Gazetteer of Bornu Province

H.R. Palmer's Gazetteer of Bornu Province is what one expects from the works of Palmer. The colonial administrator moonlighting as a scholar is more of the former here in terms of presenting information of all types on colonial Borno in the 1920s. Thus, beyond his usual far-fetched theories of Hamitic migration/conquest illustrated with questionable linguistic evidence and problematic, forced correspondence of legends and myths of origins across a vast swathe of Sahelian Africa (the Kanuri rulers are ultimately traced back to Kush and the Hamites), Palmer also presents information on the roads of Kanem, taxation, residents, and brief histories of the various emirates within Bornu province. Thus, the people of Biu, Fika, Potiskum and the Bedde receive brief attention here, although their deeper history is nowhere treated as seriously as that of the Kanuri and Kanembu. 

There are few interesting observations of ethnological and historical interest, of course. For instance, Palmer viewed the Sao as some sort of singular state or kingdom, with a main capital near the site of Dikwa at N'difu, ruling for 400 years before transferring their court to N'galla. The Manga people, are also described as being a servile class, descendants of slaves of Kanem's rulers, who adopted the Kanuri language and ways. In addition, Palmer noted a weakness of "national" feeling in precolonial Borno. Thus, even the Sugurti Kanembu who supposed al-Kanemi when he seized power in Borno later turned against his dynasty in the 1840s when Wadai supported the Sayfawa candidate Ali Dalatumi against the Shehu. Intriguingly, Palmer likewise raises attention to a mallam, named Buki, who led an "unarmed rabble" against Rabeh in the 1890s, which is yet another fascinating moment in which mallams played a role in popular movements. 

In terms of other peoples and emirates in the province, all are in the shadow of Borno, even if independent or largely so. Biu, for example, remembered the first ma as Yamta ra Wala, who was said to have been born in Birni Gazargamo. Unsurprisingly, the rulers of Biu sent gifts to the ruler of Borno as well. The Bedde and Ngizim are also linked to Borno through Kanem, where they are said to have come from. As for the other groups, such as the Koyam and Tubu, Palmer forces everything through his Hamitic theory's lens, trying to connect the koyam to the Tuareg and the clans which later came to rule Kanem and Borno to the Kushites of Yam and Nubia. It's a wild ride, but one familiar to anyone who has Bornu Sahara and Sudan. Palmer certainly had a creative imagination!

Songs for the Sayfawa

J.R. Patterson's Kanuri Songs are a fascinating collection of praise songs from precolonial Borno. Collected by Patterson in the 1920s from descendants of the professional praise singers who once occupied an important position in the Sayfawa court, all the songs commemorate rulers, leaders, or relatives associated with the Sayfawa dynasty. Intriguingly, several (about 4) are in honor of people associated with Ali b. Umar's reign in the 17th century. Perhaps this attests to memories of his reign as one of prosperity and a Golden Age for the state. One, the earliest, which was certainly reworked over the generations and likely contains anachronisms, is a praise song for the first Muslim mai, Humme. Even more interesting is the fact that two of the songs are for women, including a magira and a gumsu, both of whom appear to have not only occupied prominent positions in the state but held extensive fiefs. Indeed, a more thorough familiarity with the Kanuri language and toponyms in Borno and surrounding areas might be necessary to locate some of the places where these powerful women once held land. 

Naturally, a deep familiarity with the conventions of praise songs among the Kanuri, as well as other oral and written literary traditions is necessary. Patterson was praised by Palmer for his deep familiarity with the Kanuri language, but one wonders if future scholars noticed errors in translation and interpretation. Of course, by the very nature of their genre and function, the praise songs must be interpreted very carefully for any historical content. The genealogies are useful and likely one of the sources for the various girgams and the Diwan, but they undoubtedly focus on military triumphs, celebrate the ruler (or elites) and likely obfuscate defeats, problems, or unjust practices by the Sayfawa dynasty. Moreover, one must also wonder about the larger corpus of praise songs for the Sayfawa. If a song was still in use on the very first Islamic king of Kanem, surely some songs likely survived on other medieval kings of Kanem. For example, Patterson translated a song in honor of Dunama Dibalemi's daughter, yet there is no song for Dunama Dibalemi himself? Similarly, prominent Sayfawa mais like Idris b. Ali, Ali b. Dunama, or Idris b. Katakarmabe almost surely were the subjects of praise songs.

If, however, the once respected positions of the ngijima, babuma and zakkama were no longer an important part of the Shehu court, then it is perhaps understandable why the repertoire might have shrunk by 1926. Perhaps the most glorious Sayfawa kings, whose dynasty was wiped out in 1846 by al-Kanemi's son, would not have been a popular subject matter to the al-Kanemi dynasty's court. For instance, by the time of Barth's travels in Borno, finding detailed records on the previous dynasty was difficult for him. It may have been the case that by the 1920s, when Patterson's translation of these songs was published, Kanuri praise songs might have been lost or hidden. 

So, what types of historical information can be gleamed from these songs? A closer examination awaits us, but they highlight the role of the Sayfawa rulers, the kaigama, yerima, galadima, as military leaders who defend their borders, make conquests, and hail from noble lineages (the genealogical aspect is rather important here). The song for Humme, for example, even includes Bagirmi as an area of operations for the first Muslim king, which may or may not be an example of anachronisms in the song. The praise songs for women are striking for the celebration of women as elites and for their wealth and noble lineage, not just as wives, sisters, or relatives of the kings. That women were once so powerful as landowners and political forces in their own right reveals an aspect of Kanem and Borno under Sayfawa rule that is largely hidden in the Islamic sources.

