The fair-skinned people who inhabit the Sudan fringes of west Africa stretching from the Senegal valley to the shores of Lake Chad and who speak the language known as Fulfulde, are known by many names.1 They call themselves Fulbe (singular, Pullo). They are called Fulani by the Hausa of southern Nigeria, and this name has been used for them throughout Nigeria. The British call them Ful, Fulani, or Fula, while the French refer to them as Peul, Peulh, or Poulah. In Senegal the French also inadvertently call them Toucouleur or Tukulor. The Kanuri of northern Nigeria call them Fulata or Felata. In this paper we will adopt the Hausa (or Nigerian) name for the people—Fulani.

Accurate censuses are not available on the Fulani in west Africa. A mid-twentieth century estimate puts the total number of Fulani at “over 4 million,” more than half of whom are said to inhabit Nigeria. Another estimate towards the end of 1989 puts the total number of Nigeria's Fulani (nomads only) at over ten million. If both estimates were correct, then the Fulani population in Nigeria alone must have grown 500 per cent in forty years. The dominant factor in this population growth is increased immigration of pastoralists into Nigeria in the wake of the 1968-73 Sahelian drought.

The material under review comprises two texts of dramatic narratives in Hausa by one “Hajj Ahmed” (henceforth Haji Ahmadu) Kano, who was based in Tunis. The narration was done in 1902, and the story was about the trans-Saharan journey of another Bakano or Kano citizen, from Tripoli to Kano. This traveler was a merchant called Muhammadu Agigi. Haji Ahmadu's narratives were done at the instance of a German scholar and traveler, Rudolf Prietze, who specified the form, which was dialogue, the narration should take. Prietze subsequently had the recorded material annotated, translated, edited and published. Prietze's article appeared under the general title “Wüstenreise des Haussa-Händlers Mohammed Agigi” (“The Journey of the Hausa Trader Muhammadu Agigi Through the Desert”) with the sub-title “Gespräche eines Kaufherrn auf der Reise nach Kano” (“Conversations of a Merchant En Route to Kano”), and was published in two parts (“Von Ghadames nach Rhat [Ghat]” and “Gespräche in Rhat”) in Mittheilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen zu Berlin (1924), 1-36,175-246.

There is a long tradition in South Africa of publishing private and public documents, beginning with Donald Moodie's The Record, which first appeared in 1838. At the turn of the century the seemingly indefatigable Geroge McCall Theal published a number of collections that have become standard references for South African historians: Belangrijke Historische Dokumenten verzameld in de Kaap Kolonie en Elders (3 vols.); Basutoland Records (3 vols.); Records of South Eastern Africa (9 vols.); and the massive thirty-six-volume edition of the Records of the Cape Colony. The Van Riebeeck Society has just published the seventieth volume in its series of edited diaries, journals, and letters.3 And every student of contemporary South Africa has referred to the four-volume collection of African political documents edited by Gwendolen Carter and Thomas Karis.

In this essay I want to discuss the evolution of my own work with the papers of the South African missionary John Philip. I do not intend to delve into the intricacies of transcribing these papers but rather to discuss them in the broader context of documentary editing and the publication of multi-volume editions. The recently organized Association for the Publication of African Historical Sources has rightly identified the need for a coordinated effort to make African historical documents and source materials more readily available to the scholarly community. If the first of these sources to be published is an indication of what may be expected from this series, then all Africanists should join together to give the association their full support.5 But documentary editing is not a simple or inexpensive undertaking, as I hope to show in this paper.

Some of the earliest books written by Gold Coast writers were about then-own family histories and stool institutions. These writers took advantage of the established oral tradition and the authorized stool histories. Such works represent a form of written history that was designed to transcribe and incorporate systematically as much oral tradition as possible. It is only when the oral sources are deficient or are ambiguous that the early European traveler's accounts are used to check or verify the oral sources. There are many reasons why much of the first generation of indigenous literature is by and about a small group of Fante. One undoubted reason is that these early books combine an academic pursuit with a family responsibility to the position of Linguist or Okyiame.

