The immediate circumstances which led up to the founding of Freetown in the 1790s were highly contingent, even freakish. Christopher Fyfe has stressed the role of the scientist and dubious adventurer, Henry Smeathman, in publicizing the misguided view that the Sierra Leone district provided an ideal ecological environment for settlement. More recently, Stephen Braidwood has shown that the 1787 choice of Sierra Leone as a suitable locality for settlement by the Black Poor of London, the earliest settlers, came about as a result of acceptance of Smeathman's view, not by the white philanthropists and politicians who masterminded the exodus of the Black Poor, but by the London Blacks themselves—who knew nothing of Sierra Leone from personal experience but were convinced by Smeathman's rhetoric. That the Blacks were allowed to insist on their choice might itself be regarded as freakish.

Yet, seen in a wider historical context, the foundation of Freetown, and the subsequent development of the community eventually termed “Creole,” appear less accidental and extraordinary. Why, for instance, did Smeathman chose Sierra Leone for his butterfly-collecting on his only visit to Africa? Presumably it was because he was aware that he could obtain the support and protection of the trading settlements in the Banana Islands, on Sherbro Island, and along the coast between—settlements which had been established in earlier decades by the English-speaking families of the Caulkers, Parkers, and Tuckers, families whose very names (even if corrupted from African names) point back to the later seventeenth century and the activities on this coast of the Royal African Company. And perhaps Smeathman had read John Newton's published account of his early career as a resident trader on the same coast which, although full of complaints about his treatment by his African employers, at least showed that a white could survive there.

For a long time, scholars have known that the ancient Sino-East Africantrade relationship produced valuable accounts of East Africa in the Chinese imperial archives. Particularly, the historical documents compiled during the T'ang, Sung, and Ming dynasties contain several insightful snapshots of East Africa over the span of 800 years. Unfortunately, due to the difficulty of translating ancient Chinese texts, scholars have not been able to utilize these documents fully. In other cases, scholars have misused the translations to derive conclusions that may not be supported by the original text. In this essay I propose to re-examine the original Chinese sources and the way these sources have been used by subsequent scholars. Furthermore, I shall explore the real or potential contribution of these texts to our understanding of East African coastal history.

The primary source of Chinese knowledge about East Africa during the T'ang dynasty (618-907) comes from Ching–hsing Chi (“Record of Travels”) and Yu–yang Tsa–tsu (“Assorted Dishes from Yu–yang”). During the Sung dynasty (960-1279), most of the information is recorded in Chu-fan-chih (“Gazetteer of Foreigners”) and Ling–wai Tai–ta (“Information from Beyond the Mountains”). Finally, the record of the Ming (1368-1644) naval expedition into the western Indian Ocean is preserved in Wu–pei–chih (“Notes on Military Preparedness”), Hsing–ch'a Sheng–lan (“Triumphant Vision of the Starry Raft”), and Ming Shih (“History of the Ming Dynasty”).

Dans le Sud-Est de la Côte d'Ivoire le début des années soixante est marqué par la tentative de sécession du Sanwi et ses retombées. Le roi du Sanwi, décidant de se détacher de l'Etat ivoirien qui vient d'accéder à l'independance, est allé avec ses partisans s'établir au Ghana où il a formé un gouvernement provisoire. II donne légitimité à ce mouvement en faisant référence au traité d'alliance qu'un de ses prédécesseurs Amon Ndiffou avait signé avec la France, représentée par Fleuriot de Langle, le 4 Juillet 1843.

L'érection du Sanwi en Etat indépendant est le signal d'une sévère politique de répression qui s'abat sur les Anyi de la région. A Aboisso régne le sous-préfet Haccandie qui met en place un réseau d'agents de renseignements dans un pays où les villages et les families sont profondément divisées par ce qu'on commence à appeler “I'affaire du Sanwi”. En outre les crédits affectés à la région sont drastiquement réduits. Or antérieurement le Sanwi avait été le premier pôle de développement de la Colonie, dotée d'un important réseau routier pour l'écoulement des “produits” (café, cacao) et d'équipements sanitaires et scolaires. Et brusquement ce pays, d'où était issue une élite de lettrés et de fonctionnaires, se trouve déiaissé, voire sacxifie, au bénéfice d'autres parties de la Côte d'Ivoire.

