Seaways and settlers were closely associated with the creation of the European colonial empires which radially changed the course of modern history. That expansion was triggered off by the search for a way round the Arab monopoly to the riches of the Orient, and the massive land-mass of Africa was in the way. The European sailors looked westwards across the uncharted ocean and the search led, inadvertently, to America where the New World of settlers was brought into being. Southwards, skirting the rim of the African continent, the seamen finally discovered the great sea route to the Orient round the Cape of Good Hope: there another world of settlers grew up closely linked to the seaway. Long after, with Europe's supremacy over the oceans well established, the Suez Canal was cut, and the old route to the East round the north of Africa was re-opened. Later, EuropeanJewish settlers were implanted in the area.

In the years since the April Revolution of 1974 and the subsequent process of decolonisation, Portugal's relations with its former African colonies have undergone considerable strains, and on occasion have been marked by deep suspicion and acrimony. Yet, over the period, the general tendency has been one of accelerating rapprochement. The pace and depth of this re-engagement has, for numerous reasons, varied between the states involved. More or less cordial relations were established with Guiné-Bissau, for example, even before formal independence, whereas those with Mozambique were fraught with difficulties until the 1980s, and can still occasionally give way to mistrust and hostility. But, given the legacy of the wars of liberation and a world recession which developed simultaneously with the new relationships, the achievements have been considerable.

One of the major objectives sought by the New International Economic Order is to secure favourable conditions for the transfer of resources to the Third World, and to ensure that they are fully utilised for the development of the countries concerned.1 However, the unprecedented growth of the global economy since World War II has not been equitably distributed between the rich and poor nations. Unfortunately, within this international scenario, the increasing external indebtedness of the latter has had, and still has, wide-ranging domestic implications that have rocked the foundations on which many African economies stand.

Growing food deficits and declining agricultural productivity per capita in Africa have become the central concern of an increasing number of studies.

From the ancient Greek city-states of Athens and Sparta to twentiethcentury Bolivia and Zaïre, from theories of development and underdevelopment to models of civil-military relations, one is struck by the enormous literature on armed intervention in the domestic political arena. In recent years, a veritable rash of material on the subject of military politics has appeared – as much from newspaper correspondents reporting pre-dawn coups from third-world capitals as from the more rarefied towers of academe. Yet looking at the subject from the perspective of how régimes mobilise resources and mechanisms to protect themselves from their own security forces, one is struck by the paucity of empirically-based evidence on the subject.1

In February 1967, Tanzania, formed from the union of Tanganyika and Zanzibar, declared its intention to purpue a policy of ‘socialism’ and self-reliance. In the famous Arusha Declaration, the Tanganyika African National Union called for the Government to exercise control over the means of production and move away from over-reliance on foreign assistance in development. It stressed the need to strengthen agriculture and thereby improve the lives of the majority of the population which earned their livelihood in this sector. Finally, T.A.N.U. called for changes in the party to ensure that it contained only committed socialists. Closely linked to this was a leadership code for senior officals in ministries and parastatals which prohibited them from owing stock or holding directorships in private corporations. Renting out house was also declared impermissible.

Afrikaner nationalism has been analysed from broadly-speaking two perspectives. In the main, the literature has focused on the evolution of a movement rooted in a common history, language, and religion,1 and has traced the roots of a nation-in-the-making back 300 years in South African history,2 before the inevitable flowering of Afrikanerdom in the twentieth century. In contrast to the growth of European nationalism which is linked to the rise of the bourgeoisie, studies of Afrikaner nationalism have tended to neglect the class dimension by emphasising ideology as a unifying force and organising principle. An alternative approach has been attempted by Dan O'Meara who locates Afrikaner nationalism within the dynamic of capitalist development in South Africa, explaining its ideology in terms of its class character, and although his study often lacks subtlety, it stresses factors that have been neglected by the more usual idealist accounts.3

Any writing that purports to address African reality today must take as its starting point the international economy. Small states, which are both economically and politically weak, have very little room for manoeuvre within the global system, even at the best of times. The present international depression has circumscribed their freedom of action even further. Still, African states must do something. They must seek to address existing conditions. If the last two decades have made anything clear, it must be that the rest of the world is not going to rescue Africa from its plight. Only Africa itself can do that. However limited they may be, there are always choices to be made.

Liberalism in South Africa has had a history of importence because of its failure to adhere consistently to the belief that when the ‘loss of liberty for non-whites’ occurs, it ‘inevitably meant [the] loss of liberty for whites as well’. Instead, the predominantly English-speaking South Africans who backed this movement have attempted to promote liberal ideals while maintaining their white prerogatives, and have subsequently found the two to be ‘incompatible’.1 As a result, neither the uncompromising Afrikaner Nationalists nor the demanding Africans and revolutionaries have supported liberalism, and those South Africans in the middle have been discouraged by its vacillating nature. The National Union of South African Students is an example of a liberal organisation's inability to solve this dilemma. Initially Nusas concentrated on academic needs, following a ‘students as such’ policy, and then later transformed its ideals into a ‘students in society’ view, becoming socially active in defiance of the Nationalist Government.2

Population movements across the African continent form a major theme in African history, having usually occurred in response to natural diasters or pressures from a neighbouring community. Today, political and ecological forces still produce massive migrations, albeit with a new dimension: their growing concentration in urban areas.