AMONG THE YAOS
CHINGULUNGULU, August 20, 1906.
The greatest service Matola has hitherto rendered me is the arrangement
of a few evening meetings with the women of his village, whom he has at
last succeeded in inducing to venture into the lion’s den. Knudsen and I
have just finished our frugal evening meal, and Knudsen is as usual
chatting with his friend Daudi (David), the native preacher, while I am
seated at my table, working up my notes for the day. Daudi belongs to
the Universities’ Mission, was educated at Zanzibar, and prefers
speaking English to me. There is not much to be got of him from my point
of view, as his ideas have been greatly modified by Christianity.
To-night the east wind, which on other occasions has threatened, in
spite of all precautions, to put out our lamp, is not blowing, for a
wonder; and the “Tippelskirch” sheds its rays undisturbed on our novel
surroundings. My cigar, also, has an excellent flavour; and everything
breathes comfort and satisfaction, when, approaching almost inaudibly
over the loose sandy soil on which even our thick European boots make
little or no noise, Matola appears and takes his seat on his accustomed
box. He is followed by some thirty women and girls, most of them with
babies on their backs, the majority of whom are peacefully asleep,
though some keep gasping and groaning, within the supporting cloth. The
whole company squats down on the floor between us, closely huddled
together. I get Knudsen, who speaks Yao fluently though not
grammatically, to explain what I want, viz., songs and stories—and then
wait to see what will happen. For some time nothing happens—except that
a half-grown boy, who has slipped in with the rest, begins to relate a
long fable; but he speaks so quickly that it is impossible to follow
him. Of course he cannot dictate his story slowly enough for me to take
it down. This is a very common experience—the people sing and speak into
the phonograph with enviable readiness, but are helplessly perplexed
when asked to dictate the words slowly. Indeed this could hardly be
expected of them. We decide to reserve the boy for another opportunity
and once more there is silence. Then arises, first very shyly, but soon
gaining confidence and volume, a woman’s clear voice. Presently the
chorus joins in, and alternates with the solo in regular turns for a
considerable time:—
Chakalakāle, mwāna jua Kundúngu, mwắnja kwa tāti, “Anānyile litála kwa
tati Kunampūye.” Nikwā́ola ku litīmbe, kuwalimāgắ Chenampūye. Newáije
ku mūsi kwa atati wao. Nigómbaga uti nekugawíraga musi.
Nekutamăgá.[26]
The meaning of this is:—
“Chakalakale, a child of God, went away to his father. Show me the way
to my father’s—to Kunampuye. He went to the river-bed where Chenampuye
was hoeing. He came to the village to his father. Then there were guns
fired and a village was assigned him to live in. And he lived at home.”
So far all has gone smoothly ... the song has come to an end. Matola,
Daudi, Knudsen and I have with no little trouble established the
authentic text, and the translation has been satisfactorily
accomplished; but unfortunately I have to relinquish the idea of getting
a phonographic record of the not unpleasing air. After my last failures
at Lindi, due to the heat, which softened the recording cylinders, I
tried my luck later on at Masasi, but the results there were with hardly
any exceptions quite unsatisfactory. The softness of the cylinder is no
disadvantage in recording, on the contrary, it enables the needle to
make a deeper impression, but the impossibility of reproduction makes it
difficult to check the text when afterwards dictated.
There is not much to remark about the foregoing song. I was at first
doubtful of the rendering given of _mwana jua kundungu_, but Matola and
Daudi both insisted on explaining it as “a child of God.” What is
understood by that expression here it is impossible to say; perhaps it
denotes a rebel, as further north, in Usagara and Ukami, and on the
Rufiji, the leaders of the Majimaji have in fact assumed a title of
somewhat the same import. The prefix _ku_ in the name Kunampuye is the
same as _che_—both are about equivalent to “Mr.” or “Mrs.”
[Illustration: TWO MAKUA MOTHERS]
At last we have finished writing down and translating the text. The
mothers have watched us in complete silence—not so the babies, who all
seem to suffer from colds, and breathe noisily in consequence. The
assertions made in so many works on Africa, as to the happiness of the
native in early childhood, do not stand the test of reality. As soon as
the mother gets up after her confinement, which she does very soon, the
infant is put into the cloth which she ties on her back. There it stays
all day long, whether the mother is having her short woolly hair dressed
by a friend, enjoying a gossip at the well, hoeing, weeding, or reaping
in the burning sun. When she stands for hours together, pounding corn in
the mortar, the baby jogs up and down with the rhythmic motion of her
arms, and when she is kneeling before the millstone grinding the meal
into fine white flour, or squatting by the hearth in the evening, the
rosy morsel of humanity never leaves its close and warm, but not
altogether hygienic nest. The rosiness does not last long. No provision
in the way of napkins being made, the skin soon becomes chapped and deep
cracks are formed, especially at the joints, and the terrible African
flies lay their eggs on the eyelids of the unfortunate little ones,
neither father nor mother ever raising a hand to drive them away—they
never dream of making this effort for their own benefit! No wonder that
the little eyes, which in the case of our own children we are accustomed
to think of as the most wonderful and beautiful thing in organic nature,
should be bleared and dim. Fungoid ulcers (the result of “thrush”) are
seen protruding in bluish white masses from nose and mouth. The
universal colds are the consequence of the great difference of
temperature between day and night. The parents can protect themselves by
means of the fire and their mats; the child gets wet, is left lying
untouched and uncared for, becomes chilled through, and of course
catches cold. Hence the general coughing and sniffing in our
_baraza_.[27]
[Illustration: A FRIENDLY CHAT]
The women having noticed that the first number on the programme is
finished, the same solo voice as before begins once more, softly and not
unmelodiously. “_Seletu, seletu, songo katole, tung’ande songo katole._”
This song, too, alternates between solo and chorus, like the previous
one. I already know enough Yao to translate the two words, _songo
katole_; their meaning, “Bring the _songo_” (snake) makes me curious as
to that of the rest. And rightly so, for how anyone can invite a person
to bring up this, the most poisonous reptile in East Africa, whose bite
is instantly fatal, is at present a mystery. I restrain my curiosity,
however, till I have heard the next song, which might be considered as
merely a continuation of the first, as the air is the same, and the only
difference is the introduction of another animal—the lion. The words are
as follows:—
SOLO: Seletu seletu, simba katole.
CHORUS: Seletu seletu, simba katole.
SOLO: Seletu seletu, simba okoto.
CHORUS: Seletu seletu, simba okoto.
I have a good ear, but unfortunately have had no musical training
whatever, and have never regretted this so much as I do now, here in the
interior of Africa, especially now that my phonograph is _hors de
combat_. This would not have mattered so much, had I been able to enter
the simple melody at once in my note-book, but, as it is, I shall have
to dispense with a record altogether. In both these songs the line sung
by the solo performer is repeated by the whole chorus, and this
alternation goes on for an indefinite time, till the performers are
tired out.
In both cases, the words when translated are simple enough:
(1) _Seletu_, _seletu_, the _songo_ snake, bring it here and let us
play, bring it here, the _songo_ snake.
(2) _Seletu_, _seletu_, the lion, bring him here—_seletu_, _seletu_,
the lion is beautiful.
