This essay attempts to outline, and partially to expound, a conceptual framework for studying political change during the colonial and post-colonial periods.

It should be noted at the outset that the term ‘political change’ is purposely used instead of such terms as ‘political development’ or ‘political progress’, with reference to nationalism, organised groups, administrative evolution, and so on, in developing areas. This is more nearly akin to the rather value-free term ‘social change’ used by sociologists and anthropologists ever since the 1920's.1 Basic alterations in political systems do not occur through a simple addition of new institutions, norms, and procedures; rather, the process of political change involves its own set of inter-related norms, institutions, and procedures. It may be that the term ‘political change’ may better evoke this image in the mind of students of politics, just as the term ‘social change’ seems to do for sociologists and anthropologists.

This is indeed a momentous and historic day for Africa and for all Africans. We stand today on the stage of world affairs, before the audience of world opinion. We have come together to assert our role in the direction of world affairs and to discharge our duty to the great continent whose 250 million people we led. Africa is today at midcourse, in transition from the Africa of Yesterday to the Africa of Tomorrow. Even as we stand here, we move from the past into the future. The task on which we have embarked, the making of Africa, will not wait. We must act, to shape and mould the future and leave our imprint on events as they slip past into history.

The unsatisfactory nature of the frontiers between the independent African states is widely stressed, and provides an additional argument for those who would like to see a regrouping of the African scene in terms of larger political units. This short article discusses the boundary between Ghana and Togo—a classic example (it might be thought) of colonial division calling for early revision along rational lines. It was demarcated between Britain and France some 40 years ago: now African governments have come into existence on both sides under leaders who have given their support at one time or another to Pan-African movements for closer union. The alternative is likely to be constant friction, the interruption of trade, the harbouring of refugees seeking a base from which to continue a struggle already lost in their own country, and accusations by the party leaders in Ghana and Togo that these refugee organisations are actively sponsored by the Lomé or Accra governments. These unhappy consequences are indeed present today following the independence of Ghana in 1957 and Togo in 1960; and it is worth enquiring why they should have come about, in view of the great advantages which it is generally assumed would flow from a more cordial, open association between the two republics. In January 1963, the assassination of Sylvanus Olympio added a further, tragic element to the problem, although whether the coup d'état which installed a new, quasi-military government in Lome will materially alter the relationship between Ghana and Togo remains to be seen.

There is one sense in which African unity already exists. There is a sentiment of ‘African-ness’, a feeling of mutual involvement, which pervades all the political and cultural life of the continent. Nationalist leaders all over Africa feel themselves to be part of a greater movement; they recognise a special responsibility to the political unit in which they happen to belong, but feel personally involved in the triumphs and set-backs of all other African countries. There is, in other words, an emotional unity which finds expression in, among other things, concepts such as the ‘African personality’, and in a tendency to consult together at international conferences.

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

Economists in Africa hold a narrow view of their scope. Traditionally they have been almost entirely concerned with the economic relationship between Africa and the West, with the import and export trade: the colonial situation was, in a sense, all that interested them. Nowadays their interests have extended to include statistical ‘survey work’ and, of course, problems of economic development. So successfully conducted are the surveys (at least in some countries) and so well backed are they by U.N. funds, that there is a real danger of a complete identification of African economics with statistics, and already the idea seems to be spreading that it is somewhat disreputable for economists to handle material which cannot be quantified. As for ‘development economics’, this—pace E.C.A.—is indeed an under-developed subject. Only recently have economists, such as W. B. Reddaway,1 begun to doubt the appropriateness to Africa and other under-developed areas of certain western concepts and assumptions. And scarcely any economists in Africa are yet showing any awareness of the need to study the structure of the indigenous economy—except statistically.

Problems of taxation, in connexion with economic development, are generally discussed from two different points of view, which involve quite distinct, and often conflicting, considerations: the point of view of incentives and the point of view of resources. Those who believe that it is the lack of adequate incentives which is mainly responsible for insufficient growth and investment are concerned with improving the tax system through the granting of additional concessions of various kinds, with less regard to the unfavourable effects on the public revenue. Those who believe that insufficient growth and investment is mainly a consequence of a lack of resources are chiefly concerned with increasing the resources available for investment through additional taxation, even at the cost of worsening its disincentive effects.

The purpose of this article is not only to explain an African constitution, but also to examine, in that context, certain general ideas about constitutions and politics. The Ivory Coast, a former French West African colony, gained full independence as late as 1960. As a newly independent state, with a population of under four million, the Ivory Coast is participating in a nation-building experiment which the flood of new countries has made a widespread phenomenon of our times. The experiment is doubly meaningful for other countries. First, its results will weigh significantly in the balance of world power; secondly, as Ivorians look to the western example in pursuing their experiment, the West can see, reflected in Ivorians' words and deeds, a new and different image of itself.

