Back to Rietvlei from Harvard--I locate in Ermelo--Tuys brings news
that Sebuza is to be crowned king of Swaziland--I decide to make a
picture record of the coronation--The trek to Zombode to get the royal
permission--Snyman plays ghost and almost gets killed--Visit to
Mbabane, capital of Swaziland.
Soon after my graduation from Harvard University I returned to the
Transvaal. I had been away for years and it was good to get back to
the Valley of Reeds. Years in Scotland and the United States had left
their stamp on me, and my family and old friends chaffed me about
being an "outlander," telling me that now I was an American. I may
have had some of the externals, such as the clothing I had had made in
Cambridge, but my heart was still the heart of a Boer and I was glad
to get back to my own people.
Father was proud to have a son who was a physician and arranged a
reception at Rietvlei to which all his friends and acquaintances came.
I was the hero of the hour, and it seemed strange when Tuys and some
of the old men who had known me as a boy called me "Mzaan Bakoor." I
had not heard my native name for years, and it brought back my boyhood
and the little playmates of the toy-factory days.
Sibijaan was a grown man and a fine figure of a savage. He greeted me
with effusiveness and saluted me native-fashion as soon as we had
shaken hands. Father told me that he had been very useful about the
house and was well trained. Then he told me that Sibijaan belonged to
me and was to go with me wherever I went. When I spoke of this to my
old playmate, he was surprised that I should mention it.
"Nkoos, what the ou baas says is so," he said. "I have never thought
it would be otherwise. When we were children your mother gave you into
my charge. Now that you are a man and I am a man, again I take up the
trust!"
This suited me. I realized I would have to have some dependable boys
and I knew that Sibijaan was faithful, honest, and more intelligent
than any kaffir I had ever met.
Meeting Tuys again brought back the several visits we had made to
Swaziland, and I asked him how things had gone with our friends, the
royal family. He said that the old arrangement was still in effect and
that Umzulek had settled down for good and was behaving himself.
"Queen Labotsibeni is blind now, but she still rules as regent," he
said, "and Tzaneen is taking good care that no harm comes to her son,
Sebuza. This young savage is growing into a man and already has
gathered about him several impis. He is an insolent cub and will be
hard to manage when he becomes king. As the crown prince he is running
wild, and it seems he has been impertinent to the British Resident at
Mbabane."
Tuys then told me that he expected to make a short trip to Lebombo and
Zombode and asked me if I wanted to go along. My father, however,
seemed to think I had "better get over that foolishness" and settle
down, so I told Tuys I would go with him some other time.
Next came the question where I was to practice medicine. There was a
good doctor in Belfast, who was a friend of our family, and it was
suggested that I join him. This, however, did not please me. I wanted
to be "on my own" and make my own career. This delighted my father,
and after some discussion we decided that I should locate in Ermelo.
This was a little town of about fifteen hundred whites and several
thousand kaffirs, in the heart of a fine farming and grazing section
in the southeast section of the Transvaal. It has an elevation of
about a mile and is a delightful spot. However, I must admit that the
fact that Ermelo is only a little more than fifty miles from the
border of Swaziland finally decided my choice.
After a few weeks with my family I started for Ermelo. Instead of
making an attempt to get there by rail, Sibijaan, Tuys, and I trekked
overland and had a most delightful trip. Seldom a night but we met
with friends of my father, and they always gave a warm welcome to "the
O'Neil from overseas." It seems that these simple people had wondered
over my absence, feeling that I would be too learned to ever want to
associate with them again. They were intensely interested in the
United States, and many an hour I spent telling them about its
wonders. I happened to have pictures of New York among my dunnage, and
I dug these out and showed them. Naturally, the towering "skyscrapers"
were a most wonderful thing to these Boers, many of whom had never
seen a building of more than two stories. I always remember the remark
made by one bearded patriarch when he looked at the photograph of the
Flatiron Building.
"This is a modern Tower of Babel," he said, pointing at the structure
with a stubby forefinger. "These Americans must be good and religious
people or God would throw down such a tower!"
When I explained to him that it was built of steel covered with stone
and told him that there were many other greater buildings, he was
impressed, but not astonished.
