Today the Ekiti, a major dialectal segment of the Yoruba-speaking group, inhabit the Ekiti State and the Oke-Ero and Ekiti Local Government Areas of Kwara State in Nigeria. Otun Ekiti, or simply “Otun,” one of the Ekiti towns (spelt “Awtun” in many colonial records), is presently the headquarters of the Moba Local Government Area of Ekiti State. During British colonial rule in Nigeria, the people of Otun had cause to narrate to the authorities their oral traditions and history. In that process they claimed, like most Yoruba-speaking groups, that they and their oba originated from Ile-Ife, the traditional core of Yoruba dispersal. They also claimed that their oba, the Oore (also sometimes spelt “Ore” or “Owore”) was, and had always been, the preeminent oba among the Ekiti oba.

Based largely on those claims, the people of Otun undertook some major actions, especially their separatist activities in Ilorin Division from about 1900 to 1936. Similarly, due largely to those claims and the resultant reactions from the people, the colonial government took some major decisions and actions. The most important of such actions was the administrative excision of Otun District from Ilorin Division of the Protectorate of Northern Nigeria and its merger with the Ekiti Division of the Protectorate of Southern Nigeria in 1935/36.

There appeared, however, in 1947, a publication titled Itan Oore, Otun ati Moba, written by David Atolagbe, and a second edition came out in 1981. Of relevance to the thrust of this paper are the claims made by the author to the effect that the Oore and people of Otun originated, not from Ile-Ife as had earlier been claimed by some sources, but independently from the Creator of the universe, even though he still maintained the paramountcy of the Oore among the Ekiti oba.

Nineteenth-century European visitors to the kingdom of Dahomey were not easily impressed, certainly not by any infrastructural refinement. So when one after another perceived grandeur in the Cana-Abomey road, it was no small compliment. For French travelers the road was “magnifique,” “superbe,” a “merveille,” “fort belle,” “vraiment belle,” or “des plus belles.” For British travelers “splendid” or—perhaps the ultimate accolade—as broad as any thoroughfare in England.

This remarkable road was the last leg of the regular route from Dahomey's Atlantic port of Whydah to the royal capital at Abomey. Its basic purpose was not to impress foreigners on their approach to the capital, as one might imagine, but to allow the kings of Dahomey to travel to and from Cana in style.

In Fon traditions Cana dates back to the origins of the kingdom in the early seventeenth century and may have preceded Abomey as tribal chef-lieu. When Dahomey was subject to the Yoruba empire of Oyo (from the 1730s or 1740s to the 1820s), Cana was the place where Oyo messengers collected the annual tribute. King Gezo (1818-58) is said to have begun his successful challenge of Oyo very early in his reign by having those messengers slaughtered.

This paper discusses an attempt to apply historical research directly to the development of a culture of human rights and democracy in Zimbabwe. The research concerns sensitive and controversial issues around sexuality, race, and nationalism that are important in and of themselves. What I would like to argue here, however, is that the method used to design and carry out the research project is at least as interesting. This holds true from the point of view of both professional historians like myself and community activists—two perspectives that are often difficult to reconcile in practice. In this project, “ivory tower” and “grassroots” are brought together in a mutually enriching relationship that offers an alternative model to the methods that currently predominate in the production of historical knowledge in southern Africa.

Gays and Lesbians of Zimbabwe (GALZ) is a non-government organization that was founded in 1990. It provides counseling, legal and other support services to men and women struggling with issues of sexuality. It also strives to promote a politics in Zimbabwe that would embrace sexual orientation as a human right. Toward the latter goal it has lobbied government for changes to current laws that discriminate against homosexuals and which expose gay men and women to extortion (so far, in vain). With somewhat more success, it has lobbied the police directly to raise awareness of the extortion issue. GALZ also publishes pamphlets, a newsletter, and other information designed to educate Zimbabweans in general about homosexuality and homophobia. Through these efforts it seeks to challenge popular stereotypes of homosexuals as Westernized perverts who spread diseases and corrupt children. One recent publication included detailed historical research that showed how homosexual practices—including loving and mutual homosexual relationships—have been indigenous to the country throughout recorded history, and probably from time immemorial.

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.