The word Kyiame is commonly translated “linguist,” but this is unfortunate because it conveys the impression that the Kyiame is no more than an interpreter. In reality the Kyiame is the spokesman or mouthpiece of the Chief, who, being held sacred, must neither be addressed by, nor address another person directly. According to J. B. Danquah, the word means “He who makes it perfect for me”: the Kyiame repeats and perfects what the Chief, who cannot always be an eloquent speaker, may have to say in public. He is a confidential officer whose place is at the Chiefs right hand; in the Council and Court of Judicature it is he who sums up and declares the Chiefs will. He preserves in his memory and passes on the tradition of the Stool. Deeply versed in the etiquette of the court, he instructs a newly appointed Chief. He can often turn the scales of war and peace since the issue of dispute between contending tribes may depend on whether he presents his Chiefs case in a bellicose manner. When he rises to speak in public he leans upon the gold cane or staff of his office, or a subordinate holds it in front of him. He may be sent by the Chief as a plenipotentiary or legate. What he says binds his Chief. There are two of the office. The superior grade is hereditary and is termed Omankyiame, i.e. the Kyiame of the whole Oman or Council.

The wealth of the photographic record of Portuguese Africa in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries is only beginning to be appreciated. Until recently it was not only ignored but totally neglected. As a result much has been destroyed. The full extent of the surviving material is, as yet, unknown. Collections of photographs are dispersed in various archives, libraries, and private collections throughout Portugal. In most cases almost nothing is known of the photographers or of the circumstances in which then-work was produced. The photographs themselves have not been studied, so that the work of dating and evaluating their content has yet to be done.

In this paper then I can present only a very preliminary and incomplete survey and exploration of some of the very diverse categories of photographic sources available for the history of Portuguese-speaking Africa between the 1870s and early 1920s, concentrating particularly on Angola and Mozambique. Whenever possible I also try to draw attention to some of the practical and theoretical problems involved in their interpretation as a step towards assessing more accurately their historical and sociological value.

English schoolchildren were once brought up on tales of the exploits of Drake and the two Hawkins, father and son, leaders of the English seafaring adventures who invaded the monopolies of Atlantic trade claimed by the Iberian monarchs, who signed Philip II's beard, and who eventually brought his great Armada to destruction. Strangely enough, some two centuries later the names Drake and Hawkins would seem to reappear in Atlantic history as those of two North American adventurers who sought to profit in the slave trade from West Africa.

Not so long ago my friend and colleague T. C. McCaskie presented in History in Africa grounds for believing to be spurious inventions those parts of the published reminiscences of Richard Drake which deal with Asante, the great kingdom behind the Gold Coast (on which he may well have traded), and which he claimed to have visited in 1839. Unlikely though it may seem, there would also appear to be substantial grounds for believing that Joseph Hawkins' account of a trip into the interior of West Africa, which he claimed to have made from the Rio Nunez in 1795, is also at least in some measure an invention.

The concerns which dominated Yoruba historiography in the nineteenth century were similar to those of the first half of this century. Primary among these concerns were the patriotic desire to document Yoruba history, explain the turbulence of the nineteenth century, and inspire the new generation with a sense of history. Isaac Babalola Akinyele (1881–1964), the first to write a chronicle on Ibadan, expressed these concerns in the preface to the first edition of his book, Iwe I tan Ibadan, published in 1911. He explained that the origin of the book was the invitation extended to him in May 1911 by an Ibadan-based society, the Egbe Onife He Yoruba (“Lovers of the Yoruba”) to give a lecture on “Ancient and Modern Ibadan.” In the same month, he delivered a lecture which he later expanded and published into a book in order to preserve history at a time when the knowledge about the past was being forgotten and the elders were passing on. Chief Akinyele believed that it was urgent to document the oriki of Yoruba Obas, again being forgotten because only a few persons were interested in them. To him the oriki reveal much about Yoruba history. He also believed that the Yoruba language was undergoing a decline, and that there was a need for a rescue mission. He concluded his preface by appealing to his readers to accept his work and to ignore any derogatory remarks on people and ethnic groups in the oriki, which were composed by poets to eulogize the achievements of chiefs and warriors during a period of warfare. Finally, he enjoined all the Yoruba to unite, to learn from the British nation where everybody, irrespective of differences in language and culture, had united in order to build a strong and prosperous nation.

