I AM A CANNIBAL’S SLAVE
In the cannibal village—Before the council—Our fate—Desire to
please my master—How I succeeded—Our fears and their
justification—A sad company—Siene’s murder—The boy who lied—The
ordeal by poison—Village strife—The human peace-offering—The
haunting dread—Rumours of the white men—A fright—Makweke’s
peril—How he escaped—We plan flight—The start—The chase—A near
thing—The river reached—Over, and at home again.
When we awoke it was to find the sun already shining, for after the
fight and long walk, in addition to the much talking of the night
before, our new masters were as weary as ourselves.
It was not long, however, before the whole village was astir and the
morning meal eaten. We were glad to eat the manioca which had been
given us the previous night, because now that we had rested we felt the
pangs of hunger. Needless to say, we watched the people furtively to
see what they did and what kind of mood they were in.
We were surprised and amused to see that they washed their hands and
faces in the dew which was on the plantain leaves, whilst they were
also very particular about their teeth. We, of course, clean our teeth;
but if one rubs his body occasionally with oil and camwood powder
surely he has no need of water! It only spoils the effect.
When they had finished their ablutions and taken their food the chief
and elders of the town gathered together in council, and after a little
while we were brought before them. There was much talk, which I could
not understand, but as it was evident that they were deciding our fate
we stood there in fear and trembling, not knowing but what some of us
might be chosen to furnish another feast for them. Finally it was
decided that we should be kept in slavery, and we were divided up
between the different elders of the town, the chief keeping me and
three others as his share of the spoil. And so my name, Bokwala
(slave), became true of me and I entered on my life as a slave to the
cannibals.
I felt so strange amongst all these people whose language I could not
understand, and yet I found that I was expected to enter on my duties
at once. Although I had great anger in my heart towards my captors, yet
in one way I desired to please them, because by so doing I hoped to
make sure of a better time for myself than I should have otherwise. So
I set myself to find out what was meant even when I could not
understand their words.
When the sun began to slip down a little I noticed that the women
commenced to get their fires ready for cooking the evening meal. The
wife of my master pointed to me and then to her fire, and was evidently
making some request of him which concerned me. He assented and turning
to me said, “Dua na epundu.”
I knew he was giving me an order, and immediately rose to obey; but
what did he want? I went into the house and looked round and soon spied
an axe. Of course, the woman wanted firewood, and in order to get that
one needed an axe. So probably “Dua na epundu” meant “Bring the axe.” I
picked it up and carried it to my master, who was apparently pleased,
for he patted me on the head and said, “Mwana mbai, mwana mbai” (“My
child”).
Then, pointing with his lips to the forest, he said, “Ke a lene desa”
(“Go and cut firewood”).
I had expected that order, so was ready to set off at once, repeating
over and over the few words I had learned, in turn with my own
language, so that I should not forget them:—
“Dua na epundu, yela liswa;” “dua na epundu, yela liswa,” I said over
and over again, until I felt sure of the words. Then, while I was
cutting the wood, “Ke a lene desa, Nco yo tena nkui;” “Ke a lene desa,
Nco yo tena nkui;” and before long I found that I had enough wood to
fill my basket, so I set off for the village, and was again rewarded by
a pat on the head and the words, “Mwana mbai, mwana mbai!”
While I was in the forest cutting wood the hunters had come back and
brought some animals with them, so I found every one busy preparing
meat for cooking. I, with the other children, sat down and watched,
when suddenly one of the women turned to me and said, “Dua na mune.”
I sprang up and rushed into the house, but what I had been sent for I
could not think. I sat on the ground and wondered, and again I sent my
eyes round the little hut. Ah! that is it! oil, of course. They have
plenty of meat, and are going to make palm-oil chop. I seized the
calabash of oil from under the bed, and ran with it to the woman who
had sent me, and was received with a chorus of “Bia! bia!” (“Just so”),
and for the third time received the old chief’s pat on the head, and
heard the words, “Mwana mbai!”
I began to feel a little less strange, and to listen for other words,
for I had already found that the way to please these people was to be
bright and do my best. I found that they called nyáma (meat), tito;
bauta (oil), mune; ngoya (mother), ngwao, and fafa (father), sango, and
I was just trying to learn these words well so as to remember them
afterwards, when the chief called to me, “Bokwala!”
“Em’óne” (“I am here”), said I, in my own language, for I knew not how
else to answer.
“Dua na yeka dia,” said he, beckoning me to their group, who were
gathered round to take their evening meal, which was just being served.
I drew near, and received my share of food, and so I learnt some more
words, which meant, “Come and eat food.”
