History of South Africa podcast

By 1876 the Sotho, Tswana, Venda, Pedi, the amaXhosa had all managed to secure for themselves a fairly easy access to firearms. The Griqualand Diamond fields ignited what could be called a small arms race on the veld. There was supposedly an arms embargo on blacks instituted by the British government two decades before, but this was frequently broken. In the Cape colony and Griqualand west diamond fields, the trade in firearms depended on two technicalities. Importers of these weapons had to deposit a bond which indicated to whom they were going to sell the guns. Because the colonies used these bonds or tariffs which is probably a more accurate description, as a source of revenue, the procedure was applied creatively. The second technicality was that Africans needed a magistrates permit to buy guns. Because the demand for labour was so extreme particularly in the diamond fields, this permit system was ignored by most of the miners. The winter of 1876 settled hard across the Transvaal. At night, the frost lay white along the banks of the Steelpoort River, the cattle breath rising like smoke in the early dawn. By mid-morning the sun was sharp, the air brittle, and the mountains to the east seemed to shimmer in their haze. Shimmering today are the minerals mined here, chrome, platinum, vanadium. These are the Leolo mountains, bastion of the Pedi under King Sekhukhune I. Across the valleys his people had built stone-walled settlements, ringed with thorn stockades, their cattle kraals protected by rifle pits dug into the hillsides. To the south, in Pretoria, President Thomas François Burgers prepared his republic for war. He was no soldier—trained instead in theology, prone to long speeches, dressed in sombre black. But he was determined to show that the Transvaal could still assert itself after years of debt, political squabbling, and military vascillation. On 16 May 1876, the Volksraad declared war on Sekhukhune. The long-simmering contest between the Pedi and the Boer republic was about to reach a climax.The Pedi kingdom was no stranger to conflict. Under Sekwati, Sekhukhune’s father, they had fought off repeated attacks during the mid-nineteenth century. Their stone fortresses had turned back Boer commandos in the 1840s and 1850s. Sekwati had once been besieged in Thaba Mosega, surviving by ingenuity, patience, and the determination of his people. Just a few weeks later came the episode that etched itself into Pedi memory. Johannes Dinkwanyane, half-brother of Sekhukhune led his people at the settlement of Mafolofolo. They were Christians, linked to missionary networks, yet fiercely loyal to Pedi sovereignty. In mid-July, Swazi forces allied to the Boers descended on Mafolofolo. The defenders fought desperately. After two days of fighting, Johannes was gravely wounded on 13 July and died three days later.By late August the war had collapsed into stalemate. President Burgers’ grand promise of quick victory had evaporated among the ridges of the Leolo mountains. The commando had withdrawn, Fort Krugerpos was thrown up in haste, and burghers grumbled about lost time and wasted cattle. The republic was broke, its men unwilling, its president mocked. It was into this void that Conrad von Schlickmann arrived.

Episode 242 is about putting ploughs into the ground, how the rural areas of much of the country was experiencing something of an agricultural revolution. It’s rather a fascinating tale, because there are tremendous contradictions in what we’re going to talk about this episode. As usual, there we will need to combine a global story with our local story —without doing so would be to stunt our awareness of the strands and tendrils that spread and connect. By the 1850s, Great Britain was manipulating trade and military as well as political power as reciprocating elements. This is a technique adopted by pretty much every empire since before Carthage. Political influence was used so as to extend and secure free exchange, in Britain’s case commerce and anglicisation, spread political influence and welded alliances. As Lord Palmerston so aptly pointed out “…It is the business of Government to open and secure the roads for the Merchant…” Antiquated regimes were its enemy and foreign tariffs were its enemy, as anyone knows, the greatest enemy of free trade are tariffs. Empires were broken, the gouty and outdated Chinese, the religion-strangled Turkey, innumerable sheikdoms, sultanates and chieftancies were drawn into the invisible British empire of informal sway. When merchants manage affairs instead of men with guns, it’s harder to pin down the essence of power — and also the dangers. The results of this grand vision were not encouraging by the 1870s and the Victorians were less sure of their panacea for both Asia and Africa. Among the ancient and invincibly conservative Confucian and Islamic rulers, no effective westernising collaborators had been found. The Tai’ping rebellion in China and the growing chaos in Muslim states appeared never ending. It was the United States that was gobbling up immigrants — most of Britain’s emigrants went there, and the Victorians bought and sold more there than in any other single country. It had dawned on the British political elite that their commerical experience impressed a single portentous fact — that their most successful trading associations with the exception of the Indian Empire, were with Europeans transplanted abroad. They accounted for around 70 percent of all her investment overseas. The white communities in the temperate zones had the outlook and the institutions favourable to progress which the Asiatics and Africans seemed to lack. They offered customers with European tastes and money to spend. Mutual self-interest with whites of their empire meant private business of Great Britain commingled freely with that of Greater Britain and the once-colonial societies of the New World — the Americans and many in South America too. At the same time, the colonists were growing more bitter about Downing Street control and self-government appeared one solution. The aim was to avert the loss of more colonies and more American Wars of independence. So by the 1870s, confederated Canada, responsibly governed Australia and the Cape were regarded as constitutional embodiments of collaboration between British and colonial interests — all working at their best. The number of trading stores in the Transkei quadrupled to a few hundred, and all of this meant that there was a major qualitative shift in the cumsumption patterns of Africans. New permanent wants replaced needs, metal was now preferred to traditionally crafted pots and baskets, the cow-hide kaross was replaced by the Witney blanket, ploughs and all manner of tools flooded into these developing farms. Around South Africa, energy seemed to be surging. Take the highveld for example. The sour veld of the Harrismith district to be precise. Largely used for summer grazing, the farmers here often moved their herds into Natal every autumn. Below the Berg as they put, OnderBerg. Underberg.

Episode 241 and we’re back with the diamond miners and their Kaias and Cocopans. More about this in a minute. A big thank you to Donald Paterson who’s great-great-great grandfather founded Standard Bank, he’s sent a couple of pictures I’m going to use in my next newsletter. And to Rob Bernstein who’s producing a photo-book and who’s asked me to write an epilogue, thanks for the coffee chat and the opportunity. Last we heard about plans for South African Confederation, this episode ties up with the momentum building towards the invasion of Zululand by the British, and almost simultaneously, the first Anglo-Boer War. We’ve entered the mid-1870s where all manner of momentums are also building up globally as the European powers jostled for African land in order to feed their industrial centres, and their geopolitical ambitions. The panic on the Vienna Stock exchange in May 1873 caused shares to decline worldwide and ushered in the 1873-1879 Great Depression. The Suez Canal was also close to bankcruptcy because there weren’t enough steam ships in the world and the canal was better adapted to steam. The Khedive of Egypt was forced to sell his shares in the Suez Canal Company to the British Government with help from bankers and the Rothschild family. In Britain the downturn was going to last until much later - the late 1890s, and diamond prices were also falling. Despite this, South Africa was in a bit of a boom period. In the diamond fields, the diggers were facing a problem and it was about geology. They had been digging in what they called yellow ground which was kimberlite rock. Over millions of years, the kimberlite in the top part of the volcanic pipe was exposed to the surface and weathered by the elements, including water and air. This process oxidized the iron-rich minerals in the rock, giving it a soft, friable, yellowish-brown color. Because it was so soft, it was easy for the early diggers to excavate with simple picks and shovels and to sieve for diamonds. But as they dug deeper by 1873 they passed through the weathered yellow ground and hit the un-oxidized, fresh kimberlite rock below. This rock, which they called "blue ground" due to its hard, bluish-gray color, was much more compact and difficult to mine. Its hardness led many early prospectors to abandon their claims, mistakenly believing they had reached the end of the diamond-bearing ground. The discovery that the blue ground contained even richer deposits of diamonds was a pivotal moment that led to the development of the large-scale industrial mining operations at Kimberley. And Cecil John Rhodes returned from his failed attempt at obtaining a law degree in England to rejoin his brother on the diamond fields to take advantage of all these changes. Jerome Babe wrote in his journal how he rose at the break of day, then dug until 9am. Breakfast was taken until 10am, when the diggers reconvened. Most diggings had two white men and five black men who could get through fifteen cart loads a day. The black workers would wash enough gravel in four hours for the mainly white diggers to sort through in ten hours. At 1pm they all knocked off for lunch until two pm, then washing would end at four pm. That wasn’t the end of the day. The washers, the black labourers, would head back to the mining area to gather material for the next day’s washes and many miners continued working when there was moon, carrying the gravel to the river for the next day’s washing. The diggers committees which had managed these mines was now an unsustainable way to administrate claims. Claim-jumping which took place when a mine was unworked for more than three days had increased instability and litigation was accelerating. It looked chaotic because the rights to small-claim ownership was being circumented by monopolies using fronts, straw men as they were known. Another very old South African tradition. Griqualand West Lieutenant Governor Richard Southey wanted state regulation.

