Historical studies of Kivu are still in their very infancy. Recent work has been carried out in Bufulero, Bushi, Buhavu, and Bunande, but lacking the results of these studies, historians working from published materials have very few sources at their disposal. Existing sources include works by Colle, Moeller, Willame, and Cuypers, with the latter two based primarily on the former, at least in their historical dimensions. Because the sources are so few and are essentially similar, little critical attention has been given them; by constant citation and repetition they have become hallowed as truth and used as a basis for teaching and university theses. By this process such essentially colonial interpretations have become entrenched in the historical ontology of the region. This paper proposes to review some of the written sources in light of current research in the region, by first presenting certain themes which appear to have guided earlier historical inquiry and then discussing the works of these four influential authors in light of these themes.

The first attempts to record historical traditions in the Kivu area were influenced by earlier studies of Rwanda which emphasized the centralized and hierarchical nature of the Rwandan state. Many of the early missionaries and Zairean priests in Kivu, men to whom contemporary researchers owe much for their accumulated sources, had close contacts with the seminaries and published work in Rwanda. In most historical works, Rwanda was seen as the end development for other states in the region, and prominence was given to those historical factors which were assumed to have had a common impact throughout the area.

It really was a chance occasion, just before Christmas 2003. On my way to the Dogon area I had greeted my friends in Sangha, and was speaking with a Dutch friend, when a French tourist lady suddenly barged into the hall of the hotel and asked me: “There should be a cavern with a mural depicting Sirius and the position of all the planets. I saw it in a book. Where is it?”. My friend smiled wrily, amused by the irony of situation: by chance the lady had fallen upon the one who had spent decennia to disprove this kind of “information”. “In what book?” I asked, and named a few. It was none of these, and she could not tell me. Cautiously (maybe she had planned her whole trip around this Sirius “experience”) I explained to her that though there was a lot to see, this particular mural did not exist. She left immediately, probably convinced she stumbled on a real ignoramus.

In retrospect I never meant to criticize Marcel Griaule, it just happened as a consequence of other choices, which eventually led me to Dogon country. After completing my PhD thesis on the Kapsiki/Higi of northern Cameroun and northeastern Nigeria, I started scouting for a second area of field research. For two reasons, I wanted a comparable setting: to allow myself to feel at home easily because I seemed to have less time, and to use in general the approach of controlled comparison. In my first field research I had made a more or less classic ethnography of a group of comparable size (150,000) in a similar environment, living in the Mandara Mountains south of Lake Chad and straddling the border between northern Cameroun and North Eastern Nigeria.

Ebrahiem Manuel sits opposite me, about to embark upon his story. His living room is filled with material manifestations of his research: boxes overflowing with books and papers cover his entire sofa, newspapers and articles line the floor, and collages of images and texts hang on the walls and sit in the cabinets. It is clear that he is consumed by his passion for heritage, and his personal journey of discovery. He speaks in an animated, almost theatrical tone, raising and lowering his voice, stressing certain syllables, alive as he tells his story of “the ancient kietaabs.”

The journey began in 1997, when Ebrahiem returned to South Africa after years at sea, working as a cook on shipping vessels. Upon his return, he began a quest to learn about his personal heritage, inspired by a dream he had had about his grandfather. This search led him to an old kietaab, given to him by an elderly aunt. This was not the first time he had come across the old book; he remembered seeing it as a child, amongst other kietaabs, stored out of reach of the children, on top of his grandfather's wardrobe. It was inside this book that a possible key to his ancestors was to be found.

This significant find was a range of hand-written inscriptions inside the book, in Arabic, English, and an unknown script. The Arabic script and its corresponding English transliteration read “Imaam Abdul Karriem, son of Imaam Abdul Jaliel, son of Imaam Ismail of Sumbawa.” Here was his family tree, starting from his great-grandfather and leading to two generations before him and, it seemed, their place of origin, the island of Sumbawa in eastern Indonesia. Ebrahiem then decided to go to Indonesia to solve what had become the mystery of “the ancient kietaab.”