Aujourd'hui il n'est plus polémique reconnaître l'importance des textes européens pour l'étude des societes africaines qui ont établi des contacts avec les marchants, les missionaires, les prêtres, les aventuriers venus d'Europe en passant, ou même pour s'établir en Afrique. Aussi, ont-ils reçu des échos d'autres gens plus lointains, échos qui, parfois se révèlent des informations précieuses. Mais, en même temps, on a actuellement une vive conscience des problèmes d'interprétation et des doutes de crédibilité qui subissent les chercheurs à qui les textes européens puissent être utiles. Il serait presque inutile de rappeler que ces problèmes-là ne sont pas un exclusif de la manipulation des sources européennes mais se posent aussi, en ce qui concerne l'histoire de l'Afrique Occidentale, pour les sources arabes d'origine extérieure aux sociétés étudiées.

Les textes véhiculent des représentations: leurs données sur les sociétés africaines sont une construction mentale d'une réalité extérieure perçue, (re)construction qui implique la mobilisation des schémas mentaux intériorisés et d'existence préalable et autonome envers cette réalité extérieure. Des représentations qui se bornent aux limites d'un observateur ou rédacteur dont la pensée est ordonnée par des catégories européennes, exogènes à l'object de connaissance et qui, de façon plus élargie, sont relatives aux conditions de production du texte en cause.

Ce sont précisement les représentations qui font l'object de recherche auquel cet étude se situe: un object de charnière entre l'histoire européenne et l'histoire de l'Afrique. Il demande un double positionement et approche soit des sociétés européennes (qui produisent un discours anthropologique sur l'Africain), soit des sociétés africaines (object dinamique de ces représentations).

On his way back from Mossi country in 1888, Louis Binger visited Bonduku, principal town of the Akan state of Gyaman. Commenting erroneously on the city's antiquity, Binger nonetheless appropriately referred to Bonduku's association with gold mining and the gold trade with nearby towns such as Kong and Buna. The town's more distant trading partners, he continiued, included Jenne and other Niger bend towns. In effect, the saltgold trade, to which Binger was referring, extended from the Taghaza mines in the north (northern Mali, two day's journey from Taodeni), to the southerly mines in the Bonduku and Asante regions. On his own admission, Binger obtained little information on the gold trade which, of the “hidden” variety, was conducted in traders' homes. He learned even less about gold mining. Even his own attempts to purchase a large gold nugget of 150 grams foundered on his host's opposition, claiming that the sale would bring misfortune to the peoples and their communities.

Misinformed on the city's age and frustrated in further endeavors, Binger nonetheless affirmed that a great deal of gold was in the city. He noticed, for example, that gold was the “almost exclusive” payment for European merchandise abounding in local markets. “Not a day passes,” he continued, but that commercial transactions--at his host's residence, or at any other house chosen at random--were concluded, involving gold as the exchange medium. Bonduku's inhabitants, moreover, adorned themselves with gold. Taxes were paid in gold.

The Guinea coast and near interior was a region of almost wholly preliterate societies before the coming of the Europeans. Islamic culture, with its literate strands, which had been spreading through the northern parts of West Africa over many centuries had barely begun to touch the Guinea region—although a handful of literate itinerant merchants and missionaries was to be encountered by the Portuguese, and Islamic religious practice had penetrated at least one royal court in Senegal. Hence the “medieval” sources in Arabic which are informative on the history of the Sudanic states of West Africa tell us little or nothing about the Guinea region. As for the oral traditions of the region, mostly collected only since 1850, these have an inbuilt “horizon” of recollection which falls far short of the arrival of the Europeans five centuries ago. Ethnographic, cultural, and linguistic evidence, systematized in recent times, can be extrapolated backwards to earlier times, but this can only be done, with any security, when trends over time have been identified from earlier hard evidence.

Such trends can of course be obtained from archeology, as well as from written sources. But the limited investigations of archeologists in Guinea to date, while they certainly inform on general issues such as agriculture and technology, are as yet decidedly weak, for a variety of good reasons, on the regional details of human settlement and population, and on the varieties of political structure. Moreover it is doubtful whether archeology per se can inform to any significant extent on ethnicity, language, and social characteristics. It is therefore only marginally debatable to refer to the earliest European written sources on Guinea as “the early sources.”

