On another night Baruti, whose memory was freshened by the reward which
followed a story worthy of being written in the Master's book, told us
about Kitinda and her wise dog, so well indeed that by common consent he
was acclaimed one of the best among the story-tellers.
But it was not so well rehearsed to me while I had my pencil in hand as
he had delivered it at the camp fire. It bothered him to be asked to
dictate it a little slower to me, and he showed marked signs of
inattention when told to repeat a sentence twice over. All I can
flatter myself is that it contains the sense of what was said.
Kitinda, a woman of the Basoko, near the Aruwimi river, possessed a dog
who was remarkable for his intelligence. It was said that he was so
clever that strangers understood his motions as well as though he talked
to them; and that Kitinda, familiar with his ways and the tones of his
whines, his yelps, and his barks, could converse with him as easily as
she could with her husband.
One market-day the mistress and her dog agreed to go together, and on
the road she told him all she intended to do and say in disposing of her
produce in exchange for other articles which she needed in her home.
Her dog listened with sympathy, and then, in his own manner, he conveyed
to her how great was his attachment to her, and how there never was such
a friend as he could be; and he begged her that, if at any time she was
in distress, she would tell him, and that he would serve her with all
his might. "Only," he said, "were it not that I am afraid of the
effects of being too clever, I could have served you oftener and much
more than I have done."
"What do you mean?" said Kitinda.
"Well, you know, among the Basoko, it is supposed, if one is too clever,
or too lucky, or too rich, that it has come about through dealings in
witchcraft, and people are burned in consequence. I do not like the
idea of being burned--and therefore I have refrained often from
assisting you because I feared you could not contain your surprise, and
would chat about it to the villagers. Then some day, after some really
remarkable act of cleverness of mine, people would say, `Ha! this is not
a dog. No dog could have done that! He must be a demon--or a witch in
a dog's hide!' and of course they would take me and burn me."
"Why, how very unkind of you to think such things of me! When have I
chatted about you? Indeed I have too many things to do, my housework,
my planting and marketing so occupy me, that I could not find time to
gossip about my dog."
"Well, it is already notorious that I am clever, and I often tremble
when strangers look at and admire me for fear some muddle-headed fellow
will fancy that he sees something else in me more than unusual
intelligence. What would they say, however, if they really knew how
very sagacious I am? The reputation that I possess has only come
through your affection for me, but I assure you that I dread this excess
of affection lest it should end fatally for you and for me."
"But are you so much cleverer than you have already shown yourself? If
I promise that I will never speak of you to any person again, will you
help me more than you have done, if I am in distress?"
"You are a woman, and you could not prevent yourself talking if you
tried ever so hard."
"Now, look you here, my dog. I vow to you that no matter what you do
that is strange, I wish I may die, and that the first animal I meet may
kill me if I speak a word. You shall see now that Kitinda will be as
good as her word."
"Very well, I will take you at your word. I am to serve you every time
you need help, and if you speak of my services to a soul, you are
willing to lose your life by the first animal you may meet."
Thus they made a solemn agreement as they travelled to market.
Kitinda sold her palm-oil and fowls to great advantage that day, and in
exchange received sleeping-mats, a couple of carved stools, a bag of
cassava flour, two large well-baked and polished crocks, a bunch of ripe
bananas, a couple of good plantation hoes, and a big strong basket.
After the marketing was over she collected her purchases together and
tried to put them into the basket, but the big crocks and carved stools
were a sore trouble to her. She could put the flour and hoes and the
bananas on top with the mats for a cover very well, but the stools and
the crocks were a great difficulty.
Her dog in the meantime had been absent, and had succeeded in killing a
young antelope, and had dragged it near her. He looked around and saw
that the market was over, and that the people had returned to their own
homes, while his mistress had been anxiously planning how to pack her
property.
He heard her complain of her folly in buying such cumbersome and weighty
things, and ask herself how she was to reach home with them.
Pitying her in her trouble, the dog galloped away and found a man
empty-handed, before whom he fawned and whose hands he licked, and being
patted he clung to his cloth with his teeth and pulled him gently
along--wagging his tail and looking very amiable. He continued to do
this until the man, seeing Kitinda fretting over her difficulty,
understood what was wanted, and offered to carry the stools and crocks
at each end of his long staff over his shoulders for a few of the ripe
bananas and a lodging. His assistance was accepted with pleasure, and
Kitinda was thus enabled to reach her home, and on the way was told by
the man how it was that he had happened to return to the marketplace.
Kitinda was very much tempted there and then to dilate upon her dog's
well-known cleverness, but remembered in time her promise not to boast
of him. When, however, she reached the village, and the housewives came
out of their houses, burning to hear the news at the market, in her
eagerness to tell this one and then the other all that had happened to
her, and all that she had seen and heard, she forgot her vow of the
morning, and forthwith commenced to relate the last wonderful trick of
her dog in dragging a man back to the marketplace to help her when she
thought that all her profit in trade would be lost, and when she was
just about to smash her nice crocks in her rage.
The dog listened to her narrative, viewed the signs of wonder stealing
over the women's faces, heard them call out to their husbands, saw the
men advancing eagerly towards them, saw them all look at him narrowly,
heard one man exclaim, "That cannot be a dog! it is a demon within a
dog's hide. He--"
But the dog had heard enough. He turned, and ran into the woods, and
was never more seen in that village.
The next market-day came round, and Kitinda took some more palm-oil and
a few fowls, and left her home to dispose of them for some other
domestic needs. When about half-way, her dog came out of the wood, and
after accusing her of betraying him to her stupid countrymen, thus
returning evil for good, he sprang upon her and tore her to pieces.