Colonial attitudes and prejudices can be readily identified by every student perusing Africanist literature of the early twentieth century. More than that, one gets to recognize different slants, notably between an administrative outlook and that of white settlers (varying according to the territory), and a further contrast with that of Protestant and Catholic missionaries, not to overlook mission-educated Africans. But facile characterizing by occupation, economic interests, class, race, or even religion can misrepresent individual intellects and achievements, whether in original contributions to knowledge or in setting the direction of continuing research. In reviewing here the anthropological and archeological endeavors in the Kenya highlands during the 1920s and 1930s of George Wynn Brereton Hiintingford (1901-1978) and Louis Seymour Bazett Leakey (1903-72), both of British parentage (and sons of Anglican clerics), it is noticeable that, while each was unmistakably a product of his time and situation, neither falls perfectly into any neat category of European society in colonial Africa. Neither belonged to the administrative corps, although both took on assignments for the Kenya government on occasions, and were at hand to volunteer their wisdom about “native customs” and mentality whenever inexperienced officials, insensitive settlers or zealous missionaries encountered distrust or open protest.

This article connects the colonial land ordinances and laws of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century with the changing meanings of property, to show both their impact, and how these developments resonated for the Ga-inhabitants of Accra and the Gold Coast Colony. The laws and African responses to them illustrate the ways in which property took on new meaning for a variety of groups. It also presents the framework for understanding why litigation, and the production of land claims became a central feature of land affairs in Accra with the continued development of the town. This analysis contributes to the existing literature on property rights in colonial Gold Coast by carefully considering the intricacies and nuances of land disputes in the colonial capital, and their intersection with larger transformations in land affairs.

What will follow in this and subsequent papers will constitute an extended gloss of the English translation of Willem Bosman's account of the Guinea coast. This translation was published in London in 1705 under the title A New and Accurate Description of the Coast of Guinea … and was based on the 1703 Dutch edition published in Amsterdam. For the English translation I have used the edited reprint published in 1967, which was an identical copy of the 1705 edition. For the Dutch version I have used the 1737 edition, also published in Amsterdam; this was in fact the last of a series of reprints of the 1709 second edition. This second edition contained numerous amendments and additions to the first (1703) edition, and these will be noted as they occur.

In addition to including all the material in the Dutch edition which was omitted from the English translation, I have included all passages in which significant differences in tone or meaning occur. Throughout I have tried to retain the capitalization, italicization, and punctuation employed in the Dutch version–styles to which the English translation generally conformed.

Citation is by page number, paragraph, and line number within paragraph, with the first paragraph presumed to begin in each case with the first line of a page. Thus, for example, P. 17 I/8 indicates that the gloss concerns the eighth line of the first paragraph on page 17 of the English translation. Shorter passages are arranged on a FOR … READ basis, while for longer passages only the Dutch original is included after SHOULD READ.

Historians have relied on a variety of sources to analyze Africa's encounter with Europe and response to colonialism. Several scholars, who have published in the Heinemann African Social History Series, have relied on oral accounts to add an indigenous perspective to the history of colonialism in Africa. African history nevertheless suffers from a lack of other sources, such as diaries, journals, and personal narratives, which can enrich the historical narrative. Letters of petitions provide one of the very few opportunities to locate African men and women's voices as they confronted the new political, economic, judicial and social system that emerged in the colonial context. Petitions were widely used by every class of the African population in the colonial period and can help to re-evaluate African-European interactions and dialogues in a colonial context. Their existence challenges the notion of colonial authorities as a hegemonic force in the making of colonized societies in light of new forms of evidence that redefine this encounter. Petitions were used by individuals as well as groups as a means to seek remedy for grievance for a number of types of actions, ranging from taxation, court cases and a variety of other issues.

The more we hear about orally-preserved king lists, those initial favorites of the chronophiles among African historians, the less we trust them. Despite some early efforts to convert lists of rulers into rough calendars by applying arithmetic and statistical procedures, historians have since discovered that such dynastic sequences are filled with spuriously regular father-to-son successions, commonly exhibit telescoping in their remoter periods, and are susceptible to structuring that aligns purported kingly figures with local cosmological assumptions. Most worrisome of all is the implication of recent work on the consequences of literacy to the effect that listing may be a habit characteristic only of societies with reading and writing. If people in oral societies do not make lists, what appeared to African historians to be sequentially-ordered lists of rulers may in fact have been no more than conceptual “chunks” of royalty possessing little or no internal order. Thus the purported sequence in orally-preserved lists of kings may resemble chronology, even sequence, less than it resembles what structuralist anthropologists call “diachrony.” By “diachrony” they mean the artificial ordering of essentially unsequenced elements in a myth structure that is produced spuriously by the necessity in a non-literate culture of realizing them orally, in time. If what historians have taken as “kinglists”, imputing order and para-chronology to them, are in fact synchronous unordered categories, they have been even further off the mark than critics have charged.

