During the past 25 years, there have been several efforts by developing countries to establish regional economic institutions to address their poverty, underdevelopment, and external dependency. Although the economic imperatives and rationales for their creation intuitively seemed sufficient to ensure that the national political leaderships would choose to engage in whatever give-and-take was necessary to achieve their stated goals, the historical record reveals that these regional organisations have experienced uneven results at best. Several are now defunct. Why is this the case?

Following the 1994 genocide, scholars have criticised the Rwandan government's official account of national history and its restrictions on competing historical narratives. But what might Rwandans be doing with that state narrative besides conforming to it out of fear of reprisal? I argue that to understand what sustains official narratives we must grasp not only their coercive aspects, but also how social actors put them to work for different reasons. I offer four possible forms of agency in which Rwandans engage when they reproduce official history to show how – while forcibly imposed – government narratives are nonetheless cultural resources that people can turn to personal and collective visions, projects and desires. The article aims to develop a more robust understanding of how people respond to imposed narratives of nationhood and history, since it is important to attend not only to resistance, but also conformity to them.

The years that Gandhi spent in South Africa have been admirably described by several scholars. This articles traces the development of a philosophy which became uniquely identified with Gandhi, and then looks at his legacy in South Africa, especially his influence in the social, religious, and political spheres. How is it possible that the shadow of so apparently frail a figure was cast so widely over events during most of this century?

Shortly after assuming office as Head of State in August 1985, President Ibrahim Babangida inaugurated a 17-member Political Bureau, headed by Professor Sylvanus Cookey, whose terms of reference included ‘The review of Nigeria's political history, identifying the basic problems which led to failure in the past and suggesting ways of resolving and coping with these problems’.1 One of the most controversial of the Bureau's proposals was that the number of political parties should be limited to two in order to ensure that Nigeria's future politics would be based on principles and not ethnicity.2 The Government accepted this recommendation as part of the programme for a return to civilian rule in 1992, and has decided that two parties will be registered in 1989.3

During the first decade of independence for the tropical African states, economic planning has moved through several stages. Before and at the time of independence the development literature still featured debates as to whether or not to plan, and what the role of the government should be in economic development. In Africa these debates were won, hands down, by the planners and by ‘African socialists’ of various types. Within a few years there appeared a host of plan documents responding to the perceived requirements, leading one analyst even to characterise Africa as ‘the continent of economic plans’1 articles on ‘comprehensive economic planning’ and simple econometric models were at that time in fashion. These plans were typically prepared by foreigners with relatively little experience of the countries concerned, and were based upon the scrappiest of data and analysis. While not as elaborate in their technique, or as far removed from reality, as many of their counterparts of the period in Asia and Latin America, these plans tended to be just as lacking in real content, political support, or potential for implementation. Their authors usually departed for home shortly afterwards, leaving the hardpressed decision-makers on the scene (many of whom were themselves expatriates newly arrived in the country) little the wiser.

SEVERAL years ago, Wilfred Whiteley, the linguist and Africanist, argued that ‘to some extent the nature of political action… may be related to people's conception of what constitutes politics’.1 Formulated in this way, Whiteley's argument seems to assume that all people have some conception of what constitutes politics—the only difference being what kind of conception. But can this be taken for granted? In 1952— to take an example almost at random—Nnamdi Azikiwe, the Nigerian leader, referred in a speech at Port Harcourt to ‘the growth of political consciousness’ in Nigeria. What did he mean? Had the Africans of Nigeria known no political activity until then? If they had, had they not been ‘conscious’ that the activity was ‘political’? Or was it a case of having no special name for this kind of activity as something distinct? If none of these hypotheses apply, what then was meant by this kind of reference to ‘political consciousness’ as if it was something new among Africans?2

A number of recent studies have challenged the concept of an ethnic grou as an absolute category and emphasised that ethnic identity is influenced by the context of the social situation in which the behaviour occurs.2 Analyst of migrant communities in both West Africa and the Copperbelt have documented the existence of situational ethnicity as a phenomenon in which individual or group identity is defined in terms of categories which vary in their level of inclusiveness. Situational factors have increasingly come to be viewed as influencing the individual's definition of his rôle as a member of more inclusive groups which allows him to relate to a more culturally heterogeneous community in terms of common elements of identity.3 Studies concentrating upon the political significance of ethnic identity in public interactions have also stressed that situational factors may play a more important role than cultural similarity in developing more inclusive identity groupings.4 Finally, analysts dealing with the problems of multiple ethnic loyalties have stressed that individuals and groups have an array of alternate identities from which to choose. They will adopt — or be perceived by others as maintaining — different ethnic identities in different situations.

This article looks at the railway workers of Ghana in the context of a struggle for domination between their own union and the Workers' Defence Committees created by the state after the coup d'etat of 31 December 1981, organised by Flight-Lieutenant Jerry Rawlings. The conflict between what might be called ‘moderate’ and ‘militant’ workers mirrored the disputes at the national level during 1982 between the political pragmatists, including Rawlings, and such socialist-oriented individuals as Chris Atim.1

If my own experience is at all typical, probably most students concerned with the influence of Islam in the modern world occasionally experience total doubt about their approach to the subject. Can one still justify putting such emphasis on the role of Islam as a historical continuum? Rather, since the nineteenth century, the period of the intensive ‘impact of the west’, haven't there been so many institutional changes that we have reached a real watershed, a breaking point with past history and with past categories of thought designed to explain that history? Shouldn't we de-emphasise Islam as a vital factor in the equation of the modern Arab world and of North Africa? Isn't it a mistake to put so much emphasis on the Islamic heritage?

This article is based on the assumption that there are worldwide trends towards the more humane treatment of prisoners which have as their principal objective the reform of criminals. These trends are determined by the societies that have evolved them; they trends are not therefore characterised by African aims and they do not express themselves in African forms. So the possibilites of purely African innovation are limited.