This is episode 240 and our swivels to the north - a Great Apostle for Confederation and the pre-Scramble for Africa Geopolitical Omlette. Part of this story is a continuation of the Langalibalele Affair in Natal which had created the perception that the authorities there were unable to cope. This provided an opportunity for Colonial office back in England to consider radical moves like forcing through a Confederation of South African colonies. Throughout the 1870s, Lord Carnarvon the British Secretary of State for the Colonies attempted to unite both the colonies and the Boer Republics into a self-governing — settler self-governing — dominion under the British flag. This was a somewhat grandiose scheme and there’s a heady debate amongst historians about why Carnarvon tried to do this. We’re going to take a closer look at what was going on internationally and how South Africa factored into this global picture because its part of the story. The concept of a confederated South Africa was obviously opposed by the Boer Republics. More significantly, it was also opposed by the Molteno Administration of the Cape Colony which was the biggest and the richest South African state by far. Liberal humanist historians believe Carnarvon wanted confederation to protect blacks from the colonials - but that’s a shallow version of events. It was in Natal where the largest portion of the white population favoured confederation but even there lieutenant Governor Chilly Pine described an ‘apathy and indifference’ to the policy by some. John X Merriman who was a member of Molteno’s cabinet said “The fact is that the cry for Confederation is purely an extraneous one, born in the brain of Lord Carnarvon, local prejudice and local jealousy tending the other way…” Molteno and his Merriman were focused on infrastructure, work had begun on the Cape Parliamentary buildings in 1874, government funding of education was legislated, and the Molteno Government also established the South African public library system.  Nevertheless, in other circles in South Africa the call for Federation was growing — take the merchants of Port Elizabeth and a large section of English-speaking Natalians for example. With regard to the Port Elizabethans, the easterners as they were known, it was as matter of being dominated by western based politicians — western as in Western Cape just for clarification. Natal had yet to receive responsible government, unlike the Cape. Given the various political currents surging about the region, why did Carnarvon pursue the idea of Conferederation so aggressively? Theophilus Shepstone could be one reason. The Veteran of Natal’s Native Affairs had met Carnarvon and converted him to what historian RL Cope calls an instrument of the sub-imperialist forces emanating from Natal. There was as paradox here. The tiny white minority of Natal was fearful of the black majority and therefore harboured impulses to bring further tracts of African territory under British Control. It was this demographic imbalance that drove the colonials voice, but it was a contradictory position for any imperial government to take. Why support a tiny group — unlike in the Cape which had a vibrant economy and was dominated by settler interests both financially and demographically. For Natalians, the perpetual labour shortage seemed insurmountable, maybe a forced union of some sort would open up other colonies where labour could be exploited. With both Carnarvon and Shepstone believing in Confederation, trifling over black labour appeared to be the least of their challenges. Furthermore, in Port Elizabeth, a powerful voice supporting their position was also developing rapidly. And he had cash to burn. That was founder of the Standard Bank, John Paterson. As a leading Port Elizabeth merchant, the Cape Argus described him as “A great apostle of confederation..”

When we left off last episode amaHlubi chief Langalibalele and a few hundred warriors had sought shelter inside Basotholand, crossing the Drakensberg Mountains through Bushmans Pass in November 1873. When the British tried to send columns to corner him, one of the columns had been stopped by amaHlubi at the pass where five of the British troops had been killed, three young Natal Carbineers, a Basotho tracker and a translator. This event had shocked the settlers of Natal, and in response by Lieutenant Governor Chilly Pine began a campaign to destroy the amaHlubi and amaNgwe in their two locations, west of the town of where Mooi River is today. Pine declared Martial Law. Most of the amaNgwe and amaHlubi men fled, and the British rounded up women and children and the elderly. The women and children were placed in the charge of friendly chiefs in the up-country districts, while the old men were sent to Pietermarizburg to be kept under surveillance by other friendly black chiefs. On the 17th December, as a kind of afterthought, Pine followed this up with a declaration that all amaNgwe were now officially dispossessed of their land. The arbitrary killings of both clans continued mostly by the African levies, under the watchful eyes of colonial officers who appeared to be egging them on. Major Anthony Durnford, a professional soldier and engineer who’d been wounded by the amaHlubi during the battle of Bushman’s Pass earlier in November was one of the few who spoke up against the bloodletting. “There have been sad sights …” he reported “…women and children butchered by our black allies too often unhappily by the permission and encouragement of the white leaders… old men too … the burnt villages — dead women … it was horrible.” Two columns of volunteers and African levies were now searching for Langalibalele. One headed to East Griqualand, while the other rode back to Bushman’s Pass following the spoor left by the amaHlubi cattle. The amaHlubi warriors had taken all their cattle into Basotholand to join their chief. Natal authorities were offering a one pound reward per warrior captured, and 100 cattle for Langalibalele, dead or alive. The amaHlubi chief was deep in Basotholand, close to the Senqu river, the Orange, about fifty kilometres west of the Bushman River Pass. By early January several hundred men and about 7 000 cattle assembled under his command. He had no clear plan about what to do, his original idea was to escape from the British then ponder next steps. But now he was in Sotho territory, very much out of his depth. Boers in the Zuid Afrikaanse Republiek and the Free State formed commandos and sent them to the borders in case Langalibalele showed up — or in case any of the chiefs that surrounded their territories decided to join in. Eastern Cape and Natal English farmers sent their women and children into towns, battening down their farm hatches. Their fears were heightened by the role that Basotholand was appearing to play. In the minds of the colonists, this mountain kingdom was thought of as the Central South African powder Magazine — a place no-one could control, full of guns now bought by workers on the diamond mines and farms. It was in the heartland of south Africa, annexed by the British in 1868, ruled by a new king Letsie who had succeeded Moshoeshoe. Although annexed to the Cape in 1871, it remained a highly unstable land in the minds of colonials. Langalibalele had no idea of all of this as he considered his next steps inside Basotholand. The British had also mobilised hundreds of troops who boarded the HMS Rattlesnake in Cape Town and were en route to bolster Natal while a large police force rode into Basotholand from the Cape’s eastern Frontier region. IN East Griqualand, Adam Kok’s Griqua also mobilised in support of the British. The amaHlubi chief eventually handed himself over to the Basotholand chief Molapo and was taken back to Pietermaritzburg for his trial.