The chain reaction set off in Paris by the Franco-Moroccan Declaration of 2 March 1956 still reverberates in the politics of north-west Africa. On that day, France ended 44 years of its protectorate over Morocco, restored to Mohamed V full sovereignty over 162, 120 square miles of land and some seven million people, and pledged ‘to respect, and see to it that others respect, the integrity of Moroccan territory, as guaranteed by international treaties’.1

The absence of an efficient framework of economic institutions is frequently regarded as a major hindrance to the effective carrying out of economic policies, particularly in development planning2. However, rather little attention has been paid to the possibilities and problems of multi-purpose economic institutions, designed for the joint promotion of several government policies at the same time. This gap is particularly noticeable and particularly crucial in regard to Africa. To date, there have been several African examples of multi-purpose institutions, although these have not necessarily been intended as such originally. Set up to fulfil one or two main purposes, they have come to serve a multitude of aims as the need arose, and in doing so have demonstrated a considerable degree of institutional flexibility. Their example might well be deliberately followed in future.

This article sets out to portray the mood, the aspirations, the determination, and the main problems of contemporary Africa. To some extent it is necessary to distinguish between colonial Africa and free Africa, although the differences between the two should not be exaggerated.

The rapid demise of empires in Africa is paralled by the equally swift retreat of social anthropologists to the wings. While Diedrich Westermann in 1934 could deplore the administrators' rejection of proffered anthropological advice, by 1945, at least where Europeans had settled, one gathers that administrators were slavish devotees of the profession, almost painfully eager to stare with puzzlement at premier chief lists and kinship tables of organisation. A further development was suggested in the middle 1950's, with a report from the Rhodesias of a nationalist boast that Africans relied upon anthropologists for information from the enemy European camp. But, as new states ran up their flags and despatched envoys to the U.N., anthropologists began to speak of alienation. in the future there may be a rupture unless anthropologists become historians or sociologists.

The British Protectorate of Zanzibar, comprising the two islands of Zanzibar and Pemba and a number of small adjacent islands, is progressing from Protectorate status towards self-government. In strict constitutional terms, Zanzibar is a multi-racial state with an Arab Sultan under the protection of the Government of Great Britain. Though the concept of protectorate implies a limited domestic role on the part of the protecting power, Great Britain has—through usage, agreement, and concession—come to occupy a position of decisive ascendancy within Zanzibar. The present policy of the British administration is to devolve full political power into local hands through a process of constitutional development which will result in a fully representative system of government. This policy has expressed itself in Zanzibar, as elsewhere in the British African territories, in the expansion of the unofficial side of the Legislative Council, in the gradual replacement of nominated and ex-officio members of the Legislative Council by members chosen on the basis of nation-wide common roll elections, and in the introduction of a ministerial system, which is now to be followed by internal self-government.

In January 1963 the London talks on Swaziland's proposed constitution ended, as expected, in a deadlock. It had long been evident that the demand for equal (50–50) white and Swazi representation as advocated by the Swazi National Council (S.N.C.) and the European Advisory Council (E.A.C.) could not be accepted by the representatives of Swaziland's emerging political parties. This formula, which would give the country's 9,000 whites an equal voice with the nominees of the S.N.C., who were supposed to speak for the 270,000 Swazi, was vigorously denounced by all progressive elements in the country.

Agriculture is the main sphere of material production in all African countries. It is generally recognised that all African countries, excepting the South African Republic, belong to the group of under-developed agrarian countries. It is impossible to define the exact share of agriculture in the total annual output because of the predominance of the subsistence economy, and the almost total absence of statistics on this phase of labour. As a rule, the available statistics underestimate the share of agricultural output. Some idea about the role of agriculture in African economies can be gained from the data on the distribution of rural and urban population. Though in the past 20 years there has been considerable movement from villages to towns, nevertheless the rural population in various countries still constitutes from 67 per cent in Egypt (1957) to 96 per cent in Togo (1956). Only in the South African Republic is the urban population nearly half (46·6 per cent in 1951) of the whole population.1

The first step in a discussion of the planning of industry is to decide on the role of industry in development. This paper tries to dispose of some fallacies on this point. There are so many about industrialisation that whichever anyone holds he is in good company. They can be broadly divided into three classes: classical fallacies, ‘infant industry’ fallacies, and industrialisation fallacies.

Throughout West, East, and Central Africa today—at a time when all these countries want to quicken the pace of development—masses of young people drift from rural areas to the cities in search of work. Mainly primary school leavers with an aversion to traditional farming, they set out hopefully to become first-generation wage-earners. But neither the jobs nor the vocational training exists that could meet their demands. And, as each year passes, the numbers of unemployed in the cities swell.

In examining the question of the unification of laws in East Africa, we must bear in mind that we are faced with two distinct problems: on the one hand, territorial unification of the different types of law prevailing within each territory; and on the other, inter-territorial unification as between the systems of law in Kenya, Uganda, and Tanganyika.

The colonial system is a system of social relations based on the political and economic domination of backward peoples by imperialist powers, in a world divided territorially and economically. The colonial régime is a monopoly exercised by the bourgeoisie of an imperialist country, based on economic and extra-economic pressure in a dependent country. This imperialist monopoly has two basic functions: on the one hand, it exploits the colonies; on the other hand, it maintains and develops the political enslavement necessary for its own existence.

‘Blackness is not absence, but refusal’ said Aimé Césaire. The only trouble with refusal as a literary posture is that it is inclined to produce writing which is concerned with public gesture rather than with private and particular observation. Until recently, the great bulk of French writing by Africans could be fairly labelled as romantic, rhetorical, and directed at general rather than individual situations. That is to say, there was a preference for romantically revolutionary statements about ‘the situation of the negro’, rather than exploratory statements about the situation of the individual writer at a particular moment in space and time.