We had a man named Kanga with us in 1883, which name seems to have been
bestowed on him by some Islamised resident of Nyangwe by reason of some
fancied suggestion made by some of his facial marks to the spots on a
guinea-fowl. Kanga had not spoken as yet by the evening fire, but had
been an amused listener. When the other tale-tellers were seen sporting
their gay robes on the Sunday, it may have inspired him to make an
effort to gain one for himself; anyhow, he surprised us one night by
saying that he knew of a tale which perhaps we would like to hear. As
Kanga's tribe was the Wasongora-Meno on the right bank of the Lualaba,
between Nyangwe and Stanley Falls, the mere mention of a tale from that
region was sufficient to kindle my interest.
After a few suitable compliments to Kanga, which were clearly much
appreciated, he spoke as follows:
Master and friends. We have an old phrase among us which is very
common. It is said that he who waits and waits for his turn, may wait
too long, and lose his chance. My tongue is not nimble like some, and
my words do not flow like the deep river. I am rather like the brook
which is fretted by the stones in its bed, and I hope after this
explanation you will not be too impatient with me.
My tale is about King Masama and his tribe, the Balira, who dwelt far in
the inmost region, behind (east) us, who throng the banks of the great
river. They were formerly very numerous, and many of them came to live
among us, but one day King Masama and the rest of the tribe left their
country and went eastward, and they have never been heard of since, but
those who chose to stay with us explained their disappearance in this
way.
A woman, one cold night, after making up her fire on the hearth, went to
sleep. In the middle of the night the fire had spread, and spread, and
began to lick up the litter on the floor, and from the litter it crept
to her bed of dry banana-leaves, and in a little time shot up into
flames. When the woman and her husband were at last awakened by the
heat, the flames had already mounted into the roof, and were burning
furiously. Soon they broke through the top and leaped up into the
night, and a gust of wind came and carried the long flames like a stream
of fire towards the neighbouring huts, and in a short time the fire had
caught hold of every house, and the village was entirely burned. It was
soon known that besides burning up their houses and much property,
several old people and infants had been destroyed by the fire, and the
people were horror-struck and angry.
Then one voice said, "We all know in whose house the fire began, and the
owner of it must make our losses good to us."
The woman's husband heard this, and was alarmed, and guiltily fled into
the woods.
In the morning a council of the elders was held, and it was agreed that
the man in whose house the fire commenced should be made to pay for his
carelessness, and they forthwith searched for him. But when they sought
for him he could not be found. Then all the young warriors who were
cunning in wood-craft, girded and armed themselves, and searched for the
trail, and when one of them had found it, he cried out, and the others
gathered themselves about him and took it up, and when many eyes were
set upon it, the trail could not be lost.
They soon came up to the man, for he was seated under a tree, bitterly
weeping.
Without a word they took hold of him by the arms and bore him along with
them, and brought him before the village fathers. He was not a common
man by any means. He was known as one of Masama's principal men, and
one whose advice had been often followed.
"Oh," said everybody, "he is a rich man, and well able to pay; yet, if
he gives all he has got, it will not be equal to our loss."
The fathers talked a long time over the matter, and at last decided that
to save his forfeited life he should freely turn over to them all his
property. And he did so. His plantation of bananas and plantains, his
plots of beans, yams, manioc, potatoes, ground-nuts, his slaves, spears,
shields, knives, paddles and canoes. When he had given up all, the
hearts of the people became softened towards him, and they forgave him
the rest.
After the elder's property had been equally divided among the sufferers
by the fire, the people gained new courage, and set about rebuilding
their homes, and before long they had a new village, and they had made
themselves as comfortable as ever.
Then King Masama made a law, a very severe law--to the effect that, in
future, no fire should be lit in the houses during the day or night; and
the people, who were now much alarmed about fire, with one heart agreed
to keep the law. But it was soon felt that the cure for the evil was as
cruel as the fire had been. For the houses had been thatched with green
banana-leaves, the timbers were green and wet with their sap, the floor
was damp and cold, the air was deadly, and the people began to suffer
from joint aches, and their knees were stiff, and the pains travelled
from one place to another through their bodies. The village was filled
with groaning.
Masama suffered more than all, for he was old. He shivered night and
day, and his teeth chattered sometimes so that he could not talk, and
after that his head would burn, and the hot sweat would pour from him,
so that he knew no rest.
Then the king gathered his chiefs and principal men together, and said:
"Oh, my people, this is unendurable, for life is with me now but one
continuous ague. Let us leave this country, for it is bewitched, and if
I stay longer there will be nothing left of me. Lo, my joints are
stiffened with my disease, and my muscles are withering. The only time
I feel a little ease is when I lie on the hot ashes without the house,
but when the rains fall I must needs withdraw indoors, and there I find
no comfort, for the mould spreads everywhere. Let us hence at once to
seek a warmer clime. Behold whence the sun issues daily in the morning,
hot and glowing; there, where his home is, must be warmth, and we shall
need no fire. What say you?"
Masama's words revived their drooping spirits. They looked towards the
sun as they saw him mount the sky, and felt his cheering glow on their
naked breasts and shoulders, and they cried with one accord: "Let us
hence, and seek the place whence he comes."
And the people got ready and piled their belongings in the canoes, and
on a certain day they left their village and ascended their broad river,
the Lira. Day after day they paddled up the stream, and we heard of
them from the Bafanya as they passed by their country, and the Bafanya
heard of them for a long distance up--from the next tribe--the Bamoru--
and the Bamoru heard about them arriving near the Mountain Land beyond.
Not until a long time afterwards did we hear what became of Masama and
his people.
It was said that the Balira, when the river had become shallow and
small, left their canoes and travelled by land among little hills, and
after winding in and out amongst them they came to the foot of the tall
mountain which stands like a grandsire amongst the smaller mountains.
Up the sides of the big mountain they straggled, the stronger and more
active of them ahead, and as the days passed, they saw that the world
was cold and dark until the sun showed himself over the edge of the big
mountain, when the day became more agreeable, for the heat pierced into
their very marrows, and made their hearts rejoice. The greater the heat
became, the more certain were they that they were drawing near the home
of the sun. And so they pressed on and on, day after day, winding along
one side of the mountain, and then turning to wind again still higher.
Each day, as they advanced towards the top, the heat became greater and
greater. Between them and the sun there was now not the smallest shrub
or leaf, and it became so fiercely hot that finally not a drop of sweat
was left in their bodies. One day, when not a cloud was in the sky, and
the world was all below them--far down like a great buffalo hide--the
sun came out over the rim of the mountain like a ball of fire, and the
nearest of them to the top were dried like a leaf over a flame, and
those who were behind were amazed at its burning force, and felt, as he
sailed over their heads, that it was too late for them to escape. Their
skins began to shrivel up and crackle, and fall off, and none of those
who were high up on the mountain side were left alive. But a few of
those who were nearest the bottom, and the forest belts, managed to take
shelter, and remaining there until night, they took advantage of the
darkness, when the sun sleeps, to fly from the home of the sun. Except
a few poor old people and toddling children, there was none left of the
once populous tribe of the Balira.
That is my story. We who live by the great river have taken the lesson,
which the end of this tribe has been to us, close to our hearts, and it
is this. Kings who insist that their wills should be followed, and
never care to take counsel with their people, are as little to be heeded
as children who babble of what they cannot know, and therefore in our
villages we have many elders who take all matters from the chief and
turn them over in their minds, and when they are agreed, they give the
doing of them to the chief, who can act only as the elders decree.