I began to think that my master did not seem a bad sort of man after
all, and that perhaps I might get used to my life there; but then I
could not help remembering the fight, and that only two nights before
these people had been feasting off my people, and would do so again
when they had an opportunity, and I went to sleep that night with my
mind made up that if ever I could see the least chance to do so, I
would escape, even if it had to be alone.
Many days and nights passed in this way, we slaves having to do all
kinds of work and being sent on errands continually, sometimes even
being told to mind the little children when the mothers went to their
gardens. Of course, we looked upon all this as oppression, and felt
great shame, for we boys frequently had to do women’s work, and what
can be more degrading than that? And I could never forget that I was
the son of a chief!
As we learnt more of their language, and began to understand what was
said in our presence, we found that there was plenty of reason for fear
as to our future, even though we had been kept alive for the present.
When our people were spoken of it was as tito (meat), and fighting
expeditions were looked upon as hunts. It was quite usual to ratify
agreements between chiefs by the killing of a slave and feasting on the
body, and this was even done sometimes when a chief wanted to pay
special honour to a visitor. And when we heard these things being
discussed and plans being laid for them, we trembled with fear, and
wondered how long we should be all there together.
We had not much time to ourselves, for we were kept continually busy,
and we dared not talk together very much, because some of the natives
of the village could understand our words, but now and again, out in
the forest or at night, we were able to tell each other how we were
getting on, and to condole with one another over our misfortunes.
Now my master discovered that I was good at climbing and at catching
bats, so when the bat season came on he often sent me into the forest
to search for some. One day I went out on such a quest and did not
return until evening. I took the bats I had caught to the chief, and
afterwards went off to the shed where my companions were sitting.
They all seemed very quiet, and scarcely gave me a welcome, and this
was unusual, especially when I brought meat in from the forest. I threw
myself down amongst them, and looking round the group I missed Siene, a
little girl slave with whom I was on very good terms.
“Where is Siene?” I asked of the others.
“O Bokwala,” answered one, “do not ask, we do not want to tell you.”
“But I want to know. Is she ill? Or has she escaped?” I inquired,
thinking the latter hardly possible for a girl alone.
“Bokwala,” said one, beckoning me to follow him, “come.”
I followed him to an open space at the end of one of the huts, and
pointing to the ground, he said to me, “Look there; that is all that is
left of Siene.”
I looked and started back. Could it be? Yes, it was only too true—that
dark stain on the ground was blood. And little by little I heard the
whole terrible story. The chief had visitors, and he determined on a
feast in their honour, and as a dainty morsel was indispensable, he
decided to kill and serve up the body of my little girl friend. It was
on that very spot where we stood that the deed had been committed. And
that dark stain was all that was left of my friend!
That night I was drunk with anger, and so were the other boys. There
was no one but us boys and girls to weep for Siene, but we wept until
we wept ourselves to sleep for sorrow; sorrow not only for her, but for
ourselves as well; for we knew not how soon we might be treated in the
same way.
Time passed on, and we grew more and more accustomed to our
surroundings, and as we boys proved useful to our masters, we had a
certain amount of liberty, and went to fish and hunt frequently, but
always for the benefit of our respective masters—nothing we caught was
reckoned as our own property.
And we were not always in favour. If anything was lost or stolen, we
were accused of the deed; if we failed to obey or understand, we were
beaten or punished in some other way; and if one of us was found to
have lied, we had to pay the price, which was sometimes a heavy one.
One boy who told his master a lie was found out, and the master with
one slash of his knife cut the boy’s ear off, cooked it over the fire,
and compelled the slave to eat it. That was a bad master, they were not
all like that.
One way of punishing us was by rubbing red peppers into our eyes, and
another by cutting little slits in the skin over our shoulders and
backs where we could not reach, and rubbing pepper into the sores thus
made. They hoped by this means not only to punish us, but to harden us,
and make of us brave men who would not flinch at pain.
In the case of accusations of stealing, the most popular way of
settling the affair was by the poison ordeal. That was a very frequent
occurrence in those days, and still is in parts where the white men do
not visit often. It was like this. All the people gathered together,
and the chief, witch-doctor, and headmen seated themselves to hear the
trial. The persons concerned gave their evidence, and the accused was
allowed to make his defence; but if he were a slave, of what use was
it? Then the evidence would be summed up, and the decision given that
the poison ordeal be administered.