This essay investigates the attitudes to Black Africans, specifically those of Guinea, as evidenced in the pre-1650 primary sources on Anglo-African relations. Two 1980s studies by scholars working within the field of English literature have investigated English attitudes of the period to Africans in general and have expounded what are apparently popular as well as academically-received conclusions, as follows. Contact with Africans and with the existing Atlantic slave trade, building on older ideas of the meaning of “blackness” and the inferiority of non-Christians, led the pre-1650 English to create a stereotype of barbarous and bestial Blacks which served to justify the enslavement of Africans and English slave-trading. Both studies are based in the main on an analysis of English drama of the period, with passing reference, for instance, to the Othello controversy. Historians are bound to have reservations about the extent to which imaginative literature can inform on historical process and collective attitudes, perhaps not least in respect of the category of theatrical drama, especially when the drama is presented, as in this period, to a tiny segment of a national society. As it happens, these particular studies, while exemplary in their fashion, can be criticized for too limited a critical investigation of the primary non-imaginative sources, resulting in minor errors of fact and, more important, general statements about Anglo-African contacts less than wholly valid. They also treat their subject too narrowly, tearing out what they see as a “racist” stereotype from the context of English cultural relationships in the period, which, in the time-honored and universal way of cultural self-protection, inevitably tended to discriminate against all non-English ways and manners, overtly or covertly.

For a vegetation geographer and an anthropologist to come together to write on the settlement histories of segmentary societies in the West African savanna is unusual or at least rare. A few words on the origin of this cooperation therefore seem appropriate. For over ten years, in the context of an interdisciplinary research program at the Universität Frankfurt am Main, archeologists, anthropologists, linguists, botanists and geographers have been working together on the history of cultures, languages, and natural environment of the West African savanna, especially the interaction between human activity and the natural environment. That one should actually be speaking in many cases of a culturally mediated “landscape” rather than a “natural environment” is one of the outcomes of the research projects, which have focused mainly on different regions of Burkina Faso (in the sahel and Sudanese zone) and the Lake Chad area of northeast Nigeria.

The present paper has emerged from a botanical and an anthropological-historical project on the history of vegetation and of settlement in south and southwest Burkina Faso. This history has been shaped by the great expansion of the Dagara-speaking population. In the last two hundred years (possibly longer), small groups of Dagara patrilineages, related and allied to one another, have migrated north and northwest, probably from the region around Wa in present-day Ghana, and have founded numerous new settlements—a process of land appropriation that is still going on today, though with changed circumstances regarding land rights (see map 1).

An ever-growing literature on West African slavery has, for obvious reasons, tended to concentrate on societies that developed complex forms of domestic slavery and/or were closely tied to the export trade. Three major collections on slavery published in the last ten years deal almost exclusively with such groups. The history of peaples who refused, at least in the beginning, to take captives for the purpose of selling them to outsiders or keeping them for themselves has been ignored. And yet these acephalous groups are very instructive. They illustrate how certain structural features and other cultural preferences may have impeded, or at least retarded, the development of indigenous slaving institutions.

This paper discusses the role of slavery in a marginal area of the Upper Guinea coast. Emphasis will be placed on how practices surrounding the acquisition and disposal of captives were embedded in local institutions. Because these practices developed in the context of Africans dealing with each other, and not exclusively in the context of their dealings with the Europeans, they reflected modes of thinking and organizations intrinsic to certain forest groups of west Africa. A comprehensive history of why the Jola of Lower Casamance, Senegal, were slow to develop various kinds of slaving practices emphasizes their resistance to currents of change affecting the political economy of this region before, during, and after the heyday of the Atlantic slave trade.

This is an essay in conjectural history. Its subject is Ilesha, the capital of Ijesha, one of the larger Yoruba kingdoms, founded probably in the early sixteenth century roughly midway between the larger regional centers of Oyo and Benin. Except for some cursory references to Ijesha rescued from slavery in Sierra Leone in the early nineteenth century, there is absolutely no positive contemporary evidence, whether documentary or archeological, until Europeans first visited the town in 1858. Thereafter, since Ilesha was the leading member of the Ekitiparapo alliance which fought Ibadan to a standstill in the 1880s, contemporary documentation becomes fairly abundant. But my concern here is with the evolution of Ilesha's socio-political structure, with what has since come to be considered its “traditional” constitution, over roughly three centuries up to the third quarter of the nineteenth century. For that, virtually all our evidence lies in what people have said and done since the 1880s.

