L'Tunga's "muti" cures the sick white man--Sebuza chooses his wives--I
receive a message from His Majesty's High Commissioner for
Swaziland--A flying trip to Mbabane--The Government refuses sanction
to Sebuza's coronation--How witch-doctors smoke dagga weed.
Sugden was wide awake when we reached the camp and despite his
condition was overcome with curiosity. He could see nothing, being
shut in by the tent-walls, and was too weak to get up and look out.
Suddenly, while we were watching Sebuza enjoy his ornaments, I saw the
side of the tent being feebly punched from within. I raised the flap,
and there was Sugden regarding us with his fever-bright eyes. He hated
to be left out of the party and had signaled for me to count him in. I
went to him, but my heart sank. He was the sickest man I have ever
seen. Except for his blazing eyes, he had all the look of a dead man.
Every one looked at us, and a second later L'Tunga leaned over me and
asked what was the matter with the "sick white man." I held Sugden's
poor head in my arms as I told him. The witch-doctor nodded and then
straightened up.
"Nkoos, I will cure him!" he said. "I will make a magic that will make
him well. I go, but I will come back soon and bring the muti."
He left, and I laid Sugden down and pulled the tent flap. He was
exhausted by his effort to join the party and was nodding with the
sleep that was nigh unto death.
Now I was very curious about the "muti" of the witch-doctor. I knew
that their rites and rituals were all humbug dressed up in feathers,
but every now and then they did something that was quite amazing. It
was certain that they knew things about the herbs of their country
that we white men did not, and I never felt sure that they were the
fakirs we thought them to be.
In a few minutes L'Tunga returned, and this time he carried a wand
tipped with feathers. He stood for a moment regarding us, and then
went to the side of the tent and drew up the flap, showing poor old
Sugden asleep but barely alive. Then L'Tunga motioned me to help him
move the cot out into the sunlight.
Carefully, for this savage was as gentle as a woman, we placed Sugden
with his head facing the sun, and then L'Tunga got busy. We stood back
to give him room, and he certainly needed it. He started to dance and
chant, circling the sick bed and waving his wand round and round. I
could not understand what he chanted, but it seemed to be something
about it being time for the "devil" to leave the sick white man, since
he, L'Tunga, had come.
This ceremony must have lasted fully fifteen minutes, and Sugden slept
through it all. I watched his breathing, for I was afraid that he
would not live. The show ended with the witch-doctor picking up a
handful of dust and holding it to Sugden's nostrils. After a moment he
threw the dust to the winds and then drew from his loin-cloth a small
package wrapped in skin. This he undid, and then asked for "emantzi,
emantzi," meaning water. Crespinell brought him a little mug full of
it, and he poured all but a few tablespoonfuls on the ground. Then he
took some of the contents of the little package and mixed it with the
water in the mug.
I had been thinking rapidly. He could not hurt Sugden, since the white
man was beyond all human aid, and was only living through sheer will
power. There was a faint chance that he might do him good, and I made
up my mind to let the witch-doctor alone.
A moment later L'Tunga had forced Sugden to drink the contents of the
mug. Immediately he dropped off to sleep, as though drugged. After
watching him a moment L'Tunga turned to me and said:
"At sunrise to-morrow I will come and give him more muti. In three or
four days he will be well!"
Then, with all the dignity of a great civilized specialist, he
shouldered his magic wand and withdrew.
Sebuza and the rest of us had watched his operations with great
interest, and the young prince left shortly after, his indunas
carrying the "jewelry" and gin.
We were all curious to see the effect of the witch-doctor's
prescription, and had quite an argument about it. I found that Tuys
was sure that it would cure Sugden, and both Crespinell and Rossman
were inclined to agree with him. I remained skeptical and sent for
Sibijaan to ask him what he thought. I knew that my old playmate was
in touch with many things that a white man could not know and I asked
him about the "muti" that L'Tunga had given Sugden.
"Ou Baas, it is a magic leaf," he told me, "and only the head
witch-doctor knows where it grows. They say it is found in only one
place, and that is near Sheba's Breasts. He gets it when the moon
dies, and always goes alone. But it will cure 'Mlung Emantzi Eenui.
The 'muti' is only for royalty and some of the great indunas. L'Tunga
would not give it to the common people."