Clashes between supporters of Inkatha and those of the ANC have resulted in the death of thousands of people in the last five years. The political death toll in 1990 was the highest South Africa has ever seen. While Inkatha, a Zulu-based movement, attempts to maintain the ethnic division enforced by the apartheid regime, the ANC is struggling for a non-ethnic and color-blind democracy and a political system elected on the basis of “one man, one vote.” Their struggle is about the future of South Africa, about sharing power and resources. It is also, however, about the past and the use of its symbols.

In this paper I look at the ways Inkatha has, since its formation, used the Zulu past to draw support, to achieve political gains, and to educate the youth in KwaZulu. I have used political speeches of Chief Gatsha Buthelezi, Inkatha's leader, as well as speeches by other key individuals in the movement, texts by the historians of the movement, novels written in the spirit of Inkatha, and most important, Inkatha textbooks on “good citizenship,” a subject introduced in all KwaZulu schools as a compulsory in 1978.

Historians who work in certain diaspora areas of the Mande people are frequently told by Mandekan speakers that their ancestors came from “Mande Kaba” (Kaaba). When reporting this, they usually then proceed to explain that Kaba is the Mande term for the French-named town of Kangaba, capital of the Mali empire. However, in my work on the precolonial state of Kong in northeastern Côte d'Ivoire, it became important to question exactly what this phrase means in the context of oral traditions and chronology.

The hypothesis equating Kaba, Kangaba, and the capital of the Mali empire dates back in print to the early French studies of ancient Mali, and particularly to Maurice Delafosse, that prolific writer on West African oral traditions, religion, and languages. In his 1912 magnum opus, Haut-Sénégal-Niger, Delafosse cited Kangaba, “sans doute” as the capital of the pre-Sunjata “royaume” of Mali. In his annotation of the French translation of the mid-seventeenth century compilation, Ta'rikh al-Fattash, Delafosse again presented this idea. The Ta'rikh stated that “[t]he town which served previously as the capital of the emperor of Mali was named Diêriba [jāriba]; following, there was another named Niani [Yan.”

In a note Delafosse explained that Diêriba “is also the name of the town called Kangaba on our [French] maps, which after having been the first capital of the manding empire, is still today the chief town of the province of Manding or Malli.” He was most likely relaying information from his interpretation of traditions as well as his own personal observations of early twentieth-century Kangaba. The Keita family, claiming descent from Sunjata Keita, the founder of the Mali empire, enjoyed political control of Kangaba, and were recognized as having held this position for some time.

Writing in the 1590s about Sierra Leone, André Alvares de Almada, a Cape Verde Islands trader who had probably at one time visited Sierra Leone, commended its peoples for being “unfriendly to the English and French,” not least by fighting John Hawkins—the latter remark obviously a reference to Hawkins' well-known visit in 1567/68. But when did the French visit Sierra Leone? Elsewhere I have cited the evidence for three French voyages to the Sierra Leone estuary in the later 1560s, probably in 1565, 1566, and 1567. I now analyze archive material published in two French works that appeared long ago but are probably little known to Africanists, since both concentrate on voyages to the Americas. The first source calendars items in the registres de tabellionage (notarial registers) of the Normandy port of Honfleur relating to intercontinental voyages, the items being mainly financial agreements made before or after voyages. Dates, names of ships, and destinations are supplied for the period from 1574 to 1621: what proportion of all intercontinental voyages from Honfleur during that period is represented in the registers is uncertain. But in the eleven years between 1574 and 1584, there are recorded 24 voyages to both Guinea and America, the ships proceeding across the Atlantic from Africa. The American destination is usually described as “Indes de Pérou,” meaning the Caribbean. The African destination of 15 named vessels making 19 voyages is “Serlione” or “coste de Serlion,” in 15 instances given singly, otherwise with the addition of “et Guinée,” “et Guinée et coste de Bonnes-Gens,” or “et cap de Vert et coste de Mina.” The remaining voyages were to “Guinée,” to “cap de Vert [Cape Verde, i.e. Senegal],” to “cap des Bonnes-Gens” [Ivory Coast], or to more than one of these.