That is all. I think the admiration here expressed for two creatures
very dangerous to the natives is to be explained as a kind of _captatio
benevolentiæ_ rather than as the outcome of any feeling for nature or of
artistic delight in the bright colours of the serpent or the powerful
frame of the lion. Both children and grown-up people are more concerned
about the _songo_ than about any other creature; it is said to live
among the rocks, to have a comb like a cock and to produce sounds by
which it entices its prey.[28] It darts down like lightning on its
victim from a tree overhanging the path, strikes him on the neck, and he
falls down dead. The natives have described the whole scene to me over
and over again with the most expressive pantomime. It is quite
comprehensible that this snake should be feared beyond everything, and,
considering similar phenomena in other parts of the world, it seems
quite natural that they should try to propitiate this terrible enemy by
singing his praises as being eminently fitted to take part in the dance.
Precisely the same may be said of the lion.
Now things become more lively. “_Chindawi!_” cries one, to be rendered
approximately by “I’ll tell you something!”[29] and another answers
“_Ajise!_” (“Let it come.”) The first speaker now says, “_Aju, aji_,”
and passes her right hand in quick, bold curves through the air. I do
not know what to make of the whole proceeding, nor the meaning of the
answer, “_Kyuwilili_,” from the other side. The dumb shyness which at
first characterized the women has now yielded to a mild hilarity not
diminished by my perplexed looks. At last comes the solution, “_Aju,
aji_,” merely means “this and that,”[30] and the passes of the hand are
supposed to be made under a vertical sun when the shadow would pass as
swiftly and silently over the ground as the hand itself does through the
air. _Kyuwilili_ (the shadow), then, is the answer to this very
primitive African riddle.
“Chindawi!”—“Ajise!”—the game goes on afresh, and the question is, this
time, “_Gojo gojo kakuungwa?_” (“What rattles in its house?”) I find the
answer to this far less recondite than the first one—“_Mbelemende_” (the
_bazi_ pea), which of course is thought of as still in the pod growing
on a shrub resembling our privet. The ripe seeds, in fact, produce a
rattling noise in the fresh morning breeze.
But for the third time “Chindawi!”—“Ajise!” rings out, and this time the
problem set is “_Achiwanangu kulingana_.” I am quite helpless, but
Matola with his usual vivacity, springs into the circle, stoops down and
points with outstretched hands to his knees, while a murmur of applause
greets him. “My children are of equal size” is the enigma; its
unexpected solution is, “_Malungo_” (the knees). We Europeans, with our
coldly-calculating intellect, have long ago lost the enviable faculty of
early childhood, which enabled us to personify a part as if it were the
whole. A happy fate allows the African to keep it even in extreme old
age.
By this time nothing more surprises me. A fourth woman’s voice chimes in
with “_Ambuje ajigele utandi_” (“My master brings meal”). The whole
circle of faces is turned as one on the European, who once more can do
nothing but murmur an embarrassed “_Sijui_” (“I do not know”). The
answer, triumphantly shouted at me—“_Uuli!_” (“White hair!”)—is, in
fact, to our way of thinking so far-fetched that I should never have
guessed it. Perhaps this riddle may have been suggested by the fact that
an old white-headed native does in fact look as if his head had been
powdered with flour.[31]
Now comes the last number of a programme quite full enough even for a
blasé inquirer.
“_Chindawi!_”—“_Ajise!_” is heard for the last time. “_Pita kupite akuno
tusimane apa!_”[32] The excitement in which everyone gazes at me is if
possible greater than before; they are evidently enjoying the feeling of
their superiority over the white man, who understands nothing of what is
going on. But this time their excess of zeal betrayed them—their
gestures showed me clearly what their language concealed, for all went
through the movement of clasping a girdle with both hands. “_Lupundu_”
(a girdle) is accordingly the answer to this riddle, which in its very
cadence when translated,—“Goes round to the left, goes round to the
right, and meets in the middle”—recalls that of similar nursery riddles
at home, _e.g._, the well-known “Long legs, crooked thighs, little head,
and no eyes.”
Matola himself came forward with an “extra” by way of winding up the
evening. His contribution runs thus:—“_Chikalakasa goje kung’anda,
kung’anda yekwete umbo_,” which is, being interpreted, “Skulls do not
play” (or “dance”); “they only play who have hair (on their heads).”
The difficult work of the translator is always in this country
accompanied by that of the commentator, so that it does not take long to
arrive at the fact that this sentence might be regarded as a free
version of “Gather ye roses while ye may,” or “A living dog is better
than a dead lion.” I, too, turning to Matola and Daudi, say solemnly,
“_Chikalakasa goje kung’anda, kung’anda yekwete umbo_” and then call out
to Moritz, “_Bilauri nne za pombe_” (“A glass of beer for each of us”).
The drab liquor is already bubbling in our drinking vessels—two glasses
and two tin mugs. “_Skål_, Mr. Knudsen”; “_Prosit_, Professor”—the two
natives silently bow their heads. With heartfelt delight we let the cool
fluid run down our thirsty throats. “_Kung’anda yekwete umbo_” (“They
only play who have hair on their heads”).... Silently and almost
imperceptibly the dark figures of the women have slipped away, with a
“_Kwa heri, Bwana!_” Matola and Daudi are gone too, and I remain alone
with Knudsen.
Our manuals of ethnology give a terrible picture of the lot of woman
among primitive peoples. “Beast of burden” and “slave” are the epithets
continually applied to her. Happily the state of things is not so bad as
we might suppose from this; and, if we were to take the tribes of
Eastern Equatorial Africa as a sample of primitive peoples in general,
the picture would not, indeed, be reversed, but very considerably
modified. The fact is that the women are in no danger of killing
themselves with hard work—no one ever saw a native woman walking
quickly, and even the indispensable work of the home is done in such a
leisurely and easy-going way that many a German housewife might well
envy them the time they have to spare. Among the inland tribes, indeed,
the women have a somewhat harder time: the luxuries of the coast are not
to be had; children are more numerous and give more trouble;
and—greatest difference of all—there are no bazaars or shops like those
of the Indians, where one can buy everything as easily as in Europe. So
there is no help for it; wives and daughters must get to work by sunrise
at the mortar, the winnowing-basket, or the grinding-stones.
At six in the morning the European was tossing restlessly in his narrow
bed—tossing is perhaps scarcely the right expression, for in a narrow
trough like this such freedom of movement is only possible when broad
awake and to a person possessing some skill in gymnastics. The night had
brought scant refreshment. In the first place a small conflagration took
place just as I was going to bed. Kibwana, the stupid, clumsy fellow,
has broken off a good half of my last lamp-glass in cleaning it. It will
still burn, thanks to the brass screen which protects it from the wind,
but it gives out a tremendous heat. It must have been due to this
accident that at the moment when I had just slightly lifted the
mosquito-net to slip under it like lightning and cheat the unceasing
vigilance of the mosquitoes, I suddenly saw a bright light above and
behind me. I turned and succeeded in beating out the flames in about
three seconds, but this was long enough to burn a hole a foot square in
the front of the net. Kibwana will have to sew it up with a piece of
_sanda_, and in the meantime it can be closed with a couple of pins.
Tired out at last I sank on my bed, and dropped into an uneasy slumber.
It was perhaps two o’clock when I started up, confused and dazed with a
noise which made me wonder if the Indian Ocean had left its bed to flood
this plain as of old. The tent shook and the poles threatened to break;
all nature was in an uproar, and presently new sounds were heard through
the roaring of the storm—a many-voiced bellowing from the back of the
tent—shouts, cries and scolding from the direction of the prison, where
my soldiers were now awake and stumbling helplessly hither and thither
in the pitchy darkness round the _baraza_. A terrific roar arose close
beside my tent-wall. Had the plague of lions followed us here from
Masasi? Quick as thought I slipped out from under the curtain and felt
in the accustomed place for my match-box. It was not there, nor was it
to be found elsewhere in the tent. Giving up the search, I threw myself
into my khaki suit, shouting at the same time for the sentinel and thus
adding to the noise. But no sentinel appeared. I stepped out and, by the
light of the firebrands wielded by the soldiers, saw them engaged in a
struggle with a dense mass of great black beasts. These, however, proved
to be no lions, but Matola’s peaceful cattle. A calf had been taken away
from its mother two days before; she had kept up a most piteous lowing
ever since, and finally, during the uproar of the storm, broke out of
the kraal, the whole herd following her. The two bulls glared with
wildly-rolling eyes at the torches brandished in their faces, while the
younger animals bellowed in terror. At last we drove them back, and with
infinite trouble shut them once more into the kraal.