The bark was brought and scraped, then mixed with water, and the
draught given to the prisoner. We always took it willingly, for we all
believed that it revealed the truth, and therefore were obliged to
stand or fall by it. After it was drunk in the presence of the people,
all waited eagerly for the result. If the prisoner vomited, and was
none the worse, of course he had been falsely accused; if, on the other
hand, he fell and died, there was proof positive of his guilt. What
could any one want more decisive than that?
Occasionally there were fights between different villages near to us,
as well as the warlike expeditions to other tribes. When two villages
had been fighting for a long time, and neither could win or was willing
to give in, it was generally settled by a peace-offering. At such a
time we slaves went in fear of our lives, for it was almost certain
that a slave would be hanged as a peace-offering, and possibly his
corpse would be eaten afterwards.
With all these fears surrounding us, and never feeling sure of our
lives for a single day—no matter how kind some of the people might be
to us—you will not be surprised to hear that whenever we got together
and could talk a little our conversation always turned to the subject
of our escape from slavery. But so far as we could see there was no
possibility of getting away.
About this time we began to hear rumours of some strange people who had
paid a visit to a village not far from my father’s place, Ekaka. They
were said to be white—men like us but with white skins—and they came in
a canoe which went of itself, having no paddlers, but emitting smoke
from the roof.
At first we laughed and thought it was just a yarn, simply a made-up
story; but the rumours became frequent, and we heard that some of the
people had actually bought some land and settled down on it. We could
not understand about them, so we concluded that they must be the
children of Lianza, the great warrior hero of our race, who went down
river ages ago and never returned. But these things did not trouble me,
for what chance had I ever to get back to my father’s place, or see
these people?
One day we had a great fright. A neighbouring chief came with his
slaves and children and the elders of his village to visit my master.
There was the usual salutation and a little gossip, and then he began
to tell his business. He had been settling an affair between himself
and another chief, and it fell to his share to provide the feast of
ratification, and naturally he wished to do it well.
Now he had no suitable slave to kill for the occasion, which was
unfortunate, so he had come to his friend to see if he could help him
out of this serious difficulty by selling him a slave.
“No,” said my master, “I cannot help you; I have no one to sell.”
Then there was much talking and pleading. “You have so many slaves in
your village, do let us have one, even if only a little one.”
But for some time he held out, and refused to sell, and we who were
listening began to hope that we were safe for this time at any rate,
until at last we heard the words, “Well, take my wife’s boy: he is
small and not of much use to me. Take Makweke.”
Makweke was a little lad whom the chief had given to his wife to look
after her two baby girls, of whom they were both very fond. The woman
liked Makweke and was kind to him, and not having a boy of her own she
treated him better than most of the slaves. So when she heard her
husband’s words she whispered to the boy to run and hide, and told him
of a safe hiding-place.
Away he went into the bush, and we sat down and waited.
Soon the chief called, “Makweke, dua pelepele” (“Come quickly”), but
receiving no answer he called again.
Then his wife answered, “Makweke is not here; he was, but has gone.”
“Call him,” said the chief; “I want him here.”
The woman answered, “I cannot call him; if you want him you must search
for him yourself.”
So, receiving the chief’s permission, the people rushed out and
searched for Makweke in the houses and all over the village, then in
the gardens at the back, but they found no trace of him. Into the
forest they went and hunted in every direction, beating the bushes with
sticks, and peering up into the big trees, trying to discover his
hiding-place; but it was all in vain. The search failed, and they
returned to their own village in great anger at being thwarted in their
plans.
But I must tell you of Makweke. He ran off to a little distance,
climbed a tree, and let himself down into the hollow trunk—the
hiding-place of which he had been told. There he was safe, but he could
hear the noise and shoutings of the people who were searching for him
getting nearer and nearer, until at last they reached his tree, halted,
beat the bushes under it and the lower branches with their sticks, and
then—what relief!—passed on.
He told us afterwards that he was so scared he hardly dared breathe,
and although he knew they could not see him, he trembled with fear as
long as they were near.
Late at night, after the visitors had left, his mistress took some food
out to him, and told him to remain there until the morning, when
probably her husband’s anger would be finished. Then he might come back
to the village. He did so, and the affair passed without further
trouble.
All this decided us that we would not remain in such a place of danger
a day longer than we could help. I was older now, and had grown big and
strong, and once across the river I knew that a warm welcome would be
accorded to me and any who went with me. Our only fear was of recapture
before we could reach the river, but we all felt it was worth risking,
so from that time we began in dead earnest to look out for an
opportunity of running away.
Not so very long after the chief and some of his people went to pay a
visit and remained over night. All was quiet in the village, and no one
troubled about us boys, so in the dense darkness of a moonless night we
gathered together.
