In a recent article David Richardson revised estimates of the volume and African regional distribution of the eighteenth-century British slave trade. Richardson calculated that British slave vessels sailing between 1698 and 1807 – to the year of Abolition – embarked 3,052,509 slaves on the African coast. This figure falls at the midpoint between lower-bound estimates made by Curtin in 1969 and upper-bound estimates published by Inikori seven years later. Further, Richardson provided historians with the first extended year-by-year series of British slave exports; and he separated the trading data of the three principal British slaving ports of Liverpool, London and Bristol, which comprised 50, 28 and 18 per cent of the trade, respectively.

In 1858, after a reign of forty years, King Gezo of Dahomey died and was succeeded by one of his sons called Badahun, who took the royal name of Glele by which he is more generally known. Badahun had been Gezo's designated heir apparent for at least nine years prior to this but his accession to the throne was nevertheless challenged. The name Glele which he adopted alludes to these challenges, being according to Dahomian tradition abbreviated from the aphorism Glelile ma ñõn ze, ‘You cannot take away a farm [gle]’, meaning that he would not allow anyone to appropriate the fruits of his labours, which is explained as expressing ‘his contempt for the attacks to which he had been exposed as heir apparent’.

Late in 1907 a missionary from Kisserawe in German East Africa complained of a spate of ngoma ritual dances among the Zaramo people. In particular he singled out an ngoma conducted by women to ameliorate a drought that was threatening that year's maize crop. As the women danced around a well, dressed as men and brandishing muskets, they appealed for rain from ‘their god’. Several aspects of this ngoma make it remarkable. It occurred following the Majimaji uprising in German East Africa, which the Germans put down with such violence as to make war as a tactic of resistance unpopular if not untenable. The ngoma was attended by Christian and non-Christian African women alike, suggesting a purpose whose expediency cut across competing belief systems. Finally, although cross-dressing was an aspect of certain Zaramo rituals, the symbolic appropriation of men's social roles by dress and wielding of weapons made this ngoma anomalous and suggests that the participants were consciously and purposefully reshaping gender roles at this time. The timing and symbolism of the ngoma make it clear that it was a reaction to the threat of famine, which had become a recurrent aspect of Zaramo life by 1907 and a symptom of ongoing rural social change ushered in by colonial rule. The larger question is whether changing perceptions of gender roles intersected with the Majimaji war (1905–7), and whether Majimaji had an underlying meaning for rural Tanzanian societies that has escaped the attention of historians. If so, it suggests that the prevailing conception of Majimaji needs to be questioned and re-examined.

The fundamental preoccupation with race in later historical writing in South Africa has its origins in the Great Debate between liberals and their enemies in the early nineteenth century. Standard overviews of South African historiography date the emergence of racially structured histories to the second half of the nineteenth century. For Saunders, the making of the South African past and its thematic ordering in terms of race only began in the 1870s ‘when the first major historian [G. M. Theal] began to write his history’. Prior to Theal's monumental efforts, ‘only a few amateur historians had turned their hands to the writing of the history of particular areas or topics’. Likewise, in Smith's analysis, also published in 1988, the construction of South African history in terms of race is seen almost exclusively as the product of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In a very brief introductory section, Smith suggests that what little historical writing there was before the middle of the nineteenth century is scarcely to be taken seriously, and his study offers no more than a bare outline of historiographical developments before Theal and his heirs.

Historical writing on the coloured community of South Africa has tended to accept coloured identity as given and to portray it as fixed. The failure to take cognizance of the fluidity of coloured self-definition and the ambiguities inherent to the process has resulted in South African historiography presenting an over-simplified image of the phenomenon. The problem stems partly from an almost exclusive focus on coloured protest politics which has had the effect of exaggerating the resistance of coloureds to white supremacism and largely ignoring their accommodation with the South African racial system. Furthermore, little consideration has been given to the role that coloured people themselves have played in the making of their own identity or to the manner in which this process of self-definition shaped political consciousness. This is particularly true of analyses of the period following the inauguration of the Union of South Africa in 1910, a time when the legitimacy of coloured identity was not in any way questioned within the coloured community and when coloured protest politics was dominated by one body, the African Political Organization (APO).