The white man in the tent has fallen asleep once more, and is dreaming.
The nocturnal skirmish with the cattle has suggested another sort of
fight with powder and shot against Songea’s hostile Wangoni. The shots
ring out on both sides at strangely regular intervals; suddenly they
cease. What does this mean? Is the enemy planning a flanking movement to
circumvent my small force? or is he creeping up noiselessly through the
high grass? I give the word of command, and spring forward, running my
nose against tin box No. 3, which serves as my war chest and therefore
has its abode inside the tent opposite my bed. My leap has unconsciously
delivered me from all imaginary dangers and brought me back to reality.
The platoon fire begins again—bang! bang! bang!—and in spite of the
confused state in which the events of the night have left my head, I am
forced to laugh aloud. The regular rifle-fire is the rhythmic pounding
of the pestles wielded by two Yao women in Matola’s compound, who are
preparing the daily supply of maize and millet meal for the chief’s
household.
I have often seen women and girls at this work, but to-day I feel as if
I ought to give special attention to these particular nymphs, having
already established a psychical _rapport_ with them. It does not take
long to dress, nor, when that is finished, to drink a huge cup of cocoa
and eat the usual omelette with bananas, and then, without loss of time
I make for the group of women, followed by my immediate bodyguard
carrying the camera and the cinematograph.
[Illustration: WOMAN POUNDING AT THE MORTAR. DRAWN BY SALIM MATOLA]
I find there are four women—two of them imperturbably pounding away with
the long, heavy pestle, which, however, no longer resembles cannon or
rifle fire, but makes more of a clapping sound. Matola explains that
there is now maize in the mortars, while in the early morning they had
been pounding _mtama_ and making the thundering noise which disturbed my
repose. This grain is husked dry, then winnowed, afterwards washed and
finally placed in a flat basket to dry in the sun for an hour and a
half. Not till this has been done can it be ground on the stone into
flour. Maize, on the other hand, is first husked by pounding in a wet
mortar, and then left to soak in water for three days. It is then washed
and pounded. The flour will keep if dried.
After a while the pounding ceases, the women draw long breaths and wipe
the perspiration from their faces and chests. It has been hard work,
and, performed as it is day by day, it brings about the disproportionate
development of the upper arm muscles which is so striking in the
otherwise slight figures of the native women. With a quick turn of the
hand, the third woman has now taken the pounded mass out of the mortar
and put it into a flat basket about two feet across. Then comes the
winnowing; stroke on stroke at intervals of ten and twenty seconds, the
hand with the basket describes a semicircle, open below—not with a
uniform motion, but in a series of jerks. Now one sees the husks
separating themselves from the grain, the purpose served by the mortar
becomes manifest, and I find that it has nothing to do with the
production of flour, but serves merely to get off the husk.
The winnowing is quickly done, and with a vigorous jerk the shining
grain flies into another basket. This is now seized by the fourth woman,
a plump young thing who has so far been squatting idly beside the
primitive mill of all mankind, the flat stone on which the first handful
of the grain is now laid. Now some life comes into her—the upper stone
passes crunching over the grains—the mass becomes whiter and finer with
each push, but the worker becomes visibly warm. After a time the first
instalment is ready, and glides slowly down, pushed in front of the
“runner” into the shallow bowl placed beneath the edge of the lower
stone. The woman draws breath, takes up a fresh handful and goes to work
again.
This preparation of flour is, as it was everywhere in ancient times, and
still is among the maize-eating Indians of America, the principal
occupation of the women. It is, on account of the primitive character of
the implements, certainly no easy task, but is not nearly so hard on
them as the field-work which, with us, falls to the lot of every
day-labourer’s wife, every country maid-servant, and the wives and
daughters of small farmers. I should like to see the African woman who
would do the work of one German harvest to the end without protesting
and running away.
[Illustration: NATIVE WOMEN PREPARING MEAL. (POUNDING, SIFTING,
GRINDING)]
The care of the household is not unduly onerous. The poor man’s wife in
our own country cannot indeed command a great variety of dishes, but her
housekeeping is magnificence itself compared with the eternal monotony
of native cooking—millet-porridge to-day, maize-porridge to-morrow, and
manioc-porridge the day after, and then _da capo_. It may be admitted
that the preparation of this article of diet is perhaps not so simple as
it seems. I might suggest a comparison with the Thuringen dumpling,
which takes the inspiration of genius to prepare faultlessly—but surely
the most stupid negress must some time or other arrive at the secret of
making _ugali_ properly. Knudsen, in his enthusiasm for everything
genuinely African, eats the stuff with intense relish—to me it always
tastes like a piece of linen just out of the suds. The operation is
simple enough in principle—you bring a large pot of water to the boil
and gradually drop in the necessary meal, stirring all the time. The
right consistency is reached when the whole contents of the pot have
thickened to a glassy, translucent mass. If a European dish is wanted
for comparison, we need only recall the polenta of Northern Italy, which
is prepared in a similar way, and tastes very much the same.
I am glad to say that my own cook’s performances go far beyond those of
the local housewives, though his ability—and still more, unfortunately,
his willingness—leave much to be desired. Omari’s very appearance is
unique—a pair of tiny, short legs, ending in a kind of ducks’ feet,
support a disproportionately long _torso_, with a head which seems as if
it would never end at all; the man, if we may speak hyperbolically, is
all occiput. He is a Bondei from the north of the colony, but of course
calls himself a Swahili; all the back-country Washenzi do, once they
have come in contact with the Coast civilization which is so dazzling in
their eyes. Omari is the only married man among my three servants; he
says that he has four children, and speaks of his wife with evident awe.
She did not, indeed, let him go till he had provided liberally for her
support, _i.e._, induced me to open an account of seven rupees a month
for her with the firm who do my business at Dar es Salam.
I have put my three blackamoors into uniform khaki suits, whereupon all
three have appointed themselves corporals of the Field Force, by
persuading the tailor to sew a chevron in black, white and red on their
left sleeve. They are inexpressibly proud of this distinction, but their
virtues, unfortunately, have not kept pace with their advancement. At
Masasi I had to begin by applying a few tremendous cuffs to stimulate
Omari’s energy. This corrective has proved inefficient in the case of
the other two, as they will move for nothing short of the kiboko. If
each of the three had to be characterised by a single trait, I should
say that Omari is superstition personified; Moritz, crystallized
cunning; and Kibwana, a prodigy of stupidity; while a mania (which has
not yet entirely disappeared) for coming to me at every spare moment to
demand an advance, is common to all three. All three, of course, make
their exit in the same hurried manner. If in forming my ethnographical
collections I had to deal entirely with people like my cook, I should
not secure a single specimen. The fellow displays an amulet on his left
arm—a thin cord, with, apparently, a verse from the Koran sewn into it.
