Somali attitudes towards Pan-Africanism, and more particularly towards the federation of African states, have to be understood in relation to the very special conditions of the Horn of Africa. It will be necessary therefore to begin this survey with a few general remarks about the Somali Peninsula and the special characteristics of Somali nationalism.

Two conventions tend to shape appraisals of the Belgian Congo and the manner of its decolonisation. The first describes the colonial power structure as an alliance of state, church, and large corporations.1 This trinity was ‘not only… a virtually seamless web’, writes Crawford Young, ‘but each component, in its area of activity, was without peer in Africa in the magnitude of its impact’.2 The second convention typically portrays decolonisation as tumultuous, chaotic, bungled, or simply ‘gone awry’.3 Indeed, the mutiny and secession movements that followed hard upon the proclamation in June 1960 of the Republic of the Congo (renamed Zaïre in October 1971) resulted in the rapid internationalisation of responses to them, thereby demonstrating the fragility of domestic political arrangements.

It is now close to five years since a revolution spearheaded by the Ethiopian working class, students, and an assortment of petty-bourgeois elements, overthrew the monarchy of Emperor Haile Selassie I, Elect of God, King of Kings, and the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah. With the Emperor has gone the archaic feudal land system which dominated nearly all aspects of the entire Ethiopian society. Gone too is the feudal aristocracy and the nascent national bourgeoisie which clung tenaciously to the imperial coat-tails with unusual political myopia to the very end.

Smallholders now grow most of Malawi's main export crop – burley tobacco. Based on nineteen months' fieldwork in the Central Region, this article offers a sociological interpretation of why some smallholder growers spend a proportion of burley income on conspicuous consumption in rural towns and trading centres. This practice can be seen as a form of inculcated behaviour whereby smallholders reproduce elements of one model of success in this region: that of the Malawian tobacco bwana (boss/master). The article discusses implications from this form of potlatch behaviour by describing the contrasting fortunes of two non-farm rural enterprises, examining data on how tobacco production and ‘cooling off’ is viewed by wives, and comparing the crop preferences of husbands and wives. It concludes by suggesting that the concept of conspicuous consumption may provide an alternative prism to the instrumental lens of neo-patrimonialism through which to view apparently unintelligible investment decisions in African economies.

The 3 August 2005 military coup was Mauritania's best opportunity to turn the page on decades of the deposed quasi-military regime's destructive politics. This article critically analyses relevant aspects of the transition that ensued in the context of the prevailing models of military withdrawal from politics in Africa. It also examines the challenges that Mauritania's short-lived Third Republic faced. It argues that the transition process did not escape the well-known African military junta leader's proclivity to manipulate transitions to fulfil suddenly awakened self-seeking political ambitions, in violation of solemn promises. While there was no old-fashioned ballot stuffing to decide electoral outcomes, Mauritania's junta leader and his lieutenants spared no effort to keep the military very much involved in politics, and to perpetuate a strong sense of entitlement to political power. Originally designed as an ingenious ‘delayed self-succession’ of sorts, in the end, another coup aborted Mauritania's democratisation process and threw its institutions in a tailspin. This only exacerbated the challenges that have saddled Mauritania's political system and society for decades – unhealthy civil-military relations, a dismal ‘human rights deficit’, terrorism, and a neo-patrimonial, disastrously mismanaged economy.

The causes of violence in Burundi are complex and go beyond the alleged ‘age-old’ animosities between the Hutu and the Tutsi. In the short run, it may be impossible to eradicate conflicts; but it is imperative to transform conflicts into non-violent ‘shocks of ideas’ between rival parties, which must refocus their energy at finding a negotiated settlement. This article posits that the solution to violence must revolve around political and economic liberalisation aimed at (1) eradicating the tradition of using the state for oppression and accumulation; (2) achieving egalitarian development; and (3) protecting the rights of all citizens.

About 70 years ago, the Mahdist or Ansār state, in many ways a traditional Muslim government, crumbled under the fire of the Anglotional Egyptian cannons. On the condominium government that followed fell the task of pacifying the country and introducing western concepts of administration. All Sudanese attempts to defy foreign domination had failed completely by 1924. The British, the stronger of the two partners, had the lion's share in shaping the destiny of the country. Towards the end of World War II, the influential and educated Sudanese, like other Africans and Asians, demanded the right of self-determination. In 1946, in preparation for this, a sample of western democracy was introduced in the form of an Advisory Council. This Council, which was restricted to the northern Sudan, was followed two years later by the Legislative Assembly, which had slightly more powers. Although these democratic innovations were quite alien to the country and were introduced at a relatively late date, they were in keeping with traditional institutions. Until recently, the Sudan consisted of a number of tribal units where no classes or social distinctions existed and the tribal chief was no more than the first among equals; the people were therefore not accustomed to autocratic rule.