"If it is God's will, these Americans will conquer the world," he
concluded.
I then told him that war had been forced on America and her armies
were even then in France fighting the Germans. He knew a good deal
about the war and was naturally an enemy of England, which meant that
he was friendly to the Germans. The fact that America had been forced
into the conflict carried great weight with him, however, and I had a
feeling that his pro-Germanism was much weakened by this knowledge.
I quickly found a home in Ermelo and settled down to practice
medicine. My work there was hard but interesting. Its chief delight
was the fact that I spent most of my time outdoors. A round of visits
soon meant that I would be gone several days, spending most of the
time in the saddle. Many trips could be made by motor, particularly
the periodical ones to the mines, but most of my Boer patients lived
where motors could not travel. Except for the mining companies which
had appointed me their resident physician, my patients were all white
people. The Boers are a hardy lot and hate to admit that they are ill.
Hence, when I received a call to a Boer farm, I always expected the
worst and was seldom disappointed.
Bit by bit my practice increased, and I began to regard Ermelo as my
permanent home. There were a number of pleasant people there, both
English and Boers, and we lived a very contented busy life. Sibijaan
turned out to be a valuable servant and did everything for me that he
could. Of course I made him head boy about my place, and he kept the
other servants in good order and saw that all things went right.
Oom Tuys stayed with me frequently, and his visits were always
welcome. He wandered about the Transvaal a great deal and was a source
of information of all sorts. It was in December, 1918, that he brought
me news that interested me deeply.
"I have come from Zombode," he said, "and there is hell to pay in
Swaziland. Old Labotsibeni tells me that Tzaneen and her right-hand
man, Lochien, are plotting to have Sebuza made king and are making
preparations for his coronation. Lomwazi, who is a son of the old
queen and acts for her, tells me that Labotsibeni will not give up the
throne. She will have to die if she does. As you know, it is the Swazi
custom to sacrifice any ruler who loses the throne, and the old girl
doesn't want to be killed.
"It looks to me as if there is going to be trouble. I talked to
Lomwazi and his mother and told them it was the agreement that she was
to remain regent until Sebuza came of age, and that the Boers and
British both would protect her when the young man was made king. This
seemed to reassure them, but I don't think Labotsibeni and her crowd
want to lose control. Yes, Owen, I think there is going to be trouble
in Swaziland."
We talked the matter over, and I agreed with him that things were
going to happen soon in Swaziland. The Swazis had been at peace too
long a time for such a warlike nation and it would not take much to
start a war of some sort. The fact that Prince Sebuza was to be made
king stood out above everything else, and I made up my mind to see the
ceremonies.
About this time I had become interested in the cinematograph.
Moving-pictures were a hobby of mine, and it suddenly occurred to me
that it would be a fine thing from an historic and educational
standpoint to take some reels of Sebuza's coronation. Tuys told me
that this would probably be the last affair of its kind, and it seemed
to me that a cinematograph record of it would be most valuable and
instructive.
I suggested this to Oom Tuys, and he agreed with me.
"But you'd better arrange to take the pictures," he cautioned me. "It
would be just a waste of time to rush into Swaziland with a camera and
take a chance. We don't know when the coronation is going to take
place, and what's more, we don't know that the Swazis would stand for
your taking pictures of it. The witch-doctors might tell them that you
were putting some sort of a curse on them, and then where would you be?"
This put another light on the matter, and Tuys finally advised me to
see Labotsibeni and get her permission to film the ceremonies when
Sebuza was made king. I was afraid that I might not be able to get
what I wanted from Labotsibeni, so I asked Tuys to help me. This he
agreed to do, arranging to meet me in Zombode. This meant quite a trip
for him, because the British objected to his going into Swaziland,
owing to certain activities there in the past, and he had to go in
through Portuguese territory. I have forgotten what reasons the
government had for not wanting Tuys to visit Swaziland, but the
officials evidently had not forgotten--Britishers seldom do,
particularly when the matter affects one of their principalities.
So it was arranged that Tuys should slip into Swaziland through
Komatipoort, a town on the border between Portuguese East Africa and
Labotsibeni's country. I was to leave as soon as I could, and we would
meet at Zombode and there transact our business with Lomwazi and the
old queen.