I remarked to him, in an off-hand way, “Just sell me that thing!” He
protested loudly that he could not and would not do so, for he would
infallibly die the moment it left his arm. Since then I have been in the
habit of amusing myself by now and then making him an offer for his
talisman; on each successive occasion he raises the same outcry. And as
for his drawing! At Lindi, he once brought me the map of his native
country, charted by himself on a piece of greasy paper. No one could
make head or tail of it, except perhaps the devil whose presentment he
brought me the following day, drawn on the reverse of the same piece of
paper. Omari’s Prince of Darkness has no less than four heads, but only
two arms and one leg—at least such is the verbal description he gives
me; his drawing, like his map, is an inextricable chaos of crooked
lines. My carriers are artists of quite another stamp. What spirit, for
instance, is shown in a drawing by Juma, usually the most phlegmatic of
mortals, intended to represent a troop of monkeys attacking a
plantation—his own _shamba_ in point of fact. But we shall have to come
back later on to the draughtsmanship of the natives.
[Illustration: MONKEYS ATTACKING A PLANTATION. DRAWN BY JUMA]
One provoking trick played me by my cook was connected with my supply of
coffee. I had brought two large tins with me from Dar es Salam, each
holding from six to eight pounds of the best Usambara quality, one
roasted, the other unroasted. According to all human calculations, one
tin should have lasted, even allowing the maximum strength to my midday
cup, at least several months, so that I was quite taken aback when my
_chef_ came to me in the middle of the fourth week with the laconic
announcement, “_Kahawa imekwisha_” (“The coffee is finished”). A strict
investigation followed. Omari insisted that he had used two spoonfuls a
day for me. I told Moritz to open the second tin and measure out with
the same spoon the quantity which, on his own showing, he should in the
worst case have consumed. This was done without appreciably diminishing
the quantity in the huge canister. Upon this I told him to his face that
he had used part of the coffee himself, and sold part of it to his
friends the soldiers. “_Hapana_” was his only answer. The only way to
escape this systematic robbery is by daily measuring out the necessary
quantity with one’s own hands, but this takes up far too much of the
time so urgently required for work. This necessity for ceaseless
supervision was proved to me, moreover, by another incident. Kibwana and
Moritz usually take it in turns to be on the sick list, and sometimes,
in fact, frequently, both are incapacitated at the same time, usually by
fever. Moritz, a few days ago, declared himself about to die—but not
here at Chingulungulu: dying is so much easier at Lindi. Nils Knudsen,
with his soft Viking heart, compassionated the poor boy to such a degree
that I was at last morally compelled to make use, although it was not
regulation time, of my clinical thermometer: my model medicine chest, I
may remark, only contains one of these useful instruments. The
patient—at the point of death—registered normal. Moritz, this time,
recovered with astonishing rapidity.
On another occasion, however, he was really ill, and I allowed him to
make himself a large jug of my cocoa in the morning. Full of
forebodings, I went across to the kitchen, at his breakfast-time, and
not only found him revelling in comfort, but also the whole of my party
being regaled by the cook in the most generous way with the contents of
one out of my eight tins. Can one be expected to refrain from using the
kiboko?
The local amusements not being carried on at my expense are decidedly
more enjoyable than the above. The beer-drinkings here take place, not,
as at Masasi, in the morning, but in the afternoon. Moritz must have a
_flair_ for festivities of this sort, since, whenever he acts as guide
in my afternoon strolls in search of knowledge, we are sure to come upon
a mighty company of tippling men, women, and children. The love for
strong drink seems thus to be pretty strongly developed, though there is
this year no special occasion to serve as an excuse for drinking at
Matola’s. The most prominent of such occasions here in the south is the
_unyago_, the ceremony of initiation into manhood and womanhood, of
which I have heard again and again, from men as well as from youths,
though so far I have not set eyes on the least trace of such an
arrangement. At present I do not even see the possibility of personally
witnessing the proceedings, which, by all one hears, seem to be
extremely complicated. I am determined, however, that it shall somehow
come to pass.
The reason why there is no _unyago_ this year at Chingulungulu lies in
the arrangement by which each village keeps the festival in
turn—probably on account of the expense, which is no trifle. Besides the
enormous quantity of _pombe_ drunk at the many dances, huge supplies of
provisions are required for the visitors who come far and near to attend
the celebration; and finally, calico has to be bought at the Coast, both
for the new garments in which the initiated are to appear after the
ceremony, and for the fees to their instructors, male and female. I have
no greater wish than to get a thorough insight into this custom of all
others, since, so far as I am acquainted with the literature relating to
Africa, this part of the sociological field is still almost if not
entirely untilled.
Meanwhile, the men amuse themselves and me in other ways. Even before I
left Masasi, I saw the people running together with the cry, “_Sulila
amekuja!_” (“Sulila has come!”), and a great crowd collected round a man
who was evidently a stranger. This man is, to begin with, remarkable for
the fact that, though stone blind, he wanders all over the southern part
of East Africa in perfect safety. It is true that he had a companion,
but this man, so far from being his guide, walked behind him, carrying
the bard’s professional paraphernalia. Sulila, who belongs to the Yao
tribe, is, in fact, a professional singer. He offered of his own accord
to give a performance for my benefit and had completed his preparations
in a twinkling. The implements of his craft are simple enough. He has
his band formed afresh on the spot when wanted: six or eight men come
forward, squat down in a square, each lays down before him a log
stripped of the bark and about as thick as one’s arm, takes a stick in
each hand and awaits the signal to begin. The master in the meantime has
adorned himself with the utmost splendour, attaching to his knees and
ankles sets of rattles which consist of hard-shelled fruits as large as
moderate-sized apples, strung on leather thongs. Round his waist he
wears a kilt composed of whole skins and strips of skins of various wild
animals—wild cats, monkeys, leopards—and, finally, his head is decorated
and his face shaded by the mane of a zebra or some large kind of
antelope, looking like a barbaric crown.
[Illustration: THE BLIND BARD SULILA OUTSIDE THE BOMA AT MASASI]
Sulila has taken his place in the centre of his band, holding his
stringed instrument in his left hand, and its bow in his right. This
instrument is a monochord with a cylindrical resonator cut out of a
solid block of wood, the string, twisted out of some hair from the tail
of one of the great indigenous mammals, is fastened to a round piece of
wood. Instead of rosin, he passes his tongue over the string of his bow,
which he then lifts and applies to the string, bringing out a plaintive
note, immediately followed by a terrible bellow from Sulila himself and
an ear-splitting noise from the “xylophones” of the band. Strictly
speaking, I am inclined to regret having come out on a scientific
mission: there is an inexpressible delight in seeing this strange artist
at work, and every diversion caused by the working of the apparatus
means a loss of enjoyment. Sulila is really working hard—without
intermission he coaxes out of his primitive instrument the few notes of
which it is capable, and which are low, and quite pleasing. Equally
incessant is his singing, which, however, is less pleasing, at least for
Europeans. His native audience seem to accept it as music _par
excellence_, for they are simply beside themselves with enthusiasm.
Sulila’s voice is harsh, but powerful; it is possible that its strength
to some extent depends on his blindness, as, like a deaf man, he is
unable to estimate the extent of the sound-waves he produces. He takes
his words at such a frantic pace that, though my ear is now somewhat
accustomed to the Yao language, I can scarcely distinguish one here and
there.
But the most charming of all Sulila’s accomplishments is the third, for
he not only plays and sings, but dances also. His dance begins with a
rhythmic swaying of the knees, keeping time to the notes of his fiddle,
while, with the characteristic uncertainty of the blind his face turns
from side to side. After a time the swaying becomes deeper and quicker,
the dancer begins to turn, slowly at first, and then more rapidly, at
last he revolves at a tearing speed on his axis. His bow tears along
likewise, his voice sets the neighbouring bush vibrating, the band
hammer away like madmen on their logs—it is a veritable pandemonium, and
the public is in raptures.