German voyages of ‘discovery’ and field research in that part of Africa which, politically or linguistically, has been subject to Portuguese influence in past centuries, and still is so—an area which therefore corresponds for the most part (and also sufficiently so) to present-day Angola—has so far received only sporadic attention in corresponding historical writings. Nor for the most part have they been taken into account as ethnographic sources, language barriers above all being responsible for this. This is hardly because they are negligible in terms of either their numbers or the information they contain. In the last third of the nineteenth century especially, west-central Africa, in which Portuguese had been a lingua franca for centuries, became a special area of attraction for German travelers. Admittedly, the published results are far from even. One, Augspurger's, is interesting above all for the early date of his report. The scientific reputation of others, like the Jaspert brothers, is extremely dubious. For yet others, like Baum and Jessen, ethnographic documentation was of only marginal interest. The greater part of Wilhelm's sketches have been lost.

On the other hand, one cannot write knowledgeably about the Loango coast without consulting Brun's and Pechuël-Loesche's reports. Any statement on northeast Angola in the last quarter of the nineteenth century will lose in value if one fails to use Pogge, Lux, Buchner, and Schütt. Studies on the Kisama without Mattenklodt or on the Cokwe without Baumann's great monograph would at best be a skeleton, at worst a distortion, in the context of what is possible.

This paper examines a transformation in Mahafale relations with the French at the end of the nineteenth century. The study is based on an analysis of Eugène Bastard's published accounts of his travels among the northern Mahafale, a remnant of the Maroseraña dynasty, in 1899. Rather than disregard Bastard as a mere colonial propagandist, which he was in part, it is worth considering him as a potential source on Mahafale history and ethnography at the beginning of the colonial period. Of central interest is his account of transgressing an old taboo, faly aux vazaha, that had kept all Mahafale territories except the coastal “exterior” closed to Europeans for generations.

Removing this idea of “tabooed white foreigners,” which Bastard thought would ease Mahafale submission to the French, was not as easy as he assumed. Each “headman” in the region, and there were many, could negotiate his own position toward this taboo. Moreover, faly aux vazaha was deeply rooted in the structure of Mahafale society, connected with group identity and an ideal of autarky or independence from others. Tampering with this taboo, this vehicle of resistance to external power, heaped new problems on the French. The more militant Mahafale responded with armed resistance, which continued until the French, using biological warfare, finally subdued the last pockets of resistance around 1930. Although Bastard oversimplified the meaning of this taboo and its removal, his reports show Mahafale actors struggling with a central part of their social structure during a turbulent historical period.

In this paper I review the evolution of a nineteenth-century travel diary from the original “remark books” to a polished fair copy version prepared for publication. The journals in question are those kept by Lieut. Hugh Clapperton RN while serving on the Borno Mission in 1822-25. The central issue is how best to reach into and interpret the raw material itself—the author's original observations and thoughts at the time. Each case will have its particularities—in the context of the period and the journey, in the character and interests of the writer, and in the writer's own attitude to the purpose of the journal he or she kept. While the Clapperton material is just one case among many, a review of its internal development—as it proceeded towards publication—allows us to draw some conclusions which may have wider application.

The Garamantes first come to our notice with Herodotus' Survey of Libya. Hekataeus of Miletus traveled along the Libyan coast over half a century before Herodotus, but his work is preserved only in fragments. Hekataeus may have mentioned the Garamantes, but if so, that part of his work has not survived. The Histories of Herodotus (iv.174) lists the “Garamantes” among the peoples of eastern Libya, giving to each a brief description; and iv.183 refers to them in another list, this one a sequence of stopping places on a desert trail which includes “the country of the Garamantes.”

The earlier paragraph had fewer than half a dozen lines and the later one fewer than two dozen; not very much in total, but as Vansina has recently affirmed, the medievalist's axiom also applies to Africa: “the fewer the sources… the more they are treasured and scrutinized.”

The intent of this paper is to attempt to determine how the two references, four paragraphs apart, are related to each other; and thereby to prepare the way to extract as much as we can learn from these two references about the Garamantes in the time of Herodotus, the fifth century BC.

