UNYAGO EVERYWHERE
NEWALA, middle of September, 1906.
The charming festival recently witnessed at Achikomu’s seems to have
broken the spell which debarred me, just when the season was at its
height, from gaining an insight into this most important and interesting
subject. In the short period since my arrival at Newala, I have been
present at no less than two typical celebrations, both of them girls’
_unyagos_. This I owe to the kindness of the Akida Sefu.
Sefu bin Mwanyi is an Arab—apparently of unmixed blood—from Sudi. He is
a tall, light-complexioned man, with finely-cut features. He knows a
number of languages, excelling even Knudsen in this respect, and I
cannot say enough of the obliging way in which he has endeavoured to
further my plans ever since my arrival.
After a fatiguing climb up the edge of the cliff bordering the plateau,
which just at Newala is particularly steep, and a short rest, we made
hasty arrangements for encamping in the _baraza_—open as usual to the
dreaded evening wind—within the _boma_ or palisade of stakes. The cold
that night was almost Arctic, and we wrapped ourselves in all the
blankets we could find. In the early dawn, the zealous _akida_ came in a
great hurry, to conduct us to the Makua village of Niuchi, where the
concluding ceremony of the girls’ _unyago_ was fixed for that day, and
where I was sure to see and hear much that was new. An hour later, our
party, this time including my mule, had already wound its way through a
long stretch of primæval Makonde bush. It proved impossible to ride,
however—the path, bordered by thick, thorny scrub, being never two feet
wide in the most frequented parts. We suddenly walked out of the
thickest bush on to a small open space surrounded by houses, and
perceived with some astonishment a large crowd of strange-looking female
figures, who were staring at us, struck dumb with terror. I saw at once
that, here, too, it would be well to keep as much as possible in the
background, and disappeared with my men and all the apparatus behind the
nearest hut. From this coign of vantage, I was able to watch undisturbed
a whole series of performances which few if any travellers, probably,
have seen in exactly the form they here assumed.
[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT NEWALA]
It is eight in the morning; the Makonde bush, which almost closes over
our heads, is clad in the freshest green, one large tree in the middle
of the _bwalo_[42] and a few others of equal proportions rise above the
general level of the _pori_, and the low Makonde huts stand out sharply
in the clear morning air. The few women whom on our arrival we found
sweeping the _bwalo_ with bunches of green twigs, have vanished like
lightning in the crowd surrounding five other figures dressed in gaudy
cloths. These are squatting in the shadow of a hut, covering their eyes
and temples with their hands, and staring fixedly at the ground through
their fingers. Then a shrill sound is heard, and five or six women are
seen hurrying with grotesque jumps across the open space. As they raise
the traditional cry of rejoicing,[43] the _pelele_, here of truly
fabulous dimensions, stands up straight in the air, while the tongue,
stretched out under it, vibrates rapidly to and fro in the manner
indispensable to the correct production of the sound. The first six are
soon followed by a dozen other women, among whom one voice
sings:—“_Anamanduta, anamanduta, mwan-angu mwanagwe_” (“They go away,
they go away, my dear child,”)—the rest repeating the line in chorus.
The song is accompanied by accurately-rhythmical hand-clapping, as the
dancers move in short tripping steps backward and forward. “Surely a
barbaric lament over a parting,” I reflect, on hearing Sefu’s rapid
translation, but already a new song is heard:—
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR IN WINTER COSTUME AT NEWALA]
“_Namahihio achikuta kumaweru_” (“The owl cries in the gardens”). This,
too, is repeated for some time, then once more, all crowd round the five
bundles of cloth. Five elderly women now step forward out of the throng
and decorate the heads of their pupils—for such are the gaudily-attired
beings—with bunches of millet. The latter now rise, and take up their
position in Indian file, each with her hands on the shoulders of the one
before her. The drums strike up—old and young together swaying with
skilled vibration in the _danse du ventre_.