As already stated, I could not help secretly regretting the
impossibility of giving myself up unreservedly to the impression of
these performances, but the duty of research must always be the
predominant consideration. The hours spent over the camera,
cinematograph, and phonograph, involve more hard work than amusement.
This cannot be helped, but, if some of the results turn out
satisfactorily, as has fortunately happened in my case, all difficulties
and discomfort are abundantly compensated.
It is not easy to get phonographic records of the voice, even from
natives who can see. You place the singer in front of the apparatus, and
explain how he has to hold his head, and that he must sing right into
the centre of the funnel. “Do you understand?” you ask him on the
conclusion of the lecture. “_Ndio_” (“Yes”), he answers, as a matter of
course. Cautious, as one has to be, once for all, in Africa, you make a
trial by letting him sing without winding up the apparatus. The man is
still shy and sings too low, and has to be encouraged with a “_Kwimba
sana!_” (“Sing louder!”). After a second trial—sometimes a third and
fourth—the right pitch is found. I set the apparatus, give the signal
agreed on, and singer and machine start off together. For a time all
goes well—the man stands like a column. Then something disturbs his
balance. He turns his head uneasily from side to side, and there is just
time to disconnect the apparatus and begin instructions again from the
beginning. This is what usually happens; in many cases undoubtedly it
was vanity which induced the singer coquettishly to turn his head to
right and left, saying as plainly as words could have done, “See what a
fine fellow I am!”
With Sulila the case is much worse. He is so in the habit of moving his
head about that he cannot stop it when standing before the phonograph,
and the first records made of his voice are terribly metallic. With the
swift impulsiveness which distinguishes me, and which, though I have
often found cause to regret it, has repeatedly done me good service in
this country, I now make a practice of seizing the blind minstrel by the
scruff of the neck the moment he lifts up his leonine voice, and holding
his woolly head fast as in a vice, regardless of all his struggles; till
he has roared out his rhapsody to the end. Most of the songs I have
hitherto heard from Yao performers are of a martial character. Here is
one which Sulila sang into the phonograph at Masasi on July 24:—
Tulīmbe, achakulungwa! Wausyaga ngondo, nichichi? Watigi: Kunsulila(1)
kanapagwe. Jaiche ja Masito; u ti toakukwimi. Wa gwasite(?) Nambo
Wandachi pajaiche, kogopa kuona: msitu watiniche; mbamba syatiniche;
mbusi syatiniche; nguku syatiniche; kumala wandu putepute; nokodi
papopu; kupeleka mbia syakalume. Gakuūnda(?) Mtima wasupwiche: Ngawile
pesipo Luja. Kunsulila ngomba sim yaule kwa Bwana mkubwa: Nam(u)no
anduwedye atayeye mapesa gao. Sambano yo nonembesile.[32a]
The meaning of this is:—
“Let us be brave, we elders. They asked: What is a war? They say: ‘Mr.
Sulila is not yet born.’ Then comes (the war) of the Mazitu; guns are
fired; then they ran away. But the Germans came; it was dangerous to
see; the bush was burnt, the ants were burnt, the goats were burnt, the
fowls were burnt—the people were finished up altogether; the tax came up
(they had) to bring a hundred jars (of rupees). They were not satisfied.
(Their) heart was frightened. Mr. Sulila telegraphed to the District
Commissioner: ‘He may skin me to make a bag for his money.’ Now I am
tired.”
The tribes in the south-eastern part of our colony are very backward as
regards music; they have nothing that can be called tune, and their
execution never gets beyond a rapid recitative. In both respects, all of
them, Yaos, Makua and Wanyasa alike, are far behind my Wanyamwezi, who
excel in both. Only in one point the advantage rests with the southern
tribes—the words of their songs have some connected meaning, and even
occasional touches of dramatic force. This is remarkably illustrated by
Sulila’s song.
The Mazitu have made one of their usual raids on the unsuspecting
inhabitants of the Central Rovuma district. Which of the many sanguinary
raids on record is meant cannot be gathered from the words of the song,
it may be one of those which took place in the eighties and nineties, or
the recent rising—probably the latter, since, so far as I am aware,
there was never any question of taxes in the previous disturbances. In
this case, moreover, it is not so much a war-tax that is referred to, as
the payment of the hut-tax introduced some years ago, which has during
the last few months been paid in at Lindi with surprising willingness by
people who had been more or less openly disaffected. This may be looked
on as a direct consequence of the prompt and vigorous action taken by
the authorities.
The interference of the Germans marks a turning point in the fighting of
the natives among themselves. The feeling that more serious evils are
coming upon them is expressed in terms of their thought by speaking of
the destruction of all property. First the bush is burnt, and all the
ants in it destroyed, then comes the turn of the goats, which here in
the south are not very numerous, though the fowls, which are the next to
perish, are. Finally, many people are killed—Sulila in his ecstasy says
_all_. Now come the conditions of peace imposed by the victorious
Germans: a heavy tax in rupees, which must be paid whether they like it
or not. In the eyes of those immediately affected the sum assumes
gigantic proportions, they become uneasy and contemplate the step which,
here in the south may be said to be always in the air—that of escaping
the consequences of the war by an emigration _en masse_. Then appears
the hero and deliverer—no other than Sulila himself. In the
consciousness of his high calling, he, the poor blind man, proudly calls
himself “Mr. Sulila”[33] He sees his country already traversed by one of
the most wonderful inventions of the white strangers—the telegraph wire.
He telegraphs at once to the _Bwana mkubwa_, that his countrymen are
ready to submit unconditionally,—they have no thought of resistance, but
they have no money. And they are so terrified that the Bwana might if he
chose skin them to make a bag for the rupees—they would not think of
resisting. This is the end of the song proper—the last sentence, “Now I
am tired,” is a personal utterance on the part of the performer himself,
fatigued by the unwonted mental effort of dictation.
Here at Chingulungulu there are several such minstrels. The most famous
of them is Che Likoswe, “Mr. Rat,” who, at every appearance is greeted
with a universal murmur of applause. Salanga has a still more powerful
voice, but is so stupid that he has not yet succeeded in dictating the
words of one song. If I could venture to reproduce my records I could at
once obtain an accurate text, with the help of the more intelligent
among the audience; but I dare not attempt this at the present
temperature, usually about 88°. I will, however, at least, give two
songs of Che Likoswe’s. One of them is short and instructive, and
remains well within the sphere of African thought, that is to say, it
only contains one idea, repeated _ad infinitum_ by solo and chorus
alternately.
Solo:—“Ulendo u Che Kandangu imasile. Imanga kukaranga” (“Mr. Kandangu’s
journey is ended. The maize is roasted”).
Chorus: “... Ulendo u Che Kandangu....”
Che Likoswe’s “get-up” and delivery are very much the same as Sulila’s,
except that, in conformity with his name, he sings, fiddles and dances
still more vivaciously than his blind colleague, who is also an older
man. He is, moreover, extremely versatile—it is all one to him whether
he mimes on the ground, or on tall stilts—a sight which struck me with
astonishment the first time I beheld it. The song itself, of course,
refers to a journey in which he himself took part. The most important
incident from the native point of view is, that all the maize taken with
them by the travellers was roasted—_i.e._, consumed, before the goal was
reached. Mr. Rat’s other song is much more interesting; it has an
unmistakable affinity with Sulila’s war-song, and gains in actuality for
me personally, because it is concerned with Mr. Linder, the excellent
agricultural inspector of the Lindi municipality, to whom I owe many
valuable suggestions, and who, on account of his thorough acquaintance
with this very district, had originally been selected as my companion.