European visitors to Africa frequently report versions of oral narratives in their travel accounts from the precolonial era. Beatrix Heintze cautions against the uncritical use of these narratives, arguing that they are a “special category of source to which one must apply not only all the criteria for the analysis of oral traditions, but also the sort of source criticism specific to written sources.” Her call for textual criticism is appropriate, but her recommendations regarding the oral aspects of the information raise several issues: what criteria should be adopted for the analysis of oral narratives and what insights into the past do these materials provide? Heintze assumes that oral narratives present “concrete historical data” with “literal” meanings which become “more abstract over the course of time.” She sees the principal value of European-mediated accounts as providing access to the factual statements and initial metaphors from which emerged the more abstract historical clichés expressed by informants in contemporary Africa.

The National Archives of Nigeria is located at three sites: Ibadan, Enugu, and Kaduna. Each site houses the archives for its geographical area: Ibadan for the Western Region (the present-day states of Bendel, Kwara, Lagos, Ogun, Ondo, and Oyo); Enugu for the Eastern Region; and Kaduna for the Northern Region. This paper will concentrate on the largest archives, that at Ibadan, which is housed in a large three-story pastel-colored building set in three acres of grounds within the campus area of the University of Ibadan.

The Nigerian National Archives branch at Ibadan is very rich in official papers of all Federal, Regional, and State Governments; papers of native and local authorities; papers of semi-public bodies and institutions; papers of private individuals and families, as well as those of ecclesiastical bodies and missions.

The founding and development of the Nigerian Archival Service was due very largely to the initiative of Kenneth Dike, who was awarded a Colonial Social Science Research Fellowship in 1949 to carry out research on Nigerian history. In the course of his studies Dike came across valuable historical records in government offices, the greater number of which were exposed to decay and destruction and some of which were damaged by insects and water. He reported this to the government and offered his services without salary in the task of recovering valuable historical materials.

Since its publication in 1874-1875 the account by the Basel missionaries Friedrich (‘Fritz’) August Ramseyer (1842-1902) and Johannes Kühne (1840-1915) of their captivity in Asante, Vier Jahre in Asante, has constituted one of the major written sources on the nature of precolonial society in what is now southern Ghana. Stationed at Anum, near the east bank of the lower Volta, Ramseyer and Kühne were captured together with Ramseyer's wife and infant son in June 1869 by an Asante force which had invaded Ewe territory. They were taken to Asante and eventually, after a seven-month stay in a hamlet which they christened Ebenezer, to Kumase, where they were held hostage from December 1870 until the approach of a British military expedition in January 1874. Apart from the independent French trader Joseph-Marie Bonnat, who was captured in the same month and shared many of their experiences, Ramseyer and Kühne spent longer in Asante than any other author before the twentieth century. Moreover, as prisoners they were able to observe African society from an unusual perspective: “these men saw all from below; the white man was the slave, the negro the master.”

While the importance of this source is generally recognized, it has escaped the notice of most commentators that what Ramseyer and Kühne left us was not one source but at least five—a manuscript, two German editions, and an English and a French translation, all written within a relatively short period of time as part of what has been called “the scramble for Gold Coast Africana.” In this paper I shall explore some of the relationships among these different sources.

Photographs create a tantalizing sense of “being there” while history was being made. They offer a means of entry into cultures that are historically non-literate, stimulating informants' memories and linking their oral traditions to specific events and persons in the culture. Their research potential in West Africa and in Nigeria, in particular, is only now being recognized (Edwards 1990; Kaplan 1990: 317-319; Scherer 1990: 131, 135, 139, 141, 145; Sprague 1978; Viditz-Ward 1985; 1991). The focus here is on photographs connected with the royal court of Benin, and with ongoing ethnographic field work initiated in 1982.1 Special attention is given to photographs taken between 1926 and 1989 by S. O. Alonge, the first indigenous and Benin royal photographer. His work illuminates political and cultural history, and contributes to the beginnings of a history of photography in Nigeria.

