pemba

If you come wearing a loin cloth, you leave wearing a turban

If you come wearing a turban, you leave wearing a loin cloth.)

Dress has historically been used as one of the most important and visually immediate markers of class, status and ethnicity in East African coastal society. As one of many forms of expressive culture, clothing practice shaped and gave form to social bodies. Examining transformations in dress and fashion illustrates, however, that boundaries between theoretically distinctive social categories were often vague in practice.

Quite possibly, Eva, born Krotoa, is the most written about African woman in South African historiography. Her name fills the journals of the Dutch East India Company almost from the very start of their little feeding-station at the Cape of Good Hope in 1652. She is known as a Khoena girl taken into Dutch commander Jan Van Riebeeck's household from the age of about twelve, who later became a key interpreter for the Dutch, was baptised, married Danish surgeon, Pieter Van Meerhoff, but then died as a drunken prostitute after his death. Yet her persona remains an enigma. As Christina Landman put it, ‘Krotoa is a story-generator’.

To conservative historians, Eva's life offers living proof that the Khoena were irredeemable savages. To black nationalist writers, such as Khoena historian, Yvette Abrahams, she personifies the widespread rape and abuse of black women by the invaders. Eva's chief biographer, V. C. Malherbe, forms a more neutral judgment by describing Eva as primarily ‘a woman in between’. Landman views her as an early synthesizer of African and Christian religious traditions. Carli Coetzee demonstrates how recent Afrikaans-speaking artists, poets and actors have constructed an image of Eva as the mother of the Afrikaner nation, a tamed African who acquiesced to Europeanness. She is often portrayed as yearning to return to her African roots, but without success.

Virtually all of the representations of Eva construct her as a helpless victim of vicious culture clashes. Today's racial consciousness, laced with assumptions of inevitable African/European hostility, is often read back into the historical record. Frustratingly large gaps in that record leave room for a wide range of interpretations, depending heavily on the subjectivities of the historian. Virtually all previous writers, however, have judged Eva primarily by the tragic circumstances of her death, while minimizing the considerable achievements of her earlier years.

In the summer of 1995, I was hiking in the Uluguru mountains above Morogoro in Tanzania when I met an old man on the path. He was carrying a load of wood poles on his head, and we stopped to talk. I was curious about the visible deforestation on the mountainside, and asked him about the changing forest cover. He told me the following story.

In 1950, a young man named Ayo Salako went to work for the Nigerian railway as a casual laborer. He hoped to be like his father, a locomotive driver who had worked for the railway from 1916 to his death thirty-four years later. Indeed, Ayo Salako became a successful railwayman, climbing the career ladder to locomotive driver, transferring to a number of different stations and retiring with a pension in 1987. Although the two generations of men both made long, continuous careers in railway employment, Ayo Salako was rather different from his father in terms of his domestic life. The elder Salako had parlayed his employment success into a polygamous marriage and the maintenance of a farm and patron–client relations in his hometown of Ogbomosho. His son, in contrast, married his current wife only after the dissolution of a previous marriage, visited Ogbomosho infrequently and retired in Ibadan rather than in his patrilineal hometown. During his career he saw himself as a modernizer, involved with industrial technology, well-traveled within the country, monogamous, and building a life and educating his children in the booming towns of post-war Nigeria.

Ayo Salako's young adulthood during the 1940s and 1950s coincided with important economic, social and political transformations in Nigeria and throughout Africa. The Second World War and the end of the depression brought economic expansion and a new wave of government interventionism. Cities were swollen with migrants looking for cash and the independence from elders that came with it. African railways expanded to meet new demands for transport and their work forces were among the largest and most politically active on the continent. Faced with imperial financial pressures and widespread African dissent, officials were turning to new policies for the colonies. Ambitious planners attempted to rationalize peasant agriculture to increase production, stabilize wage labor to improve efficiency, reshape African cities to make them less ‘disorderly’ and mold African family life to conform more closely to a bourgeois European image.

Relatively little research has been done on the history of midwifery at the Cape, although there has lately been increasing interest in the social history of medicine, as well as in the history of abortion, rape, infanticide and motherhood in South Africa. One of the reasons for the dearth of research is the relative absence of women, especially black women, from the historical record. The archival record of what was called the Cape Colony during the early nineteenth century is rich enough to reveal something about women's history, however. The Cape was first settled by Europeans in 1652 under the auspices of the Dutch East India Company (DEIC), and was captured by the British in 1795 and again in 1806. During the first half-century of British rule at the Cape, urban midwives came under greater professional and official scrutiny and left some traces in the historical archive. The remaining absences tell their own stories, too, and in this paper these silences will be made to speak, if only softly and tentatively, of the role of women in colonial African medical care.