Over twenty years ago, I started writing a doctoral dissertation on the history of the Pacific Island nation of Tuvalu, an exercise that has had enduring professional and personal repercussions. Tuvalu is an atoll archipelago near the junction of the equator and the international date line, and is identified on older maps as the southern portion of a British dependency, the Gilbert and Ellice Islands Colony—now the independent nations of Kiribati and Tuvalu respectively. The nine Tuvalu islands are tiny even by atoll standards, an aggregate 26km2 spread over 360 nautical miles. During the nineteenth century Tuvalu was incorporated into the world economy by a succession of European influences. The early explorers gave way in 1821 to whalers, who, in turn, were superseded by copra traders during the 1850s. From mid-century the pace of events quickened, with the traders being joined by the very occasional labor recruiter and, more to the point, by a concerted missionary drive.

Accomplished largely through the instrumentality of resident Samoan pastors, missionization was comprehensive in scope and repressive in character. From the 1870s the occasional naval vessel visited the group and a British protectorate was declared in 1892, interspersed by the occasional scientific expedition and a brief and disastrous interlude in 1863 when some of the atolls were caught in the final stages of the Peruvian slave trade. The dominant European influences were the familiar triad of commerce, the cross, and the flag, with the primacy of trade giving way to missionary supremacy which, in turn, was displaced in local importance by a British colonial administration.

Sangalan is located in northeast Guinea in the région of MaliYambering. It was a federation of groups of villages, consisting of three taane (kafo in Malinke, districts or groups of villages): Dombiya, Uyukha, and Djulabaya. To these three taane correspond three ethnic subgroups, the Dombiyanne, Uyukhanne, and Djulabayanne. The Dombiyanne were mostly the Keita families; the Uyukhanne the Camara; and the Djulabayanne the Nyakhasso. The people of Sangalan are Dialonka—those living in Sangalan are called the Sangalanka. They are originally all from Dialonkadougou, at first a province of the Soso empire founded and ruled by Sumanguru Kante, and later a province of the empire of Mali, created by Sundiata Keita in the thirteenth century. The Sangalanka call themselves “Sosoe Forine” (Old Sosoe), the Sosoe who lived on the high mountains (dialon) of both the Soso and Manden empires. They call the other Sosoe, living along the Guinean coast, Bani Sosone (Sosoe of the Coast, near the water). The Soso Forine and Bani Sosone lived in the Futa Jallon and were driven away by the Fulani invaders in the eighteenth century.

There can be few areas of the world which have been more systematically misrepresented than Africa, especially that part of the continent south of the Sahara. For centuries, and certainly since the Midas-like Mansa Musa sat astride West Africa on the maps of fourteenth-century Spain, the weird and wonderful imagery of Africa has flooded Europe's vision of that continent. Much of this imagery has been generated by Europeans, and even where it has been generated by Africans themselves, the original meaning and intention is often difficult to discover. The imagery has, to the non-African world, become Africa; this is the case to the point where, at the end of the twentieth century, almost every adjective placed before the name “Africa” is loaded, has some ideological or political currency, and indeed has a history of its own.

Most famously, perhaps, Africa was for a long time “dark”, and still that image periodically appears in assorted Western media, a comforting crutch to an audience which remains somewhat confused as to what to make of the continent. Africa is often supposed to have a “heart,” in a way that neither Europe nor North America does. This is perhaps related to the continent's geographical shape, for it is rather more self-contained than Europe, Asia, or the Americas. It is more likely, however, that an African “heart” is sought precisely because it cannot, using the clumsy surgical tools of Western culture, be found. In more recent times, Africa's “dark heart” has been replaced by its “troubled heart;” but the idea remains unchanged.

In 1754 the newly-arrived governor of Angola, António Alvares da Cunha, announced to the court in Lisbon that, inspired by plans his uncle had made in 1725, he had decided to revive the old attempt to find a way overland to link Angola and Mozambique. He was initiating this enterprise by sending, at his own expense, an expedition to the fair of Cassange, the farthest known point eastwards of Luanda, to gather information about the lands between Angola and Mozambique. The governor's envoy was Manoel Correia Leitão— an experienced trader, but one who had never been to Cassange— accompanied by a pilot, António Roiz Grizante, whose task was to fix the latitude of Cassange.

