Bakuma sat in the shade of the reed fence preparing the evening meal of
boiled bananas. From her slender neck swung the precious amulet at which,
as if to reassure herself of its safety, she clutched occasionally. Her
half-sister, who had not yet passed through the initiation at maturity,
sprawled upon her belly in the dwindling rays of the sun, scratching her
woolly head. Beyond her were two slaves tending a fire beneath two large
calabashes, preparatory to the brewing of banana beer, which had of course
to be done by the chief widow, Bakuma’s half-sister’s mother.
The mind of Bakuma was occupied by percepts of the charms of Zalu Zako;
particularly as memorised on that afternoon by the river when the effect
of the love charm had begun to work. These memories, as sweet as they
would have been to any maid, were shot with gay colours by the words of
the wizard; for he had assured her that with the toe-nail and hair to work
magic upon, Zalu Zako would be bewitched by her charms for all time. And
she had obtained them! She could have gotten the goat, not a skinny goat
as described under the inhibiting influence of a wild hope that the wizard
would relent. Her cousin, smarting under the reproaches of her husband,
had such a goat, fat as goats in Wongolo go, and she was eager to exchange
it or anything for an infallible charm against sterility. Bakuma feared to
part with the charm, yet the matter was pressing; immediately she was the
wife of Zalu Zako she would be in a position to purchase all the charms in
the village.
But difficult to obtain as they were, for as everybody knows no man leaves
portions of himself around that may fall into the hands of an enemy to
work magic upon, least of all a rich man, “half divine,” she had obtained
some nail parings and one hair. With that charm against sterility, the
only thing of value Bakuma possessed, had she bribed a concubine of Zalu
Zako’s household to steal the ingredients required from the hut thatch
where they had been hidden after the official shaving and paring following
the ceremony of his father, pending their removal to the sacred precincts
of the temple.
Above her passion for Zalu Zako was her natural feminine appreciation of a
good match. The Son of the Snake was far better from a woman’s point of
view than union with a successful wizard. In the event of the death of the
King-God, Kawa Kendi, the wives of his son and successor, although denied
to him, were accorded special privileges; and upon his demise these royal
wives retained their home upon the hill which had become his tomb.
Moreover, as Bakuma knew well, now that Zalu Zako was heir-apparent, he
must choose the principal wife who would for her life remain paramount in
the household, avoiding the dread of every ageing woman that her husband
would take unto him another wife younger and more supple.
The one mosquito in paradise was the fear that as soon as her uncle, her
father’s brother to whom she belonged by inheritance, learned the august
personage who desired her, he would raise the price to a prohibitive
figure; for he was mean as well as stupid and lazy, wherefore he had few
goods, and although Zalu Zako was a rich man she knew that any man save a
fool loves to drive a good bargain if only to prove his astuteness.
Therefore was another imperative necessity to procure every means of magic
and charm to fan the flame of her lover’s desires.
Yet always flashed a bright-hued lizard in the sun of her joy when she
imagined herself installed as the chief wife in the household of Zalu
Zako, an unassailable position as long as she had one male child; the
practical mistress of his first two wives as well as the retinue of
slaves.
Bazila, the younger wife, Bakuma knew well; the favourite and haughty,
covered with the most expensive amulets against every ill and black magic,
she was overfond of sneering at young girls of the hut thatch whose charms
had not yet netted a victim.
“Ehh!” gasped Bakuma and flashed her teeth as she rolled the warm leaves
around the sticky mess, “then will the scent of my body be more bitter
than the flower of the fish-faced cactus!”
And so through the night did Bakuma nibble at anticipatory joys as she lay
upon her reed mat on the slightly raised dais of the floor which was her
bed, watching the smoke of the fire in the middle of the hut lose itself
in the shadows of the roof, and listening in the hope of hearing some
voice of the spirits whom Marufa was to invoke on her behalf. Save for the
occasional bleating of a goat and once the harsh scream of the Baroto
bird, which made her heart contract, for it is a bad omen, the night was
still. However, at the hour of the monkey Bakuma arose to replenish the
fire. As the western star was melting in the warm green she left the
compound. On the outskirts of the village the tall figure of MYalu
appeared from the shadows of the plantation.
“Greeting, daughter of Bakala,” said he, his eyes greedily devouring her.
“Greeting, O Chief!” returned Bakuma, as she politely stepped to one side
to avoid standing on the vague shadow of the chief.
“The fawn seeks the pastures early,” remarked MYalu.
“Before the breath of the sun the grass is sweeter,” retorted Bakuma,
edging away.
“Aye,” remarked MYalu, with a hungry glint in his eyes, “thou art eager to
slake thy thirst? But in the valley will no buck walk this day!”
“Ehh!” gasped Bakuma, recollecting instantly the omen of the Baroto bird
heard that night. “What meanest thou?”
“Maybe the soul of him hath wandered and been caught in a trap or maybe——”
He paused to watch her closely—“maybe an enemy hath made magic upon the
parts of him.”
“Ehh!” Bakuma started nervously.
MYalu smiled and touched her upon the shoulder.
“Thy flesh is cooler than the dew.”