During the colonial period, European officers undertook a series of campaigns in conjunction with African officials to regulate the severity of clitoridectomy and to alter the timing of female initiation in Meru, Kenya. While their efforts to ban the more drastic forms of clitoridectomy contributed to the government's stated objective of gradually eliminating the practice, this anti-clitoridectomy stance was compromised by their parallel efforts to enforce female initiation at an earlier age in order to combat abortion. Officers attributed the apparently high prevalence of abortion in Meru to the late age at which clitoridectomy took place. Whereas in other areas of central Kenya female initiation took place prior to puberty, in Meru, it was a pre-nuptial rite. Officers observed that as ‘custom’ prohibited uninitiated females from bearing children, unexcised girls who became pregnant most often obtained abortions. To eliminate the possibility of a girl being sexually mature but unexcised, administrators enforced measures requiring girls to be excised before puberty.

Desert Frontier: Ecological and Economic Change along the Western Sahel, 1600–1850. By JAMES L. A. WEBB JR. Madison and London: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995. Pp. xxvi+227. £40.95 (ISBN 0-299-14330-9); £17.95, paperback (ISBN 0-299-14334-1).

In contrast to the desert itself, the Sahara as subject of historical (re)construction is currently displaying signs of health and vitality. It is enticing historians into a range of theoretical and methodological domains deriving from other disciplines, and simultaneously attracting scholars from other disciplines to play out their own explorations around its contours. For a space which seems to have no difficulty occupying well-delineated and identified areas in every genre of cartographical representation, the Sahara is surprisingly difficult to ‘locate’ in academic discourse. Its identity, in current parlance, is a popular focus of speculation and debate, challenging conventional notions of its location, both in time and in space. One of these challenges is engagingly articulated in the recent publication of economic historian James Webb Jr. His Desert Frontier: Ecological and Economic Change along the Western Sahel, 1600–1850, invites wider participation in this ‘search for the Sahara’ and in so doing, encourages broader understanding of just where ‘Saharan studies’ and in particular Saharan history and Saharan society stand in these so-called post-colonial times.

Although the conventional image of the colonial medical encounter in Africa depicts a white, male, European doctor treating a black African patient, most of the actual deliverers of Western medicine in Africa during the colonial period were non-Europeans. In the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan, British doctors formed only a small minority of Western medical practitioners. Most often, it was Syrian, Egyptian and Sudanese doctors, and Sudanese assistant medical officers, mosquito men, nurses, sanitary officers and midwives who delivered sanitary and medical services on behalf of the colonial state. Understanding the cultural exchanges, technology transfer and power relations involved in the operation of colonial medicine clearly requires careful study of the training, the role and the experiences of these non-European practitioners of Western medicine.

In this paper, one such group of medical practitioners is examined through a study of the Midwifery Training School or MTS, opened in Omdurman, Sudan in 1921. The MTS sought to create a class of modern, trained Sudanese midwives, out of, and in rivalry to, an entrenched class of traditional midwives, known as dayas. The analysis relies heavily on the papers of Mabel E. Wolff, founding matron of the MTS and her sister, Gertrude L. Wolff, who first arrived in Sudan to train nurses. Throughout the discussion, the name ‘Wolff’ alone designates Mabel, whose voice dominates their collective papers.

The Delegate for Africa: David Ivon Jones, 1883–1924. By Baruch Hirson and Gwyn A. Williams. London: Core Publications, 1995. Pp. x+272. £8.50, paperback (ISBN 897640-02-1).

S. P. Bunting: A Political Biography, new edition. By Edward Roux. Bellville: Mayibuye Books. 1993. Pp. 200. No price given, paperback (ISBN 1-86808-162-1).

Outsiders looking at the recent history of South African politics are apt to be struck by two conundrums. How can a nation that pushed the logic of ‘race’ as far as any society in history also have produced one of the world's most enduring non-racial political traditions? And how, in a period that has seen the crumbling of the Soviet Union and the discrediting of communist parties throughout the world, has the South African Communist Party (SACP) not only survived but risen to power, in coalition with the African National Congress and the Congress of South African Trade Unions?