Even more remarkable is the number of songs dedicated to figures associated with Ali b. Umar (r. 1639-1677). One of his wives is the subject of a praise song, as well as one each for a yerima, kaigama, and to the zerma. In short, 4 out of the 11 songs are said to date to Ali b. Umar's reign. In other words, memories of his reign loomed large, and even though no song specifically for him was recorded by Patterson, his wife and other prominent officials/relations of his were remembered positively. One even alluded to conflict with Air, something verified by other sources and traditions for Ali b. Umar's reign. Whether or not Ali b. Umar's wife truly did endeavor to stop him from going to battle is another question, yet the praise songs for leaders with military responsibilities suggest Ali b. Umar's officials were usually successful in their operations. Again, the very nature of these sources would mitigate against mention of any extreme failures.

Overall, the Kanuri Songs translated by Patterson are fascinating examples of what must have been a much larger repertoire of traditional praise singing going back several centuries. To what extent it would be possible today to find examples of praise songs for other rulers or leaders of Kanem and Borno before the advent of the al-Kanemi dynasty is hard to say, but they certainly provide a different perspective on this fascinating civilization. Those on the Kanem period or the era of Sayfawa consolidation in Borno would be particularly interesting to compare with chronicles and written sources on the same periods. 

Kanuri in 16th Italy (Lucia Celu)

A fascinating performance of "Lucia Celu" by Orlando di Lasso features some words in the Kanuri language. According to Salvatore, some of the allegedly nonsensical words associated with this song are Kanuri, with Giorgio even referencing Borno.

Muhammad Bello, al-Kanemi and Borno

Although Muhammad Bello did not reproduce in full all the letters he received from al-Kanemi of Borno, his Infāq al-Maysūr contains a plethora of important details on the conflicts between the jihadists of Uthman dan Fodio and Borno. Translated by Salahudeen Yusuf as A History of Islam, Scholarship and Revivalism in Western Sudan, Being an Annotated Translation with Introduction of  Infaqul-Maisur fi Tarikh Bilad al-Tukur of Sultan Muhammad Bello bin Fodio, the first chapter contains an overview of the lands of the western and central Sudan. Borno, receives mention as an area in which Islam was widely spread and deeply practiced before the jihad, even by commoners. Recitation of the Quran, Islamic scholarship and religious devotion were well-rooted in the area. 

However, for two reasons, Muhammad Bello called into question the Islamic legitimacy of the Sayfawa rulers of Borno. First, certain customs and traditions persisted despite the conversion to Islam centuries ago. Women went unveiled, sacrifices were made in the river (Komadugu?), and sacrifices or ceremonies were held at trees or certain rock sites. Al-Kanemi saw the old rituals involving sacrifices at presumably venerated in pre-Islamic times as customs similar to what was done by people in central Islamic lands, like Syria and Egypt. Bello, on the other hand, was very rigid on this, even condemning the nomadic Fulani for a custom or tradition involving fire, dances, and objects tied around the head of children by agreeing with Shaykh Abdullahi al-Thuqa. Nonetheless, this was seen as justification for the jihad, since it was perceived as shirk by Bello. Furthermore, by lending support to the Hausa rulers who fought against the jihad, Bello argued that the Sayfawa mai had become an unbeliever. If a Muslim ruler supports unbelievers against other Muslims, such a ruler becomes an unbeliever himself. Furthermore, as head of the state, the behavior of the mai called into question the Islamic legitimacy of Borno. Thus, the jihadists were in the moral right. Unsurprisingly, al-Kanemi countered this by drawing on the same sources and evidence as Bello: the Quran, Islamic law, hadith, logic.

Later in their correspondence, which appears to have been infrequent due to messengers failing to deliver letters, al-Kanemi seems to have shifted somewhat his argument. While acknowledging some customs in Borno that were improper, he accuses the allies of the jihad of initiating conflict with Borno on incorrect, false grounds. The Fulani and others who attacked Borno seemed to be more interested in gathering booty and captives, which triggered part of the debate between Bello and al-Kanemi on whether enslavement of said captives was legal in Islam. The two never reconciled, based on the letters reproduced by Bello, but one can see how the conflict between Sokoto and Borno was centered on defining a Muslim. Part of this even drew from the longer history of Islam in West Africa, especially Askia Muhammad of Songhay and his questions posed to al-Maghili. Askia Muhammad's seizure of power was seen as a jihad of sorts by Bello, and a model for a proper Islamic ruler to emulate. Intriguingly, Bello did not cite or reference other works of al-Maghili written to or for Hausa rulers of Kano and Katsina, perhaps since that would have called into question the legitimacy of the jihad against Hausa rulers (sarakauna). Nonetheless, the model of Askia Muhammad and expectations of a Muslim ruler as a pious, just figure who corrects the behavior of his subjects and follows Islamic precepts. One wonders to what extent al-Kanemi would have drawn on the history and legacy of the Sayfawa monarchs to counter Bello's claims. Perhaps al-Kanemi would not have used the past of the Sayfawa due to his own political ambitions?

Mentioning Haiti in Kano

Although we have often wondered what people in African during the 19th century knew of Haiti, there is a brief mention of the Haitian Revolution in Kano. Hugh Clapperton, who traveled to Borno and the Sokoto Caliphate in the 1800s, recounted this particular episode in his Journal of a Second Expedition Into the Interior of Africa: From the Bight of Benin to Soccatoo, published in 1829. According to Clapperton, an Arab merchant residing in Kano was killed by his female slaves. According to his informants, the custom was to sell such slaves toward the coast. Clapperton, when asked what should be done, endorsed hanging the slaves once it was clear they had killed their master from Ghadamis. Naturally, this led to Clapperton's curiosity about the slave population in Kano. Surprisingly, it was thirty slaves for every free man. Given these demographics, Clapperton used the example of St. Domingo (Haiti) as a warning to the people of Kano, since slaves may rise up and seize control when they overwhelmingly outnumber their masters. Besides the example of Haiti, which we presume was either unknown or poorly understood in West Africa, Clapperton cited recent history of the Hausa slaves in Oyo who rebelled. 