This is episode 238 and it’s going to be full of legal back and forth, all about the Langalibalele Rebellion, another little war as the London times called it — it’s action at Bushman’s River Pass after which British engineers will be sent to blow up bits of the Drakensberg. In 1873 Benjamin Chilly Campbell Pine was reappointed as Lieutenant-Governor of Natal. Pine was a career officer in the British Colonial Services, and this was the second time he was taking up the post of Lieutenant Governor in Natal. His first stint was logged between April 1850 to March 1855 and Pinetown on the hills above Durban is named after him. Then he spent time in the Gold Coast in Ghana, then the West Indies, as Governor of the Leeward Islands and Antigua. His second stint was cut short largely because of how he was going to deal with the Langalibalele affair. Two other colonials will feature through our story this episode, one being Theophilus Shepstone the Secretary of Native Affairs in Natal, and the other was Bishop John Colenso who was a liberal humanist and the implacable enemy of most British settlers. Pine's administration had to contend with the "Shepstone System," a policy of indirect rule developed by Theophilus Shepstone. This controversially separated African and European populations and was a dominant force in Natal's governance during Pine's tenure. While Pine and Shepstone collaborated, their administrations also faced criticism from white settlers over issues of land, labor, and the financing of native policy. The other main character of our tale today was Langalibalele, the hereditary chief of the Hlubi tribe from around 1836. After fleeing Zululand in 1849, he and his fellow refugees were granted land by the colonial authorities in the Escourt District, west of the town along the Msuluzi and Mtshezi Rivers. The town was laid out by Colonel Estcourt In 1847 and named after the British officer. The land the amaHlubi were handed was technically not for free, their obligations included protecting the colony from the San Raiders some galloping in from as far away as the Maluti Mountains. Langalibalele and his people were part of the Shepstone System, granted their own territory seperated from white farms. Ten years after arriving in their fertile rolling hills, Langalibalele headed off to Iswatini, Swaziland, where he’d fetched his head wife, uMzamose in 1857. There was some confusion about what the amaHlubi were expected to do. Essentially, their role was to form a buffer zone in the region and were even presented with some guns for that purpose, and once jobs opened up on the diamond mines, hundreds of amaHlubi men headed off to labour in Griqualand West, returning with valuable goods like horses, and more guns. The people flourished through the 1860s and into the early 1870s and were at peace with the colonial farmers, growing from 7 000 to 10 000 souls, with 15 000 head of cattle. The original 364 square kilometres of their land extended to more than 700 square kilometres. But the relationship with the British was riven by confusion and distrust. Natal was isolated from the hinterland by the formidabble Drakensberg Mountains, and was surrounded by black nations, thus increasing the paranoia of the settlers. The amaThembu and Xhosa to the south were respected, not to mention the amaZulu to the north East. Communication with the Cape was slow along the few roads and by sea, there were also few transport corridors in Natal itself which engendering a feeling of insecurity among the colonists.In Early March 1873 John Macfarlane singled Langalibalele and the amaHlubi out and demanded the registration of their guns in terms of Law 5. Langalibalele said he was too busy and suffering from an illness, and could not be expected to head off across such as vast area looking for his 2000 men and counting their guns. A war was brewing.

Although responsible government had come comparatively late for the Cape Colony, the transition in many ways was still too early. It had come twenty years after New Zealand and the state of Victoria in what was to become Australia. The easterners were only partly reconciled to the rule by a Cape Town elite, widely differing personalities made cooperation difficult. The staunchly liberal William Porter was opposed by the stiff proto-racist Robert Godlonton, there were rising stars like Francis William Reitz junior, the legislative leader of Beaufort West at the age of 28 — and the six foot four giant John X Merriman who was erratic, but his instinct for decency and his broad human empathy made him attractive to most who met him - Boer and Brit. He was of his time of course, intellectually convinced of the brotherhood of man as long at it meant white brotherhood. Like many colonists of the period, he found it impossible to deal with black south Africans on a sympathetic basis. There was the less attractive Gordon Sprigg, conceited and small in stature, big in ambition, but capable of folly and deception as historian Frank Welsh explains. There was the impressive Lion of Beaufort - John Molteno, who I have mentioned before, the first leader of the Cape when it achieved responsible government. Molteno owned one hundred thousand acres of well-tended land, and ran a thriving business. John Henry De Villiers was also in this first group of Cape leaders, already distinguishing himself also well off, the future Lord De Villiers, or De Villiers Graaf. Born in 1842, his public life was to fall in the most complicated and controversial period of South Africa’s history. I have his biography written by Eric Walker, and it is a running commentary from his point of view on South African history. Two interests dominated his life - law and federation. By the time he died his influence on South African law would be arguably greater than any other person, presiding over the senior court for more than forty years. He also took a keen interest in politics, mostly directed towards the idea of federating South African states and colonies. De Villiers had what was called a balanced affection for both Britain and South Africa. Speak of an affection for Britain but not necessarily balanced with an affection for Africa, were the English colonists of Natal. Blacks who owned land in Natal were technically allowed to vote, as in the Cape, but every statagem was employed to weaklen this right. There was a high property qualification in Natal, but other restrictions had been added through the 1860s, when black Natalians were not allowed even to petition for admission to the electoral roll until they’d cleared a series of hurdles. Seven years of exemption from customary law being the first hurdle, then three white men had to sign approval of the black Natalian gaining the vote, which was a complete negation of the colour-blind principle which was supposed to be driving this political right. Once the black Natalian had managed to clear those hurdles, believe it or not, there was one more. He had to seek permission from the Lieutenant Governor. The list of black voters in Natal for this period was an A4 Page long. So it was deeply ironic then that one of Zulu King Cetshwayo kaMpande’s most trusted chiefs - and one of his most important, was Englishman John Dunn. He was the antithesis of everything that the urbanised English settler espoused - living and marrying into the Zulu people, his descendents fiercely proud members of a large clan today. He elicited from those around him the phrase “going native” which is one of the most insidious relics of colonial thought.

The sound of mining — And the sound of money — All across Griqualand West, tent towns mushroomed overnight, teeming with fortune seekers from around the world. Tens of thousands by 1873, all descending on a patch of dusty ground that was soon to become a beacon of development on the landscape. Kimberley. In the modern world, industrial diamonds have hammered the industry business model, China overwhelmingly dominates global production of synthetic industrial diamonds accounting for about 90% of the total total. But in the 19th century, diamonds were still as rare as as teetotaler in a Kimberley tavern. This episode we’ll hear about the entrepreneurs both black and white, and the future Robber Baron and colonial Dreamer, Cecil John Rhodes. It was in May 1871 after the harvest at the Rhodes brothers cotton farm in Richmond in Natal had come in, that Rhodes began his long career of harvesting the right connections. Brother Herbert sailed to Natal two years earlier, and now Cecil was helping manage the 250 acre farm, helped by 30 black labourers. Herbert however had heard about the riches discovered in Griqualand West and headed off to the Diamond Fields in early 1871, leaving Cecil to run the show in Natal. Young Cecil attended the annual meeting of the colonies agricultural society where he exhibited samples of their cotton, in attendance were Natal’s colonial elite. There were long after-dinner political speeches, all ending with a toast. IN the haze of cigar and tobacco smoke, and a haze of multiple shots of whiskey, one settler called for a man to offer the traditional toast to the Ladies. So it was ironic that Cecil Rhodes rose in response, and thus delivered his first ever public speech according to his friend and biographer, Lewis Mitchell. Ironic because Rhodes would never form a initimate relationship with a woman as far as we know . As he grew more powerful, he would always surround himself with young male private secretaries and later would make one - Neville Pickering, the sole beneficiary of his will. In the Victorian era, being openly homosexual was socially unacceptable and illegal, so any such relationships would have been kept private. We are hampered by a lack of personal diaries or revealing letters from Rhodes himself, making it difficult to reach a firm, irrefutable conclusion about his private life. The scale claim-owners did much of their own manual labour, but for the most part the work was done by black labourers, picking at the ground, smashing the bumps of earth and rock, sieving the lime dust through a coarse wire sieve, rubble thrown aside, what remained placed on a sorting table. A small scraper would be used to spread the rock on the tables, scooping after picking the diamonds out, repeat repeat. In early 1872 Herbert went back to their farm in Richmond to welcome yet another brother, Frank, to South Africa. Cecil was left in charge and suffered under the stress, hard labour in a harsh climate, supervising his business, and a sudden death of his friend John Thompson. He was smoking and drinking too much, breathing in too much dust, dehydrated — and collapsed — to be nursed back to health by John Blades Currey’s wife, Mary. He was still only 18 years old and almost died. In his miasmic state, he wrote his will which is prescient, and somewhat theatrical, leaving all his possessions to Britain’s Secretary of State for the colonies, Lord Kimberly instead of his family. New promulgations were thus passed by the miners themselves, black people could not stay in the mining camps for longer than two days without a master, they also had to observe a curfew after 9pm. Punishment for failing to observe these rules, 25 lashes or 10 shillings fine. All this at a time when most of the English-speaking world was repealing lashing.