I arranged for another doctor to handle my patients while I was away
and then set about making preparations for the trip. News of my
venture soon got about, and I was deluged with requests to take
friends along. If I had given in to them all, I would have invaded
Swaziland with an impi. As it was, I took Laurie Snyman, a cousin of
mine, and Joel Biddy, the accountant of the little bank in Ermelo.
Snyman had some years before been postmaster at Mbabane, the
government seat of Swaziland, while Biddy had been a useful friend on
many occasions.
We had some interesting adventures on the trip, but suffered intensely
from the weather. Heavy storms dogged us all the way and made life
miserable. We traveled light, but the rains prevented us making good
time. Our outfit consisted of a wagonette, drawn by mules, in which we
had intended to ride. Sibijaan was our cook and general handy man,
while the mules and wagonette were in charge of Tuis, a half-breed
Basuto bushman.
The rains made the roads so heavy that it was all the mules could do
to drag the wagonette. Hence we had to walk practically the entire
way, and it was "foot-slogging" of the hardest. Tuis was a very
obstinate kaffir and made a nuisance of himself on every opportunity.
If we had not needed him so badly, I would have either killed him or
sent him back.
One of the features of the trip was the fact that both Sibijaan and
Tuis were constantly ill. That is, they said they were. The only
medicine which seemed to help them was gin, and they would frequently
feign illness to get some. Now and then I would refuse, and then Tuis
would give an exhibition of sulking that was wonderful. Of course it
is strictly against the law to give alcohol to kaffirs in the
Transvaal, but the fact that it was administered as "muti," or
medicine, made the act less criminal. Those boys of mine, however,
needed "muti" frequently, but the rain was a sort of justification,
for I know that we white men were only able to keep going by using it.
On the second day out of Ermelo we ran into the Scottish section of
our country. The little villages there have such names as Lochiel and
New Scotland, and the people are quite as Scottish as these names. In
fact, we were able to get some oat cakes at one of the farm-houses.
These would have been rusks, had the people been Boers.
Although our trek had been miserable enough so far, we did not have
any real trouble until we reached the Masuto River. It was swollen by
the heavy rains and the ford was washed out. Instead of the usual
clear rivulet, it had become a raging torrent of muddy water. We had
to cross it or go back, so we made camp on its bank and held a council
of war. All our blankets and supplies were soaked through, and a fire
could not be started. We were just about as uncomfortable as we could
be.
Just when we were beginning to despair, a Scotch civil engineer showed
up. He was building a bridge over the Masuto, his entire working force
consisting of kaffirs. He proved a cheerful person and made light of
our troubles. This was well enough for him, since he had a good camp a
short distance away, while we were marooned on a desert of dampness. I
suggested to him that we would appreciate some hot tea or coffee, but
he carefully refrained from inviting us to his camp to have some.
Instead, he told us that we could get what we wanted from Oom Van der
Merwe, who had a farm not far distant. The Scotch are a careful and
canny people!
We trudged over to the Boer farm and received a cordial welcome. They
received us with open arms and insisted that we remain there for a few
days, or at least until the rain stopped. This we could not do, since
I had made the Zombode appointment with Tuys and did not want him to
have to wait so long that he would give us up and leave Swaziland.
The farmer's womenfolk gave us all the hot coffee we would drink, and
then supplied us with bread, butter, milk, and the hind quarter of a
sheep. We returned to our thoroughly soaked camp very reluctantly and
passed a most miserable night.
Next morning we tackled the problem of getting across the Masuto,
which had risen further during the night. The Scotch engineer came to
our assistance with good advice, and this is all he would have offered
had I not discovered that he had several cables stretched across the
river. After much argument he agreed to let us use one of the cables
to get the wagonette and supplies across. This was done, although with
great difficulty.
Knowing we would have to swim for it, we white men had put our clothes
in the wagonette. The kaffir boys did not wear enough to matter. The
Scotchman consoled us by telling us that we were a ludicrous sight,
and we must have been! There we stood, naked, cold, and disgusted, our
entire possessions on the far bank and facing the prospect of swimming
the turbulent river, driving the mules across at the same time.