He was so certain that the medicine would save Sugden that I began to
find myself half-believing that it would. That night I sat by the
latter's bedside for many hours. He never stirred. All night long he
slept as though heavily drugged, never once making a move. Next
morning the fever had much abated and his pulse was nearly normal. He
did not awake, however, and when L'Tunga arrived to give him another
dose, he only came to enough to swallow it. I noted, though, that the
dysentery had stopped.
Four days later Sugden was well. He was weak as a cat, but food soon
remedied that, and within ten days he was on the job and as cheerful
as ever. I made up my mind from that time on not to scoff at
witch-doctors. I tried to get L'Tunga to give me a little of his
"muti," but this he resolutely refused to do, even when I offered to
buy it with all sorts of things dear to the savage heart. Some day I
am going to get some of that "muti" and have it analyzed; it may be a
drug that will be of value to all of us who live in that section of
South Africa.
During Sugden's recuperation Tuys and I had visited the royal kraal
every day and had always had pleasant talks with both Sebuza and his
mother. But we did not succeed in getting any nearer to the
coronation. The queen was entirely at a loss what to do and Sebuza
kept growing more impatient every day. As he was a man now, he felt
entitled to start housekeeping, and his mother set about procuring
wives for him. Lochien assisted in this delicate operation, and it was
rather an interesting event. The Swazis follow about the same
procedure in this business as their civilized white brethren. The only
difference is that the Swazi method does not employ so much camouflage.
The fact that Sebuza had reached manhood and would soon become king
was known throughout practically all the savage tribes of South
Africa, though it naturally was of paramount interest in his own
country. All the indunas and his relations, such as Umzulek,
Debeseembie, Vilakazi, and others, knew that he would have to have
wives. Their children were logical candidates for this honor, so that
there were many conferences at Lebombo between Tzaneen and those who
had daughters to sell.
Now the Swazi, from the highest to the lowest, sells his women. Women
are the "pound sterling" among all the savage tribes, and the unit of
value is five cows for an average maid who is young, sound in limb and
wind, and trained to the primitive duties of her race. These consist
chiefly in ability to do a decent day's work in the fields, the making
of tswala, and the cleaning of a hut or kraal. Of course the care of
children is considered important.
A Swazi's wealth is measured by the number of wives he has. The number
of his cows and other livestock is secondary. For instance, Umzulek is
regarded as a millionaire because he has sixty wives and more than two
hundred and forty children. The average Swazi induna has five or more
wives, and some have many more.
The price of a woman depends greatly on her birth and beauty. All the
Swazi women have fine bodies, and many are very handsome, according to
the native standard. Princesses sell for as much as fifty cows apiece,
and a wife is always proud if she brings more than the market price.
In fact, her importance as a wife is usually based on her purchase
price.
When the time arrived for Sebuza to choose some wives, there were
quite a number awaiting his inspection. The morning that he looked
them over they were assembled in the "Sacred Bathing Pool," a sort of
market-place. Their owners, mostly parents, stood beside the crown
prince and extolled the virtues of their offspring. The maidens were
lined up along the banks of the pool and the prince examined them most
minutely.
It was almost pathetic to see how these dusky belles bore up under his
inspection. Each looked appealingly at Sebuza, much after the fashion
of a dog that hopes to be petted, and almost quivered with the hope
that she would be selected. The thought came to me that the rejected
ones must face a hard life when they were brought back to their home
kraals.
Sebuza chose five of the girls, and they were straightway sent to his
kraal. The rejected ones were immediately clothed and their owners
took them away. Later in the day Lochien told me that all the girls
selected by Sebuza were exceptionally high caste and that between
forty and fifty cows had been paid for each.
My companions were sadly disappointed over Sebuza's wholesale
marriage. They had expected a wild ceremony and much savage
celebration, but I explained to them that the Swazis did not go in for
that sort of thing. There are no marriage ceremonies whatever--the man
pays for his wife and she belongs to him from that hour until he dies.
He may accumulate other wives, and this custom is so old that all the
wives live together in peace, such a thing as jealousy of the white
kind being unknown. From what I have seen of the toilsome lives of
these wives, it would seem to me that their contentment is based on
the old saw which sagely observes that "misery loves company." Another
advantage of plural wives is that each additional wife lessens the
labors of the others.
Although there are no marriage rites beyond payment for the wife,
there are very strict customs in regard to widows. If the deceased
husband is an induna of importance or a connection of the royal
family, it is customary for the king to take his pick of the widows.