This is episode 235, and it’s back to high drama circa 1873. Before that just some news .. unbelievable as it may appear, Apple Podcasts has named The History of South Africa pod as one of their top ten Best so Far podcasts of 2025. They have asked me to say so, so this is saying so. An irregular musket salute is in order!! Thanks to my fantastic listeners for helping make this podcast resonate, I am truly grateful. And thus to our story this episode Cetshwayo Glamped and Crowned, Shepstone Stalled, Masiphula Poisoned, it’s early 1873, and King Mpande kaSenzangakhona of the amaZulu has been buried and the process of selecting a new king has begun Cetshwayo kaMpande, his son is to be the new regent. Or is he? This wasn’t a simple matter. Succession disputes had riven the Zulu nation from since Senzangakhona died, the last internal ruction had led to the Zulu Civil War and the shattering battle of Ndondakusuka near the Thukela River in 1856. I dealt with this significant moment in episode 209. Mpande was still king at the time, but Cetshwayo and Mbuyazi, his two eldest sons, were vying to be formally nominated as the king in waiting. Mbuyazi was defeated in the battle, vanquished and killed, leaving Cetshwayo in de facto control of the kingdom, though his father remained king. Mbuyazi's followers, including five other sons of King Mpande, were massacred in the aftermath of the battle. But some escaped. Succession had been murky ever since 1816 when Shaka had supplanted his half-brother and presumptive heir Sigujana. Cetshwayo may have been the eldest son of the King Mpande kaSenzangakhona and many of the izikhulu supported Cetshwayo, but Mpande favoured his next-eldest son Mbuyazi. One of the central characters of our story was John Dunn who had supported Mbuyazi, but switched sides afterwards and was helping Cetshwayo collect firearms by the early 1870s. When Mpande died, Cetshwayo would turn to the British in Natal for recognition, because he faced two major threats. One was the Boers to his north who had taken control over the disputed territory around northern Vryheid, Utrecht, and the foothills of the mountains below Volksrus, and the other threat was internal. Cetshwayo was beholden to some powerful Zulu chiefs in the north, who’d helped him defeat Mbuyazi, and most of these opposed Cetshwayo doing deals with the British. They were traditionalists. The British would disturb the indigenous rituals they said. Cetshwayo saw things differently. He was playing a bigger diplomatic game, aware of the wider powers at play. If he could convince Natal’s commissioner of Native Affairs, Theophilus Shepstone, to ride into his territory and formally crown him king, this would keep the boers at bay, and simultaneously undermine those northern izikhulu who were conducting a whispering campaign against him. In this geopolitical tango, Shepstone understood this power game only too well — he’d been installed in 1846 as Native Commissioner and virtually ruled the black population in Natal — as well as trying to rule the amaZulu north of the Thukela.The once and future king Cetshwayo began to move in July 1873, just before sending word to Shepstone, the period of mourning Mpande’s death now over. After gathering his amabutho regiments, he set off in full chief attire, having packed up his entire oNtini great place. Dozens of his isigodlo girls, his harem carried his goods and chattels. They travelled up the Mhlathuze River, into the thickets which held a vast array of wild game. Cetshwayo ensured that all protocols were followed, including the purification rituals of a Great Hunt, an iHlambo, where the King would be indirectly washed clean by the amaButho washing their spears in blood. All evil influences that had gathered force during the mourning period after Mpande’s death in October 1872 would be dispatched.

I have to say a big thank you to Adi and Janice who hosted me at their farm Kalmoesfontein this week as part of the Swartland Revolution events they’re running— I was invited to give a little talk about Jan Smuts of the Swartland and relished the opportunity to delve deeply into a Great South African’s early life. And to the folks that came to ask questions and be part of the event, thank you too for such a warn reception. We’re going to deal with two main topics in the years 1871 leading into 1872 - One was the installation of Sir John Molteno as the First Prime Minister of the Cape of Good Hope which marked the start of responsible government in the territory. But the other really big event of 1872 was the death of Zulu king Mpande kaSenzangakhona, leaving the way open for Cetshwayo kaMpande to seize the reins of power. It wasn’t going to be that simple of course. Let’s have a quick squizz at what was going on globally in 1871. The Franco-Prussian war ended, leading to the Proclamation the German Empire in January. The North German federation and South German States were united in a single nation state and the King of Prussia was declared as the German Emperor Wilhem the first. Germany officially came into being for the first time. Otto von Bismarck would soon become the First Chancellor of the German Empire. In French Algeria, the Mokrani Rebellion against colonial rule broke out in March 71, in March the Paris Commune was formally established in France. The Commune governed Paris for two months, promoting an anti-religious system, an eclectic mix of many 19th-century schools of thought. Policies included the separation of church and state, the reduction of rent and the abolition of child labor. The Commune closed all Catholic churches and schools in Paris and a mix of reformism and revolutionism took hold — a hodge podge of folks who pushed back against the French establishment. By late May 71 the commune had been crushed in the semaine sanglante, the Bloody Week, where at least 15 000 communards were executed by loyalist troops. More than 43 000 communards were imprisoned. The Paris Commune left an indelible mark on Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels — two men who, in turn, would go on to cast a long, indirect shadow over the course of world history. In June 1871, the United States launched an assault on the Han River forts in Korea, hoping to pry open Korean markets for American trade. Washington wasn’t bothering with tariffs that year — gunboats were quicker. Charles Babbage died on boxing Day, 26 December 1871. A man of many labels—mathematician, philosopher, inventor, mechanical engineer—but one overriding legacy: he imagined the computer before electricity even entered the equation. Babbage’s difference engine was the first mechanical attempt to automate calculation - it was his analytical engine that quietly cracked open the future. It carried, in brass and gears, the essential ideas of the modern digital computer—logic, memory, and even programmability. His inspiration? The Jacquard loom, which used punched cards to weave patterns into silk. Babbage observed this and thought: if a loom could follow instructions to weave flowers, why not numbers? Hidden in that question was the dawn of the information age—and even the first glimmer of a printer. The popular movement towards responsible government had arisen in the early 1860s, led by John Molteno - and in a future podcast I will spend more time on his life - a fascinating character who was the first South Africa to attempt to export fruit. He married a coloured woman called Maria in 1841 but catastrophe struck when she and their young son died in childbirth and stricken by grief, he joined a Boer Commando fighting in one of the early Frontier Wars. So it was then that on 22nd October 1872 Cetshwayo summoned all the indunas and izikhulu to kwaNondwengu to announce that King Mpande had died.