However, it had to be done, so we plunged in. The current was strong
and we crawled ashore a full half mile below the wagonette.
True to his bastard breed, one of the mules turned back in midstream
and proceeded calmly to the take-off bank of the river. We had to swim
back and get him, but it was adding insult to injury when he tried to
run away and we had to chase him through the long grass and
undergrowth of the river's edge. Finally we captured the brute and
then swam the river for the third time as his watchful escort.
We were dead tired when we reached the wagonette and faced the stiff
climb to the top of a little mountain. The road was in the worst
possible condition, so we decided to camp for a day or two until the
weather became better. As things were, we could not have gone on,
anyway.
As soon as camp was pitched, we looked about a bit and discovered the
ruins of an old Boer farm-house a little way up the river. There was a
trickle of smoke coming out of the chimney and this encouraged us to
visit the place as soon as possible. The thought of fire was
heartening; it meant hot things to drink and possibly warm food. When
I came close to it I saw that there were two rooms, badly roofed over,
but the blackened walls showed that the old house had been quite an
imposing building.
My knock was answered by a young Boer with wild, hunted eyes. He
looked us over as we stood there in the pouring rain, and a moment
later smiled graciously and invited us in. When the door closed he
ceremoniously extended his hand and we shook hands all around.
"Strangers seldom come during the storms," he said, "and I was
surprised to hear your knock. I was cooking some coffee in the back
room and now I shall add enough for all of us."
This was a welcome thought to us, and in a little while our drooping
spirits were revived by the hot drink. Then we cooked the food we had
brought with us and had a merry party. It seems the young fellow was
quite bucked up over having visitors and he did well by the gin we had
brought with us.
But still it rained outside! It came down as it only can in the
Transvaal, and that means a steady, relentless downpour which looked
as though it would last for days. We decided to make ourselves as
comfortable as possible, and our host insisted that we take over his
house. He was a very pleasant fellow and before long we were good
friends.
It seems that the old house had been the home of his parents and
grandparents. It was a pioneer homestead and had been burned by the
British during the Boer War. Both his parents had died there and the
place had never been rebuilt. He had been born in the room in which we
rested and he told us that he hoped some day to rebuild and make his
thousands of acres profitable.
Bit by bit we got the story of the place from him. It had been
destroyed in retaliation for some act of treachery, for which, he
assured us, his parents were not responsible. I asked him if he did
not get lonesome living there by himself and suggested that he ought
to get a wife to keep him company. My question opened up a queer side
of his character, and then we understood the hunted look in his eyes.
"By day," he said slowly, "I don't mind being here alone. In good
weather people cross the river and come to me to buy things. I have a
store, you know, and sometimes as many as five or six come each week."
This was news to us. We did not see any evidence of a store, but this
probably explained the small boxes and bundles in the back room.
"It is the night that is terrible," he went on, lowering his voice as
though afraid of being overheard. "Those who died here come back and
look into the windows and cry out with awful voices. They cannot rest,
and must come back to this place where they were killed. Some of them
are our people and others the British, and sometimes they fight the
battle over again!"
For a moment I thought he was guying us, but a glance at his eyes told
me that he was in deadly earnest. Snyman and Biddy caught his spirit
and egged him on to tell more ghost stories. Now the ignorant Boer is
very superstitious, so that it was not long before we had all kinds of
ghosts loose about the place. The young Boer took the stories
seriously, and those two rascals soon had him quite terrified. A
sudden burst of thunder made him jump as though he had been shot.
Well, we told ghost stories and tales of other supernatural
visitations for some time. Then, the rain letting up a bit, we went
back to our camp, to find that Sibijaan had finally succeeded in
getting a fairly decent fire going. Before leaving we had bought the
store out. It only contained quantities of "flag" cigarettes, coffee,
and yellow sugar, but we took all we could get. The Boer assured us
that he had sent to Ermelo for a large stock of goods which would be
at our disposal as soon as the roads allowed it to be brought in.
Late that afternoon it looked as though the stormy weather was
breaking away, and this cheered us up. We planned to start at dawn
next morning and make up for lost time by forced marches. Shortly
after dark Snyman announced that he was going to visit the young Boer
again. He went out, leaving Biddy and me smoking our pipes in the tent.