The correct starting point in the analysis of any economic unit is to pose the following three questions: What are the needs of the people? What resources are available? How adequately are these resources being mobilised for these needs ?1

These questions are applicable to a continent or a country (or for that matter a county, a city, or a village); they can also be applied to the world as a whole. If they are, a picture emerges which, if it does not appal us, because it is so familiar and so easily taken for granted, would certainly astonish a visitor from another planet. The basic human needs for nourishment and for protection from the weather are not great, and the resources known to be available could, with current levels of technique, easily permit a comfortable living standard for everyone. Yet these resources are very largely unexploited or wasted, and miserable poverty is the typical human condition.

In examining the question of the unification of laws in East Africa, we must bear in mind that we are faced with two distinct problems: on the one hand, territorial unification of the different types of law prevailing within each territory; and on the other, inter-territorial unification as between the systems of law in Kenya, Uganda, and Tanganyika.

The idea of a railway from the Zambian Copperbelt to the Indian Ocean via Tanzania had long been considered. But although the first serious report was published in 1952 by a consultant from the British Colonial Office, it was not until 1964, the year of independence, that further studies were commissioned, all of which eventually found such a railway uneconomic. The World Bank mission erred in tying the cost estimates to the trans-shipment of goods (due to gauge differences), and ignoring the option (actually taken) of constructing a direct line to Dar es Salaam. The U.N. team argued that the reasons for the project were too speculative, that the existing railways had spare capacity, and that the likely development benefits were invalid, unless an iron and steel complex emerged. In 1965 the authors of the Brookings Institution study felt that the project was an unnecessary duplication of existing facilities, and that transport matters in the region should be depoliticised, an idealistic proposal since there are external benefits and costs involved in the operation of railways.

Local and district councils as institutions of democratic representative government have enjoyed a brief and fragile life in Commonwealth Africa. Furthermore, throughout the period of their existence they have never been a priority concern for either colonial rulers, African leaders, or social scientists, and their very existence has been recently challenged. In a number of countries, particularly those which have experienced military take-overs, the councils have been abolished; where they remain in existence they have been transformed with few exceptions into bodies with even more limited powers and autonomy. Nevertheless, their activities, even if greatly curtailed, still offer a focal point for the study of certain questions of representation and administration in the context of political change in independent black Africa.

The investigation of African economies has been dominated by two perspectives. On the one hand, the neo-classical or diffusionist position views third-world nations as essentially repeating the same development path as occurred during the historical experience of the now-industrialised nations. This paradigm indicates that the barriers to the advance of these undeveloped economic systems are essentially internal, and that they include issues such as shortages of labour, limitations in infrastructure, and lack of capital savings. On the other hand, while recognising the constraining influences posed by such factors, the dependency or neo-Marxian perspective argues that the constraints posed by the peripheral position of these economies in a world system is of pre-eminent importance. Such contrasts, although greatly simplified, dominate the explanations of the economic difficulties facing African nations.

The literature pointing out that ethnic groups are a social construction has a particular salience in discussion of identity in both East and Central Africa. As numerous authors have noted, there are in fact few linguistic, phenotypical, or social differences between Hutu and Tutsi. Indeed, as all acknowledge, there has been substantial intermarriage, particularly in Rwanda. Nevertheless, as recent events in Rwanda and Burundi illustrate, the presumably ‘socially constructed’ differences between Hutu and Tutsi have become a legitimated reason for murdering one's neighbours. But although cited as the cause of the civil war by virtually every Rwandan, as well as the Western and Tanzanian press, I am also impressed by the fact that at different times and places being ‘Tutsi’ means very different things. My own observations in the Benaco refugee camp for ‘Hutu’ illustrate how quickly and drastically such seemingly ‘fixed’ identities can change.

Few of the new nations of Africa lack, as part of their colonial heritage, their potential Biafras—hence the reluctance of most African states to recognise the secessionist Eastern Region of Nigeria. This article is concerned with one of them, the Barotse Province of Zambia, and attempts to illuminate the historical background of the situation, the motives of the Lozi ruling class in demanding secession, and the methods by which successive colonial and independent governments have met this challenge.

In his recent article in this Journal, X, I, May 1972, Dr Michael F. Lofchie catalogued what he considers to be the major factors contributing to the Uganda coup. In his analysis, Lofchie emphasises President Obote's ‘Move to the Left’ ideology for its threat to the privileged position of the military: ‘The coup of January 1971 was the army's political response to an increasingly socialist régime whose qualitariar, domestic policies posed more and more of a threat to the military's economic privileges.’

Since the attainment of formal political independence in the early 1960s, African leaders have been grappling with the problem of how to manage domestic political conflicts in such a way that their resolution will facilitate, rather than undermine, the maintenance of incumbent régimes. This task, never easy in the best of circumstances, has become even more daunting in recent years as the ongoing economic crisis has deprived most African states of the resources necessary for the continued use of co-optation as the most effective technique for dealing with critics who have their own political aspirations. A further complication is that the ‘frustrations of independence’ have eroded the prestige and personal legitimacy that was once enjoyed by the generation of anti- colonial leaders partly as a result of what might be described as the ‘elder tradition’ in African political culture.1

The origins of African political consciousness in Southern Africa can be traced back to the first half of the nineteenth century, to the impact of the Christian missions and to the development of a non-racial constitution in the Cape. As the century progressed, mission-educated Africans came to exercise a limited but real influence within Cape politics, and the Native policy of that Colony was seen to contrast favourably with those policies developing in the Boer Republics and Natal. By the turn of the century a new African élite had emerged, committed to non-racial ideals gleaned from Christianity and supported by the theory, and to some extent the practice, of Cape politics.