This article explores the complexity of managing refugee issues, particularly refugee repatriations, taking the Horn of Africa as a case. I argue that refugee repatriation endeavours are complex because their success depends on at least four actors, each with different – indeed often conflicting – interests. I examine the proposition that as the number of actors involved in a given issue area increases so does the likelihood of less-than-successful outcomes. This is particularly true if resource-poor actors are included in the decision-making process, and, because of the need to extract maximum benefits and/or minimise maximum losses, usually operate under the assumption of zero-sum situations. This assumption narrows their range of responses and hampers their ability to engage in mutually beneficial exchange relationships. As a result, repatriations, which are necessarily consensus-based, become more difficult to accomplish successfully as evidenced in the Horn of Africa.

In the 1980s and early 1990s, sending remittances from South Africa posed major challenges for Ndebele migrants. As a result households receiving remittances only did so at irregular intervals. With increased diasporisation into South Africa, it was to be expected that new channels would open up. This article explores what is known as the malayisha system, its role and significance as an informal channel of remittances into Ndebele society. It argues that the system bridged the geographical gap between Matabeleland and Johannesburg, averting food insecurity and poverty for semi-proletarian households in Matabeleland. By facilitating the movement of goods and people between Matabeleland and South Africa, the system became instrumental in the quest of households to reconstruct their livelihoods after the destruction of their rural–urban-based livelihoods in Zimbabwe due to perennial droughts and ESAP. As a result, the services of omalayisha are highly sought-after, by both the migrant community in South Africa and households in Matabeleland.

The modern military development of the British East and West African territories reached its highest level during World War II. Great Britain at that time put aside her standing policy of maintaining establishments sufficient only for colonial domestic needs and recruited forces for general use against Germany, Italy, and Japan.1 Building on a base provided by the Royal West African Frontier Force and the King's African Rifles of East and Central Africa, Britain recruited approximately 470,000 Africans during the war, including over 65,000 from the Gold Coast and 77,000 from Uganda; about 80 per cent of these were serving when the war ended. Although the majority enlisted in army infantry or service corps, tens of thousands served as artisans and technicians, and others in small naval and air establishments. Modern war requirements caused not only a restructuring of African colonial forces, but also forced considerable changes in military recruitment. The 'martial races' traditionally favoured by British officers had to be supplemented by large numbers of skilled and literate recruits from other African peoples; for example, the Ibo, Baganda, and Kikuyu. This rapid expansion of the forces also meant an increased need for British commissioned and non-commissioned officers, who were recruited from Great Britain as well as locally. The many different languages spoken by the new forces meant that simple English displaced Hausa in the west and, to a lesser degree, Swahili in the east, as the standard military language.

A popular story made the rounds in the European community in Léopoldville at independence in 1960. It was said that the new Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba and President Moïse Tshombe of the dissident Katanga Province could only confer through an interpreter. Whether this colonial tale was true or not, neither French nor Flemish were widely diffused in the Belgian Congo; indeed, no single lingua franca had emerged during some 80 years of Belgian rule. This article examines the origins of the decisions taken and the attitudes established during the Léopold era, 1879–1908, that continued to influence language policy throughout the entire colonial period, and even thereafter.

In 1967, shortly after Lesotho's political independence from the United Kingdom, Michael Ward desribed Lesotho in this Journal as ‘the economic hostage of South Africa’:

it is clear … that Lesotho will become more and more economically dependent upon South Africa … in the short run it has virtually no hope of becoming economically viable or independent of South Africa and foreign aid.

The objective of this article is to examine how these views hold up 15 years later, and to argue that although in summary form Ward seems to have been very accurate, the nature of Lesotho's dependence has changed in ways few would have foreseen at the time of independence. In addition, the contrast between the rhetoric of the Government and what has happened, and the prospects for the future, will be explored.

The historical literature on statebuilding in Europe has often portrayed a positive relationship between war, state making and long-term democratisation. Similarly, a number of large-n quantitative studies have concluded that war promotes democracy – even in cases of civil war. Against this, a growing area studies literature has argued that violent conflict in developing countries is unlikely to drive either statebuilding or democratisation. However, this literature has rarely sought to systematically set out the mechanisms through which war undermines democracy. Contrasting three ‘high conflict’ cases (Burundi, Rwanda and Uganda) with two ‘low conflict’ cases (Kenya and Tanzania) in East Africa, we trace the way in which domestic conflict has undermined three key elements of the democratisation process: the quality of political institutions, the degree of elite cohesion, and the nature of civil-military relations. Taken together, we suggest that the combined effect of these three mechanisms helps to explain why Kenya and Tanzania have made significantly greater progress towards democratic consolidation than their counterparts and call for more in-depth research on the long-term legacy of conflict on democratisation in the African context.