Snyman had been gone for about half an hour when the stillness of the
night was shattered by a succession of rifle shots. They came from the
direction of the ruined house. We could hear some one shouting, also,
and each outburst was followed by more shots.
With one motion I snuffed our candle and dived to the wet floor of the
tent. Biddy was almost as quick, and swore softly when his face hit my
heels. We neither of us could imagine what was taking place, but our
training taught us that the ground was the safest place when people
began shooting wildly.
We had hardly got our breath when Snyman dashed into the tent, falling
over us and almost pulling it down. He had been running hard and was
fairly gasping for breath. Presently he recovered sufficiently to
loose a volley of profanity in Dutch and English. When he calmed down
a little--the shooting had stopped by this time--we asked him what all
the shooting was about and why he had returned in such haste.
"Why, that poor ignorant fool thought he could shoot a ghost!" he
said, beginning to laugh. "I went to see if there were any ghosts
around his old house, and when I didn't find any, I felt that he ought
not to be disappointed, so I played ghost for him. I sneaked about the
house and hid in the old ruins, making all sorts of creepy noises, I
must have scared him until he went crazy.
"I was just beginning to enjoy myself when his light went out. Then I
thought I had scared him off the map. But I was wrong, very wrong! He
must have opened the door quietly, for when I started out of the ruins
he opened up with his Mauser. I dropped flat, but it seemed to me that
a volley of bullets crawled down my back. A moment later he started
shooting in another direction, and then I got up and ran. I'll bet the
springbok doesn't live that could have caught me!"
So this was the explanation of the sudden firing. We examined Snyman
and found that two bullets had gone through his coat, showing that
even in his fear the young fellow had shot like a true Boer. Snyman
did not seem much upset over being shot at, but was quite indignant at
the fact that the "ghost hunter" had used a rifle.
"It just shows the ignorance of these back-country Boers," he said,
ruefully examining his torn coat. "This damned fool spends his nights
quaking because he thinks his old farm is full of ghosts, and then he
takes down the ancestral rifle and goes out and tries to kill them. As
though he could shoot a ghost!"
Before dawn the next morning the young Boer arrived at our camp. While
he was taking coffee with us he related his adventure of the night
before. He seemed to have no suspicion of Snyman, who must have done a
wonderful job. According to his story a whole battalion of British
ghosts had attacked his stronghold. He described their wailing and
threatening cries, and then told how he had finally driven them off
with his father's rifle.
He was so earnest and pathetic that we all felt sorry for him. His
ignorance was extraordinary, even when his isolation was considered.
We were sorry to leave him, and I remember looking back as we climbed
the hill road to see him looking wistfully after us.
The roads were so bad that we had to walk, and it was not until the
third day that we reached Mbabane, the official capital of Swaziland.
This is about fifteen miles over the border, and the village is on the
top of a low mountain. Mbabane is the new capital of Swaziland and was
founded in 1904. The old capital, Bremersdorp, was destroyed by our
people during the Boer War.
The long slopes leading up to the village are nearly all covered with
plantations, which have been laid out by Robert L. Dickson, head of
the Swaziland Trading Company. The settlement is a most picturesque
and charming place, and there are a number of pleasant English people
dwelling there. These white families live very well, and I can safely
say that Mbabane is the most delightful place in that whole section of
the Transvaal.
Mr. Dickson is a remarkable character who has lived in South Africa
practically all his life. He is now about sixty-five years old, and no
visit to Mbabane is complete without at least one cup of tea with him
and his wife. Mrs. Dickson is a lovable old lady whose chief worries
seem to consist of guarding her vegetable plantation and finding her
glasses.
The morning we called on Mr. Dickson, she came in and asked if he had
seen those errant glasses. His eyes twinkled when he answered, "No, my
dear, but I'm sure you'll find them in the cabbage patch!" She had
been there during the morning and his guess was correct, for one of
the black boys found the glasses draped over a young and hopeful
cabbage.
Of course Mr. Dickson invited us to dinner, and this led to a typical
and amusing incident. Mrs. Dickson ordered her cook to prepare some
chickens for the meal, and the cook sent some of the Swazi servants to
get the fowls.