Historical Materialism and the Kel Ahir

Kathleen O'Mara's A Political Economy of Ahir (Niger): Historical Transformations in a Pastoral Economy, 1760-1860 adopts a historical materialist approach to analyze transformations in the Ahir region's political economy once the Kel Owey federation become the dominant Tuareg group in that region. Focusing on class and a materialist interpretation allows greater clarity on how the Tuareg of this region of the Sahara shifted from a pastoral economy to a more centralized, agro-pastoral tributary economy in the 18th century. Thus, the transformations of the state and economy in the Ahir (or Air) region predate the jihad and establishment of the Sokoto Caliphate. According to O'Mara's view, the Ahir sultanate government's "glorious period" in the 1500s was not fully tributary, although the sultanate administration survived with the rise of Kel Owey hegemony and commercial expansion in order to protect the interests of the Tuareg elites, imajeren. Essentially, the seizure of the Kawar salines, especially Bilma, was an impetus for further trade and agro-pastoral expansion. This, in turn, was accompanied by the increasing centralization and development of a regional economy in Hausaland, particularly after the establishment of the Sokoto Caliphate. In other words, Borno's loss of Kawar in the 1760s favored the Ahir Tuareg, particularly the Kel Owey, who reaped huge profits from the sale of salt to Hausaland, where a burgeoning market and growing manufacturing (textiles, leather, etc.) centers in places like Kano fueled more Tuareg trade. 

Indeed, to O'Mara's view, Ahir became so connected to the larger, regional economy of the Central Sudan that trans-Saharan commerce became less important and Agadez's population moved to lands in the Sudan. The cycle fueled more economic growth as the Kel Owey, as well as other Tuareg groups, increasingly used captives and "free" dependents, often Kanuri, Hausa, or Dagera, to work farmland in Damergu. Agricultural production in the more fertile lands of the Sudan favored Tuareg commerce since the grain from these areas could be used to trade with the Kawar oases (and to ensure adequate grain supplies for the Ahir  region). This, of course, meant that the Ahir Tuareg could be less dependent on the meager agricultural resources of the Ahir region or from grain supplied by the independent Hausa states. With the growth of a Kel Owey commercial class investing in salt, agricultural production, livestock, and trade in textiles, slaves, leather products, and items acquired through trans-Saharan trade via the Fezzan or Ghat, the Ahir Tuareg system became a fully tributary one that maintained the dominance of the "nobles."  In fact, the continuance of the Ahir sultanate structure in Agades as an intermediary of Tuareg groups in Ahir, plus their own source of legitimacy via Islam, provided a balance with Kel Owey elites.

As one might expect in a highly unequal, hierarchical arrangement that was the Ahir political economy from 1760-1860, conflict within the elites (vertical) and between "nobles" and other groups (ineslemen, dependents of various types, etc.) was a constant. Dependents, both "free" and servile, could change masters easily and the Kel Ahir Tuareg had to find ways to maintain a system of exploitation of their labor. Like the free Dagera, Kanuri and Hausa groups conquered by Tuareg groups, the Tuareg "class" system allowed for significant local autonomy to settlements of slaves and others. In addition, manumission was frequent while intermarriage and absorption of captives into the lineage (as fictive children) meant enslavement was, according to Barth at least, less horrific than in other locales. One wonders, however, tow hat extent conditions here were similar with regard to slavery in the Sokoto Caliphate and Borno, where a history of slave settlements and even plantations existed. Nonetheless, O'Mara wishes to highlight how enslavement and exploitation of captives for their labor in agriculture, livestock rearing, carrying goods, or salt production was similar to the tribute extracted from "free" dependents in the Kel Ahir class system. Clerical lineages, too, tried to occasionally resist through the ideology of jihad or even becoming warriors themselves, yet they could not build a diverse enough coalition 

Through an ideology of noble dominance and control of camels, the most important animal in the pastoral economy, these nobles justified their position through the protection they could provide to dependents and clerical lineages. Their ownership of camels furthered their position as guides for caravans from North Africans, traders in their own rights, and for the use of camels to carry salt or other products. However, claims to noble status were always dynamic, and were frequently adjusted genealogically after the fact to legitimize the imajeren domination. This is connected to the purpose of the Agades Sultanate itself, instituted to resolve conflict between Tuareg groups in Ahir as well as to secure the overall interests of an elite group. Ongoing conflicts between the Kel Owey and others, naturally meant that the hegemony of any specific federation was always up for grabs, which in turn justified elite positions as "protectors" of their dependents against other Tuareg or non-Tuareg foes. 

This is all rather fascinating and engaging. However, some of what O'Mara proposes is either implausible or debatable. For instance, many of the political offices in the Ahir sultanate are of Hausa origin. Perhaps this suggests that the transformation of the Kel Ahir from a pastoral economy to a fully tributary one required the adoption of administrative features found in the Sudanic states to their south, especially Borno and the Hausa. Moreover, the increasing sedentarization of some Tuareg and the growth of agricultural ventures owned by Kel Ahir in Damergu, Zinder, or the Caliphate could be seen as similarly following patterns from Songhay, Borno, and Hausa history. Indeed, even the justifying ideology of elite rule via protection offered to dependents could be seen in the case of Borno, which failed to provide the necessary protection for its subjects in Kawar, western Borno, and northern Borno. Unlike Borno, however, the Ahir Tuareg federations structure and "looseness" and the ecological conditions of the southern Sahara could make it rather fragile. But, the exploitation of producers, a free and slave peasantry, seems to be a common for the Central Sudan, where chronic insecurity was also present despite the existence of large Hausa states or Borno (when it was a regional hegemon). 