This is an episode packed with odd resonances, echoes, large whiskers, many presidents and the origin of a modern bank. Now that the diamond fields were being exploited, this being1870, a plethora of politicians lined up to claim ownership — the ever-ambitious and unrealistic President Pretorius of the Transvaal among these, who as you heard last episode, had been chased away by the diggers. These were an international lot, not prone to being intimidated by old bearded men from the Transvaal. His attempt at unilaterally granting drights to the diamond fields to messers Webb, Posno and Munnich had gone done like a lead balloon. As you heard, too, Nicholas Waterboer also claimed these fields, so too the Free State government under President Steyn. Waterboer was persuaded by his Cape educated lawyer the vigorous pen-and-ink warfare expert David Arnot, to ask the British Government to honour his claim on behalf of the Griqua. Waterboer didn’t need much convincing. Author and Journalist Frederick Boyle who wrote “To the Cape For Diamonds” published in 1873 respected Arnot, meeting him in 1871 and describing him as very short, very thick, with a large face clean shaven and a dark skin burnt darker by South African suns. “Mr David Arnot is one of those gentlemen who, in a larger or smaller sphere, make history…” He’d conducted Waterboer’s business for 17 years, and as Boyle said, had made “..not one mistake..” Which is a miracle considering the forces at work in the transOrangia. A diplomats diplomat they said. Tenacious, unfailing, undaunted. He was President Pretorius and President Brands nemesis in some ways, a highly educated coloured man who was connected to the levers of power. He was also relatively wealthy, working as an attorney in Colesberg earning 2000 pounds a year. A man of his time, like other educated men and women of the Victorian era, he collected plants and wrote letters to famous scientists in his spare time. Devout imperialist and friend, Richard Southey agreed. But the incoming high Commissioner, Sir Henry Barkly, needed to be pursuaded. He’d just arrived, sporting enormous black whiskers, a large commanding figure, an authoritarian, gruff, former member of the English parliament, he didn’t want to be dragged into some territorial dispute so early in his governorship. He’d replaced Sir Philip Wodehouse as High Commissioner — Wodehouse congratulated himself when he left in May 1870 claiming not a shot had been fired by a British soldier during his stint — which was a stunning turnaround from the preceding 70 years, particularly the turbulent 1840s. In the interregnum between the discovery of diamonds and annexation of the diamondiferous land by Great Britain, a short-lived but highly entertaining Free Diamond Republic sprang into being. Self-appointed, proudly chaotic, and run by the diggers for the diggers. The Diggers Republic had all the trappings — including a flag which a ccording to historical accounts, featured the Union Jack in the top corner, similar to other colonial flags of the era. And its President? Stafford Parker was his name, and he was to rule over the territory for the grand total of twelve months. One reporter from London said that he “behaved modestly and does honour to his position … the order of the day — is solid civility —- listen to, but say nothing, and dig away….” Golden rule amongst treasure hunters. Stay shtum as you grind away. President Stafford Parker—ever the showman with a wink and a waistcoat—launched his corrugated iron canteen at Klipdrift on the banks of the Vaal with all the flair of a Mar-a-Lago meets muddy boots affair. Not content with presiding over a ragtag republic of diggers and dreamers, Parker decided he’d double as chief entertainer and purveyor of refreshments, slinging drinks and good cheer beneath a roof of rippling iron. Why not? If you're going to rule, you might as well pour the pints too.

This is episode 232 - Diamond Geology as an Art, Dinosaur Veldskoene and Waterboer’s claim Just a quick note about that amazing podcaster Nicole Engelbrecht —She is the host & creator of True Crime South Africa and the author of Samurai Sword Murder, Sizzlers, and co-author of Killer Stories. Well now there’s another book in her growing body of work called Bare Bones, Cold Cases from True Crime South Africa as part of the Jonathan Ball stable. I’ve been given view of an advanced copy and its chilling — perfect to read on a frozen winter’s night in front of a fire. Right. 1870. By the start of the year there were about 1000 diggers near the Vaal River, hunting diamonds, at the end of that year the number had risen ten to 10 000. They made their way to the area from around the world, once landing in Cape Town or Algoa Bay, and some in Durban, they’d travel up to the river diggings taking two months, or six weeks if they were lucky. Once there, they’d set up camp, pitching tents, building little shanties, or living in their wagons. These global prospectors first headed for the largest of these camps - a place called Klipdrift, which eventually became the town of Barkley West, about 35 kilometers north west of Kimberley. The new Eldorado as it was being called saw men dressed in what was called a proper digger’s outfit. This consisted of a broad-brimmed hat, a corduroy suit, a stout waste belt with pockets all around, extra strong boots, a bowie knife, a revolver, and spare rounds of ammunition. They’d have to secure their seat from the ports to the dry uplands, preferably in a Bullock-wagon or some in the Cape Scotchcart, drawn by horses. They were riding shotgun or at the back along with around three tonnes of goods consigned to the camps because everything had to be transported in. There was virtually no local food available, even water had to be carted from higher up the Vaal. It took forty days to trek to the diggings, with many holdups including a fairly lengthy delay at Bethulie in order to cross the mighty Orange River. The River diggings stretched about 40 kilometres west and northwest towards Delportspoort. The rush to gather alluvial diamonds along the rivers had begun along both banks of the Vaal River. The rise and fall of this important waterway had washed thousands of these gems onto the surface in channels — both current and ancient. So who owned that land? Griqualand West Captain Nicholas Waterboer believed it was his. The Griquas here were uneasily exposed in a salient of territory, a kind of peninsular on a map, projecting into the Orange Free State, across the Vaal River, and to the west, abutting the Tswana Territories of the Kalahari. The diamond discoveries sent shockwaves through every corner of South African life, with the sciences feeling the first jolt. Geology and mineralogy suddenly mattered in a way they hadn’t before, as men sought to read the land for clues to its hidden riches. But at the root of it all lay something deeply human — an eternal hunger for instant treasure. It’s the same impulse that drives a gambler to scratch a card or chase a lottery win, that rush of endorphins when chance seems to offer everything. Or when a pan yields a diamond worth thousands.

