The Shortest War in History

Of all the headlines that could have appeared in the late Victorian papers, one might have hoped for a rousing, full-day affair if the word “war” was involved. Cannons thundering through the morning mist, cavalry galloping heroically through muddy streets, telegrams flying across the seas at breakneck Morse speed, maps being furiously unrolled in smoky offices filled with mutton-chopped gentlemen, and brass buttons gleaming in the filtered light of empire. But no. On the 27th of August 1896, Britain and Zanzibar engaged in what is officially recorded as the shortest war in history. It lasted just 38 minutes. That’s right – less time than it takes to overthink a text message, boil a pot of rice, or wait for a Victoria sponge to rise. The Anglo-Zanzibar War, as it was grandly named, was less a battle and more a spectacularly overpowered slap with the full weight of the empire behind it.

Let’s set the kettle on and rewind to the scene. Zanzibar, a lush and strategically tantalising island off the coast of what is now Tanzania, had been shuffled around between European powers like a slightly exotic collectible that nobody really understood but everyone insisted on displaying in the imperial parlour. At the time, Britain held the upper hand, thanks to a “protectorate” agreement that was essentially imperial-speak for “We’ll call the shots, thank you very much, and kindly stand over there while we do it.” The reigning Sultan, Hamad bin Thuwaini, was reasonably cosy with the British, which in those days translated to a steady supply of influence, polite nodding, the occasional gift, and a general agreement not to rock the boat as long as the Union Jack flapped politely in the coastal breeze.

But death, that most untimely of plot devices, had other plans. When Hamad unexpectedly kicked the proverbial bucket (cause of death: officially unknown, unofficially steeped in suspicion and whispered poisonings), his cousin Khalid bin Barghash decided that what the situation really needed was a good old-fashioned palace coup. Within mere hours – and possibly before the poor man’s robes had even been folded – Khalid had seized the palace and declared himself Sultan. Before the tea had even cooled. It was an act of opportunism so swift it could have been choreographed, and one that immediately raised the blood pressure of every British official within shouting distance.

Now, the British weren’t having any of it. Protocol, you see, dictated that the Sultan must be approved by the British consul, and Khalid had about as much approval as a toddler holding a lit firework in a porcelain museum. The consul on duty, a man magnificently named Basil Cave – yes, really, and no, he was not a Bond villain, though he may as well have been – was most thoroughly unimpressed. He issued a formal demand for Khalid to vacate the palace, posthaste.

Cave handed over an ultimatum that was as British as they come: get out by 9am the next morning, or prepare to be unceremoniously evicted via naval bombardment. Khalid, evidently underestimating the British fondness for punctual retribution and their unmatched flair for deploying military might with bureaucratic precision, decided to dig in. He barricaded himself in the palace with a ragtag force of 2,800 men, a few creaky cannons, and the pride of his little navy – a royal yacht named the Glasgow. Yes, he brought a yacht to a gunfight. Truly charming.

Meanwhile, the British responded with their usual subtlety – by amassing three warships: HMS St George, HMS Philomel, and HMS Racoon. These floated into Zanzibar’s harbour like a steel omen, bristling with firepower, attitude, and men who had clearly missed their morning tea. They came equipped with marines, machine guns, field artillery, and the unmistakable air of a school headmaster who’s been told someone’s been cheeky. Local British officials probably didn’t even get to finish their eggs before the cannons were prepped, the battle plans dusted off, and a polite final note dispatched.

At precisely 9:02am on 27 August, after it became clear that Khalid was not planning on vacating the premises nor offering so much as a tray of biscuits, the British opened fire. The palace, a charming blend of coral stone, ambition, and architectural optimism, began to collapse in great choking clouds of dust and disbelief. The yacht attempted to fire back, achieving nothing more than drawing attention to itself before being swiftly and dramatically sunk.

What followed was not so much a battle as a demonstration. British shells tore through the palace, and within a matter of minutes, the defenders were either incapacitated or making very urgent decisions about career changes. Khalid, seeing which way the wind was blowing (and possibly smelling the gunpowder), slipped out the back and sought asylum in the German consulate, leaving behind chaos, smoke, and what remained of his suddenly truncated reign.

By 9:40am, it was done. Khalid was gone. The palace was mostly rubble. The Zanzibari forces had suffered somewhere around 500 casualties, a grim figure considering the brevity of the engagement. The British had one minor injury: a sailor with a small wound, reportedly not even worth missing lunch over. And just like that, the shortest war in history came to an unceremonious end. It was a rout. A one-sided drubbing. A showdown in name only.

Khalid, not content to end the day entirely in disgrace, decided to hide out in the German consulate for several days. The British, understandably irate, demanded he be handed over. The Germans, masters of diplomatic sidestepping, politely declined. Eventually, under the cover of darkness and a fair bit of cloak-and-dagger nonsense, Khalid was smuggled onto the SMS Seeadler and whisked away to the safety of German East Africa. He would later settle in Mombasa, where he lived a quiet, rather uneventful life and died in 1927, no longer much of a threat to anyone except perhaps historians trying to make sense of him.

The whole episode reads like a Monty Python sketch with a slightly higher body count. It was an unapologetic show of force, an imperial tantrum played out with shells and smoke. The shortest war in history wasn’t born of strategy or ideology; it was born of ego, symbolism, and an unflinching belief in imperial efficiency. And, crucially, it happened before most people had even finished buttering their toast.

Imagine the absurdity of it all. Picture the citizens of Zanzibar, still groggy from sleep, hearing the first booms echo across the harbour. One minute you’re wondering whether the fish market has any decent catch today, the next the royal palace is a crater and there’s a new Sultan being ushered in by men in stiff uniforms. If you blinked – or simply went to the loo – you might have missed it entirely.

Today, the 38-minute war sits in the back pages of history, an oddity too brief for grand narratives and too surreal for serious textbooks. It’s not taught widely, not celebrated, barely even remembered outside of trivia nights and niche history podcasts. And yet, it tells us so much about the era – about arrogance, about might, about the sort of stiff-lipped diplomacy that could level a city block before lunch.

Zanzibar remained under British control until 1963. The palace was never rebuilt. Instead, its ruins became part of the fabric of memory, a curious scar left behind by a war too fast to properly mourn. Khalid faded into history, a name in the margins. The British? They returned to their routine, proud and punctual as ever.

So next time you set your timer for a proper cup of tea, spare a thought for Zanzibar. For Basil Cave, peering at his watch while cannons roared. For Khalid, fleeing barefoot into diplomatic protection. For an island that, for just 38 minutes, became the very centre of imperial absurdity. And for the enduring legacy of a war that was over before most people had finished pouring the milk.