African historians have perforce relied greatly on such evidence and since Vansina's Oral Tradition they have been able to use it both more confidently and more critically, especially in the area of Bantu Africa. My fellow sociologists, however, remain more radically sceptical. Despite their admission of the need for history, they have learned too well how dynastic tradition and legends of origin tend to serve as “characters” for contemporary arrangements and need primary interpretation in the light of this -- and have often concretely illustrated the point with devastating and, for those desirous of using oral traditions for historical ends, depressing effect.

I made a mistake teaching my course on precolonial African history this past fall. I vowed (to myself) to be absolutely honest. I decided to admit to students how little historians know for certain about much of Africa's early history. I focused on the evidence, emphasizing how little there is for determining what occurred several centuries ago—let alone 2000 years ago—in sub-Saharan Africa. I gave one lecture—downright sterling, I thought—in which, in the first part, I taught about “Bantu Expansion” as I had done in my first year on the job, way back in 1976. I had read Roland Oliver's 1966 article in the Journal of African History, which had made everything clear to me once upon a time.

With that as a basis I laid out an entire scheme about how these humans, who spoke related languages, had populated nearly all of sub-equatorial Africa since the beginning of the modern era. I had maps on overhead projection (copies handed out) showing when the Bantu migrated where; I spoke of the evidence for it all, even reading from Ptolemy's Geography and the Periplus of the Erythraean Sea; and recalled how clear it all was to myself and the students, who wrote down nearly every word and made notations on the maps.

Then, in the second part of the lecture, I talked about how incorrect it all was (student pens here coming to rest)—how our reading of some of the linguistic evidence was faulty, how we read things into Ptolemy and the Periplus because they fit the scheme, and how subsequent archeological evidence has simply proved most of the neat scheme wrong. I concluded with an honest, if pessimistic, note that, because of the paucity of evidence, there simply is a lot about early African history that we will not be able to know.

Inspired by my experiences in archives and research fields in Northern Nigeria, this essay analyzes four overlapping phenomena: archival fragmentation, the politicization of data and research transactions, the proliferation of memoirs and other texts of self-representation, and the question of sensing the African past beyond the recognized oral, written, and ethnographic corpus. At once familiar and novel, these trends present both problems and possibilities for historians of postcolonial Africa, and need to be negotiated carefully. I propose, in preliminary terms, that a complementary methodology of what I call sensing is not only possible but necessary if we want to fully capture the pace and flavor of postcolonial African experiences.

The precolonial history of Yorubaland, and especially of the most powerful Yoruba kingdom of Oyo, is still dominated by the influence of the Revd. Samuel Johnson, the Yoruba clergyman whose History of the Yorubas was published in 1921. Especially for the period before continuous written documentation of Yoruba affairs begins with the arrival of the first Christian missionaries in the area in the 1840s, Johnson's History remains a source of overwhelming importance, and the framework within which we study Yoruba history is still very much that established by Johnson. But despite its great importance and persisting influence, Johnson's work has still not been subjected to much critical evaluation. In particular it has commonly been assumed, implicitly rather than explicitly, that Johnson's History can be mined as a source of ‘oral tradition’ in the belief that what he wrote down is unproblematically identical with what he heard, and what he heard with what had been retained and transmitted orally down to the time that he made his enquiries.

Johnson's History is a somewhat complicated work to characterize, since it makes use of rather different sorts of sources for different periods of Yoruba history. The history of its publication was also complex. It was originally completed in 1897, the date of Samuel Johnson's “Preface,” but the manuscript was lost. Samuel Johnson having died in 1901, it was left to his brother Obadiah to reconstitute the work from Samuel's notes and drafts, a task which he apparently completed only in 1916.

The medical history of Africa is a vital but neglected field. Disease has been a significant factor throughout African history, and attempts to control endemic and epidemic afflictions have been an important aspect of change in the twentieth century. Unfortunately, historians have rarely paid more than cursory attention to issues involving human health. There is some mention of disease in many pre-colonial studies, especially those of the “trade and politics” variety, but comment is usually directed toward the effects of tropical diseases on Europeans rather than the impact of local and induced diseases on African populations. Similarly, works on the colonial period often mention medical services in passing, but rarely make a serious attempt to assess their reception by local peoples and the results of their activities.