Reconsidering Muslim Spain

Hitchcock's Muslim Spain Reconsidered is a short survey of the history of Al-Andalus from 711 to 1502. It would be difficult to do justice to several centuries of complex history, particularly in a region whose legacy has been used for various, occasionally contradictory purposes. For Hitchcock, Al-Andalus is not so much a paragon of interfaith harmony or unity, but rather part of a long history in which political concerns and interests (expediency) trumped religious or nationalist identities. For instance, the chapter in which El Cid is covered emphasizes the non-religious character of the historical El Cid. The cultural importance of Al-Andalus for scholarship, poetry, medicine, and translation of Classical knowledge is further emphasized for its long-term impact in Western Europe, too. Reasonable speculation about Al-Andalus's possible influence on Dante or the significance of Toledo as a center of translation of Islamic knowledge for the West serve to illustrate how Andalusian scholarship, book culture, and poetry made a huge impact on west. One of Hitchcock's particular strengths is his care to include aesthetic developments in poetry, architecture, and literature that illustrate distinctive Andalusian styles and identity, not just its emulation of the Islamic East. We certainly will be attempting to read Ibn Hazm, for example.

An African Khipu System?

Reading about the khipu system of recording information in the Andean world reminded us of what was a similar way of using cords and knots to record numerical information in parts of precolonial West Africa. Unfortunately, finding details on the system used in what is now Benin, but previously the kingdom of Allada and parts of the Slave Coast in the 17th century, is difficult. The tradition appears to have largely disappeared, although the ambiguous references to it in precolonial European sources might also have picked up on the Yoruba aroko system of symbolic communication. However, the Yoruba system, which has survived in parts of rural Yorubaland, does not use, at least from the little we could uncover, or rely, on knots and cords to send messages. Instead, the system of knotted cords used in Allada was more akin to the khipu used in the Andes, particularly for accounts, keeping track of dates or time, and meetings. 

There are primarily 3 sources which mention the "khipu" of the kingdom of Allada. Two date from the 17th century (Barbot and the Sieur d'Elbée), while the 18th century journal of the Chevalier des Marchais appears to be largely derived from these 17th century sources). Indeed, the published journal of the Chevalier des Marchais even asserts that the fidalgos of Allada, who sometimes spoke Portuguese, also learned how to read and write in that tongue. While some may have been literate in Portuguese or European languages, the more detailed account from 1670 by Elbée suggests that the vast majority of people in Allada were illiterate, but cords with knots were used for recording (numerical?) information. That alphabetic literacy in precolonial Allada was likely minimal can be affirmed by other sources, too. For instance, the accounts of Allada from the Capuchin missionaries sent there in the mid-1600s mention the Allada king's opposition to the foundation of a Catholic-run school there. Indeed, the Allada king seemed to have little or no interest in spreading literacy to the ordinary people. If Elbée is to be relied upon, it seems very unclear or uncertain that most of the fidalgos of Allada were literate in Portuguese, either. 

So, what can one say about the "khipu" of Allada? Very little, sadly, without any ethnographic evidence on its use in more recent times or artifacts to examine. Since, as previously mentioned, the account from the Chevalier des Marchais is too brief, one must focus on Elbée and Barbot. The former specifies that the knots on cords had different meanings, such as the date for meetings and the price for merchandise. In fact, it is explicitly compared to the way knots on cords were used by various Amerindian peoples of the Americas. Barbot, on the other hand, places more emphasis on Allada "khipu" as comparable to pocket-books used by Europeans. Like Elbée, the Allada "khipu" are compared to those used by Amerindian people and he claimed they were used to observe time, places, numbers, and meetings. From the little one can gleam from these sources, the "khipu" of Allada were mainly numerical, with nothing akin to the narrative khipu used by the Incas or khipu for historiographical purposes. This is intriguing, since Allada and later Dahomey were powerful kingdoms which one might expect would need to develop further genres of "khipu" semiosis for recording detailed information.

For an example of how non-Andean South American groups used knots to record information, one can find references to groups from Venezuela and the Lesser Antilles. The Jesuit, Gumila, for instance, wrote about the use of cords with knots to send messages by indigenous groups living in the Orinoco Basin. Other Spanish and Dutch sources attest to the use of cords with knots to send messages between indigenous villages or communities for meetings. According to Rochefort, the Kalinago ("Island Caribs") used knots on cords to record the number of days leading up to a scheduled meeting. Outside of the Andes, none of these fleeting references to the use of knotted cords suggests more semiotic heterogeneity. Was the "khipu" of Allada similar to these? And why weren't "khipu" developed in Allada and the Slave Coast to record information for additional genres or types? 

One wonders if part of the reason may have been due to the use of Ifa divination (which required memorization of 256 binary signs), sculptures, and textiles for other types of information. Likewise, one wonders if the widespread influence of the Yoruba language and other Yoruba influences may have led to the adoption of a semiotic system akin to aroko by subjects of Allada and Dahomey. Evidence for this must be sought, but it certainly seems plausible. Alternatively, the example of the nearby Gold Coast provides similar use of symbolic communication through objects such as cowries, grass, beads, clay, and other materials to communicate messages, per Reindorf. Perhaps the "khipu" of Allada remained only in use for numerical data and record-keeping, with other means of conveying and recording information through oral tradition, art, or objects used in other domains.

Francisque dit Omore

We are always on the hunt for more information on Borno and its Diaspora across the world, especially before the 19th century. Whilst perusing digitized French National Archive records of the 18th century slave and free people of color population living in metropolitan France, we encountered Francisque dit Omore. He was, by 1777, a free man, married to a white laundress, and working as a domestic in Paris for the marquis de la Solard. Unfortunately, piecing together more of his life and origins in Borno is difficult. However, it is exceedingly likely that he was a victim of the trans-Saharan slave trade. However, unlike many black Africans trafficked to Tripoli, he did not end up shipped to the Levant or Turkey. Instead, he was sold or transported to Malta, where a Frenchman, Pons-François de Rosset de Fleury, purchased him. This European man brought him to France by 1757, where he continued to work for Fleury until his death in 1774. By 1777, it is clear that Francisque was a free man, married to a European woman, and could sign his name. Intriguingly, he chose to sign it as Omor instead of Francisque or Francois. If Omor was an attempt at writing his name in Borno, perhaps Umar, then he still preferred to identify by his original name despite 20 years of living in Europe as a baptized man.