Now a friend of mine, John Pythian, engineer at the tin mines nearby,
lived next door to the Dicksons. He was a chicken fancier and had some
very fine birds. As luck or indolence would have it, Mrs. Dickson's
servants caught some of his chickens instead of her own. Pythian's
servant reported this to him--he was still in bed at the time--and he
instructed his boy to tell Mrs. Dickson's Swazis to return the chickens.
Stronger in courage than judgment, the boy attacked the enemy and
there was a battle. It was short, however, because Mrs. Dickson heard
the row and chased Pythian's boy away. By the time he reported to his
master, the chickens were slain. Pythian then sent his boy to get the
native police, and these soon arrived.
Mrs. Dickson protested and argued that her boys were innocent, but
about this time, Mr. Honey, British Royal Commissioner for Swaziland,
came on the scene in all his majesty. He held an impromptu court and
heard both sides of the case. After deliberation, in which we all
tried to assist him, he delivered his verdict.
"From the evidence I judge that Mrs. Dickson's boys are innocent in
that they did not realize they were killing Mr. Pythian's chickens,"
he said. "However, the chickens have been killed on the order of Mrs.
Dickson, so I think the only thing to do is to arrest Mrs. Dickson!"
Whereupon Mrs. Dickson became indignant and demanded that the
commissioner carry out his sentence.
"If he does," she said threateningly, "I can guarantee that the High
Commissioner for Swaziland is going to feel very low in his mind
before I invite him to dinner again!"
Thus the chicken-stealing ended in a joke, and Pythian was one of the
gayest at dinner that night. He remarked, however, that it was no
wonder that the roast chicken was so choice, since the birds had been
imported all the way from some place in India!
During the meal I sat next to the Commissioner and brought up the
question of the crowning of the new Swazi king. I wanted to find out
what the government thought about it before I made final arrangements
at Zombode.
"There seems to be a difference of opinion regarding this pup,
Sebuza," he said. "It looks as though there might be a row either
before or soon after he is made king. Of course he is the heir to the
job, so there can be no good reason for keeping him out. However,
Labotsibeni has been a steady old girl and has kept fairly good order
around Zombode, and it's a shame we can't keep her. But she's over one
hundred years old, and now Lomwazi seems to be fairly running
Swaziland. Sebuza will have to be king some day, but it will be good
policy to maintain present conditions as long as possible. We have
peace now, and I'd dislike to see anything happen that might start a
war."
I could see that the Commissioner was none too anxious to have Sebuza
take over the throne. This suited me, for I knew that it would be some
time before I was equipped with the right outfit to take the pictures
I was after. If Sebuza's coronation could be put off for a year, it
would suit me even better.
All the white residents of Mbabane treated us with the greatest
kindness and hospitality. They could not do too much for us. There are
a number of interesting things about the settlement. It is essentially
a little English village set down in the heart of the most primitive
and savage principality of the empire. Like all the rest of the
English who exile themselves from home, these people had brought a
little bit of the motherland with them.
The jail, or "gaol," as they insist on writing it, is an institution
in Mbabane, but I must say there is not much punishment about it. The
prisoners wear the convict garb, but you meet them all over the
village. They are usually working in the gardens, and I have often run
across them three and four miles from their penitential abode. No
prisoner has ever been known to escape; perhaps the regular food has
something to do with this.
There are a number of interesting characters who live in Mbabane year
in and year out. One of these is Allister Miller, a man of remarkable
personality, energy, and business ability. He has several immense
ranches and owns more than fifty thousand head of fine cattle. His
bulls have been imported from all over the world and his cattle have
made him a very rich man. Swaziland is an ideal stock-raising country
and it is estimated that the Swazis themselves own more than three
hundred thousand head of cattle.
Probably the most interesting character in Mbabane is known to every
one as "Matt." He is an accountant by profession. His nose has made
him famous, and I am sure there is not another like it in the whole
world. It is immense in size and has all the vivid tints of the
"rum-nose" that distinguishes the confirmed tippler. All strangers are
advised to see Matt's nose or count their visit to Mbabane a rank
failure.
There are a number of stories about him, one of the best being about
his experience as an inmate of the gaol. It seems that he was
accountant for a trading company and had made a mess of its books.