Evocative images have been used to illustrate books and articles about West Africa.since the early days of nineteenth-century photography. Studies of visuals, however, taken in Nigeria by indigenous photographers and reported systematic uses of photographs in research designs are still rare (Borgatti 1982; Kaplan 1980, 1991a, 1991b; Karpinski 1984; Sprague 1978). Most research extant on early uses of visuals has been on cinema (Rouch 1975a, 1975b). There has been serious interest in the condition and circumstances of Nigeria cinema and filmmakers, and a desire to create a history of African film (Mathias 1986). The impetus to codify and to create methods for the study of film and stills in anthropology points to a growing awareness of their potential as much more than entertainment and illustration. Photographs are best been as behavior and ideas captured and expressed in imagery, and studied much as we do material culture.

The present paper is a by-product of a recently completed study of the impact of the Atlantic slave trade in the West African ‘Slave Coast’ (roughly, the modern Republic of Bénin). One of the most striking features of the operation of the European trade in this region was the prominence among the commodities imported of cowry shells (brought ultimately from the Maldive Islands in the Indian Ocean), which were used locally as a currency. Assessment of the impact of the European trade obviously requires detailed empirical study of the operation of this cowry currency, and in particular of the question of whether the massive importation of cowries which it involved led to significant depreciation of their local value. A more extended treatment of this subject is in preparation. Although there is a great deal of contemporary documentation of the prices of various commodities in local markets between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, this evidence presents considerable problems of interpretation and evaluation. This paper deals with these methodological issues, in the belief that they may be potentially illuminating for the study of other areas than the Slave Coast.

It has long been accepted that the Devonshire Declaration of 1923 represented a clever compromise by which the British government was able to extricate itself from a longstanding controversy surrounding Indian claims for equality with European settlers in Kenya through a statement that African interests were to be paramount in that colony. There can be no denying that the doctrine of African paramountcy proved an effective solution to the Colonial Office dilemma caused by attempting to balance the conflicting claims of the Kenya Indians and settlers. Yet another widely-stated view, that the doctrine of African paramountcy and other specific details included in the declaration were provided to the Colonial Office by British missionary and church officials, specifically J. H. Oldham and Randall Davidson, the Archbishop of Canterbury is, quite simply, a myth. The Colonial Office had no need for Oldham and Davidson to devise a settlement for it; officials there had decided the main principles that they would use in making a policy statement long before Oldham entered the Indian question in May 1923. What the Colonial Office officials actually got from the missionary leader, in addition to useful phraseology, was the vital support they needed to sell the policy announced in the White Paper to influential public opinion in both Britain and India. This was a most significant achievement, and it is time to recognize Oldham's contribution for what it was rather than perpetuate an interpretation that has no basis in fact.

Some years ago, Robin Winks edited a series of essays entitled The Historian as Detective, invoking the intellectual joys of an Agatha Christie mystery to explain the value of history to society. It drew no examples from Africa, perhaps reflecting the infancy of African historiography at the time. However, it is no exaggeration to say that in the intervening decades, the piecing together of African history has raised for historians challenges of method and complexities of interpretation fully worthy of Hercule Poirot.

Contributions to this recent genre of detective work have been especially notable on the part of those investigating Africa's precolonial past. The reasons for this are many: a paucity of reliable witnesses, extreme difficulty (not to mention expense) in tracking down those who do exist, a shortage of suitably trained and dedicated ‘gum-shoes,’ and an abundance of clues which frustratingly seem to lead at one and the same time ‘both everywhere and nowhere,’ as Poirot would probably put it. But where detectives like him achieved fame and fortune by finding conclusive answers, detectives of early African history have had to settle for the relative obscurity which accompanies the unsolved case. ‘Mysteries’ which leave the choice of solution to the reader are more characteristic of the field than those with definitive, final-page revelations. In this, the quest for “Tarra” proves itself no exception.