Sadly, trying to uncover more of Francisque dit Omore's Bornoan origins will be very difficult. His age is difficult to establish with certainty. If he truly was 39 years old in 1777, then perhaps he was born in 1738. Alternatively, if he was registered in 1762 as "Francois" of "Borno" as a "lackey" and slave of Fleury, he may have been born in or around 1734. It is probable that he was indeed from Birni Gazargamo, Borno's vast capital city with an even vaster district that encompassed many settlements. Regardless of when in the 1730s he was born, Francisque dit Omore was lived through troubled times in Borno. According to Nur Alkali, a drought that lasted several years coveredthe period of 1738-1753. With drought came famine, including one remembered during the reign of Dunama Gana (r. 1744-1747). Moreover, the drought led to population shifts of nomadic populations like the Jetko, Tubu, Koyam, and Fulani. Undoubtedly, a period of continued drought, famine, and pressure on both nomadic and sedentary agriculturalists probably triggered conflicts, including some that led to slave raids and kidnappings. When one considers the signs of weakness in the face of Tuareg and other raiders or the eventual loss of Borno control of the salt trade at Bilma by 1759, it is perhaps understandable how Francisque dit Omore of Birni Gazargamo may have been captured or sold into slavery during such an unstable time.

The Empire of Wagadu: The State of the Question

Boubacar Séga Diallo's L’empire du Wagadu: état de la question was rather underwhelming. We were expecting a condensed version of his thesis that draws more heavily on Soninke oral traditions, linguistics, and archaeology to sketch a fuller picture of the historical state of Ghana (Wagadu) known from external Arabic sources. However, the reader mainly receives a summary on the history of Wagadu with occasional references to oral traditions, archaeological evidence from Kumbi or Mali, and some undefended assertions about topics like the antiquity of caste or the prevalence of slavery in ancient Soninke society. Perhaps, if Diallo's thesis is published, the reader can benefit from a West African scholars deep exploration of Soninke tradition in light of other types of evidence. Without that, we are sadly left with a very brief summary that also repeats the typical line of Almoravid victory over Ghana. It would also have been interesting if the author tried to speculate about the magico-religious powers of the rulers of Wagadu and how that shaped the political structure of the state.

Slavery in the Cape

Too Close for Comfort: Master and Slave Relations in the Colonial Cape

            The effects of propinquity on the nature and development of slavery in colonial Cape society were profound. Unlike the large plantations that evolved in parts of the Americas, where enslaved Africans could develop slave cultures without the incessant supervision of whites, close contact between white masters and slaves in the Cape led to constant supervision that created intimately oppressive conditions. Therefore, slavery developed into an institution of extreme regulation and monitoring of slaves for social control with the appearances of benign paternalism, which was weaker in Cape Town than in the countryside.  These aforementioned intimately oppressive conditions entailed a form of slavery mixing physical and psychological forms of domination, domestic affection and the threat of violence, and paternalism and overseers to ensure slave subordination while also creating conditions for more cultural and racial mixing.

            Conditions of white supervision varied for slaves in both Cape Town and rural areas, depending on various factors. The similarities persist, however, for all of the above in several key ways. First, in both the countryside and Cape Town, the Dutch East India Company, the VOC, never enforced its laws against concubinage, so white males and ‘black’ female slaves produced mixed-race children throughout the colonial period, partly because of the uneven sex ratios for whites.[1] But despite the prevalence of miscegenation, there was no “mulatto escape hatch” for Cape slaves and slave children of white fathers, meaning few slave women gained freedom from relationships with white males. Few of their children with white males were manumitted or given burghership.[2] Nevertheless, the frequency of interracial sex between white men and slaves exemplifies another use of white males controlling the bodies and sexual freedom of female slaves, adding another layer of force for social control, which can be seen in Willem Menssink’s penchant for sex with his slave women.[3] Like many other male settlers, it was not unusual to have sex with slave women, although the church never condoned it.[4]

In addition to sex, white males often controlled their slaves across the Cape because the household slept under the same roof. A shortage of living space led to higher amount of intimacy between slaves and masters, rural and urban.[5] Indeed, even in Cape Gentry homes, slaves often lived inside the house.[6] Thus, slaves were not only vulnerable to slaveholders’ sexual power, but also within reach of them and their families, decreasing chances for autonomy and, especially in rural areas, limiting socialization with other enslaved peoples on neighboring small farms.[7] Moreover, slaves in both rural areas and Cape Town were vulnerable to physical violence and the threat of it, although slaveholders who took the law into their own hands with cruel punishments of their slaves instead of relying on the VOC to chastise them could be shunned by Cape society and penalized by the Company.[8]

            Despite the shared characteristics of slavery in Cape Town and rural areas, the peculiar institution developed differently from slavery in Cape Town in multiple ways. For instance, slaves on Cape farmsteads outside of the arable southwest, on the frontier or small estates, were often very few in numbers on their plantations.[9] These Cape slaves on small estates would then mostly socialize with their white masters who oversaw them personally or had a knecht or mandoor. Regardless, slaves on these small farms outside of the arable Cape were very close with their masters, and, in some cases, with Khoikhoi laborers and women, often the only available sexual partners for the mostly male enslaved workforce.[10] As mentioned previously, the mixed-race offspring of slaves and their masters were usually not freed, but a Creole culture based on the Indische culture of VOC holdings in the Indian Ocean world and European culture developed on larger estates. This was aided by the larger estates featuring more slaves from common origins, facilitating communication and socialization among slaves and developing a unique slave culture influenced by European culture, too.[11] Larger estates also featured more skilled slave craftsmen, likely better treated.[12]