It is to be hoped that as the historiography of Africa moves away from its early preoccupation with trade, politics, and the “origins of nationalism,” and as new archival and other sources become available, scholars will take a greater interest in the role of disease and medicine in the history of the continent. In this essay I will discuss some recent writings in this field by historians and by persons in other disciplines whose works are useful to historians, and will suggest possibilities for future research. Coverage will be selective rather than exhaustive, and will be confined to sub-Saharan Africa.

Although the Western world knows what a museum is, in many parts of Africa its purpose is an open question. To many Africans it is an alien institution introduced by colonialists. Their intentions were good: they wished to study and exhibit local works of art and artifacts and preserve them from deterioration and depredations by local and foreign traders. Yet collecting important art objects and artifacts, some of which were still part of active rituals, and locking them up in a building rather resembling a prison, was to many, Africans and foreigners alike, inimical in principle. Nor did many Africans show much interest in the displays within the glass cases, unless such exhibits pertained to their own particular ethnic heritage. The museums were therefore seen as white elephants staffed by eccentric colonialists, assisted by Africans glad of a job, and visited mainly by foreigners. If we trace the origin and development of the museum in Europe, we may discover why these African museums, as modeled on European institutions, failed to make an impact on the lives of Africans or to meet the needs of the communities they were meant to serve. However, we shall also see how in time certain projects have transformed them into cultural and social centers of great vitality.

That photographs have been neglected in the study of African history has become, in recent years, a well-established truism. To take one point of entry into the literature which has set out to correct this deficiency: a Seminar held in SOAS in 1988 on “Photographs as Sources for African History” amply confirmed this point (Roberts 1988). The papers and discussions indicated the scope—and the problems—of some of the well-known and less well-known, holdings in this field. They also showed, however, that a number of scholars had already devoted considerable thought to the implications of historic photographic holdings for the pursuit of historical and anthropological studies not only in colonial history but also in African history per se. A similar point of entry for the German-speaking world is provided by the literature accompanying an important exhibition which toured a number of West German museums in 1989. “Der geraubte Schatten” concerned itself with the history of photography in the whole non-European world (Theye 1989; Ueber die Wichtigkeit 1990; see especially the essays by Wagner and Corbey for reflections on missionary photography).

The maps of Africa produced in Europe on the eve of colonial partition and in the early decades of colonial rule purported to represent in a scientific manner what European explorers had “discovered.” Yet in reality they derived to a significant extent – albeit indirectly – from the spatial knowledge of Africans whom these explorers encountered. Whilst we do not possess many sources produced by the Africans themselves, it is possible to read the European accounts as potential depositories of African spatial knowledge and to consider how this knowledge may have been filtered in the process of cartographic production. Taking the German travellers and the important work of August Petermann in Gotha (in the period 1854-1878) as an illustration, the article analyses the difficulties a European faced when attempting to grasp Africa in spatial terms, the motivations and importance of African “informants,” and the transformation of “cartographic encounters” into maps. It also examines how some Africans responded to the growing market for geographical knowledge.

At some undefined time in the fairly recent past central and western Madagascar witnessed a conceptual 'revolution' which had far-reaching political consequences. The religious beliefs and symbols which constituted the main ingredients of this 'revolution'--and probably also the people who propagated them--were in some way connected with the Zafindraminia-Antanosy and the Anteimoro of the southeastern and eastern coast. It is quite clear that these and similar groups had been strongly influenced by Islam and that they practiced what could perhaps be described as a corrupt or diluted Islam or a syncretic 'pagan' Muslim religion. (It is significant that as their name indicates the Zafindraminia claim descent from Raminia who they hold to have been the mother of Muhammad.) One of the main ingredients of this religion was the cult of the ody or guardian amulets, objects usually made of wood which are strikingly reminiscent of the so-called “charms” or “gris-gris” sold by Muslim clerics over much of Africa. Another ingredient is represented by the institution of ombiasy. The ombiasy (the main manufacturers of ody) whom the Frenchman Etienne de Flacourt at Fort-Dauphin in the seventeenth century took to be Muslim clerics were originally the “priests” (or the “devins guérisseurs,” according to Hubert Deschamps) of the Anteimoro and the Zafindraminia-Antanosy. Subsequently this institution was disseminated throughout nearly the whole of Madagascar. Yet another ingredient was the system of divination known as sikidy, which also spread to other parts of Madagascar, including Imerina and the Sakalava country.

These beliefs, symbols, and institutions deeply influenced the people of the west coast (the present-day Sakalava country) and of central Madagascar (Imerina and Betsileo country).