History of South Africa podcast

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.

This is episode 223, the calliper and the lens Gustav Fritsch in the southern Light. A very quick thank you to Professor Johan Fourie at Stellenbosch Department of Economics who invited me to be part of a workshop about improving the visibility of economic history. What an amazing experience. This episode of our series is following on from 1863, into 1864, where the movement of people became as demographic phenomenon — driven by economics and innovations. Let’s swing our attention to Robben Island, it’s a warm morning in November 1863 and a bearded German arrived armed with various photographic apparatus and guns, he was on an expedition. German tourists can be found on Robben Island these days, but they don’t carry guns and their cameras are Canons. Gustav Fritsch had arrived with many other accoutrements - because he was on a scientific mission. He was an anthropologist, and part of a curious genre now largely forgotten — the “racial type” photographer — men who believed the camera could capture the science of human difference, stamping evolution’s hierarchy onto paper. In their lens, the body became data. A century and a half later, modern influencers use images to shape a kind of social order — their self-curated faces, botox-bright and algorithm-approved offer a new kind of taxonomy, no less performative, and perhaps no less pseudoscientific. So as our friend Gustav Fritsch set up his apparatus and guns, there on the windy but warm Robben Island of November 1863, he became part of what would be the field of criminology and .. eugenics. In this period, the use of photography was part of a privileged administrative practice, part of medical anatomy, anthropology, psychiatry, part of the professionalised emerging social sciences, tying in public health, urban planning, sanitation. It was at this point that the two divergencies in the science began to take shape, one was honorific, honouring the differences, noting the diversity, exciting the senses with these truly stunning pictures of South Africans in 1863, versus the other, the repressive, the oppressive. Stamping people with their racial characteristics. Unlike today, each picture took at least 20 seconds to complete. Imagine asking your contemporary subject to sit dead still for 20 seconds while you point your iPhone at their noggin. 20 seconds is longer than an entire TikTok video that explains the meaning of life. But there is not doubt, that the most remarkable thing about Fritsch’s photos were the diversity. He photographed many chiefs and their families, capturing African nobility at the time. His image of amaThemba chief Stokwe ka-Ndlela is slightly blurred, Stokwe refused to sit still. Other images of the incarcerated on Robben Island are historic, folkloric and well, just stunning. These include Xoxo on of Ngqika, brother of Sandile, Siyolo kaMdushane, one of the Gcaleka chiefs, Dilima, son of Phato of the Gqunukhwebe. This strange German was doing South African history a favour, recording the regal faces of amaXhosa royalty for posterity. After Robben Island, Gustav Fritsch and his apparatus rolled along in an oxwagon to Cathcart in the eastern Cape where he took more photos of Anta kaNgqika the 3rd paramount chief of the amaRharhabe, whereupon Fritsch continued to Stutterheim, where he set up his stool and massive tripod and took remarkable photos of Sandile kaNgqika.Not satisfied, this 19th century paparazzi, this collector of images set off northwards to Bechuanaland. He photographed Bakwena chief Sechele I a Motswasele or "Rra Mokonopi" as well as his son Sibelo. Bamagwatho chief Kama was next, grand old man of Botswana. The ancestor of the famous Khama family of the twentieth century. And while Gustav Fritsch wandered the veld with his camera and his paraphernalia, convinced he was capturing some scientific truth, the people he encountered were being absorbed into a global archive — not as individuals, but as specimens, artefacts.