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Issue 36
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Africa’s political framework may be evolving fast, but the continent’s chiefs and royals – many of them the living representatives of ancient dynasties – still hold sway, says Hamilton Wende.
 Dried cow dung makes a surprisingly comfortable seat. I’m sitting on the ground beneath the chair of Chief Kapika while he directs the milking of his cattle by waving his carved walking stick at his wives and sons and barking orders. Occasionally, he directs his attention towards me. Kapika is Chief of the Himba people in northern Namibia and I am seeking permission to film in the villages. He opens the box of gifts I have brought him: sugar, salt, maize flour, a torch and batteries – simple things for a simple life in the rural areas. Bringing a gift when seeking an audience is essential protocol. We talk a little more through my interpreter about our intended film project. We need his consent before we can proceed. Finally, a crinkled, warm smile lights up his eyes. “You are welcome,” he says.
In colonial times, European powers across the continent tried to co-opt chiefs and kings such as Kapika to serve as their proxy administrators. The deep-seated power wielded by their successors – mostly men – is a reality even today.
I’m reminded of an incident from my South African childhood that showed me the enduring influence of traditional leadership in Africa. As I stood on a hill in the Transkei, aged about eleven, a cloud of dust on the potholed dirt road was the first sign that something unusual was happening. The rural Xhosa fishermen nearby were excited, and a little ill-at-ease. The cloud of dust grew into a large shiny black Mercedes Benz followed by a cavalcade of cars. The men around me all took off their hats and knelt down in the long African grass as the cars roared past.
I had just witnessed Paramount Chief Kaiser Daliwonga Matanzima inspecting his realm. Matanzima was a nephew of Nelson Mandela, who is also of Xhosa royal blood. They are from the same clan and both once contended for the hand of Winnie Madikizela. But each chose a different political path.
While Nelson Mandela led the struggle against apartheid and spent 27 years in prison before becoming the first president of a democratic South Africa, Matanzima cooperated with the white government and was made president of the Transkei, an apartheid-created homeland. However, Matanzima’s royal status meant that, in the new South Africa, he was never completely ostracised. He remained controversial, rather than despised, and at his funeral in 2003 President Thabo Mbeki read a eulogy for him. The destinies of Nelson Mandela and Kaiser Matanzima illustrate the ongoing struggle between traditional authority and political modernity in Africa today.
In Swaziland, one of the world’s few absolute monarchies, King Mswati III opens parliament each year with grand ceremony, mixing African and British colonial rituals. A brass band plays loudly while soldiers in scarlet coats stand to attention in the sweltering heat. The MPs are mostly dressed in loincloths and traditional headdresses. They carry their wooden clubs called knobkerries through a hi-tech metal detector before entering the chamber. The king arrives in a black Mercedes limousine and steps onto a red carpet. While he is traditionally attired, his security guards wear dark suits and sunglasses reminiscent of the US Presidential Secret Service. For all the apparent contradictions, even those citizens who are the backbone of democratic reform see royalty as indispensable to their nation. “We love our king,” one woman told me, “but we want a constitutional monarch, like in Britain.”
Visiting the Emir of Kano in northern Nigeria is like stepping into another era. At the gates of his palace men in colourful green and red robes and turbans stand guard. Nearby, the dome of a mosque and a tall minaret float beneath a clear blue sky. You are ushered through a cool, darkened hallway into the 700-year-old Chamber of the Elephant. The dome-shaped roof is supported by twenty arches, and the walls are covered in arabesques fashioned out of different-coloured mud.
Trumpeters announce the arrival of the ruler on his richly-decorated horse. Retainers rush across the palace courtyard to hold up a large cloth so that no one may see him alight. The Emir, Alhaji Ado Bayero, proceeds to his court where his subjects kneel on the floor and bow down before him. A man in a flowing robe outlines his grievance against his neighbour. In democratic Nigeria, he retains the right of appeal to the state, but in smaller cases like his it is often easier to accept the judgment of the Emir. The case is heard. The Emir pronounces a fine of two goats and the court is closed for the day.
It is not only in his court that the Emir holds sway. He is a modern leader with deeply traditional roots. The respect given his ancient lineage is often needed in calming the sometimes violent clashes between the city’s Christian and Muslim populations.
Soon it was my turn to see the Emir. The bodyguards stood to one side and I was ushered into a quiet, shaded room filled with mud carvings. There were thick scarlet rugs on the floor.
The Emir was sitting on his throne at the far end. He wore white robes and a turban edged with green. I asked him about his role in a changing Nigeria. He listened courteously. “The West,” he answered, “must understand that democracy is not only as they see it. We in Africa need time to work it out in our own way.”
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