“Les mentalités, une histoire ambiguë,” tel est le titre d'un article de Jacques Le Goff (1974), qui constituera le point de départ d'une réflexion sur la profondeur et la dimension historiques des sources qui peuvent faire déceler des attitudes et des mentalités, à travers des témoignages, récits autobiographiques, ou encore des interviews. Si la perception d'un changement de mentalites ou d'attitudes profondes peut paraître “ambiguë”--parce que faiblement perceptible--, certains faits cependant traduisent des signes de changement dans la mentalité d'un groupe social, voire d'une société globalement soumise à une contrainte externe, comme par exemple lors de la colonisation au XXe siècle en Afrique noire.

Aujourd'hui, nous nous intéressons à l'histoire du dedans, à l'histoire vécue par les acteurs eux-mêmes. En confrontant ces diverses historiographies, arriverons-nous à mieux comprendre ce que doit être l'Histoire par rapport à ce que l'on nous apprend à l'école (Ferro 1981/1983), à ce que l'on ressent en temps qu'historien et à ce qui est réellement vécu (Feltz 1987)? Peut-être que la perception du fait colonial par ceux qui l'ont vécu du de-dans permettra de mieux cerner les effets de ce temps de l'histoire, la recherche de techniques quant à la collecte des sources est certes utile, elle l'est moins quand on cherche à déceler une dialectique irréversible à travers certaines données conjecturelles (Verhaegen 1986; Cannel/ Kahn 1974).

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 Memoirs of the Reign of Bossa Ahadee, King of Dahomy of Robert Norris, first published in 1789, is a history of the west African kingdom of Dahomey during the reign of Tegbesu (“Bossa”), dated by Norris to 1732-1774 (though the correct dates are now known to be 1740-1774). In addition to its separate publication in 1789, Norris' material was also included, in a revised form, in the more comprehensive History of Dahomy compiled by Archibald Dalzel, published in 1793. This second version incorporates numerous detailed alterations and elaborations, mainly stylistic but occasionally relating to matters of substance; according to the Editor of Dalzel's History, these revisions were the work of Norris himself, although he had died before the work was brought to publication. This incorporation of Norris' work into that of Dalzel has had the effect of diminishing his reputation and perceived importance, since his material has usually been cited through (and by implication attributed to) Dalzel, rather than directly under his own name. His Memoirs, however, clearly have immense historiographical significance, as the first serious attempt by a European to write the history of a west African state.

In addition to its purely historiographical interest, Norris' work remains an important source for the history of eighteenth-century Dahomey. Its value as a historical source, however, is problematical. On the one hand, Norris, as a slave trader who had operated in Dahomey for several years, had claims to be an exceptionally well-informed observer of Dahomian affairs.

In 1680 Jean Barbot made the following observation about the religious institutions found in the Slave Coast Ewe communities of Keta and Anlo: “Their…religion [is] much the same as on the Gold Coast, only they have a vast quantity of idols…” A similar observation was made by Danish cartographer P. Thøning on his 1802 map of the lower Volta, when he described a site near the Anlo capitol of Anloga, as an “Amegase fetisch-plads,” an important religious shrine. Subsequently this shrine was identified as that which belonged to one of the clans from whose ranks was chosen the awoamefia, the highest leadership position in Anlo. In 1935 this clan, the Bate, was, in turn, described by the German missionary D. Westermann as composed of priests, soothsayers, and magicians. It is not surprising then, given such references, that R.A. Kea suggested that “the Anlo ruler's supremacy was based, at least initially on religious and ritual ascendancy.”

In 1978, however, when Anlo elders were consulted on this issue, most were surprisingly vehement in their denials of any such association, past or present, between religious concerns and the offices in the Anlo political system, particularly that of the awoamefia. They pointed to the popular traditions--those published in local textbooks and recited at annual festivals--to support their contention that the two clans which had gained custody of the awoamefia office, the Adzovia and Bate, had gained and retained the same through the “right of inheritance” and the “right of service” respectively.