“_Chihakatu cha Kuliwile nandu kuhuma nchere._” (“The _chihakatu_ (small
flat basket) of Liwile is carried out of the house early.”) This is the
song now chanted as before by solo and chorus. By the _chihakatu_ is
probably meant the decoration of millet-heads—the natives are fond of
symbolical expressions.
This song in its turn comes to an end; the ranks of the dancers break up
and the women hasten in all directions, coming back to lay further
supplies of millet, manioc, cloth, etc., at the feet of the five
instructresses. These, meanwhile, have been preparing for the next step.
An egg is broken, a little of the yolk is rubbed on the forehead of each
girl and the rest mixed with castor oil and used to anoint the girls on
chest and back. This is the sign that they have reached maturity, and
that the _unyago_ is over. The first part of the festival is concluded
by the presentation of more new cloth to the girls.
Sefu now points out to me a stick planted in the ground, and tells me
that medicines belonging to the _unyago_ have been buried under it. He
also says that some months ago, a large pot of water was buried at
another spot in the _bwalo_; this was also “medicine.”
While I am listening to this explanation, the women have once more taken
their places. With a _ntungululu_ which, even at the distance at which
we are standing, is almost enough to break the drums of our ears, all
the arms fly up with a jerk, then down again, and the performers begin
to clap their hands with a perfection of rhythm and uniformity of action
seemingly peculiar to the dwellers on the shores of the Indian Ocean, in
order to accompany the following song:—
“_Kanole wahuma kwetu likundasi kuyadika kuyedya ingombe._”
The meaning is something like this: “Just look at that girl; she has
borrowed a bead girdle, and is now trying to wear it gracefully and
becomingly.”
Women are very much alike all the world over, I mutter to myself, as
Sefu explains this—full, on the one hand, of vanity, on the other, of
spite. The song refers to a poor girl appearing in borrowed finery, who
is satirized by her companions. In the next song it is my turn to
furnish the moral.
“_Ignole yangala yangala meme mtuleke tuwakuhiyoloka._”
The sense appears to be about the following:—
“You are here assembled (for the _unyago_), rejoice and be merry. We who
have come here, we do not want to play with you, only to look on.”
If Sefu is right, as there is every reason to suppose, these words are
to be understood as spoken by myself, they are either dictated by my own
delicacy of feeling: “I have no wish to intrude”—or they are intended as
a _captatio benevolentiæ_: “Please stay at a distance, white man, or we
shall be afraid!”
In spite of my discreet attitude, the performers do not seem to feel
quite easy, for they now sing till they grow tired:—
“_Nidoba ho, nidoba ho._” (“It is difficult, it is difficult, truly.”)
This is followed by a long pause.
The second division of the programme goes on to repeat part of the
first. Still more completely muffled in their brightly-coloured cloths,
so that neither face nor arms are to be seen, the five girls come
forward as before, and march round to the right, the rest of the company
following them in the same order as previously. Now the drums, which in
the meantime have been tuned afresh over a tremendous fire, strike up
again, and the chorus starts: “_Chihakatu cha Kuliwile_,” etc., with
dance as before. This lasts fully half-an-hour, and then the long file
breaks up; the oldest of the instructresses comes forward into the open
space in front of the crowd, puts on a critical expression, and waits
for what is about to happen. This is not long in showing itself. Like a
gorgeous butterfly, one of the coloured calico bundles separates itself
from the mass, and trips gracefully before the old woman, while the
chorus bursts into song:—
“_Nande è è, nande è è._”
The astonished white man, looking on, can only see clearly the head and
feet of the bundle, which are comparatively at rest—everything between
these extremities being an undistinguishable blur. On boldly
approaching, I make out that the girl is vibrating her waist and hips,
throwing herself to and fro with such velocity that the eye cannot
follow the lines of her figure. The performer retires after a time, and
the others follow, each in her turn, receiving praise or censure from
the high authorities convoked for the occasion. But not even Sefu can
tell me what the words of the song mean.