In his classic study of decentralisation and development, Henry Maddick argued that economic growth and social modernisation depend in part on the ability of Third-World govenments to diffuse responsibility for development planning and administration, to expand participation in economic activities, and to promote new centres of creativity within society. Over-concentration of administrative authority stifles development, Maddick insisted; it leads to waste and corruption, delays action, and creates irrational and inefficient management practices, the costs of which developing countries cannot afford.1 To illustrate his point, Maddick cited the effects of the centralised supply system in the Sudan in the late 1950s, through which ‘shoes made in Fasher were sent 400 miles by rail to Khartoum where the whole shoe supply was concentrated. When Fasher wanted shoes for school children and government personnel it had to send to Khartoum for them.’ He also noted that school desks and equipment for the provincial city of Juba had to be ordered from Khartoum, which was 900 miles away and connected only by inefficient river transport, even though the wood from which the furniture was made originally came from Juba.2

The centenary of Mahatma Gandhi's birth during 1969 (October 2) provides a reason for reassessments of the Indian leader's thought and career. Among the matters which deserve reconsideration is his South African phase, which began in 1893, on his arrival in Natal as a fledgling barrister, and ended in 1914, when he left for India by way of England to begin his main work as an Indian nationalist. A reappraisal of this period is needed principally because there is a tendency in biographical studies and Gandhi's own account of his South African years to romanticise or simplify the record and to leave unanswered questions about the development of his ideas and activities during a critical two decades of his life.1 A reappraisal is possible chiefly because of the recent appearance of Gandhi's Collected Works as a rich source for newer interpretations of what he said and did in Natal and the Transvaal.2 As an effort to contribute to reconsiderations of Gandhi's African phase, this article will examine his views of Europeans and Africans and his protest policies and tactics as they emerged over 21 years. Special attention is given to Gandhi's outlook on Africans and the circumstances surrounding his first disobedience campaign. A close inquiry into these matters helps to explain better Gandhi's role in modern South African history and the nature of his legacy to continuing issues in the continent.

During the era of the All People's Congress (A.P.C.), 1968–92, the state machinery and resources of Sierra Leone were used to promote the interests of a relatively small number of persons rather than those of the general public. A system of patronage thrived under this ruling party primarily because membership of particular groupings was a more acceptable qualification for position than an individual's actual capabilities. The ensuing intrigues deterred development in the country because members of cliques were only accountable to their leader and his top officials.

This article indicates the complexity of the social relations of whites and Africans in Southern Africa and the myths by which they rationalise their behaviour.1 The situation is not identical throughout Southern Africa, but there are, as I will show, certain fundamental similarities which validate an over-all analysis in terms of a ‘colonial situation’.2

Each of the countries of Southern Africa (the Republic of South Africa, Southern Rhodesia, Northern Rhodesia, Nyasaland, the three British High Commission territories of Swaziland, Bechuanaland, and Basutoland, and the Portuguese provinces of Mozambique and Angola) represents a distinct political unit, expressing in its constitution the limits of control and participation permitted to groups which are distinguished according to so-called ‘racial’, ‘ethnic’, or ‘cultural’ differences. There has been a major distinction, explicit in some countries, disguised in others, between a dominant white minority and a subordinate African majority, a division corresponding to the ‘colonisers’ or ‘colonials’ on the one hand, and the ‘colonised’ on the other. But now Nyasaland has become independent Zambia, and Northern Rhodesia will achieve independence in October 1964.

Aviation in Southern Africa was subject throughout the 1980s to increasingly intense political pressures. As ever, the cause was protests about apartheid. The severe blow that black African countries dealt to South African Airways (S.A.A.), the Republic's state-owned national airline, in the 1960s by withdrawing overflying rights was magnified by similar action from a wider spectrum of non-African governments. In the mid-1980s, Australia and the United States of America, for example, revoked S.A.A.'s landing rights, and forbad airlines registered in their countries from flying to South Africa. Other carriers, such as Air Canada, closed their offices and then terminated representation in South Africa.

This article examines the attempt of Kenya and Tanzania to deal with the universal problem of how to reconcile inequalities in the distribution of rewards with a concern for equality. It argues that in both countries the mainspring of educational policy is a desire to alleviate the potentially disruptive consequences of inequality, although for different purposes and by different means. The broad purpose of the article is to compare contrasting educational practice in Kenya and Tanzania from this perspective as a way of illuminating two distinctive modes of development. More specifically, it attempts to identify some of the contradictions and dilemmas inherent in their particular use of education. Finally, it uses this analysis to make a speculative assessment of how each is faring in the task of building a relatively integrated polity.

Theories of modernisation and social change have been increasingly challenged during the past decade by events in the Middle East and other areas of the developing world. Leaders of oil-rich nations are choosing to industrialise but not to westernise, and Islamic revivals are shaping new patterns of political and social development. For example, improvements in female status can no longer be regarded as the inevitable concomitants of industrialisation; to the contrary, gender inequality may actually be exacerbated by national resurgences of religious and cultural traditions which often accompany planned social change.1