Hastily we made our plans, picked up the little food we had saved from
our evening meal, grasped our hunting spears and knives, and slipped
away into the bush at the back of the village. We went very
stealthily—nya-nya, like a leopard when he is stalking his prey—scared
at every sound, starting at the snapping of a twig, the call of a
night-bird or the whistle of an insect.
On and on we pressed, not daring to speak to each other, lest we might
betray our whereabouts to some unfriendly native, or one who was
friendly to our masters, scarcely able to see the path, for the moon
had not yet risen, scratching ourselves as we passed thorny bushes,
treading on sticks and roots of trees projecting from the ground—and
still on—what mattered wounds or weariness if at last we reached the
river and liberty?
We made good progress during the first few hours, and were not much
afraid of pursuit, as our flight would not be discovered until morning;
but by and by some of our party (which consisted of a man and his wife
with a little child as well as three of us boys) began to get weary,
and it was necessary that we should get away from the main road, lest
we should be overtaken. So we turned off into a side road, and at a
little distance from it we found a large fallen tree which made a good
hiding-place. There we lay down and slept for some time, one of us
taking turns at watching and listening.
In the morning we were startled by hearing voices not far off, and as
we listened we recognised them as belonging to natives of the village
we had left. Yes, they had awakened to find us gone; and now a search
party was out scouring the forest in every direction for signs of us.
We dared not move nor speak, and how anxious we were that the child
should not cry! Nearer and nearer came the voices till they sounded
almost close at hand, and then they receded gradually, and at last died
away in the distance. We were nearly caught, but not quite!
After waiting for some time, we went out to look round, and on the main
road we traced the footprints of our pursuers distinctly; they had
passed our footpath by, and so we escaped recapture. From now onwards
we had to keep to bypaths, sometimes cutting our way through dense
forest, spending our nights under fallen trees or on the ground, hungry
and weary; but in spite of all our difficulties we reached the river
bank at last.
We were still far from home, but once on the other bank we would at
least be safe from pursuit. Our people have a proverb, “Nta fendaka
ntandu la mposa e’ola”—that is, “You cannot cross the river by means of
a thirst for home.” This is certainly a true saying, so we had to seek
for a canoe to take us over. One of our party set out along the bank to
see if there were any moored there, as people often go out fishing and
leave their canoes with no one to look after them. This was our hope,
and it was fulfilled.
Not far away was found a canoe with paddles in it, and no sign of the
owners. We determined to watch it until sundown, and then, if no one
appeared, to take it and set out. For the remainder of that day we
rested, and sought for some food to stay our hunger. How we rejoiced to
find some edible caterpillars, which were delicious, and made us feel
stronger for our night’s work! Just as the darkness was coming on, when
you cannot tell one man from another, we crept along the bank, stepped
into the canoe, grasped the paddles, and silently pushed off into the
stream.
We boys were delighted to be on the river again, and we did paddle! But
had any people been about we might have lost everything even then, for
the woman who came with us had been born on that side of the river, and
had never been on the water in her life. She sat down in the bottom,
clasping her child, and trembling with fear. Every time the canoe gave
a lurch she would utter a little half-suppressed scream, and say, “Na
gwa! Na kwe bona?” (“I am dying. What shall I do?”). We could not help
laughing at her, but it did no good, she was really very much afraid.
We got safely over, tied the canoe to the bank, and left it for the
owners to find as best they might, and plunged once more into the
forest.
Now that we were on the safe side of the river we did not need to be so
careful about keeping away from the roads; we only hid if we heard
voices, not knowing to whom they might belong. Two more nights were
passed in the thick forest, and two more days we spent walking on, just
managing to keep alive by eating fruit, roots, caterpillars, or
anything we could find that was edible. When we were nearing home we
again heard voices not far off.
We listened. Yes, I recognised them. They were people from my father’s
village. Accosting them, we made inquiries about our friends, and were
glad to find that all was well.
On we pressed with renewed energy, and towards evening we arrived in
the village, worn out with anxiety, exhausted from want of food, and
ready to drop with weariness; but how glad we were to be there!
And what a welcome we all had! My father and mother received us with
great rejoicing—our fellow travellers for my sake—and what a feast was
made in our honour! After the feast I told my story, and many were the
questions asked and the comments made as the villagers listened.
Thus we arrived back at home, and thus we were welcomed, and on the
next day a great dance was held in our honour. And for ourselves, what
shall I say? We—we were ready to die of happiness! And yet the day was
coming when we would wish that we had stayed where we were, even as
slaves of the cannibals.