The third part follows. As full of expectant curiosity as myself, the
five young girls certified as having arrived at maturity are now gazing
at the arena. They have freed themselves from their wrappings, and seem
to feel quite at home, with their mothers and aunts all standing round
them. Then, with a quick, tripping step, another bundle of cloth comes
out of the bush, followed by a second, and, after a short interval by a
third and fourth. The four masks—for such, when they turn round, they
are seen to be—stand up two and two, each pair facing the other, and
begin the same series of movements which I had already watched at
Chingulungulu, comprising the most varied manœuvres with arms and legs,
contortions of the body above the waist, quivering vibrations of the
region below the waist. In short, everything is African, quite authentic
and primitive. I had seen all these evolutions before, but was all the
more struck with the whole get-up of these strange figures. Makonde
masks are now to be found in the most important ethnographic museums,
but no one, it appears, has ever seen them in use—or, if so, they have
not been described. The masks are of wood, two of them representing men,
and two women. This is evident a hundred paces off, from the prominence
given to the _pelele_, whose white stands out with great effect from the
rigid black surface. The costume of the male and female figures is in
other respects alike, following the principle of letting no part of the
human form be seen—everything is swathed in cloth, from the
closely-wrapped neck to the tips of the fingers and toes. This excessive
amount of covering indicates the aim of the whole—the masks are intended
to terrify. It is young men who are thus disguised; they do not wish to
be recognized, and are supposed to give the girls a good fright before
their entrance on adult life. The masks themselves in the first instance
serve this purpose in a general way, but their effect is still further
heightened by making them represent well-known bugbears: portraits of
famous and much dreaded warriors or robbers, heads of monstrous beasts,
or, lastly, _shetani_—the devil.[44] This personage appears with long
horns and a large beard, and is really terrible to behold.
[Illustration: MAKONDE MASKS]
While the four masks are still moving about the arena—sometimes all
together facing each other, sometimes separating and dancing round in a
circle with all sorts of gambols—a new figure appears on the stage. A
tapping sound is heard as it jerks its way forward—uncanny, gigantic; a
huge length of cloth flutters in the morning breeze; long, spectral
arms, draped with cloth so as to look like wings, beat the air like the
sails of a windmill; a rigid face grins at us like a death’s head; and
the whole is supported on poles, a yard or more in length, like
fleshless legs. The little girls are now really frightened, and even my
bodyguard seem to feel somewhat creepy. The European investigator cannot
allow himself to give way to such sensations: he has to gaze, to
observe, and to snapshot.
The use of stilts is not very common in any part of the world. Except in
Europe they are, so far as I know, only used in the culture-area of
Eastern Asia, and (curiously enough) in the Marquesas Islands (Eastern
Pacific), and in some parts of the West Coast of Africa. Under these
circumstances, I cannot at present suggest any explanation of their
presence on the isolated Makonde plateau. Have they been introduced?
and, if so, from whence? Or are they a survival of very ancient usages
once prevalent from Cape Lopez, in the west to this spot in the east,
preserved at the two extremities of the area, while the intervening
tribes advanced beyond the old dancing-appliances? My mind involuntarily
occupies itself with such questions, though, properly speaking, this is
not the time for them, as there are still many things to see.
[Illustration: MAKONDE STILT-DANCER. FROM A DRAWING BY OMARI, A MBONDEI]
That the stilt-dancer’s intention is to terrify, is evident from his
movements, quite apart from his disguise. In a few gigantic strides he
has reached the other side of the fairly spacious arena, and drives the
natives squatting there back in headlong flight; for it looks as if the
monster were about to catch them, or tread them under foot. But it has
already turned away, and is stalking up to the five novices at the other
end: they, and others near them, turn away shrieking. Now he comes
within range of my camera—a click of the shutter, and I have him safe. I
could almost have imagined that I saw the man’s face of consternation
behind his mask—he stopped with such a start, hesitated a moment, and
then strode swiftly away.
This dancing on stilts can scarcely be a pleasure. The man is now
leaning, tired out, against the roof of one of the huts, and looks on
while the four masks come forward again to take part in the dance. But
the proceedings seem inclined to hang fire—the sun has by this time
climbed to the zenith, and the stifling heat weighs us all down. A great
many of the women taking part in the ceremony have already dispersed,
and those still present are visibly longing for the piles of _ugali_ at
home. I take down the apparatus and give the word to start, and once
more we are forcing our way through the thorny thickets of the Makonde
bush towards Newala.