Money was missing and he could not account for it. Although it was
felt that he had not taken it, yet he was responsible and was
sentenced to gaol for six months. Now the warden of the gaol trusted
Matt and put him to work on the books. In addition, he used to loan
Matt to do little jobs of carpentering and painting at houses in the
village. This led to trouble. The little tin shanty, by courtesy "The
Hotel," was much like some of the saloons in the "cow towns" of the
old West in the United States. Ranchers, traders, and adventurers
would congregate there and tell stories while they drank gin, whiskey,
and combinations of the same. Matt was in the habit of passing the
"hotel" each evening on his return to the gaol, and soon the
roisterers began inviting him in to have a drink or two.
One night there was a particularly joyous party, and Matt drank so
much that he forgot to return to the gaol on time. It was midnight
before he got there, and the jailer had already gone to bed. Matt went
to his house and woke him, and this annoyed the official very much. So
much so, in fact, that he refused to get up and let Matt into the
gaol. Matt was reduced to the ignominy of returning to the hotel and
bunking there. Next morning he made a charge against the jailer for
not allowing him to serve out his sentence! Commissioner Honey
discharged him and reprimanded the jailer for neglect of duty.
Some years before Snyman had been postmaster at Mbabane and had made
many friends, with the result that he had a most enjoyable visit. The
morning we left to continue our trek to Zombode he was approached by
Manaan, an old Swazi chief, who wanted to shake hands with him. Manaan
was a typical kaffir, and Snyman told me a story about him which well
illustrates the characteristics of the breed.
"When I was at the post-office here," Snyman said, "Manaan and some of
his sons went to the Transvaal to work in the gold mines. According to
the law, their money was deposited for them in the savings-bank at
Johannesburg, and the whole amount was put in the name of the old
chief. I was still postmaster when Manaan and his sons returned to
Swaziland.
"One morning I was very busy when I saw Manaan standing at the door.
Of course he would not enter until I spoke to him. I grunted at the
old boy and he came in, with the usual 'Nkoos!' and his hands flung
up. He stood at the counter for a while, waiting for me to speak to him.
"Finally I asked, 'Ou funaan?' which means 'What do you want?'
"'Ou funa mali!' he answered, meaning 'I want some money.'
"Then the old boy walked over to the corner of the room and sat down.
From the top of his majuba, or loin-cloth, he produced a little bundle
wrapped in an abundance of dirty rags and tied with some leather
thongs. Then he knelt down, as is the custom of the Swazis, and
proceeded to spread out the contents of the bundle.
"When he unwrapped the outer cover there was another and yet another,
the last covering being the hide of some small animal. After this was
undone there was a paper wrapping, and inside this was his savings
account deposit book! This he presented to me with pride.
"'Ou shiai intzinga; ou funa mali,' he said, which meant 'Telegraph to
the place where this money is deposited; I want to draw it.'
"'Lunglli,' I replied; 'wati nalie e'lali bapa ou buia mfigo uti zouk
mali,' which meant, 'When the sun is over there come back and I will
give you the money.'
"I thought I would get a reply by sunset, and Manaan arrived promptly
after I had heard from Johannesburg. He entered on my recognition,
stacked his knob-kerrie, shield, and assegai in the corner, and came
up to the counter.
"I counted out the money to him. There were twenty-four pounds, and
ten shillings for interest. This I had to explain to him, and when he
understood that it was a gift he spent the next ten minutes in
praising the white men. He was so accustomed to being taxed and paying
for everything that to get these extra ten shillings was a shock.
"Manaan then went over to his corner, knelt down, and counted the
money over six or seven times. He would take it up, examine it, and
put it down again and again. He seemed fascinated by the sovereigns.
Finally he gathered it up and walked over to the counter. Piling it up
in front of me, he said:
"'E'musla implea mene bonela e'begga panzi!' which means 'Very nice
indeed! I have had a look at it; it is wonderful! Now please put it
away again!'
"I felt like a fool. I had cancelled his account, and now the old
nuisance wanted to re-open it and put his money in the bank again. But
of course I did it. All Manaan wanted was to see and feel his money,
so that he would be sure it was still there!"