Moshoeshoe, the Basotho king who’d outwitted, outfought and outlived most of his enemies, was nearing his end. He had managed to ensure his chiefdom survived in signing the Treaty of Aliwal North with the British, who then annexed his territory. Or at least were about to but there were some loose ends to tie up before the Colonial Office signed off on the deal. One of the loose ends was the opposition from some French missionaries who took exception to the Treaty believing it was a cosy deal agreed between the British and the Boers of the Orange Free State which left Moshoeshoe’s people with far less territory than they had originally claimed. The most pressing matter was food. Could the Basotho feed themselves with less arable land following the ceding of much of the Caledon valley to the Boers. David Dale Buchanan was the editor of the Witness Newspaper based in Pietermaritzburg who championed Moshoeshoe's claim for expanded sovereignty during boundary talks. Paris Evangelical Missionary Society’s Francois Daumas joined Buchanana in actively lobbied the British government in London to reverse or soften the settlement terms that had been unfavorable to Moshoeshoe. Buchanan used his platform in Natal’s colonial press to rally public and political support for Moshoeshoe, portraying the Basuto as deserving more just boundaries—and influenced the colonial secretary to consider Moshoeshoe's case more sympathetically. Meanwhile, Daumas took the issue straight to the corridors of British power in London, sailing to Britain in 1869. He pressed the Foreign Office and Colonial Office to reconsider the treaty’s terms, hoping to secure territory that the Conventions had removed from Basotho ambit. Their joint efforts helped shape the High Commissioner's Notice of May 13, 1870, with an amendment in November 1871. This modification adjusted the Aliwal North boundary by Extending Basutoland eastward along the Caledon River to its true headwaters, and Restoring territory around Chief Molapo that the Orange Free State had claimed. These revisions returned critical grazing land and strategic highlands to Basutoland. Unfortunately, as you’re going to hear, Moshoeshoe wasn’t around to experience the fruits of their diplomacy. So it was on a January morning in 1870 that Moshoeshoe roused himself, like a candle flickering before it went out. He was about to perform a remarkable act, almost unheard of in southern Africa tradition. In his last official duty, Moshoeshoe convened a meeting of chiefs and headmen at Thaba Bosiu, and announced he was abdicating in favour of his eldest son, Letsie. It was almost a hospital pass, because Letsie would now take over a land compressed on all sides by pressure groups, African and Colonial. It was still unclear if Basotholand would survive — having barely scraped through the previous few years, the Free State Basotho war of 1865 to 1868 had drained the country of food, and crushed much of its spirit. But it was not defeated, and emerged under Letsie, balanced on a knife-edge, now protected by the British Empire. Moshoeshoe followed up his announcement at the meeting with more orders, that when Letsie died, he should be succeeded by Motsoane who was the only child of Letsie’s first wife, Senate — and Senate’s father was Josepha who was the eldest son of Molapo’s first wife. This was an attempt by Moshoeshoe to create cohesion but it was doomed to fail because he was unilaterally changing Basotho laws of succession. Let us turn to the final weeks of Moshoeshoe’s life, marked by an unseemly rivalry between French Protestants and Catholics. It is striking how the distant quarrels of European theology left their mark on South African history.The old Basotho fox had toyed with Christianity for years. Sometimes he wore it like a borrowed coat; sometimes he tossed it aside. The French missionaries were his pawns in a diplomatic game, sometimes they attempted to make him in their own image.

This is episode 230, From Knysna’s Burning Forests to Tolstoy’s War and Peace: The World in 1869. Globally, the end of the sixth decade of the 19th Century was full of fire and brimbstone, and some technology, social change, significant moments. The construction of the the Port Nolloth-O'okiep railway line is one notable tech development, but on the down side, the Southern Cape experienced a devastating fire that began in early February in the Meiringspoort area of the Swartberg Mountains, destroying numerous homesteads and ancient yellowoods. More about this in a few minutes. IN the United States, Elizabeth Cady Stanton testified before the U.S. Congress, thus becoming the first woman to do so, and later in 1869, Stanton and Susan B. Anthony formed the National Woman Suffrage Association. Sainsbury’s opened in Drury Lane in London in May, Boston University was founded in the same month. A month later, John Hyatt patented celluloid in Albany New York, a product created by mixing nitrocellulose and camphor — thus creating the basis for the coming film revolution. Like all good ideas, Hyatt had actually bought the original patent from Englishman Alexander Parkes who couldn’t figure out how to make money from his invention. It’s amazing how many inventions were co-opted by entrepreneurs after the inventor struggled to make a buck out of a good idea. Take the common computer mouse, invented by Stanford Research Unit student Douglas Engelbart in the early 1960s. In the late 1970s, almost two decades after the mouse’s invention, Apple’s Steve Jobs saw a mouse being demonstrated along with what was called graphical user interface, GUI, at Xerox labs in Palo Alto California. November the 17 however, was probably one of the most significant dates in the calendar when it came to the Cape, because that was the date that the Suez Canal was completed. For the first time in history, ships could now sail through the canal, linking the Red Sea to the Mediterranean, shortening the voyages between Europe and the far east by months. In Cape Town, there was fear and loathing about the Canal. And so, to South Africa, let’s retrace our steps to February 1869. It began, as such stories often do, with a wisp of smoke on the horizon. According to the local newspapers, the fire that would become known ominously as the Great Fire of 1869 was first spotted on the 8th February. The conditions were perfect for a catastrophe. Southern Cape berg winds, searing, north-westerly to north-easterly gusts, swept down from the heights. Born of a low-pressure system sliding from west to east, they could reach gale-force strength, tearing through valleys like invisible predators. By the time the flames were first seen near Knysna, the air shimmered with heat, the humidity was almost non-existent, and the vegetation which was parched after years of relentless drought, stood waiting, tinder-dry.But in February 1869, the fire dominated every horizon. From its first sparks, it began a horrifying march: sweeping west towards Swellendam, east to Uitenhage, and threading through the Langkloof valley north of the Outeniqua Mountains. Then, inexorably, it spilled down towards the coast, devouring all in its path, Great Brak River, Victoria Bay, Knysna, Plettenberg Bay.

Episode 229 - Moshoeshoe and the Red Dust, How War and famine led to British rule in Lesotho - we’re speeding up on the trek along history’s trail. First, a word about the Boer Basotho War of 1865-1868. The 1850s and 1860s marked a period of profound demographic disruption for the Basotho as the borders of Moshoeshoe the First’s kingdom shifted repeatedly under pressure from colonial conflict and Boer expansion, waves of refugees poured both in and out of the territory. By 1865, the population of what is now Lesotho was estimated at 180,000 which was a sharp increase from five years earlier. Then drought and a three year war against the Boers of the Free State had induced famine by 1868, and Moshoeshoe the First was running out of options as some of his people left the region. The war had created an immediate famine condition, exacerbated by the drought, and this had a knock-on effect when it came to politics and human migration. After the territorial competition between the BaSotho and their African neighbours subsided to some extent as the Basotho emerged as a nation, the struggle against the Boers of the Free State gained momentum. Growth in the economies of both the Free State and Basotho had produced an ongoing competition for land and when drought struck, it stimulated violence. It’s important to stress how the Free State economy had shifted from herding cattle to sheep — mainly as a result of Great Britain’s demand for wool. The Boers regarded the English as an oppressive occupying force, but that didn’t stop farmers of the Free State making a buck off the empire when they could. This is reflected in trade data - in 1852 exports from the Orange River Sovereignty to Natal, the Cape and England totalled 256 000 pounds, with wool making up 230 000 pounds of that trade. In a census of 1856, Boers had 1.2 million sheep and goats, and only 137 000 head of cattle. But the golden years of wool exports were over by the mid-1860s. The terrible droughts of 1860 and 1861 were known as the Red Dust when the Caledon River dried up for the only time in anyone’s memory. If you want the full background, I covered the outbreak of the Boer Basotho war of 1865 in an earlier episode, along with the causes. The drought, and the scorched earth policy adopted by Free State president Johannes Brand, left Moshoeshoe with little choice. He could either surrender and be known as the Basotho King who gave away his people to the Boers, or he could ask the British to declare Basotholand a British Protectorate. Some have said cynically that the British were entertaining this anyway, hungry for more land and even more so after the discovery of diamonds — but that’s tautological when it comes to Basotholand. The diamond discovery took place after Basotholand was folded into the British empire. Still, we need to burrow into how this all worked out, the diplomacy and wheeler-dealing was extraordinary. By the end of 1867 the successes of the Boer commandos in their raids into Basotholand had put an end to the prospect that the Free State burghers would voluntarily submit to the reimposition of British control. Eugene Casalis, the French missionary who had spent so much time in Basotholand, sailed to England from France to urge the British Government to intervene. This was not a lightweight ecclesiastical mission, Casalis had established a mission station at Morija at the foot of Moshoeshoe’s royal mountain Thaba Bosiu in 1833. He translated the gospel of Mark into isiSotho, and was revered for his political advice to Moshoeshoe. The Duke of Buckingham who had succeeded Lord Carnarvon as Colonial Secretary in March 1867, was all ears. They say timing matters, and it so happened that CB Adderley who was parliamentary Under-Secretary was in favour of intervention provided it could be managed without expense. IE, without sending an army to fight the Boers. On the 9th December, Buckingham instructed Wodehouse to treat with Moshoeshoe.