Linder rendered splendid service in suppressing the rebellion: while any
action on the part of the Field Force was still entirely out of the
question, he had already, with a small detachment of police, repulsed
numerous attacks of the rebels, and ultimately sustained a serious
wound. But while decorations have been simply raining down on the Navy
and the _Schutztruppe_, Bwana Linda still walks among mortals without a
single order. He is, however, a philosopher as well as a hero.
The song runs as follows:—
Ulendo wa Linda (er); pa kwenda ku Masasi na gumiri chikuo: mkasálile
mbwana mkubwa ngondo jaiche nand autwiche lunga yangadye. Mkasálile
akida Matora: ngondo jaiche na gombel(r)e lilōmbe. Tukujir(l)a Masasi;
Mwera kupita mchikasa mpaka pe Lindi. Ne wapere rukhsa. Yendeye ku
mangwenu; mkapānde mapemba.
The translation is as follows:—
“The journey of Linder, when he went to Masasi, and I shouted with a
shouting.—‘Tell the Bwana Mkubwa, war has come, and I ran away without
looking back. Tell the akida Matora, (that) the war has come, and I have
beaten the great-drum.’ Then we went to Masasi, the Wamwera are beaten
and go as far as Lindi, and they get permission. ‘Go to your homes, and
plant Mapemba (sorghum).’”
This is delivered in very quick recitative, and relates in a few words
the history of the whole campaign, of course making the singer the
central point. Mr. Linder comes to Masasi in the course of one of his
official tours, his principal duty being to ascertain whether the local
headmen have cultivated the various crops prescribed by government.
There the loyal Likoswe of course hastens to him and warns him of
impending hostilities on the part of the Wamwera. Linder in his turn
sends word to the District Commissioner at Lindi, and at the same time
despatches Likoswe with an urgent message to Matola’s. Likoswe, on
arriving, beats the war-drum (_lilombe_), Matola’s warriors immediately
hasten to the spot, six hundred men with guns and many more with spears,
bows and arrows, and the chief marches on Masasi, to take the Wamwera in
the rear. It is related as a fact that Seliman Mamba and his
subordinates had each, at the beginning of the rising when their hopes
were highest and they already saw the Germans driven into the sea, fixed
on a house at Lindi with all its contents as his own share of the spoil.
Possibly, the line about the enemy’s going back to Lindi refers to these
unrealised plans. Matola, I believe, lost about forty men in fighting
the rebels, but certainly did not drive them back to Lindi. The last
sentence relates to the conclusion of peace:—the vanquished are
pardoned, and directed to go home quietly and plant their gardens once
more.
[Illustration: YAO DANCE AT CHINGULUNGULU]
My cinematograph, too, has been several times in requisition during my
stay at Chingulungulu, as I have found opportunity to take a whole
series of dances of the Wayao and Makua. The latter, it is well known,
are _the_ hunting-tribe _par excellence_ of the east—indeed professional
hunters of any tribe are generally described as Makua. They are,
moreover, typical for all other tribes in their method of hunting, and
in all appliances and customs connected therewith. One day, by Matola’s
orders, a troop appeared at Chingulungulu to perform, as they said, the
_makwaru_—a dance entirely based on the details of the hunter’s life. I
had quickly got my apparatus arranged in a suitable place, not an easy
matter here in the loose alluvial soil, as, if one presses too hard on
the legs of the tripod, they are apt to sink into the sand up to their
whole height. Grown wise by experience, I now take the precaution of
driving a wooden wedge obliquely from above under each leg before
beginning operations. It is more difficult to remedy the results of a
mistaken economy. In order to save the African Fund about twelve
shillings and a quarter of a carrier, I did not bring the heavy stand
necessary for the Ernemann cinematograph, thinking that I could use my
ordinary camera-stand. This, though excellent of its kind, is far too
light to stand the continual jerks of the cinematograph, and I have to
balance matters by hanging a heavy stone or one of my packing-cases
under it. If matters become very serious one of the carriers has to
sacrifice himself and do duty as a tripod-holder. Everything being now
ready for the _makwaru_, the same band which figured at Sulila’s and
Likoswe’s performances takes its place. It consists of six or seven men
and youths, squatting before their long white logs with their drumsticks
in hand. Suddenly, a fantastically decorated something flashes into the
circle, moving so rapidly that it is impossible to distinguish whether
it is a man or a woman. Being compelled to pause for breath it is
revealed as a middle-aged man in a kilt of long green leaves resembling
a ballet-dancer’s skirt. The man scarcely stirs from the spot, but his
skirt flies in the wind, and he works his feet in quick, regular time,
while at the same time his arms move in a manner difficult to describe,
as there is nothing in European dancing which in the least degree
corresponds to it; and both, arms and legs, keep exact time with the
band. Whether the rest of the body in its incessant motion backwards and
forwards also keeps time it is impossible to decide, as the vibrations
are too rapid to let the eye make out the details. This stage lasts so
long that I am tempted to regret the waste of my precious film.
[Illustration: “BUSH SCHOOL” IN THE PORI, NEAR CHINGULUNGULU]
At last the hunter changes his tactics. The dancer is, in fact, a
hunter, and not only that, but a very successful elephant-hunter; and
having just killed a large elephant, he is celebrating this deed of
prowess before the assembled inhabitants of his native village, just as
he does after his return from the actual hunt. Here, too, the people
have collected from far and near to see this celebrity, and to admire
his skill in the dance. His performance becomes more and more
vivacious—he no longer remains on one spot but trips forward, first in a
straight line, then in a zig-zag. At last he revolves in a circle,
moving round with short, cautious jumps, and all the time keeping up the
movements of his arms and hips without a moment’s intermission. After
one more rapid trip round the circle and a frantic vibration of the
whole body, the dancer stands still, breathing deeply.
This kind of dance is too peculiar, too divergent from all European
standards for us to judge of it critically according to the rules of
art. I had expected a pantomimic representation of an elephant-hunt, or
at least of the stalking and killing of the game, and I must confess
that I can find nothing in the performance which seems to have any such
reference, and must confine myself to admiring the incredible dexterity
shown by this acrobat in setting all his muscles a-quiver. I have no
sooner got a fresh film ready, than a second dancer has appeared on the
scene, whose action is still more curious and perplexing. At first one
sees nothing but a confused mass of green leaves rolling and writhing on
the ground in convulsive motions. After a while, this resolves itself
into a man much like the previous one, except that his costume is much
more voluminous. He quivers in a masterly manner and shows as much
staying power as his predecessor; but his chief strength lies in his
legs, whose suppleness and power of assuming the most grotesque
attitudes are nothing short of marvellous. When he has exhausted his
repertoire and made way for a third performer, we at last get the
expected pantomime. Stooping as if for a spring, the hunter creeps up,
noiselessly, making use of every bit of cover, to stalk the elephant,
whose scent is exceedingly keen. At last the goal is reached—swiftly,
but as noiselessly as the hunter, the quarry, represented by another
man, has slipped into the arena, and squatted down, and the hunter
circles round him in diminishing spirals. We expect the deadly shot, but
it does not come off, and the third dancer, quite regardless of the
elephant he is supposed to represent, begins to “triumph” in precisely
the same way as the two others, practising highly artistic short steps,
swaying his hips and flourishing his arms. “_Bassi_”—(finished,) I
exclaim, as the last of my three films whizzes off the reel.