The most salient fact about the Gothic migrations is that they forcefully underscore how old theories never die. They linger to play upon the intellect for generations until they seem to constitute facts themselves. The study of the migrations tempts the unwary with marvelous sagas and apparently straightforward accounts of trusted ancient authors. Even if we follow Odysseus' lead, and with our ears carefully plugged with scientific beeswax, rivet our eyes to the narrow channels of fact, the old theories still beckon; after all, Roman history is in part a series of thrusts and counterthrusts along the northern peripheries of the Greco-Roman world, in need of explanation then as now. The origins of the migrants and invaders of the Roman frontiers was a question appropriate to Tacitus in the late first century A.D. and to countless others across the centuries. All too often the questioners were far removed from the contact zones and looked down upon a simple battlefield of “we and they.” Such self-proclaimed Valkyries chose sides for their own reasons, usually preconditioned and often totally unrelated to the struggles below. This essay traces the evolution of the theoretical and factual elements of the early Gothic migrations and concludes with a personal sketch drawn in light of recent studies of the Roman frontier and insights from other areas, especially comparative anthropology.

The historiography of the early Gothic migrations is a classic example of the impact of contemporary attitudes, problems, and methodologies on the study of the past. So meager is the evidence that is likens to a broken kaleidoscope in which the few remaining pieces can be jostled easily from place to place.

The reference to Antera Duke of Old Calabar in HA 16 (1989) encourages me to contribute a note on this historical notable.1 A gross imbalance exists in the scholarly study of black slavery. The shelves of academic libraries groan under the weight of books on black slavery in the Americas. Yet for every hundred books on trans-Atlantic black slavery and the Middle Passage, there is at best a single volume on black slavery in Africa. Moreover, the curt preliminary chapter dealing with slavery in Africa mandatory in books on black slavery in the Americas, not uncommonly limits itself to repeating anachronistic moralizing cliches that show little awareness of up-to-date Africanist knowledge of slavery in Africa—and exhibit little empathy with past African enterprise. There is some excuse. Any historical social process shared between preliterate and literate societies will inevitably have fuller and clearer source material in respect of the latter than in respect of the former. Information on black slavery in the Americas, on the Middle Passage, and on the non-African aspects of the procurement of slaves, is relatively abundant; information on the transmission of an individual African from an earlier non-slave situation, through the hands of Africans, to the point where he or she was handed over to non-Africans, is almost nonexistent. This being so, the publication in 1956 of the diary of an African slave trader, Antera Duke of Old Calabar, a diary covering the years from 1785 to 1788, was an outstanding historiographical event.

It must be premised that the journal contains statements that appear to be absolutely irreconcilable with the present topography of the Bahamas.

Despite its disappointingly meager immediate results, its role as catalyst for the great age of worldwide culture contact inevitably resulted in a lively interest in every detail of Columbus' first voyage to the New World. Continuing unabated for nearly five centuries, the interest has assumed many forms, ranging from the putative effects of contact on the Amerindians to the identity of Columbus' first landfall--just where did the Old World first view the New World? Though it might seem to be both straightforward and of minor interest, the latter issue has in fact aroused great controversy for more than two centuries and remains far from settled today, as it appears that the most recent bid for consensus has been rudely shattered in its turn.

The controversy arises not at all from the fact that there exist several and contradictory independent testimonies bearing on the issue. Quite the contrary, as there is only a single surviving source, the so-called Diario de a bordo, which purports to be, at least in part, a record of Columbus' voyage on a day-by-day basis. The history of this text as we have it is complicated and this goes some way towards explaining why so many issues based on it remain moot. The only known extant copy was discovered as recently as 1790 and is in the handwriting of Bartolomé de las Casas, the noted missionary and historian of the early Indies, who was also a friend of several members of Columbus' family.

In my research on gender relations and household dynamics in the handicraft textile industry of the western Sudan, I have been frustrated by the silences in the oral record concerning changes during the early colonial period. Whereas I have been able to reconstruct the social history of the precolonial era, including the changes induced by increased use of slave labor, my informants have been silent on what I would consider equally significant changes in the early colonial period.

Using colonial sources, I have been able to reconstruct the broad contours of the period following the end of slavery, which hint at profound changes in the nature of the textile industry, gender relations, and household dynamics. These would, I anticipated on the basis of my previous fieldwork, be exactly the kind of transformative social change which would be recalled in the oral record. They ought to have become a central part of the social construction of the meaning of historical processes. But, as far as I have been able to determine, this has not been the case. Detail on gender relations and the productive processes appear again in my informants' accounts for the period just before and after World War II, drawn from personal experience. This paradox—apparently richer evidence in the oral record for an earlier era than for a chronologically closer one—has implications for both fieldwork strategies and for social history.

