This article presents an ethnographic case study of Chrislam, a series of religious movements that fuse Christian and Muslim beliefs and practices, in its socio-cultural and political-economic setting in Nigeria's former capital Lagos. In contrast to conventional approaches that study religious movements in Africa as syncretic forms of ‘African Christianity’ or ‘African Islam’, I suggest that ‘syncretism’ is a misleading term to describe Chrislam. In fact, Chrislam provides a rationale for scrutinizing the very concept of syncretism and offers an alternative analytical case for understanding its mode of religious pluralism. To account for the religious plurality in Chrislam, I employ assemblage theory because it proposes novel ways of looking at Chrislam's religious mix that are in line with the way in which its worshippers perceive their religiosity. The underlying idea in Chrislam's assemblage of Christianity and Islam is that to be a Christian or Muslim alone is not enough to guarantee success in this world and the hereafter; therefore, Chrislam worshippers participate in Christian as well as Muslim practices, appropriating the perceived powers of both.

People living in the neighbourhoods of Nampula city, northern Mozambique, often speak of a war that is being waged at night, during which sick infants and small children figure more and more frequently as the preferred prey of malevolent ancestors, witches and new malign spirits that come at night, and who abduct and enslave them in order to harm their families. The purpose of this article is to explore what this ‘war of the night’ reveals, to understand why it is that mothers are afraid their babies and children will be stolen from the compound and, finally, to analyse the ways in which families handle their fears and apprehensions about a child's sickness. I begin this analysis of the ‘war of the night’, and the accompanying anxieties surrounding infants and children, by examining it in relation to large-scale changes that have occurred both at the micro-level of the household and in the community more generally. Specifically, the article looks at the ways in which ongoing economic and social transformations are reconfiguring gender and generational relationships, which, in turn, generates more insecurity within the household and intensifies a sense of existential threat from external forces. The article then examines the cultural logic of rumours and beliefs involving children, as a consideration of local interpretations and experiences of infancy and childhood helps shed light on local concepts of (children's) vulnerability. With the aid of three case studies, the article charts how families manage children's diseases. It shows how the uncertainty surrounding an illness is not always ameliorated by divinations or by the healing provided by women working on behalf of ancestral power. Instead, women healers often crystallize and intensify mothers’ fears, also because their medical and ritual interventions are not always effective. The article concludes by examining the reasons why these women healers are increasingly struggling to manage the evil forces haunting infants and children and to make their medical interventions effective, and the effect of this on their local authority.

In West Africa, both cyber fraud and cyber policing are mainly about storytelling. Based on fieldwork in the Ghanaian police, this article explores criminal investigations of email scams; it shows how actors rely on, make use of, lose faith in and reinvent stories. Each cyber fraud case can be understood as a series of connected tales, and all involved try to change the direction of the narrative. While the first tale takes place in virtual spaces between continents, the later ones are located in Ghana and are about police work there. The actors' stories both tap into and create social imaginaries, and the involved actors thereby craft conflicting notions of order and disorder. However, not only the fraudsters' stories but also the police officers' and victims' stories are often factually inaccurate and are partly fictional. Ultimately, all actor groups struggle to create believable stories under current conditions.

Studies of everyday policing in predominantly white areas in South Africa often focus on the spectacle of secured architecture and private policing services, concluding that the growth of the private security industry has created atomized units of residence that are alienated from the state. Such conclusions are important but incomplete: they do not look sufficiently behind closed gates to explore how private security is justified, utilized, supplemented or avoided in daily life. In this article, I explore the everyday policing of theft and robbery in a predominantly white policing sector in Durban. I demonstrate that people have not simply transferred their dependence or allegiance from public to private policing. Instead, their approach to everyday policing straddles these two spheres, perpetually disrupts any simple dichotomy between them, and illustrates how all forms of policing are entangled in the wider inequalities and insecurities of post-apartheid South Africa. In making this argument, I highlight how residents remain reliant on the bureaucratic authority of the state police, are distrustful of their employees who supposedly protect them, and appear far more willing to take matters into their own hands than many interviewees admit or imagine.

Among historians, social scientists and scholars of religion there has been increased recognition of the importance of studying Islam and Christianity in Africa not separately but rather together as lived religions in dynamic interaction over time. In this article, I trace how scholars have arrived at such a point and consider some of the challenges of conducting research on religious encounters, and particularly those associated with studying Islam and Christianity, Muslims and Christians together. I frame this discussion in terms of some of the theoretical and methodological issues at stake in advancing the study of religious encounters in Africa and draw from my own research and the work of others on the topic, particularly in West Africa, to reflect upon how this important field of inquiry has developed and what it has accomplished.

Faya-Largeau, the largest oasis in northern Chad, seems to present a classic picture of Saharan labour relations and status groups. Colonial officers spoke of nomadic ‘overlords’ who used to exploit sedentary ‘serfs’ of slave descent, but indirectly favoured the latter; today, former status relations are renegotiated, at times violently so. Access to vital resources, and especially agricultural land, is the focus of much contemporary conflict. Yet, on a closer look, this picture becomes less familiar: local agriculture requires little labour, property rights are uncertain, bilateral descent, exogamy and a high degree of mobility blur boundaries, while state involvement remains limited and ambiguous, and education little valued. Status, property and labour hence emerge as contextual categories that depend on as much as they constitute a historically specific and inherently unstable mode of production.