A quick shout out, this being the modern equivalent of a tip of the hat to Richard, who has made a significant donation to help me host this series. I was flabbergasted when receiving the Paypal payment. We have communicated over the years so this is just to say, thank you from the bottom of my heart Richard. When I’m next in Ireland, I promise to buy you a couple of rounds of St James’ Blessing. What’s this? A cacophony of digging? Must be significant. The date is somewhere in March 1867. A month after young Erasmus Jacobs had found an interesting stone near Hopetown near the Free State Border, but also near the newly formed Transvaal and Griqualand. The world of diamonds swirls with myth and legend, fiction, fact. Diamonds glitter with dangerous promise — alluring but transient in their fortunes, hard as truth, and just as capable of cutting those who reach for them unprepared. The rock that was found at Hopetown was placed on the table of the Cape Assembly shortly thereafter by Sir Richard Southey, the Colonial Secretary with the words “Gentlemen, this is the rock on which the future success of South Africa will be built…” Before Southey’s dramatic flourish, the initial response from officialdom was disbelief. For as long as anyone could remember, and this went all the way back to the VOC in 1660s, there had been rumours of great mineral treasure in the north. A kind of disinformation campaign was launched by Jan van Riebeeck because from the time of his arrival he expressed belief in the possibility of a successful search for the traditional golden realm of Monomotapa. It was imperative to drum up more cash for the new tavern of the seas, and he was trying to convince the VOC of the exaggerated value of their new outpost. And women in South Africa were taking notice, which probably from a 21st Century point of view appears somewhat unlikely. Mary Elizabeth Barber had an important role to play in South Africa's geological science. The year 1867 was characterised by drought, and a severe depression made worse by reports that the completion of the Suez Canal would ruin all trade with the Cape. So it wasn’t a moment too soon, so to speak, that Diamonds were discovered. Nearly two hundred years had passed since van Der Stel’s memorable expedition across what he called de Groote Rivier, the Gariep, the Orange. IT was on the Orange River, sixty kilometres above its junction with the Vaal River, that a village sprang up. Hopetown. By all reports a thriving little settlement, with a number of farms dotted along the river banks nearby. The Koranna and the Griqua lived nearby, at the towns of Pniel and Hebron. Switch to 1867. Picture the scene, sheep and goats, Erasmus Jacobs were doing what Boer boys did, he was roaming the veld, playing on the edge of the river. Here were garnets with their rich carmine flush, the fainter rose of the carnelian, the bronze of jasper, the thick cream of chalcedony, agates of motley hues, rock crystals shining in the light like beckoning stars. Lesser stones, not diamonds, nor valuable gems. From one of these multi-coloured beds Erasmus and his siblings filled their pockets with stones thinking they could play a game of ducks and drakes. For the uninitiated town based gaslight grazer, ducks and drakes is the game of skimming stones. Whomever skims the stone the furthest or with the most hops, wins. Simple game, but when you have no toys, stones are your friends. Luckily for the future of South Africa, Erasmus decided against skimming the diamond, and took it home. There it joined a pile of other shining stones he’d collected like a magpie. It was odd, this stone, and his widowed mother Mrs Jacobs mentioned it to a neighbour, the farmer Meneer Schalk van Niekerk.

Episode 227 — a turning point not just in our nation’s past, but in the arc of 19th-century global history. For soon, the earth will yield its glittering secret — the diamond — and with it, fortunes will rise, empires will stir, and the southern tip of Africa will be irrevocably transformed. But before we reach that seismic revelation, we journey first into the twilight of a king’s life — to the basalt crown of Thaba Bosiu, where Moshoeshoe, the great architect of Basotho unity, faced the gravest challenge yet to his people’s survival. The year is 1864, and a new figure steps onto the veldt’s political stage — Johannes Brand, recently elected President of the Orange Free State. With his arrival came the end of internecine Boer squabbles. Now, unity of purpose would drive their ambitions — and that purpose turned toward Lesotho’s land. Brand lost little time invoking Article 2 of the Treaty of Aliwal North — a clause etched into colonial parchment, defining the boundary between Free State territory and Moshoeshoe’s realm. He wanted it honoured, and in the Boers’ favour. The British High Commissioner, Philip Wodehouse — successor to Sir George Grey — responded, dispatching Aliwal North’s Civil Commissioner, John Burnet, to parley with Moshoeshoe. There, among the towering ramparts of Thaba Bosiu, Burnet argued the line was law — the Warden Line, drawn in 1858, marked Moshoeshoe’s northern limit. Yet Basotho families still tilled and dwelt across it. Not out of defiance, but memory — for those lands were ancestral, soaked in history and spirit. To demand a retreat across the Caledon River would have meant inciting his own chiefs, rupturing the very fabric of the Basotho world. Brand, determined to halt the Basotho’s slow advance toward Harrismith and Winburg, convened the Volksraad. A special session summoned Governor Wodehouse, pleading for intervention to preserve peace — or impose it. By October 1864, Wodehouse had the contested boundary beaconed. But in a private memorandum — shaped by voices like Burnet’s — he concluded what Moshoeshoe already knew in his bones: no treaty or beacon could reconcile the irreconcilable. For the Free State clung to the ink of 1858 — a document where Moshoeshoe had affixed his name to the Warden Line. But treaties are made on paper — and people live on land. On the 14th of November, Moshoeshoe called a *pitso* — a major assembly of his chiefs. It was a moment to speak freely, to vent frustration, and to wrestle with the reality of what lay ahead. In the end, they publicly committed to accepting Wodehouse’s ruling. Molapo and Mopeli, though reluctant, began evacuating their villages. In the days that followed, a steady stream of men, women, and children made their way south — driving cattle, carrying bundles of corn, and taking with them whatever possessions they could manage. When Moshoeshoe appealed to President Brand for time to let Molapo’s people finish harvesting, Brand agreed. They stayed through the summer, gathering the last of their crops, and left again in February 1865. By then, the land was quiet. According to British reports — and Moshoeshoe’s own understanding — the disputed territory now stood empty of Basotho. But what neither he nor the British authorities knew was that the Boers were not content to leave it at that. A commando had already been mustered — eager to erase the memory of their defeat in 1858, and ready to strike. South Africa’s history is marked by sudden turns — moments of violence, moments of discovery. Buried treasure, both literal and political, lies hidden until, almost by accident, it surfaces. Often, it’s not strategy or foresight, but chance — a misstep, a stray decision — that reveals the vast wealth beneath. While the Boers and the Basotho were locked in brutal conflict, fighting for control of fertile valleys and mountain strongholds, something altogether different was unfolding a short distance away. A diamond would be discovered.