A suspicious reader could conclude with the subsequent governor António de Vasconcelos, that this venture was a slave trading expedition by Leitão to recover some debts. But it was financed by the governor and one suspects that the whole enterprise was in fact a joint business venture, disguised as an exploration, because governors were forbidden to trade. Be that as it may, the reaction from Lisbon to this news was unexpected. The governor was ordered to abandon his plans and to recall his envoys because this enterprise was too “delicate.” Knowledge about it was to be shrouded in absolute secrecy and a report about this was to be treated as top-secret. Whereupon the governor recalled Leitão.

Writing thirty years ago the historian of the Majimaji rebellion, Gilbert Gwassa, emphasized the purely Tanzanian nature of the uprising, as seen in the ideology which he believed was the inspiration for the widespread war against German colonialism. To Gwassa, southern Tanzanians created an innovative, secular ideology after the turn of the twentieth century which enabled Africans to resist German colonialism supra-ethnically rather than locally. Gwassa was adamant that the Majimaji ideology owed nothing to outside influences.

Gwassa's contention has been largely unchallenged despite obvious paradoxes. Majimaji emerged in a region widely permeated with Islamic influences by 1905, the time of the rebellion. Moreover, the Christian colonial power structure had been present in the outbreak region for some twenty years by 1905, while Christian missionaries had been active in Tanzania for almost forty years. By the time the Majimaji historical tradition was being written in Tanzania in the 1960s, the nation included many Muslims and Christians, including many of Gwassa's research informants, who helped shape his interpretation of Majimaji. Aside from these circumstantial suggestions of the possibility of an externally-influenced Majimaji tradition, a close reading of archival sources from the German period, including several documents which have not been considered in the historiographical tradition, suggest that Christian and Islamic influences helped to shape the writing of Majimaji, if not the resistance movement itself. This paper will examine some of these “Abrahamic” sources of the Majimaji tradition, and consider how they might have been used to formulate a Majimaji epic which has become a standard icon of early African colonial history.

Le livret scolaire africain n'a guere reçu l'attention des historiens de la colonisation ni celle des théoriciens des programmes scolaires qui ont été particulèrement actifs en Occident pendant les trois dernières décénnies. Et pourtant le livret scolaire a joué un très grand rôle dans la divulgation de l'idéologie coloniale et par ricochet dans l'éveil des tendances qui ont mené à la décolonisation. Ici et là ils nous donnent des éléments pour une meilleure compréhension des attitudes des responsables politiques africains du moment.

Le livret scolaire colonial est spécialement conçu pour la colonie. Nous excluons donc les livrets des écoles métropolitaines bien que parfois utilisés dans la colonie. Il doit être étudié dans son propre contexte et par conséquent, les approches seront différentes selon qu'il s'agit de la colonisation belge, française, anglaise ou portugaise.

Dans les colonies françaises et portugaises la langue nationale des colonisateurs était en règle générale aussi celle de l'enseignement. Ceux-ci ne seront pas pris en considération, nos investigations se limitant aux livrets en langues africaines.

Le système d'éducation dans la Colonie Belge était entièrement entre les mains des missionnaires chrétiens jusqu'aux années cinquante. Mêmes les rares écoles organisées par l'Etat (Colonies scolaires et Ecoles ‘congrégationistes’ ou ‘Groupes Scolaires’) ou par certaines Compagnies étaient pour leur organisation effective confiées aux missionnaires catholiques.

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.

The feminist anthropologist Henrietta Moore has noted that “the interpretation of ‘other cultures’ has often been likened in the anthropological literature to a process of translation.” If one accepts that interpretation and translation are closely linked (though there may be some subtle distinctions to be drawn between them), then the comparison described by Moore may be illustrated with statements from two of the most prominent of anthropological critics in recent years, Clifford Geertz and James Clifford. In his book The Interpretation of Cultures, first published in 1973, Geertz claimed that:

A few years later, in a now similarly influential commentary on figures of and challenges to authority in ethnography, James Clifford declared that “[e]thnography is the interpretation of cultures. Both statements reflect the growing conviction that anthropology is not the objective or even the authoritative science that it once claimed to be. In the essay that follows I want to sketch some of the problems of cultural interpretation and translation in anthropology and to discuss one fascinating attempt to find a responsible solution to the imbalance of power inherent in anthropological representation.