In an introduction to a University of Zambia publication entitled A Catalogue of Unpublished Materials in Zambia, published in 1978, J. K. Rennie observed that in Zambia there were “many depositories or collections of private and official papers, the extent of whose holdings are imperfectly known and the state of whose preservation was uncertain.” The Catalogue, which was supposed to be the first in a series and was intended to be a “guide to unpublished primary materials … and an aid to research in history and social sciences,” identified thirty government and non-government depositories located in various parts of Zambia. The wealth and diversity of materials held in these depositories were of immense value and benefit to researchers— academics and students interested in historical studies requiring archival research. Rennie, and others who assisted him in locating and documenting these depositories, made what they called a “humble minor beginning in a much larger enterprise. This paper is intended as a further contribution to this enterprise.

In Zambia, one depository that is little known by social science researchers is the archives held by the ruling United National Independence Party (UNIP), located in Freedom House, the party headquarters at the southern end of Cairo Road, which forms part of the Research Bureau of the party. This archives holds important files formerly held by the African National Congress (ANC) formed in 1948 and disbanded in 1973 after the Chôma declaration which ushered in the one-party state and of UNIP, formed in 1960, which today is the only political party in Zambia.

The Niger-Benue Valley regional chronology is expanding. This is satisfying. Dates from the early city states and chiefdoms in the lower Cross river valley have been suggested and integrated into the larger regional chronological structure. Arochukwu was one such chiefdom. Utilizing the available genealogies from within Arochukwu and its satellite settlements, and guided by the existing methodology of chronology, I have calculated what I believe to be fairly reliable dates which locate the foundation of the chiefdom, ca. 1690/1720. These dates have been interrelated with the importation of the first guns into Calabar, since firearms were said to have been used in the war which ultimately resulted in the foundation of the Aro chiefdom (Arochukwu). They appear firm. Aro influence was evident in the whole of the Niger Benue-Cross river area, especially during the period when the Atlantic slave trade climaxed. Hence it seems appropriate to situate the foundation generation in the wider framework.

Arochukwu was not merely the product of the Atlantic trade, but also a response to events in the interior of the Bight of Biafra as far north as the Benue valley. The chiefdom was an offshoot of the Igbo movement into the tropical rain forest, accelerated by the southward expansion of ironsmelting and smithing, and correlated with the foundation of the Efik towns of Calabar. It was founded as a response to the shift in power centers from the upper Benue valley, which had been linked to the Rio del Rey trade route, down the river to concentrate on the Niger. It was significant that the Kwararafan takeover in Idah occurred in exactly the same generation when Arochukwu was founded.

The trend in precolonial Nigerian historiography has been the attempt to concentrate studies on prominent kingdoms, major ethnic nationalities, and coastal communities. Consequently, the histories of acephalous societies have been neglected by historians. A. E. Afigbo once warned Nigerian historians against the danger inherent in the overconcentration of research on the history of megastates to the neglect of ministates, arguing that the history of the smaller polities should not be presented as footnotes to the history of major states.

The raison d'être of this paper is to draw attention of historians to one of these neglected communities, the Owan peoples of Nigeria. They inhabit Owan Local Government Area of Bendel State, and consist of eleven clans: Emai, Ighue, Ihievbe, Ikao, Iuleha, Ivbiadaobi, Evbiomoin, Ora, Otuo, Ozalla, and Uokha. Linguistically, they belong to the Edo-speaking people centered in Benin. While it is true that Owan history has been neglected, that of their women suffers doubly because of their gender and as members of the society. Clearly such questions as what Owan society has been like in the past; how it has come to be what it is; what factors operate within it; what currents and forces move the people; and what general and personal factors have shaped events in the area should be the concern of historians interested in Owan history. In answering these questions the origins of the people and the evolution of precolonial sociopolitical institutions should be investigated. The economic arrangements which have sustained the society over the years will no doubt be of interest to would-be researchers. In addition, the links between the various groups and clans in term of trade, politics, and social relations should be studied. An examination of precolonial judicial arrangements and how they coped with crime and punishment will lead to an understanding of the currents within Owan society. Since all societies are dynamic, changes which occurred in the precolonial setting may reveal the resilience of indigenous institutions. Any reconstruction of Owan history must of necessity examine published, archival, and oral evidence. It is hoped that this research agenda will spur historians to focus attention on major aspects of Owan history—origins, economic, political, and social relations—with equal attention to the roles of men and of women.