While being spread out in small numbers with their white masters and some Khoikhoi workers, rural slaves also lacked privacy needed to maintain their own family units, being seen as part of the patriarchal family unit as perpetual children in need of white paternalism.[13] Despite cases intense domestic affection that could arise from paternalism between master and slave, their membership in the family included the master’s children having the right of beating slaves, indicating the unequal and hierarchical structure of master-slave relations embedded within the family.[14] Rural slave resistance, and slave resistance generally throughout the Cape, was likely undermined by slave diversity, since the population came from all over the Indian Ocean and linguistic hurdles and ethnic rivalry may have caused slave resistance to take on a more individualized form.[15] However, some forms of group resistance appear in slaves running away beyond the frontier to join Khoikhoi groups or to inaccessible areas to form small maroon bands, which are just some of the options available to rural slaves. Drosters, or gangs of fugitive slaves, such as the one Pieter of Madagascar was part of in early 18^th century Land van Waveren, were also common forms of slave resistance on the frontier.[16]

Overall, slaves in the countryside, unfortunately, were mostly concentrated in smaller farms, slept in the same home with the master, and because central authority weakened the further away from Cape Town one was, slaveholders could use more violence or brutality as they saw fit without much control from VOC authority. Unlike their urban counterparts or those in bondage on large estates, their options for socialization were primarily with European masters and Khoikhoi, so slaves and trekboers both adopted elements of Khoi culture, such as a pastoralist economy, or their Khoi-styled shelters.[17] The overly close quarters between slave and free ultimately developed into the perfect conditions for the use of paternalism as well as brute force to discipline and subordinate slaves in the Cape.

Similar to conditions of slavery in the rural Cape, urban slaves, who comprised a significant portion of all slaves in the Cape, were also under close regulation by colonial society.[18] Brutality, public beatings, and widespread abuse of slaves were common, particularly for Company slaves housed in the Slave Lodge, which also functioned as a brothel.[19] Company slaves, however, were not representative of all slaves in the Cape, particularly because of the draconian measures taken by the Company to control them with overseers since they were organized into large work gangs for various forms of labor in Cape Town.[20] Company slaves gradually became a very tiny proportion of the total slave population, hitting rock-bottom by 1795, the year of the first British occupation, with almost all reported slaves being privately owned.[21] Before the Company’s decline, the VOC managed their slaves through overseers, often slaves themselves.[22] The Company also relied on Kaffers, Eastern convicts from their Asian possessions, imported as slaves to monitor, police, and apprehend Cape Town’s slave population.[23] Like rural areas and privately-owned slaves, miscegenation at the Lodge was also frequent. In fact, an estimate for mixed-race children born there in 1671 was ¾ having mixed ancestry.[24] The case of slaves at the Lodge, however, were slightly different in that sex ratios approached a balance, so these additional women were targets for European bachelors and sailors employed by the VOC.[25] Despite the increased surveillance of the Company’s slaves, they were still able to interact with each other and socialize with other urban populations, such as males seeking prostitution, or with other slaves and residents of Cape Town, so their enslavement differed in some key respects from the rural slaves’ on small estates living inside the homes of their masters.

Besides the Company’s slaves in Cape Town, the rest of the urban slave population enjoyed comparatively much more freedom. Though attempts to limit and monitor their movement and keep them under the paternalistic slave-master relationship were utilized, urban slaves were often rented by their masters, giving them a degree of mobility and autonomy from their masters.[26] Slaves in Cape Town hired out were also more likely to pay for their own accommodation, providing additional distance between themselves and the paternalism of domestic slavery associated with living in the same home as slaveholders.[27] Predictably, these urban slaves had far more opportunities to mingle with others in Cape Town’s markets and their various types of work led to increased chances of socialization and occasions for horizontal acculturation with other subordinate peoples in Cape society.[28] These relatively mobile, unfettered Capetonian slaves also did not have to deal with an efficient or strong police force in Cape Town, allowing another degree of relative freedom.[29] Furthermore, slaves’ relative autonomy surfaced in the frequency of slave theft of white property and forming their own sub-cultures and spaces within the city visiting taverns.[30]  Urban slaves also resisted attempts under British rule for Christian conversion and moral education, preferring Islam, which spread rapidly because the port received Muslim slaves, exiles and convicts from India and Southeast Asia, exemplifying the cosmopolitan culture of Cape Town and slave society.[31]

Naturally, there were multiple measures taken by Cape Town’s slaveholders and the government to curtail the freedom of movement enjoyed by urban slaves. For instance, Cape Town’s curfew laws attempted to reduce slave autonomy and retain control of the streets for European authority.[32] The aforementioned Kaffers served as auxiliary police as well, assisting in the maintenance of the social order and symbolizing slave disunity and internal stratification.[33] The threat of sale and the public military rituals and presence in Cape Town also served as deterrents to slave autonomy and resistance in the city, showing the powers of colonial authority authority in urban space.[34] The threat of violent punishment and public beatings strengthened white authority by adding spectacle to what in the countryside would have been largely private affairs of disciplining slaves.[35] Although the authority of slaveholders was augmented in some ways in the city, slaveholders of Cape Town lacked direct political power because of elite divisions and British colonialism introduced ameliorative legislation to limit the extent of cruel punishment, thereby improving the lot of slaves in the 19^th century.[36]

In summation, slavery in both rural and urban Cape society clearly depended on the degree of propinquity to imbue it with alternative forms of social control. The high degree of paternalism, evident in the smallholdings of rural Cape society, was one form of social control that also continued to rely on physical coercion and intimidation. The Company slaves in Cape Town received less paternalism and more of the direct, constant physical, sexual, and supervision that characterized slavery on the large plantations of the Caribbean or the American South, partly because of the large numbers of slaves organized into specific work crews. Other urban slaves, exemplified by those whose labor slaveholders rented out, were more likely to live outside of their master’s accommodations and socialize with other slaves and urbanites across the city, further developing slave sub-cultures influenced by the diversity of slave origins as well as European culture. However, in all areas of slave distribution in the Cape, cultural and racial miscegenation occurred, extending to the creation of a new language, Afrikaans, a development that could only arise from oppressively close relations and contact between the masters and the slaves. Thus, the close relations of master and slave imbued slavery in the Cape with a façade of benevolence and ensured widespread miscegenation and cultural mixing through paternalism and factors such as location in the Cape.