If, however, he has no interest in them, the nearest male relation who
can afford to keep them inherits as many as he wishes. Of course, when
a husband dies all his wives shave their heads in token of mourning.
As they have trained their hair to grow in a sort of pyramid, the hair
is shaved clean up to this structure. Daughters of the dead man have
their hair shaved right off; if they are already wives, this does not
apply, since the claim of the husband is greater than that of any
other relative.
We did not pay our usual visit to Tzaneen the day Sebuza married his
first installment of wives. Instead, Tuys and I remained in camp
planning some way to accomplish our mission and my companions made
good their threat to learn something first-hand about Swazi life.
Next morning trouble of another kind occurred. A government messenger
arrived with a communication for me. He had located me at Zombode,
where they told him that I had gone on to Lebombo. This messenger was
a Swazi induna with six warriors, and he carried himself with a good
deal of swank. Evidently he was impressed with his importance. I know
he snubbed Sibijaan, and my boy was breathing fire when he came to
announce this arrival.
The messenger waited for me in front of the tent, with his warriors
drawn up behind him. It was quite a military turnout, and he saluted
me with gravity and impressiveness. Across one shoulder he had a small
despatch-case on which were the arms of Great Britain in well-polished
brass. From this he took an official looking envelope and handed it to
me with a flourish.
It was a communication from His Majesty's High Commissioner for
Swaziland, and it "begged most respectfully to call to your attention"
the fact that I had passed through Mbabane without acquainting the
government officials with the details of my expedition into British
territory. At once I realized my mistake, and could have kicked myself
for not calling on the Commissioner and telling him about my project.
I knew how these British officials work. First they are punctiliously
polite and request information. If they do not get it speedily, they
remain polite but make certain definite demands. If still unsatisfied,
they become annoyed in a polite manner and take "proper measures."
These latter oftentimes consist of a "flying column," which makes it
decidedly uncomfortable for the object of their well-bred attentions.
I read the missive from the Commissioner and for a moment intended
replying to it. Then I realized that any reply would seem impolite and
possibly evasive, so I decided to make a quick trip to Mbabane and
make the laggard call on the Honorable Mr. Honey. I gave directions
that the messenger and his men should be fed, and then had Sibijaan
inspan the six mules and prepare the wagonette for the trip.
Oom Tuys was missing and I suspected that he had gone to the royal
kraal. I went over there and found him sitting with Lochien outside
the royal hut. The queen was asleep inside and several of her maids
were busily engaged in hairdressing, a most important function among
high class Swazi women.
I told Tuys what I intended doing and he agreed that it was the right
and proper thing. One caution he gave me, however.
"Forget I am here, Owen," he admonished. "The British don't like it,
as you know. If Honey asks about me, you will have to lie. I am not
here!"
We talked in Dutch, and he told me that he would keep the kettle
boiling while I was away and try to gain a step or two in my absence.
He seemed quite happy and enjoying himself with Lochien, so I left him
after he had reminded me that it would be a good thing to get the
messenger and his men out of the camp as soon as possible.
We all started together for Mbabane. I had practically nothing in the
wagonette and the mules were in fine fettle after their long rest.
Sibijaan drove, and it was not long before we left the messenger and
his escort far behind. The Valley of Heaven was as beautiful as ever
and the trip a pleasant one. We arrived at Mbabane on the evening of
the second day, having made better than twenty miles a day.
I stopped at the little hotel and the mules were turned into the kraal
of the livery-stable across the way. After washing the travel stains
away, I reported to the Commissioner's office. Owing to the midday
rest, or siesta, he usually remained at his desk until about seven
o'clock, and I caught him shortly before he closed up shop.
The interview was typical of governmental business as conducted by
such officials. My name was taken in by his clerk and shortly after I
entered the comfortable office with its large screened Windows. Mr.
Commissioner Honey sat at his English desk writing with a scratchy
pen. After a moment he looked up.
"Well, Doctor O'Neil?" he said with a rising inflection.
It was just as though he had reminded me that I was guilty and was
waiting to hear me plead. There were a dozen other meanings, all
unpleasant, in that little word "well." I never realized before that
one monosyllable could mean so much. I knew that he had me right, as
it were, and I decided to act as innocent as possible.