The Pygmy mimic is an extremely persistent colonial trope that continues to inform contemporary anthropological understandings of Africa's Pygmy populations. Mimicry is now understood as being a key component of the social reproduction of a distinct Pygmy way of being. In this paper I examine the historical accounts of mimicry and try to bring a historical perspective to bear on contemporary ethnographic accounts of its practice. I also set my own research among the Sua Pygmies of Uganda against these other examples. The intention behind this is to acknowledge the common humanity of Africa's Pygmies and to create new grounds of comparison – such as a shared history of oppression – that are not dependent on a unique foraging mode of thought.

The editors invited this article, and the subsequent four response pieces, as a contribution to the debate on knowledge production in Africa and African studies, which was a critical issue in the late colonial and post-independence African universities, and which has continued to be a concern of leading African scholars in the decades since.

In this article we examine labour politics and unionization at a scientific research station: the former Institute of Malaria and Vector Borne Diseases (‘Amani’) in north-eastern Tanzania. Drawing on an analysis of an archive found at Amani, this paper approaches the process of decolonizing and Africanizing science and medical research from the perspective of African technicians. The technician cadre at Amani was drawn to scientific employment as it seemed to offer the promise of training, education and advancement. The union at Amani argued that African labour was crucial to the production of scientific knowledge at the station and that there ought to be a ‘ladder’ of promotion and progress that led from auxiliary scientific technician to independent researcher. The daily politics of the decolonization of science was conducted as everyday contentious labour relations and as increasingly vociferous claims upon the cultural power of science by African workers. Drawing attention to the social and spatial practices of African workers at Amani in the 1960s, we argue that Amani functioned not just within globalized networks of tropical medicine and scientific research but as a place bound both to local economies of labour and to larger geographies of African ambition and aspiration.

In this issue, Jeremiah Arowosegbe makes a number of valid and important observations about the challenges facing the humanities and social sciences in Nigeria. But while he recognizes the importance of the political sphere by discussing the unequal and asymmetric landscape of global knowledge production, he locates most problems of knowledge production in Nigeria within the academy. Focusing on individual and generational responsibility and morality, Arowosegbe also suggests that recent generations of Nigerian academics have been ‘complacent and nonchalant’ in their engagement with global theoretical and methodological debates, and thus bear responsibility for the apparent decline of Nigerian academia.

The trial of Thomas Kwoyelo – the first war crimes prosecution of a former Lord's Resistance Army fighter, and the only domestic war crimes prosecution in Uganda at the time of writing – has been packed with drama, intrigue and politics. The article considers what Kwoyelo's trial means for those most affected by the crimes he allegedly committed, and, more broadly, what it means for the ‘transitional justice’ project in Uganda. The article is concerned primarily with how the trial has been interpreted ‘on the ground’ in Acholiland: by local leadership; by those with a personal relationship to Kwoyelo; by direct victims of his alleged crimes; and by those who were not. Responses to the trial have been shaped by people's specific wartime experiences and if or how his prosecution relates to their current circumstances – as well as by the profound value of social harmony and distrust of higher authorities to dispense justice. We conclude with a discussion of the relevance of our findings for the practice of ‘transitional justice’ across the African continent.

The three books reviewed in this article seek to provide interpretations of dependence, unfreedom and slavery in African societies. But they reach different conclusions; bring different methodological frameworks to bear on the circumstances they examine; and – when they are concerned with policy questions – propose different remedies. A comparison of these books is useful not only for understanding African dependence and unfreedom, but also for rethinking critically the approaches of some of the main contemporary strands of research on these phenomena.

Africanist discourse today displays a strong, widespread and growing sense of optimism about Africa's economic future. After decades of decline and stagnation in which Africa found itself reduced to the margins of the global economic stage, upbeat Afro-optimism seems fully justified. One only needs to consider African economies' solid growth rates, the emergence of new export markets earning unprecedented quantities of foreign exchange, and the rise of novel groups such as innovative African entrepreneurs (Taylor 2012) and urban-based middle classes (Simone 2004). Ironically, Africa's bright future stands in strong contrast to the stagnancy of European and American economic powers, once seen as superior to their African relatives. Deeply held feelings of Afro-pessimism, affecting intellectuals as well as ordinary Africans, are thus giving way to almost millennial expectations of Africa's economic future: the continent's imminent catching up with a degree of private and public prosperity so commonly registered elsewhere on the globe. Some go as far as to declare the rise of a proper African renaissance wherein Africa can (finally!) claim its rightful position on the global stage.

According to the late Ali Mazrui, modern Africa is the product of a triple civilizational legacy: African, Arabo-Islamic, and Western (Mazrui 1986). Each civilization left Africa with bodies of knowledge rooted in particular epistemologies and transmitted in written and/or oral form. In the first half of the twentieth century, what became known as the colonial library (Mudimbe 1988: x) had provided the sources and conceptual apparatus for studying African history, but from the mid-twentieth century onwards, nationalist intellectuals sought to deconstruct European colonial intellectual hegemony through the search for alternative sources and interpretations of African history. Notable among these intellectuals is Cheikh Anta Diop, whose work highlighted the close connections between Egypt and the rest of the continent to claim Ancient Egypt's historical legacy for the continent. Nigeria's first university – University College Ibadan, which later became the University of Ibadan – provided a forum for talented Africans and Europeans to pursue the project of decolonizing African history. Jeremiah Arowosegbe's survey provides insights into the rise and decline of academic commitment in the African continent, with particular reference to South Africa and Nigeria.

Arowosegbe's article is a welcome invitation to reconsider African studies by reflecting on the dubious ambiguities of their ownership. While he dismisses Western hegemony, he also demands acknowledgement of the relevance of Western thought to the discipline. The latent tension and challenge to reconcile these demands are underlined by his parallel references to knowledge production in as well as on Africa without a further clarifying distinction.