Bechuanaland: Back from Banishment

One of the most publicized and embarrassing blots on Britain’s colonial record was the government’s highhanded treatment of Seretse Khama, 39, who is hereditary chief of the Bamangwato tribe in the arid, sparsely settled British protectorate of Bechuanaland. Twelve years ago, when Seretse was a law student in London, he met and married a blonde clerk named Ruth Williams. In the resulting uproar, the British government peremptorily banished Seretse from Bechuanaland in an attempt to appease the outraged segregationists in neighboring South Africa. “A disreputable transaction,” growled Winston Churchill at the time. But Seretse stayed banished for six years, the Bamangwato rumbled their discontent, and Nicholas Monsarrat based a novel on the story (The Tribe That Lost Its Head). Only by renouncing all claims to the chieftaincy did Seretse finally get permission to return home with his bride in 1956.

White Mother. But the primitive Bamangwato, whatever the British said, persisted in recognizing Seretse as leader—especially after his homecoming was greeted by a pula, or downpour, greatest good omen in thirsty Bechuanaland. The tribesmen revered their white queen as Mihuma-Kghadi, “Mother of Us All.” And surprisingly, Ruth made fast friends among Bechuanaland’s 3,000 Europeans, who only a few years ago could not have conceived of condoning a black-white marriage. Seretse stayed busy looking after his herds of 25,000 cattle and his growing family (three boys and one girl). Last week, as Britain started Bechuanaland on the road to self-government, the man the British banished was on the road back to power. Seretse took office as a member of the 35-man Legislative Council that will run Bechuanaland, subject to British veto, and was appointed to the ten-man Executive Council that will function as a Cabinet.

British High Commissioner Sir John Maud turned up for the ceremony in a gold-encrusted black uniform and a cockade hat with white ostrich plumes. Before the stucco High Court Building in the temporary capital of Lobatsi, the chiefs of the Bangwaketsi and Bakgatla tribes strutted in black trousers and scarlet tunics given to their grandfathers by Queen Victoria. All eyes were on Seretse as he swore to bear “true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs and successors.” His wife Ruth, whose blonde hair still fascinates the Bamangwato, was smartly turned out in a black silk suit. She had to blink back a tear.

No Bother. Seretse, who got twice as many votes as any other African elected to the legislature is obviously the most powerful politician around and destined to become Prime Minister a few years hence, as the British, bit by bit, relinquish their control. Obviously, also, he is one of Africa’s soundest emerging leaders. “He understands things like town planning, mining, finance, improved agriculture and cattle breeding,” says a high British official. “He can talk about them sensibly and get things done.” Seretse has no use for the Nkrumah and Touré brand of nationalism (“Why import problems?”). He has long ago forgotten his quarrel with the British. “I never had any interest in being a chief, and I have none now,” said Seretse. “This democratic development is much better.” He is in no great hurry for independence because “that takes money. Political development here has been slow, but it’s been natural. There’s been no fuss and bother about it. As we learn, we’ll move forward.”

The South Africans, who talked angrily of marching on Bechuanaland when the marriage was consummated twelve years ago, could only swallow hard. Relations between Bechuanaland’s 325,000 blacks and 3,000 whites are splendid, and Seretse’s goal is to set “a practical example of racial partnership in Africa.” “Queen Ruth,” as she is known to Seretse’s loyal followers, is a poised and trim leader of Bechuanaland society (much to the dismay of a few dumpy Afrikaner housewives). And her daughter Jacqueline, though a mulatto, bears the honorary title “the Princess of the Golden Hair.” It was hard to imagine, twelve years after, what the fuss had been all about.