[Illustration: THE _NJOROWE_ DANCE AT NEWALA]
The indefatigable Sefu only allowed me one day in which to digest the
impressions of Niuchi, before announcing another important expedition.
Sefu lives only some thirty or forty yards away from us, in a house
built Coast-fashion. He is not, like Nakaam and Matola, a native of the
country, but has been transferred here from the coast as an official of
the German Administration, while the other two might be compared with
large landowners placed in a similar position on account of their local
standing and influence among the people. He has rather more notion of
comfort than is usual among his congeners, for he has had very neat
bamboo seats—some even with backs to them, an unheard of luxury in this
region—put up in his _baraza_, where he holds _shauris_ and also
receives, with great dignity, the leaders of passing caravans. Sefu
spends all his spare minutes with us; he arrives first thing in the
morning, and shivers through the evening with us in that temple of the
winds which goes by the name of the rest-house, and which we shall be
compelled to close in with a wall in order to get some protection
against the evening gales.
Sefu, then, had a grand plan to propose. This time, he said, he could
show us a ceremony of the Wamatambwe at the village of Mangupa. It was
again a girls’ _chiputu_, that is, the conclusion of the first course of
instruction which these children of between eight and eleven had been
going through for some months in a special hut. But the Matambwe
procedure is in some points different from that of the Yaos and the
Makua; and, also, it was not far. If we started next morning at 7.30, we
should be in time to see the beginning after a walk of an hour and a
half.
I was able to form a slight idea of the famous Makonde bush on the
expedition to Niuchi—but it was very far from being an adequate one.
Much has been written about this form of vegetation, but I believe the
theme is inexhaustible. Not that this bush is remarkable for æsthetic
charms, for beautiful scenery, or abundance and variety of vegetation.
It is a perfectly uniform, compact mass of thin stems, branches, leaves
and tendrils. This is the unpleasant part of it; this indescribably
thick tangle lets no one pass unless he has first cut his painful and
toilsome way with axe and bill-hook. Our native troops have gone through
unspeakable sufferings in this way, in the last ten years alone,
especially in the war against Machemba. Things have been made easier for
us—the victorious struggle against the formerly unreliable and often
rebellious tribes of the south has led to the wise measure of connecting
every place of the slightest importance with all other settlements by
means of roads deserving the name of _barabara_, _i.e._, beaten road, in
the most literal sense of the term. This road is so broad that a column
could at need march along it four abreast; though in some places indeed
it is very much overgrown.
We took the main road leading to Nkunya, but very soon turned off to the
right, getting deeper and deeper into the bush. Riding soon became
impossible; in fact, every member of the expedition was engaged in a
very cautious struggle with the _upupu_. Nils Knudsen warned me against
this agreeable plant soon after our arrival at Newala, so I have escaped
an experience which many a new-comer will not forget in a hurry. The
_upupu_[45] is a kind of bean bearing dark green pods, which, if
touched, cause an unbearable irritation in the skin. Rubbing or
scratching only brings the victim nearer to madness. Washing is quite
useless—the only effectual remedy is wood ashes, which, if mixed with
water and plastered on the skin, draw out the minute poison-crystals in
a short time. As in many other cases, the cure is easily applied if one
only knows it.
Punctually at nine, we are standing before a hut similar to the one
already described, only that the _likuku_, as it is here called, is
double—two low, round structures, standing side by side. The ceremony is
just about to begin, Sefu says. I am hard-hearted and barbarous enough
to send the headman of the place—who has one foot ulcerated in the most
horrible way and consequently poisons the atmosphere for some distance
around him, but in spite of this feels that he ought to do the honours
of his village—half-a-mile away to windward, before setting up my camera
by the side of a bush, where I await the progress of events.