Bibliography

Armstrong, J. and Worden, N. “The Slaves, 1652-1834,” in Elphick and Giliomee (eds), The Shaping of South African Society ( 2^nd ed., Cape Town, 1989).

Bank, Andrew. The Decline of Urban Slavery at the Cape, 1806-1843 (Cape Town, 1991).

Elphick, R. and Shell, R. “Intergroup Relations: Khoikhoi, settlers, slaves and free blacks, 1652-1795,” in Elphick and Giliomee (eds), The Shaping of South African Society (Cape Town, 1989).

Penn, Nigel. “The Fatal Passion of Brewer Menssink: Sex, beer and politics in a Cape family, 1694-1722,” in Rogues, Rebels and Runaways (Cape Town, 1999).

“The wife, the farmer and the farmer’s slaves: adultery and murder on a frontier farm in the early eighteenth century Cape,” Kronos: Journal of Cape History, 28, Nov. 2002.

Ross, Robert. Cape of Torments: Slaves and Resistance in South Africa (London, 1983).

Shell, Robert. “The Family and Slavery at the Cape, 1680-1808,” in W. James and M. Simons (eds), The Angry Divide: Social and Economic History of the Western Cape (Cape Town, 1989).

“The Tower of Babel: The Slave Trade and Creolization at the Cape, 1652-1834,” in E. Eldredge and F. Morton, (eds), Slavery in South Africa: Captive Labour on the Dutch Frontier (Boulder, Colorado, 1994), pp.11-39.

Worden, Nigel. Slavery in Dutch South Africa (Cambridge, 1985).

---

[1] R. Elphick and R. Shell, “Intergroup Relations: Khoikhoi, settlers, slaves and free blacks, 1652-1795,” in Elphick and Giliomee (eds), The Shaping of South African Society (2^nd ed., Cape Town, 1989), 194.

[2] Ibid, 203.

[3] Nigel Penn, “The Fatal Passion of Brewer Menssink: Sex, beer and politics in a Cape family, 1694-1722,” in Rogues, Rebels and Runaways (Cape Town, 1999), 18.

[4] Ibid, 19.

[5] Robert Shell, “The Family and Slavery at the Cape, 1680-1808,” in W. James and M. Simons (eds), The Angry Divide: Social and Economic History of the Western Cape (Cape Town, 1989), 26.

[6] Ibid, 25.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid, 20-21

[9] Ibid, 22.

[10] Elphick and Shell, “Intergroup Relations: Khoikhoi, settlers, slaves and free blacks, 1652-1795,”  200.

[11] Ibid, 225.

[12] Nigel Worden, Slavery in Dutch South Africa (Cambridge, 1985), 87.

[13] Ibid, 95.

[14] Shell, “The Family and Slavery at the Cape, 1680-1808,” 26.

[15] Robert Shell, “The Tower of Babel: The Slave Trade and Creolization at the Cape, 1652-1834,” in E. Eldredge and F. Morton, (eds), Slavery in South Africa: Captive Labour on the Dutch Frontier (Boulder, Colorado, 1994), 21.

[16] Nigel Penn, “The wife, the farmer and the farmer’s slaves: adultery and murder on a frontier farm in the early eighteenth century Cape,” Kronos: Journal of Cape History, 28, Nov. 2002, 14.

[17] Elphick and Shell, “Intergroup Relations: Khoikhoi, settlers, slaves and free blacks, 1652-1795,”  227-228.

[18] Robert Ross, Cape of Torments: Slaves and Resistance in South Africa (London, 1983), 25.

[19] Elphick and Shell, “Intergroup Relations: Khoikhoi, settlers, slaves and free blacks, 1652-1795,”195.

[20] Worden, Slavery in Dutch South Africa, 90.

[21] J. Armstrong and N. Worden, “The Slaves, 1652-1834,” in Elphick and Giliomee (eds), The Shaping of South African Society (2^nd ed., Cape Town, 1989), 129.

[22] Ibid, 127.

[23] Ibid, 128.

[24] ^[24] Elphick and Shell, “Intergroup Relations: Khoikhoi, settlers, slaves and free blacks, 1652-1795,” 195.

[25] Ibid, 198.

[26] Andrew Bank, The Decline of Urban Slavery at the Cape, 1806-1843 (Cape Town, 1991), 127.

[27] Ibid, 62.

[28] Ibid, 61, 77.

[29] Ibid, 84.

[30] Ibid, 81.

[31] Worden, Slavery in Dutch South Africa , 98.

[32] Shell, “The Family and Slavery at the Cape, 1680-1808,” 26.

[33] Armstrong and Worden, “The Slaves, 1652-1834,” 129.

[34] Bank, The Decline of Urban Slavery at the Cape, 1806-1843, 69, 76.

[35] Ibid, 65.

[36] Ibid, 80, 83.

Contribution to the History of Songhay

Jean Rouch's Contribution à l'histoire des Songhay is rather outdated yet still useful for insights on Songhay history and culture. A reputable ethnographer who studied Songhay religion and magic extensively, Rouch's understanding of their history unsurprisingly emphasizes Islam as an alien element that laid the foundations for the collapse of the Askia. Despite this problematic frame for Songhay history, Rouch's work is one of the best earlier attempts to make sense of Songhay history from its shadowy early origins at Kukiya to the late colonial period. 

Unfortunately, Rouch repeated some of the mistakes of Delafosse and early colonial scholars. For instance, the Za dynasty were said to have been Christianized Lemta Berbers who left Tripolitania around 670. In addition, the early state of Ghana (Wagadu) is attributed to Judaeo-Syrian colonists. These mistakes inhibit a deeper understanding of early Songhay, one which clearly indicates an important role for the Sorko, Gow, and farming populations living near and along the Niger as the foundation of the first Songhay polity. This later inhibits Rouch's analysis of the Za, Si, and Askia dynasties since Islam, promoted by Askia Muhammad, is blamed for the fall of Songhay. Sonni Ali, on the other hand, was the champion of a "black" state that brought Songhay to its zenith, something commemorated in Songhay oral traditions, religion, and Rouch's problematic view of Islam's relations with Songhay religion. 