[Illustration: A YAO DRESSED FOR THE _MASEWE_ DANCE]
Quite in contrast to these are the typical _unyago_ dances of the Wayao.
There seems to be a great variety of these; but so far I have only seen
two at Chingulungulu, a _masewe_, so called from the rattles worn, as
already mentioned, on the legs and feet, and a _luwanja_. Both are
essentially the same in character. The primitive xylophone of the Makua
hunting-dance is here replaced by a complete band of drums, of the most
various shapes and sizes. A certain musical faculty inherent in the race
is evidenced by the fact that the musicians take care to tune up before
the dance begins. Each beats his own drum, listening carefully to hear
whether it is in tune with the rest, and if not, hurries away to the
nearest hut and comes back with a brand from the hearth and a large
bundle of dry grass. The grass is heaped on the ground and set on fire,
and then every drum is held with the open end over it, for a longer or
shorter time—some for a few seconds only, some for half a minute or
more—the pitch being tested by striking from time to time. At last all
the skins are sufficiently tense and the drumming begins.
[Illustration: _MASEWE_ DANCE OF THE YAOS AT MTUA]
At the same moment a dense cloud of dust is seen approaching with
lightning speed, and discloses a seemingly endless procession of men,
youths and boys, all decked in bundles of _masewe_ at the ankle and
above the knee, and a kilt of leaves and strips of skin round the waist.
They take their places in the arena in front of the band, and
immediately fall into position and trot along in Indian file, till the
line closes up into a circle and moves round to the left, then round to
the right, and so on. It is astonishing how uniformly and accurately the
movements are executed by every individual performer, even the youngest
boys. There is nothing very exciting about this dance; in fact, I find
all native dances monotonous, perhaps owing to the prevailing character
of the continent, which is very uninteresting, except in a few favoured
spots. Perhaps a native critic, however, might object that there is no
great variety in our waltzes or polkas. Just as these reflections were
passing through my mind, the scene changed, somewhat to its advantage,
and the circle broke up into groups which vied with each other in the
most remarkable leg-movements. These, in fact, seem to be the strong
point of all these dancers. One group floated along on tip-toe, another
imitated the dignified gait of some kind of wading-bird, yet another
swayed merrily in and out between the rest, and a fourth stalked along
with legs held perfectly stiff. Long after my last film was finished the
company were still disporting themselves, unable to leave off, but at
last this “turn,” too, came to an end; the band produced only horrible
discords; I was tired out with standing; Knudsen complained of the first
symptoms of fever, and the function was over.
The performance of dances like the one just described, which is
connected with the circumcision rite, have naturally increased my
interest in this tribal festival, and my desire to see and study it as
closely as possible.
My curiosity was increased by the two following incidents. One afternoon
I was strolling through the bush in the neighbourhood of Chingulungulu;
we had already obtained some interesting photographs of graves, had
studied the exterior and interior of some outlying homesteads, and were
about to take some views of the _pori_ showing the character of the
vegetation. After straggling in Indian file through the high grass and
the underwood, which was here exceptionally dense, we came to a little
circular clearing, perhaps from fifteen to twenty yards in diameter, and
studded with a few scattered bushes. The unique feature of the place was
two concentric circles of stumps having another stump in the centre.
These stumps were about a foot high, cut off with a perfectly smooth
horizontal surface, and excellently well adapted for seats. I took a
photograph of this remarkable object without loss of time, and, on my
return to camp, made inquiries of Matola and others as to its meaning. I
found that the stumps were seats for the _wari_, as the boys under
initiation are called after a certain point in the ceremony, and the
seat in the middle was that reserved for the instructor who has charge
of the boys during the months which they have to spend in a hut built
for the purpose in the bush. My informants added that the hut had stood
close to the circle, but was no longer in existence, as the _unyago_ for
which it had been built had taken place some years ago.
Some days later, Knudsen and I were sitting under our _baraza_ in the
early part of the afternoon, pressing our hands to our temples. It was
no wonder that every day about this time we both suffered from
excruciating headaches, for the temperature had been steadily rising
during the last few weeks, and on this particular afternoon the
thermometer stood at 93·36°F. We had given vent to our disgust at the
Dark Continent in the strongest of language, and I was just about to
soothe our ruffled feelings with a cigar apiece, when we saw two black
figures approaching. These proved to be Akundonde, the wise old Yao
chief, and his councillor, Akumapanje. We had sent to ask Akundonde to
find us some men capable of giving accurate information, and now he came
himself, though far from well. He was suffering from the usual neglected
ulcer on the leg, and could only limp along painfully with the help of
his staff, so that his taking a four hours’ walk to oblige us shows a
degree of goodwill deserving the amplest recognition.
Akundonde being established in Knudsen’s long chair, while his companion
took a seat on a packing-case, I made an effort to divert the
conversation from the trifles which at first threatened to engross it to
the subjects which chiefly interest me, and succeeded, more by luck than
good guidance. As usually happens, we were soon discussing the most
recondite matters, such as the attitude of the natives towards eclipses,
the fall of meteorites, and the moon. Meteorites are considered by the
Yaos as of evil omen. When they are heard to explode, people say,
“Either a great chief will die this year, or a great multitude of the
people will perish.” An eclipse of the moon is thought, as among all
primitive people, to be a personal encounter between two foes. The enemy
of the moon is, of course, the sun; they seize each other fiercely and
wrestle together. As both are equally matched, the battle remains
undecided, which forces mankind to interfere. The Wayao run in haste to
fetch hoes and axes, and strike them against each other, looking up at
the scene of strife and calling out:—
“_Mlekangane, mlekangane, mwesi na lyuwa, mkamulene, Mlekangane,
mlekangane sambano._”
“Go asunder, go asunder, sun and moon, you have seized one another. Go
asunder, go asunder now.”
The same custom is observed in eclipses of the sun, as is only logical.
The full moon with her pale light exercises the same magical influence
on the native mind as on the feelings of every other mortal, except that
our black brother is not like us filled with emotional enthusiasm, but,
quite in conformity with his views on other matters, makes use of this
favourable opportunity for heightening the virtue of his medicines and
charms. When the moon is at the full, the native goes to the nearest
cross-roads, or to a place where two paths meet, carrying with him a
sufficient quantity of a certain gum called _ubani_. In perfect silence
he then kindles a fire by means of the primitive appliance of the drill
(to be described later on). The dust produced by boring catches fire,
but the glimmer is at first so faint that it is scarcely perceptible
even to the keen eyesight of the savage. Very carefully he blows on the
tiny spark—it grows, catches the bunch of dry grass and then the sticks,
and when the flame leaps up, he drops his powder into it. The flame now
burns dimly, a thick smoke rises, and the man takes the amulets he is
accustomed to wear round his neck, arms and waist, and holding them in
the smoke, says: “You moon, a little while ago you were not there, and
the sky was dark. Now you are there and shine down brightly. All beasts
and plants are glad and have new strength, so let my medicine also have
new strength.” Then he prays thus: “Let the medicine protect my body
against lions and serpents, against witchcraft and everything that may
hurt me, and let my body have new strength.” Once more he swings his
charms through the smoke, as it becomes thinner and more transparent;
the fire dies down, and as noiselessly as he came the man creeps back to
his hut.