For some time we hear nothing but the familiar _lu-lu-lu_-ing of the
women in all keys, soprano and alto, _piano_ and _fortissimo_, as if the
company, standing in a dense crowd behind the double house, wished to
practise a little before making their appearance. Meanwhile, they are
growing more and more shiny—they are anointing themselves with castor
oil till they drip with it. They are also wearing _peleles_ of a size I
have never yet seen. Suddenly, the scene changes—seven women come
forward out of the crowd carrying a long pole, and walk quickly towards
the open space on the left of the _likuku_. As they approach we see that
the pole is really a huge flag-staff—a whole length of brand-new
coloured cotton print hangs down it from one end to the other. “_Nini
hii?_” (“What is this?”) I ask Sefu. It is the fee for the
instructresses, among whom it will soon be divided, but before being cut
up, it is to be shown in all its beauty to the people.
From the moment of their first coming forward, the seven women have been
chanting: “_Watata wadihauye akalumbane kundeka unguwanguwe._” Sefu says
that this means:—“My father has treated me badly—he gave me a bad
husband, who ran away from me, and now I am left alone.” I cannot make
out what this song has to do with the _chiputu_, but have no time for
speculation on the subject, for the whole company is beginning to enact
a kind of “Walpurgisnacht!” At least, should an African Goethe attempt
to depict a festival on the heights of Kilimanjaro analogous to the
famous scene in _Faust_, he would probably do it on the lines of what we
see before us. Pigs, broomsticks, and other traditional paraphernalia of
the venerable profession are here entirely wanting, but the illusion is
more than sufficiently maintained by the white disc in the upper lip,
the huge stud in the nose; the combs stuck in the woolly hair, the heavy
bangles on arms and ankles, and, finally, the unhappy baby on the back
of every young witch, and, strangely enough, on those of a good many
elderly ones as well. Clapping their hands, and uttering their shrill,
vibrating cry, the whole troop run, jump, and dance wildly in and out
till the spectator’s senses are completely bewildered.
Suddenly, the noise ceases, and the figures of the five novices, closely
huddled together, stooping low, swathed in new, gaudy cloths which cover
them all over, appear from the “wings” in the same way as their
predecessors. The silence lasts till they have taken their places in the
arena, but then a din breaks loose to which what I have described as the
“Walpurgisnacht” was merely a gentle murmur, for in addition to the
voices we have now the roll and thunder of the half-dozen drums forming
the inevitable band. Meanwhile, the chaos has hastily arranged itself
into a large circle, in the centre of which the five bundles, now quite
a familiar sight to me, stand in the same stooping posture as at Niuchi.
The drums have by this time moderated their pace and volume, and the
women glide and shuffle round the ring to the accustomed rhythm.
Finally, the performers change places as on the previous occasion, the
instructress comes forward, the rest of the women being now merely
accessories, and the novices proceed to show their proficiency in the
dance before alluded to. This trial being over, it seems as if the girls
were receiving congratulations, and then the whole mass moves towards
the double hut, the five girls walking backwards. All vanish into the
dusk of the interior, but while the grown-up women remain there, the
girls re-appear after a few minutes’ interval, and, walking in Indian
file, a short distance apart, they cross the arena,—not backwards this
time, but in the ordinary way—and silently vanish into the thick bush.
The exit of the five girls seems to mark the official close of the
ceremony, as the women do not appear again. The lords of creation,
however, now come into action, and man after man, as if drawn by a
magnet, moves towards one of the two doors and enters, while no one is
seen to come out again. This interests me, and approaching the entrance
of the hut, to discover the cause of this singular phenomenon, I find
that preparations are being made for a beer-drinking on a large
scale:—the ground inside the hut is occupied by rows on rows of huge
pombe-jars, waiting to fulfil the object of their being. We have not
been invited to the feast—an omission due, we may be certain, not to any
want of hospitality, but probably to timidity, and a feeling that the
admission of a stranger to a share in their tribal mysteries is
something unfitting. We should have liked to be asked, all the same.
[Illustration: MAKONDE WOMEN GOING TO DRAW WATER. FROM A DRAWING BY PESA
MBILI]