Of course, later scholars have benefitted from new approaches to the Timbuktu chronicles, epigraphic evidence from Bentia & Gao, as well as archaeological excavations at Gao and other sites in Mali to throw into question a number of theories held as gospel in Rouch's day. The picture that emerges now is one far more dynamic and one that calls into question some of the older generation's stereotypes of Kukiya as the fount of "black" Songhay paganism and even the historicity of Ali Kulun. Nonetheless, Rouch's insights are occasionally insightful here, particularly his proposed translations for Za dynasty rulers recorded in the Timbuktu chronicles. His familiarity with Songhay oral tradition and religion also adds a new dimension to the ways in which Sonni Ali and other rulers are remembered for building their empires through military conquests aided by magic or occult knowledge. 

Development and Regression on the Middle Niger

Le développement et la régression chez les peuples de la boucle du Niger à l'époque précolonial by Michael Tymowski is an ambitious work. An attempt to make sense of around 1000 years of economic progress and regression along a key part of the Western Sudan (centered on the Middle Niger), Tymowski relies heavily on the Timbuktu chronicles, external Arabic sources, and oral traditions. He persuasively makes the case for economic development with the growth of urban centers, limited private land tenure, and accelerated long-distance trade, which later declined in the 1600s and 1700s. This shows that the history of "development" in sub-Saharan African areas has always been dynamic, and not simply one of timeless "backwardness" or irrelevance. 

However, Tymowski's study is quite outdated and relies on French translations of sources in Arabic. It also relies heavily on Jean Rouch and other somewhat outdated scholarship on Songhay ethnography and oral traditions, even repeating the unproven claim that the Dia/Za dynasty of early Songhay rulers were actually Lemta Berbers. In addition, he heavily relied on the problematic Tarikh al-Fattash chronicle for assertions about servile/caste populations. This dependence on French translations of Arabic sources and outmoded scholarship on Songhay ethnography and oral traditions suggest possible limitations of Tymowski's study. While one must acknowledge that the aforementioned Timbuktu chronicles are probably reliable for the 1400s and 1500s (at least more so than for earlier centuries), Tymowski's attempt to derive meaningful conclusions or theories about the economic development of the Mali Empire and Songhay Empire may be misleading or problematic. Nonetheless, there are a number of intriguing ideas about the relationship between the towns (Gao, Djenne, Timbuktu) and the countryside, as well as the role of the state in promoting land tenure arrangements along the lines of property property or through state domains (those of the askias) that controlled and promoted the redistribution of goods. 

Christianity in the Sudan

Giovanni Vantini's Christianity in the Sudan is a dated work which, by and large, is mainly about Christian Nubia. Heavily based on the corpus of "Oriental" sources (plus some European ones) Vantini published, much of the text is like reading that compilation with some narrative commentary. It was a refresher for certain points in the history of medieval Nubia that we have forgotten about, but without any deeper investigation of the source materials, rather limited. Fortunately, advances by archaeologists and studies of Old Nubian and other textual sources has shed more light on the nature of the Nubian political system, economic structure, and religion. For instance, Dotawo is now more widely accepted as being the same state as Makuria. Sadly, Alwa, in Upper Nubia, remains a mystery in Vantini's text, but that is no surprise given the year this work was published (1980). More intriguingly for those interested in the later centuries of medieval Nubia, one can find here useful Western sources on Nubia and some important references to the Vatican's attempts to replant the Christian seed in Nubia. Some of this correspondence even touches upon the Kwararafa south of Borno, confusingly believed by some Europeans in Tripoli to have been Christians. Last, but certainly not least, some European sources also alluding to the survival of Christianity in pockets of Nubia as late as the 1740s suggest fruitful areas of research for scholars interested in Christian traces in Nubian culture. 

The Northern Factor in Ashanti History

Ivor Wilks wrote an intriguing monograph several decades ago, The Northern Factor in Ashanti History. Due to our similar interest in the "northern factor" in Yoruba history (and, to a lesser extent, Dahomey and Borgu history), we found it imperative to actually read it. Wilks presents what may be a sometimes exaggerated role of Islam in 18th century and early 19th century Asante, but it does seem quite likely that trade routes to the North through Begho and later centers was of paramount importance. Like the Oyo Yoruba state, the Asante state appears to have tapped into both Atlantic and broader Sudanic/trans-Saharan trade routes. 

Unlike Oyo, the Ashanti did not require large amounts of imported horses for cavalry units. Nonetheless, the gold and kola nuts of Ghana were highly valuable commodities that brought traders from both the Western and Central Sudan into the region. Through control of or taxation of trade routes used by these northern traders, the Asante state could derive great revenues as well as import cloth and other goods not available from the trade with Europeans on the coast. Aspects of this history is revealed by written sources from Gonja and the north. European accounts plus other sources similarly shed light on the importance of these northern ties that linked this part of Ghana with the Middle Niger, the Sahara, and Hausaland. 

West African Muslims from far afield, in addition to Muslims from areas to the north conquered by Asante, were also a valued community for their literacy, the esteem in which their religion was held, and their economic importance. Whether or not Dupuis's "sketch" of Asante history as revealed to him by manuscripts and conversations with notable Muslims in Kumasi is very reliable for how the Asante themselves saw their history, it is nonetheless important to recall that the Asante rulers sponsored a history, or chronicle,  written by Muslims. The attempt by Wilks to reproduce the accounts given to Dupuis reveals just how problematic this source material can be, though it does reveal how one could and should endeavor to utilize Arabic and European sources (plus oral traditions) to make sense of the history of the Asante.