“Nay, nay, O Chief, thou hast not tied my girdle,” she protested, as she
backed away from him, her eyes wide like a terrified deer’s.
“Nay, but will I untie it soon,” he retorted.
But as he stepped towards her she turned and fled. As MYalu watched her
running as swiftly as a pookoo into the plantation he grinned and called
out: “Even now is the cooling draught steaming in the breath of the
Unmentionable One! But the goblet shall hold a sweeter draught for me!”
“Aie! Aie-e!” wailed Bakuma, her heart beating furiously, “what devil hath
bewitched me! O, that father of many goats hath betrayed me! Aie! Aie-e!
O, the cry of the Baroto bird! Aie! Aie-e!”
And when Bakuma, distraught with terror by the menace that she had only
procured the nail paring and hair to give her lover into the hands of the
false magician who, of course, had been bought by MYalu, arrived at the
“pastures” by the river, as MYalu had foretold, no buck walked there.
The sun spilled blue shadows on the village from the sacred hill where
another scene was being enacted, and it was not as imagined by the amorous
MYalu.
In the council house, which was within the outer fence and before the
sacred enclosure, was in progress a meeting of the doctors. In the door of
the enclosure squatted Kawa Kendi, with Kingata Mata in attendance tending
the royal fires. Before him, in front of their fellows, were seated
Bakahenzie and Marufa in full dress of green feathers and the scarlet
plume. The left side of the idol, which was so set that the shadow never
fell upon the entrance to the compound, was gilded by the sun; the mouth
grinned in one corner, one eye was closed in shadow, seemingly like a
prodigious wink.
To the thrumming of the sacred band Bakahenzie was rocking himself to and
fro mumbling incantations. Kawa Kendi squatted immobile, but the others
swayed and grunted softly in rhythm. Then on a sudden did Bakahenzie lift
up his head and cry in a great voice. The drums ceased and the body of
witch-doctors remained motionless, expectant. Bakahenzie dropped his head
and began to chant:
“Behold! I have heard the voice of the trees
Crying softly by night!
Lo! the soul of the plant is in labour!
As a woman with child!
Behold! is she not to break forth?
For she crieth for aid.
Unless she be heard the infant will slip!
The fruit will not be!
The plants will not break!
The milk will be sour!
The beer will be green!
Women will not bear!
Our spears will be blunt!
Our magic will wane!
And He will be wroth!”
“Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! … Eh! Ah! …”
grunted the chorus of the doctors. Then chanted Marufa:
“Lo! I have slept and been that which I must!
Preying swiftly by night!
Behold! I have bloodied my fangs in the throat
Of a mighty bull eland!
Blood succoured the earth and upsprang a plant!
Which panted for blood!
The sap of the plant is the soul of the tree!
Take heed to the thirst
Of Him who first was!
Who lusts for a maid!
Full breasted, soft thighed!
Supple, bow arched!
Clean blooded and strong!
Whose name is forbid!
Whose name is a sin!”
“Who hath stolen the name?” screamed Bakahenzie, leaping to his feet. “Who
is she that hath stolen the name?”
“Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! … Eh! Ahh! …”
As the drums throbbed swifter Bakahenzie began to shuffle in a stooping
posture as if he were snuffing a trail. To the continuous grunting he
continued this dance for fully a quarter of an hour. Then stopping
abruptly in front of the king he screamed:
“Let her be bidden
To come to the feast!
Let her be oiled!
Let her be shaved!
Let her come dancing!
Let her be joyful!
Let her be decked!
Let her be glad!
Lips of the groom
Thirst for her mouth!
Let her be drunken
To bear his sweet weight!
That the crops will be full!
That the cattle grow fat
Wives will throw men!
Spears will slice foes!”
He sank suddenly upon his haunches. The drums ceased. A slave appeared
bearing a pure white kid. Kingata Mata took the animal and held it before
Kawa Kendi, who muttered a long incantation over it and cut the throat
with a spear head. Then to Marufa was the bleeding carcass carried and
while still alive he slit open the belly, smeared the liquid over his
chest and right arm, and tore out the guts. The corpse was removed.
Marufa, working only with the enchanted arm, turned the entrails over and
about, peering closely.
There was silence. The shadows grew in depth. From the village came an
occasional bleat and the voice of a distant girl chanting.
After a prolonged and studious search, Marufa caught up and wrapt round
his neck an intestine. As he rose, the group of witch-doctors broke out
into a mighty groaning. Marufa speeded across the small clearing and
kneeled before Kawa Kendi. Through the bloody necklet he whispered two
syllables: “kuma.”
The groaning ceased as suddenly as it had commenced. Kawa Kendi cried out
in a loud voice:
“The bride is found!”
Instantly the drums began a furious beat. A mighty shout rose from all
assembled and they fell to the chest and belly grunting: “Eh! Ahh! … Eh!
Ahh! …” as Bakahenzie and Marufa began to dance the dance of thanksgiving.
Ba_kuma_ had been doomed to be the victim for the Feast of the Harvest
Festival, to be sacrificed in the orgy as the Bride of the Spirit of the
Banana, because Marufa had discovered by divination that two syllables of
her name were those of the secret name which only the King-God knew, of
the Unmentionable One, the Usa_kuma_.