"Mr. Commissioner, I received your letter," I said, "and I considered
it would be best and more polite to reply to it in person than to send
an answer by your messenger."
"Very good, Doctor, very good," he answered. "Now will you be so kind
as to tell me what you are doing at Zombode?"
I did so. I told him all about the plan to take pictures of the
coronation of Sebuza and how I was meeting obstacles which appeared
insuperable. I told him that I had moved my outfit to Lebombo and gave
him satisfactory reasons for the change. I could see that my candor
impressed him favorably. There was no reason why it should not. What I
told him was the truth. Of course I related how L'Tunga had saved Dr.
Sugden's life, and this impressed him deeply. He let me talk for some
twenty minutes, and then leaned back in his chair and gave me some
advice.
"If I were you, Doctor," he said, "I would not waste more time waiting
for Sebuza's coronation. It is my opinion that this will not take
place for some time, possibly a year or so. You may not know it, but
the young gentleman is not in the best graces of His Majesty's
Government and it may mean a long delay before official permission is
granted for him to reign.
"Your expedition is costing you a lot of money and it seems a shame
for you to remain in Swaziland with no chance of fulfilling your
mission. If you will take my advice, you will return to Ermelo and
wait until I send you word that the coronation has received the
official sanction of our government."
This was a blow to my hopes. I had no idea that Sebuza would not be
recognized by the authorities and it began to look as though my
expedition were a wild goose chase after all. We talked a little while
longer, but I was not able to find any specific reason for the
government's dislike of Sebuza. Apparently there was a general feeling
that he would try to follow in the footsteps of his father, Buno the
Terrible, and the government regarded Swaziland as a sleeping dog that
it would be unwise to awaken.
Our talk ended when Mr. Honey rose to his feet with the remark, "Of
course you are dining with me tonight?"
I assured him that I would be most pleased, and he told me that eight
o'clock was the hour. This barely gave me time to get back to my hotel
and dress, but I made it. I got into my dinner-coat and fresh linen
while I cursed the habits of the English. They will take
civilization--particularly of the "dinner" kind--with them no matter
where they go!
Dinner proved a delightful affair. There were half a dozen people
there, including several of the minor officials and their wives. It
was a gay party and the food was excellent, being served in London
fashion by several silent-footed Indians. The thought came to me that
British officials certainly "do themselves well." We talked about many
things, none of them concerning Swaziland or its coronations, and it
was a pleasure to have my worries banished for a few hours.
After dinner we played "bridge," and then I went back to my hotel
feeling as if I had stepped out of an English drawing-room into the
heart of Swaziland. At his door the Commissioner shook hands and gave
me a parting word.
"Better come back and avoid trouble, Doctor," he said. "There isn't
likely to be any coronation this year and you always run the change of
getting into a fight. If you stay, be careful! His Majesty's
Government is interested in the peace of Swaziland. Goodnight and
cheerio!"
[Illustration: PRINCESSES AT THE SACRED BATHING POOL
Previous to being offered for the choice of Crown Prince Sebuza of the
Swazis]
[Illustration: A SCENE AT THE ROYAL BATHING POOL]
I was rather blue that night as I went to sleep. It looked as though
my voyages, privations, and trouble had all been for nothing.
Next morning Sibijaan and I set off bright and early. He told me that
a kaffir had chummed with him at the kraal and had enquired whether
Oom Tuys was with my expedition. Sibijaan had lied, as he knew he
must, and then I understood why the Commissioner had carefully
refrained from making me perjure myself. My only hope was that
Sibijaan had been a convincing liar. Otherwise, the fact that Tuys was
with me would make the Commissioner watchful of my activities.
On the way back through the Valley of Heaven I came to the conclusion
that something had to be done, and done quickly, if Sebuza was to be
made king. What this something was, however, I only had a vague idea.
I wanted to talk it over with Tuys before taking any action, since his
help would be necessary.
My uncle was waiting for me when I reached camp and seemed anxious to
know what the Commissioner had said about him. When I told him that he
had not mentioned his name, his pride seemed hurt, but he cheered up
when I related how the kaffir spy had tried to pump Sibijaan.
"I would hate to think that the British have ceased to worry about
me," he said. "I have had a good deal of fun by teasing them, and I'm
not ready yet to settle down and become a farmer all the time!"
