Louis Botha and the first government of the Union of South Africa

When Louis Botha formed the first government of the Union of South Africa in 1910, it was less of a grand birth of democracy and more like an awkward family reunion where no one wanted to talk about the past. The British were still licking their imperial wounds after the Boer War, the Afrikaners were trying to pretend they’d won something, and the Black majority were politely told to wait outside. Botha, with his thick moustache and even thicker military credentials, took the reins and began steering the freshly united nation into the 20th century with all the grace of a general suddenly asked to host a tea party.

Botha wasn’t just South Africa’s first Prime Minister. He was also its first political shape-shifter. One day, he’d be schmoozing with British aristocrats, the next he’d be back-slapping his Boer buddies who still smelled faintly of gunpowder and horse. It takes a special sort of man to fight an empire and then dine with its king.

Born in 1862 in Greytown, Natal—back when that sort of thing came with no paperwork and very few rights—Botha grew up in the tumultuous stew of colonial South Africa. His rise to power wasn’t exactly smooth. He became famous during the Second Boer War as a brilliant commander, respected even by his enemies. Winston Churchill, who somehow popped up in every colonial war of the time like a moustachioed Forrest Gump, admired Botha’s tactical genius. Though not enough to give him a break, obviously.

By 1907, Botha was already Prime Minister of the Transvaal Colony. That job, however, was just a warm-up act. The real show began in 1910 when the British thought, hey, let’s unite four angry colonies into one country and see what happens. The Union of South Africa was born, complete with a shiny new Parliament and a constitution written without too much fuss about what anyone who wasn’t white might think.

Botha’s cabinet was a who’s who of former Boer fighters and newly suited-up English sympathisers, which made for awkward cabinet meetings. Imagine ex-guerrilla fighters in tailored waistcoats trying to work out railway tariffs and postal services while pretending they hadn’t spent the previous decade shooting at each other.

While he was officially the first Prime Minister, Botha often acted more like a fixer than a leader. He played referee between bitter factions, brokered deals that left everyone slightly disgruntled, and tried to keep the British happy without completely alienating his fellow Afrikaners. It’s a miracle he didn’t combust from the diplomatic gymnastics.

In 1914, South Africa faced its own mini-crisis. The outbreak of World War I made things awkward for a country that had just barely stopped fighting the British. Many Afrikaners were, shall we say, not thrilled about fighting for the Crown that had scorched their farms a decade earlier. Cue the Maritz Rebellion—a brief, messy uprising of discontented Boers who fancied taking another swing at the Empire. Botha, wearing both the general’s boots and the prime minister’s top hat, crushed the rebellion with an efficiency that was both impressive and mildly terrifying.

Then, just to prove his loyalty to the Crown, Botha sent South African troops to invade German South West Africa (now Namibia). It was one of the few military campaigns in WWI that didn’t end in mass trench-foot and psychological despair. Victory was swift. Botha himself commanded the campaign, because clearly he didn’t have enough on his to-do list.

Despite his military brilliance, Botha wasn’t all grit and guns. He tried—awkwardly and inconsistently—to push for racial moderation. Emphasis on the “tried.” His government introduced the Native Land Act of 1913, which politely informed Black South Africans that 93% of the land was now off-limits. It set the stage for decades of institutionalised inequality, so thanks for that, Louis.

Botha didn’t exactly thrive in Parliament. He preferred action over oration, and when he did speak, it was often with a gruffness that made the chamber feel more like a barracks. He also struggled to keep everyone in line. The English speakers thought he was too Boer. The Boers thought he was too English. The rest of the country, particularly those without the right to vote, thought they weren’t invited to the party at all.

His relationship with Jan Smuts—his deputy, brainiac, and sometimes frenemy—was a fascinating political bromance. Smuts was the philosopher-warrior-lawyer to Botha’s straightforward, boots-on-the-ground soldier. They complemented each other in that odd-couple way that makes biographers rub their hands with glee. Smuts would eventually take over when Botha passed away in 1919, but not before the two of them had helped shape the country’s early years with a strange cocktail of idealism, pragmatism, and political caffeine.

Botha wasn’t a man for showy speeches or elaborate policies. He believed in unity, even if it meant glossing over a few burning issues. His idea of national harmony was mostly about keeping the white folks from tearing each other apart. The rest—well, that would be dealt with later. Much later. And by dealt with, we mean legally ignored for the better part of a century.

He was also something of an economic realist. Botha pushed for industrial growth, better railways, and infrastructure to bind the country together. But money was tight, and he had to balance the books without angering London, his own parliament, or the ghost of Paul Kruger.

Despite his military background, Louis Botha actually disdained unnecessary violence. He preferred negotiation, though he was never afraid to throw on the old uniform if things got hairy. His handling of the 1914 rebellion showed that he knew when to use the olive branch and when to reach for the rifle.

In a bizarre twist, Botha once tried to resign after being criticised in Parliament. It was one of those dramatic political tantrums that leaders sometimes pull. King George V refused to accept the resignation, probably with a sigh and a reminder that grown-ups don’t quit over mean words.

His legacy is a mixed bag of admiration and awkwardness. Some see him as the founding father of modern South Africa, a man who held the country together with string and sheer willpower. Others view him as a transitional figure who failed to challenge the underlying injustices of his time.

By the time he died in 1919, Louis Botha had aged beyond his years. His health declined sharply after the war, and he died of heart failure at 56—exhausted, overworked, and probably relieved he didn’t have to wrangle any more rebels or budgets.

His widow, Annie Botha, was a strong character in her own right. She helped establish women’s causes and resisted the idea of a life spent only in her husband’s shadow. She would outlive him by nearly three decades.

Today, Louis Botha statues are dotted across South Africa like giant, bronze reminders of a complicated man. Some have been defaced or debated, because history, as always, has the annoying habit of being more complex than a plaque allows. His name is stitched into the fabric of streets, schools, and military bases, though modern South Africa remembers him with more nuance than reverence.

Curiously, Botha was offered a peerage by the British Crown, which he politely declined. Being a Baron might’ve sounded fancy, but he preferred being the plain old PM of a land constantly at war with itself.

He also supported the formation of the League of Nations, a noble but naive attempt to stop global conflict. It was like putting a Band-Aid on a cannon, but Louis Botha was idealistic enough to hope it might work.

One of the more charming footnotes in his life: he loved horses. Even as a Prime Minister, he would sometimes ride out like the old days, swapping policy papers for reins. It was probably the one moment he felt truly free.

For all his contradictions, Louis Botha remains one of South Africa’s most intriguing early leaders—a war hero who tried to be a peacemaker, a unifier who left half the country out of the conversation, and a man whose moustache probably had its own postcode.