The Norddeutsche Mission archives are located in the Staatsarchiv of Bremen, that is, the archives of the Staat or province of Bremen in West Germany. The headquarters of the Norddeutsche Missionsgesellschaft (the North German Mission Society) is also in Bremen, but their historical archives were given to the Staatsarchiv in the late 1960s because the mission no longer had space to store them properly. The Norddeutsche missionaries were active the Ewe areas of eastern Asante, the Gold Coast, and Togoland from the 1840s to the present. Consequently the material has great potential use for the west African historian. To my knowledge the archives have been used previously by Arthur Knoll (before the material was indexed and sent to the Staatsarchiv) for his Togo Under Imperial Germany 1884-1914 and by Peter Bühler in “The Volta Region of Ghana, Economic Change in Togoland 1850-1914,” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of California-San Diego, 1975). I feel, however, that these books and my own research in the archives barely touch the surface of the Bremen data.

The Staatsarchiv is open to the public, though I believe it is considered polite to write in advance and introduce yourself. The address is as follows:

Herr Director

Staatsarchiv Bremen

Präsident-Kennedy-Platz 2

2800 Bremen 1

West Germany

You should bring some evidence of institutional affiliation. I obtained the permission of the Norddeutsche Mission before going to the Staatsarchiv but I believe this is not necessary.

The Staatsarchiv file number for all the mission material is 7,1025. The index for this classification is approximately twenty pages and is divided into five quite unequal parts: Neuseeland (a brief attempt at missionary work there); West Africa; Die Missionare; Heimat; Bildarchiv.

Conversation manuals and phrase books offer a window into the worldview of those who compile them, and might provide clues about society at large as well. Because they focus on ordinary conversation and verbal interactions, the inclusion of particular topics and sentences indicates what issues were important to the person who compiled the phrase book and might furnish information about everyday life at the time of publication. Information may be gleaned not only from the actual phrases, but from the organization of the book, verb forms, and other less obvious indicators.

Contemporary examples include phrase books in the United States that present basic terms related to housekeeping or construction for English-speakers who hire Spanish-speaking workers. Another example is from Joseph Lelyveld, who found the apt title for his book Move Your Shadow: South Africa, Black and White, in a Fanagalo phrase book. The excerpt “Move your shadow” was part of a set of orders for white golfers to use with African caddies, and was emblematic of white attitudes toward blacks during the apartheid era.

In this paper I look at the kind of social and historical information that can be extracted from phrase books compiled during the colonial era in Mozambique. Phrase books differ from dictionaries and grammars because they provide an idiosyncratic list of topics and sentences deemed important to daily life by the compiler.

On 3 November 1863 the first issue of Leselinyana la Lesotho, datelined Morija, was published by the Revd. Adolphe Mabille of the Paris Evangelical Mission Society. Leselinyana continues to be published today. Its contents have been recently used by two biographers of Moshoeshoe and in the present paper I hope to suggest some other ways in which the materials in this publication can be of value to historians of the Sotho.

Mabille had arrived among the Sotho in 1860 and had already published several small pamphlets written by himself on a small primitive printing press. The first issue of Leselinyana comprised just a single sheet containing two pieces of writing -- an editorial signed “Leselinyana la Lesutho” in which, inter alia, the newspaper introduced itself in the first person to the Basotho. The other piece was the first of what came to be a series of articles with the general title “Mogaogeli oa Moetsalibe” (“The Sinner's Pardoner”). From the beginning Leselinyana emphasized articles of a religious and catechetical nature, clearly indicating its basic purpose as a vehicle for religious instruction and propaganda.

According to Gérard the publication of Leselinyana was interrupted only twice. The first hiatus was from 1865 to 1869 when the Boers of the Orange Free State invaded and temporarily occupied areas west of the Drakensberg mountains, evicting the French missionaries who had supported the Africans there. The second occurred during the so-called Gun War of 1880/81 when the Sotho successfully resisted efforts by the Cape government to disarm them and to open Sotho lands to white settlement. In the following discussion I will touch briefly on a few representative materials in Leselinyana which suggest the richness of the paper as a source for historians, not only of the Sotho themselves but of their relations with the whites of the area and with the missionaries.

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.

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.