Before I turn to this example, Melissa Llewelyn-Davies' film on the Maasai, Memories and Dreams, I need to outline the main arguments that have been made about the status of anthropology. These have focused on the discipline's complicity with colonialism, its male bias, and the ethnocentrism that underlies the claim of scientific objectivity. I shall take each of these points in turn and, though it is important to outline the arguments about, and proposals for, methods and forms of representation, I will consider them only in brief since they have been often discussed in detail elsewhere. Cumulatively, they have contributed to the recognition that “[c]ulture, and our views of ‘it,’ are produced historically, and are actively contested.”

The process of normal scholarship leads young historians to focus on their fields of research with an intensity that is unparalleled during their academic careers. It is no wonder that after a certain interval many change directions, if only to escape the tyranny of the overly familiar. Occasionally, however, we encounter a new approach to our old questions, which forcibly brings us back to our original topic, not with the initial ardor but with the nostalgia of suddenly coming across the photograph of a teenager's crush.

Such was my response to discovering Christopher Schmitz's, “The Changing Structure of the World Copper Market, 1870-1939,” in a recent number of the Journal of European Economic History. I wondered just how I would have approached my study of the Central African mines if, between 1963 and 1983, I had had access to this account of the copper industry in its global setting. Mind you, my thirty-one years' experience with undergraduates and master's candidates suggests that it might have made no difference to me at all. So intense is the concentration of our apprentice-historians on their primary materials that it is often difficult to get them to consider contexts beyond those inherent in the sources they use.

What was new about Schmitz's synthesis? That is difficult to isolate. He has, indeed, written a series of studies of the copper industry. The article under discussion offers generalizations about the industry as a whole between 1870 and 1939 and the role of various producers and consumers in it for the same period. For the sake of Africanist readers, let me summarize them.

In recent years political changes in Mali have opened up new research opportunities for historians and other social scientists interested in the country's colonial and post-colonial past. With the new government has come a change in administrative attitudes regarding access to local archives, in other words those held at the level of the cercle. Although these archives can be in terrible condition, they contain precious information unique to each cercle. In the course of my own research I have been able to gain access to two such archives in southern Mali, in the summer of 1996 and again in 1998. Using these two archives as an example and drawing on the anecdotal evidence of colleagues, the following comments offer a rough appraisal of the nature of cercle archives in Mali. The paper covers the type of documentation available, the condition of the collections, and my own experiences in using them. Although my experience is limited to southern Mali, local administrations across francophone West Africa are likely to have similar holdings, given the essential uniformity of French administrative structures in colonial West Africa.

In addition to providing otherwise scarce documentary evidence on local events, these archives contain a good deal of correspondence which passed from one commandant de cercle to another, bypassing the central administration in the colony's capital. The information contained in this correspondence is therefore difficult to find in national archives, and I suspect that most of it is absent altogether. The volume of such correspondence is surprising. For example, regarding a religious movement based in one of these towns in the late 1940s, I found fifty-odd letters and telegrams addressed to the local administrator by his colleagues, asking him for information and keeping him abreast of local manifestations of the movement in their own regions. None of these messages had been routed through the central administration, and the commandant had sent his superiors no more than a digest of events in which much detail was suppressed.

The reunification of the Germanies in 1990 has opened up research opportunities for historians of Africa. While research in East German archives was possible for Western scholars during the Cold War, conditions for research were not as easy or affordable as they currently are. Intent on obtaining foreign exchange, East German authorities channeled Western researchers to expensive hotels and limited the number of files a researcher could see in a day in order to prolong the process. Visas had to be obtained well in advance of research trips, and for prescribed durations, curtailing the flexibility one needed if archival materials proved to be especially rich. From the Western side, while the Federal Republic was generous in allocating funds for research in its archives (particularly through DAAD—German Academic Exchange Service—research grants), it prohibited use of those funds for research undertaken in East Germany. Today it is possible to use DAAD funds for travel and research throughout reunited Germany.

While federal and state archives in eastern Germany offer valuable resources for researchers interested in the former German colonies, mission archives located in the East have not been widely used by historians of Africa. For the most part these have been content to use published mission histories and newspapers as their sources of information, neglecting diaries, station reports, and correspondence which offer more nuanced and detailed pictures of African life.