The years between 1865 and 1870 would bring a tangle of new challenges for the people of the south. Drought gripped the land with merciless fingers in 1865 and 1866, only to return with cruel insistence between 1868 and 1869. Livelihoods withered, landscapes turned brittle. And yet, amid the dust and desolation, there was a glint of promise on the horizon, a hint of glitter in the forecast. British Kaffraria — that volatile strip of land east of the Kei — had been the stage for repeated wars between the British Empire and the amaXhosa. By 1866, the inevitable had come to pass: the territory was formally annexed to the Cape. This was not a popular move in the Cape Parliament. Most members balked at the idea, not out of principle, but pocket — British Kaffraria was a drain on the Treasury, propped up entirely by funds from London. The Cape, in its self-conscious autonomy, wanted no part in the bill. But Attorney General William Porter reminded his fellow parliamentarians that their indignation was selective. The Cape itself, he said, could not “talk big and look big” when its own house was being kept warm with British money. Independence in name meant little, he warned, if the machinery of government still ticked by the grace of Empire coin. But before the ink was dry on the annexation, another, more immediate matter took precedence — the fate of the amaMfengu, along with the amaNgqika and amaGqunukhwebe. The structures of amaXhosa political authority had already been dismantled within British Kaffraria. Now, as the imperial tide rolled further inland, it was the amaMfengu who found themselves repositioned — this time as subjects to be moved, their loyalty rewarded not with land, but with a fresh dislocation. Soon, the area around Butterworth became an amaMfengu stronghold. Many local amaXhosa were absorbed into their ambit — politically subdued or socially assimilated. For the British, this migration had a twofold effect. It removed thousands of Black residents from British Kaffraria, freeing up land under Crown control. And it advanced a broader goal: clearing the way for the Cape Parliament to annex the territory, albeit reluctantly and under pressure from Westminster. Just to flick the future switch for a moment — Back to the Future, in 2003, a constellation of dignitaries descended on Phokeng for the coronation of Kgosi Leruo Molotlegi of the Bafokeng. That’s near Rustenberg just for clarity. Among them were Nelson Mandela, Mangosuthu Buthelezi, First Lady Zanele Mbeki, and the Queen Mother of Lesotho. A drought pressed down on the land in 2003, dry and unforgiving, but the dusty heat did little to mute the occasion’s quiet grandeur. For a small nation to command such presence — to draw the gaze of the region’s most prominent figures — spoke to something more than mere ceremonial gravity. It hinted at a deeper, long-cultivated influence. This is the story of how the Bafokeng came to be recognised as one of South Africa’s most quietly successful peoples — not by avoiding the tides of history, but by learning, early on, how to navigate them. From their dealings with the Boers and Paul Kruger, to their survival under apartheid’s grip, the Bafokeng carved a path few expected — and fewer still understood. There’s an almost whispered history here, a counterpoint to the dominant narrative of dispossession and defeat. The Bafokeng lived on land of consequence long before that significance was measured in ounces of platinum. It wasn’t until the metal was prised from the earth beneath their feet that the rest of the country — and eventually, the world — began to pay attention. But the roots of their agency run deeper, older. They reach back to a time when Paul Kruger was still cobbling together unity among the Voortrekkers, long before his epic confrontations with the British had begun.

This is episode 225, and the Griqua have trekked from Philippolis near modern day Kimberley, to the Maluti Mountains, a place called Nomansland. In March 1861 Faku Ka-Ngqungqushe of the amaMpondo had ceded the territory to the British, ostensibly so that Theopholis Shepstone could plant the refugees of the Zulu Civil War there, but that idea was scotched, and the Cape Governor gave the territory over to the Griqua. By the time the great Griqua migration reached what would become Griqualand East, others had already begun trickling into this remote and mesmerising landscape — a highland plateau that straddles the transition between KwaZulu-Natal and the Eastern Cape, hemmed in by the southern Drakensberg. At over 1,600 metres above sea level, winters bite hard here when the frost laces the sandstone ridges, and the mornings arrive cloaked in icy mist. But come spring, the veld stirs with startling vigour: the ground blushes green, and indigenous flora such as Watsonia pillansii or Pillans watsonia, Dierama reynoldsii fairy bell or hairbell, and the fiery Kniphofia caulescens — the Drakensberg red-hot poker, thrust their blooms skyward. Aloes cling to rocky outcrops, and if you're lucky, you might glimpse the iridescent flash of a malachite sunbird, the Nectarinia famosa, feeding on nectar, or hear the distinct call of the ground woodpecker aka Geocolaptes olivaceus echoing from a sandstone cliff. After an arduous few weeks from their farms near Philippolis, Kok’s people arrived at Ongeluk’s Nek and you know if you’ve listened to the previous podcast why it was given this name. ON the way they had passed passed through part of land claimed by Basotho king Moshoehoe, around the Hangklip area — that’s just south east of Zastron today. Then began the arduous process of clearing a road down the mountain starting at Ongeluks Nek. It was no child’s play. Every morning, according to the annals, men set about with pick and crowbar, hammer and drills, powder and fuse to dig out a track down the mountainside. It took weeks for the track to be hacked from the rock, and the 2000 men, women and children, their dogs and livestock, managed to slide and roll down the side heading towards a small settlement about six kilometers north of where the town of Kokstad is today. The Griqua had finally, in their minds, arrived at their promised land. Here were rolling hills, the lower Maloti, sweet tasting river water, springs, green grass. In the ravines there were forests and the Griqua began to cut down these trees to build houses.The fledgling Griqualand state began to emerge, murderers were executed, criminals were tried and convicted and the Volksraad gathered every six months to discuss laws. This elementary form of democracy featured lengthy discussions and very little note-taking. A chief officer was elected, called a Kaptyn like the Khoekhoe leaders of old, and a privy council or executive council as it was also known was setup.

This is episode 224 — the sound in the background is the weather - the other sound is the creaking of wagons as another great trek begins. We’re going to trace the arc of Southern Africa’s climate, beginning in the early 19th century, before turning to the decade under review — the 1860s — and following the path of the Griqua Great Trek into Nomansland. First let’s get our heads around the cycles of drought and flood in southern Africa. The pernicious climate. As Professor Mike Meadows of UCT’s Environmental Sciences Department observed back in 2002, South Africa’s climate has long danced to an unpredictable rhythm — one marked by dramatic shifts in both rainfall and its timing. Precipitation follows a kind of cycle, yes, but one that keeps its own secrets. Some years bring bounty, others drought, and the line between the two is often sharp and sudden. The climate, in short, plays favourites with no one — and when it comes to rain, it can be maddeningly capricious. So while the calendar may promise a rainy season, it rarely tells us how generous the skies will be. The patterns are there — but the quantities? That’s anyone’s guess. South Africa, after all, is a land of dryness. Over 90 percent of its surface falls under what scientists call “affected drylands” — a polite term for places where water is scarce and the margins are thin. The rest? Even drier. Hyper-arid zones, where the land holds its breath and waits. And by the mid-19th century, much of this land was beginning to fray under the strain — overgrazed, overworked, slowly giving way to the long creep of degradation. South Africa’s landscape is anything but simple. It’s rugged, sculpted by time, with steep slopes and a dramatic stretch from the tropics to the temperate zone. But the story of our climate doesn’t end on land. It’s shaped by a swirling conversation between oceans and continents — a conversation held over centuries by systems with lyrical names: the Mozambique Channel Trough, the Mascarene High, the Southern Annular Mode, and the twin dipoles of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. Then there’s the heavyweight — the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, or ENSO — which has long held sway over our rainfall and drought cycles. The dry was one of the motivations for another Great Trek about to take place. The Griqua’s who’d been living in the transOrangia since the late 1700s began to question their position in the world. With the Boers now controlling the Free State, and Moshoeshoe powerful in Lesotho, it was time to assess their options. In 1861, the Griqua joined the list of mass migrations of the 19th Century. There had been the effect of the Mfecane, then the Voortrekkers, and now, the Griqua. Two thousand people left Philippolis to establish themselves in Nomansland, far to the east, past Moshoeshoe’s land over the Drakensberg. The reason why historians like Cambridge’s Robert Ross call it spectacular was the road that the Griqua cut for themselves across the high ridges of the mountains, a remarkable feat of engineering for the time.