There was not much harm in Tuys, but he was Boer enough to enjoy
worrying the British and the fact that he was not wanted in Swaziland
made his sojourns there all the more enjoyable.
Next day we visited Tzaneen, and I found that she was much interested
in my sudden trip to Mbabane. Her indunas had told her that I had
received a summons to visit the Commissioner and she was curious to
know all about it. I told her why Mr. Honey wanted to know about me
and then repeated his advice.
"Yes, Mzaan Bakoor, I know all about the government opposition to my
son becoming king," she said. "He has so many followers that they are
afraid of him. The British fear Sebuza because they would sooner have
a weak old woman like Labotsibeni in Swaziland than a strong man and a
son of Buno."
"How many followers has Sebuza, Nkosikaas?" I asked, for this was part
of what I was thinking.
"Mzaan Bakoor, you of great magic, can you count the blades of grass
in the field?" she replied.
Then she assured me that all Swaziland was behind the young prince.
She further told me that this was the chief reason why Sebuza was
disliked by the government and added that he had been impudent to some
British officials. I had heard rumors of this, but had placed small
weight in them. Now, it seemed, Sebuza must have over overstepped the
mark and no reconciliation was possible for some time. This, added to
what I had heard in Mbabane, made me despair of accomplishing the
object for which I had come to Lebombo. There was more talk along the
same line and we treated the queen to a bottle of gin. This led to a
peculiar incident.
That night Sebuza came to our camp and asked to see me. I thought he
might have something of importance to communicate, but all he asked
was that I stop giving gin to his mother! This, of course, was
impossible. She was in authority until he became king and her request
for liquor was a command we dared not disobey.
Sugden had spent the afternoon with L'Tunga and had watched the
witch-doctors smoke dagga weed. I had forgotten to tell him about this
and he was much excited over the discovery. With his faculty for
observation, he had made a serious study of how the Swazi uses the
weed and was much interested in its effects.
"L'Tunga took me to his witch-doctors' school," he told me, "and I
watched them smoke dagga. It is a small leaf that must be something
like tea before it is dried. Believe me, it has a 'kick.' There were
about twenty of these witch-doctors sitting in a circle in their
kraal, all hitting the pipe. They have a crazy way of smoking it, too.
You've seen the pipe, haven't you? It's a great long thing, very badly
made, and it takes a strong man to make it draw.
"The way they smoke is this. The first man takes a calabash of water
and then drops a coal into the pipe, thus lighting it. He next sucks
on the pipe until he gets his mouth full of smoke. Then he attempts to
fill his mouth with water, all the while trying to prevent any of the
smoke from escaping. When he can no longer hold the smoke and water in
his mouth, he blows them out together. It is a sort of smoky
shower-bath!
"Most of them could only do it once. Almost before they could pass the
pipe on to the next doctor, they would keel over and go sound asleep.
For some reason or other the smoke did not affect them all in the same
way. Some of them became happy and began to chant, but they, too, soon
grew drowsy. For plain unadulterated 'kick,' the dagga weed has it
over anything I've ever seen, though it resembles hemp in its action."
It seems that L'Tunga did not join this smoke-party, but took Sugden
to where he could see the common Swazis indulge in the same pastime.
Not being allowed the great pipe of the witch-doctors, they had a
method of their own.
First they dig a little hole in the ground. Next a narrow trench is
scraped out of the earth leading from this hole to another of about
the same size. At the bottom of this trench is placed a freshly cut
stick, and this is buried in the hard soil by covering it with wet
clay. When the clay is firmly packed the stick is drawn out, leaving a
little tunnel. Then clay is used to build a small mound over the
second hole, through which an opening is made which connects it with
the little tunnel. This is the mouthpiece of the pipe, the tunnel is
the stem, and the first hole is the bowl.
"The Swazis filled the hole with dagga weed and lighted it with a hot
cinder from the fire in front of the kraal," Sugden concluded. "Then,
one by one, they sucked the smoke through the mouthpiece. They used
the water method, also. It was an amazing sight! One after another
they would fall over, the next man at the pipe usually having to drag
the body of the last one out of the way."
I had seen these dagga orgies before and knew what they were like.
Sugden, however, thought it a most unusual spectacle and would have
taken a whiff of the dagga himself if he had been urged. His interest
was purely scientific, of course, and he succeeded in obtaining a few
leaves of the plant which he proposed to have analyzed when we reached
civilization again.