[Illustration: FRESCO ON THE WALL OF A HUT AT AKUNDONDE’S, REPRESENTING
TWO EUROPEANS WITH THEIR ESCORT: THE WORK OF A YAO BOY]
Being now on the subject of magic, the three ethnographic specialists,
Knudsen, Akundonde and Akumapanje, keep to it, and speak of the tying of
knots. Akundonde relates how a man in this country, if he has designs on
any particular girl, takes a strip of bark, makes a knot in it, without
drawing it tight, and says to it, “You tree, your name is _sangalasa_
(joy)—you are to fetch me that girl, and as a sign that it shall come to
pass, I shut my words up in you.” He then holds the open knot in front
of his mouth, puts his tongue through it and draws it tight. He
afterwards wears the knotted piece of bark-string tied round his wrist.
This proceeding, though simple enough, is connected with a long and
important chapter in racial psychology. The tying of a knot in fact, in
many strata of mankind, has an occult meaning; the binding power of the
knot is supposed to be transferred to certain persons, and, so long as
the knot itself cannot be untied, those persons are indissolubly
attached to him or her who has tied it according to certain rules and
with the proper ceremonies.
Interesting as these matters were, and glad as I should have been to
know more of them, I was just now still more eager to hear about the
much-discussed _unyago_. I brought up the subject, but both natives
cleverly evaded it. After a while, I noticed the old chief’s eye roaming
wistfully about our study, saw that he was tired and thirsty, and
remembered that Daudi, the native clergyman, had sent us a large pot of
_pombe_ whose quality precluded our drinking it ourselves. “I suppose it
will be quite good enough for these two old sinners,” I remarked to
Knudsen, who must have been revolving similar cogitations; for he at
once seized the import of my words, fetched a huge tin mug from his
tent, filled it with the yellow, fermenting liquor, and handed it to
Akundonde. The latter took it, but did not drink, handing it to his
companion instead. “There’s a polite chief for you!” I thought to
myself—but, seeing how very cautiously Akumapanje touched the beer with
his lips, it became clear to me that I was witnessing an ancient
traditional custom, arising from the innate suspiciousness of the negro,
who scents—not indeed poison, but certainly witchcraft—everywhere, and
dreads it accordingly. The precaution is intended to divert the risk
from the superior to the subordinate.
Akumapanje, after tasting, handed the cup back to Akundonde, who
thereupon emptied it at a draught. A few seconds later it was again at
the lips of the prime minister, who faithfully copied his master. Drink
and counter-drink succeeded each other at the same rapid rate, and we
Europeans looked on with mixed feelings of envy and admiration. This did
not prevent me from remembering our ethnographical purpose, and I found
that what had previously seemed impossible was now child’s play. The two
old men, by turns completing each other’s statements, gave a fluent
description of the general features of the boys’ _unyago_: the
arrangement for holding the festival at different villages every year
(which was not new to me); the introductory ceremony, held in an open
square surrounded by the huts erected for the candidates; and the
operation itself, which takes place in a special hut in the depths of
the forest. I had heard something of all this from Knudsen, who, in the
course of his many years’ residence among the Wayao, has acquired a
wonderful knowledge of their life and customs, and whom I have been
pumping at every spare minute with such persistency that the good fellow
has no doubt often wished one of us elsewhere.
At last, however, our two visitors, becoming more loquacious as the
_pombe_ diminished, reached a part of the subject of which Knudsen knows
very little, but which attracts me most of all. This is the instruction
given to the boys during the months spent in the bush by their teachers
(_anamungwi_). These instructors, of whom every boy has one from the
time of his initiation into manhood, are indisputably one of the most
sympathetic features in the life of the people. They watch over their
pupils through the painful weeks of the _unyago_, teach them what is
fitting and unfitting, and remain responsible for their welfare even
after they have left their boyhood far behind. I was anxious, above all,
to ascertain the gist of the moral teaching given in the bush hut, and,
though I only partly succeeded in doing this, it is a great satisfaction
to have taken down verbatim a fragment of a speech delivered on such an
occasion.
Some extra well-filled cups having removed the last scruples of our two
jovial informants, Akundonde, with a little more encouragement from
Knudsen, began in a didactic tone:—
“Mwe mari, sambano mumbēle. Atati na achikuluwēno mnyōgopĕ́. Nyumba
mkasayinjila tinyisimana chimtumbánăgá. Wakongwe mkasayogopa;
mkagononawo, mesi akayasináwo. Imālagắ akamtikĭté; imālagắ akamila
muchisiḗ; masakam. Munyitikisie: marhaba. Mkuona mwesi sumyógopé,
ngakawa kuulala. Kusimana timchiŭá; Miasi jili kogoya. Chilwele
winyi.”[34]
The translation is as follows:—“You, my pupil, now you are initiated.
Your father and your mother, fear (respect) them. See that you do not
enter the house (unannounced), lest you should find them embracing. Do
not be afraid of women, but sleep with them, bathe with them, when you
have finished let her rub (knead) you; when you have finished she should
salute you (saying) ‘Masakam,’ and you must answer, ‘Marhaba.’ You must
be afraid (= take care) when you see the (new) moon, you might get hurt.
Beware of women during their courses, this is dangerous, (it causes)
many diseases.”
My notes were scarcely as complete and connected as the above when first
written down. The native is incapable even when sober of taking his
sentences to pieces, as it were, and dictating them bit by bit; but
taking down the words of these two jovial old sinners was a difficult
task, which, however, we accomplished successfully up to the point when
the inevitable catastrophe set in.
The two had invariably paused for refreshment at the end of every
sentence till they reached the point above indicated, when they suddenly
found the _pombe_ jar empty. They had drunk at least five gallons at a
sitting, but with the strange logic of the intoxicated, they considered
themselves entitled to a further supply, and, when none proved to be
forthcoming, they indignantly broke off their lecture and left in a
huff. This is the reward of being hospitable overmuch.
The address here reproduced, which I have translated with the help of
Knudsen, Daudi, Matola and some others, is said to be the same, both as
to matter and form, at all _unyago_ ceremonies. No doubt this is
correct, for I know nothing which could more exactly express the
feelings of the native than just these precepts. They are a strange
mixture of hygienic rules and moral instruction, and at the same time
contain a good deal of primitive tradition which still forms part of
daily life. I mean by this the fact that the youth, once recognised as a
member of the adult community, is forbidden to enter his mother’s house
unannounced. Here, in East Africa, we are still in the matriarchal
stage, where the husband is nothing, so to speak, but a connection by
marriage. He is his children’s father, but is not related to them, in
fact he belongs to a different clan. This clan, as so often happens
among primitive peoples, is exogamous—that is to say that there is no
impediment to a young man marrying a girl of any clan but his own. This
prohibition goes so far that the young Yao has, as far as possible, to
avoid his nearest female relations who, of course, are his mother and
sisters, and hence the injunction at least to give warning of his
approach when entering his mother’s house.
The stress here as elsewhere laid on the reverence to be shown to father
and mother must strike all right-thinking Europeans as a very pleasing
trait. Respect for parents and for grown-up people in general is, as I
have been told over and over again, the principal and fundamental
feature in native education, and Knudsen testifies that the young people
in general observe it in a marked degree in their intercourse with their
elders. We Europeans might well learn from the natives in this respect,
thinks Nils, who is no doubt, well qualified to form an opinion.
But, in spite of all pleasant impressions as to native educational
maxims, I have lost the end of the _unyago_ address—a misfortune for
which the good Daudi’s big _pombe_-jar is to blame. If the mountain will
not come to Muhammad, Muhammad will have to go to the mountain. In other
words, Akundonde having declared that he must go home to put fresh
_dawa_ on his leg and cannot possibly come again, we shall have to look
up the old gentleman at his own residence.
[Illustration: HERD OF ELEPHANTS. FROM A DRAWING BY BARNABAS, AN
EDUCATED MWERA AT LINDI]