MYTHS AND LEGENDS
OF
THE BANTU
ALICE WERNER
[1933]
In Memoriam
HARRIETTE EMILY COLENSO
June 2, 1932
AGNES MARY COLENSO
JUIY 26, 1932
Closed the kind eyes; nevermore
the clasp of the faithful hand.
But the clamour and wrath of men are still, where they sweetly
rest,
And the loved dust is one with the dust of the well-loved land.
Earth has taken the wronged and the wronger both to her breast.
Cetshwayo sleeps in Inkandhla, Rhodes on Matopo height,
Escombe and Osborn alike in the dear Natalian soil.
Do they dream? And what dreams are theirs in the hush of the
kindly night?
Never, since time began, has any come back to tell....
O brave, true, loving hearts, at rest from long strife and toil.
Mandiza, Sineke, Mamonga, Kebeni, Magema,
Hail and farewell!
PREFACE
THERE is at the present day a widespread
and growing interest in the customs, institutions, and folklore
of more or less 'primitive' peoples, even among persons who are
still a little shy of the word 'anthropology.' This interest
is of comparatively recent growth; but when one looks back over
the nineteenth century it seems almost incredible that Moffat
could write) in 1842, that "a description of the manners
and customs of the Bechuanas would be neither very instructive
nor very edifying." Twenty years earlier James Campbell,
whom one suspects of a secret and shamefaced interest in the
subject, apologizes for presenting to the notice of his readers
the "absurd and ridiculous fictions" of the same tribe.
The apology is certainly not needed to-day-witness the collections
of folk-tales pouring in from every quarter of what used to be
called the Dark Continent, contributed by grave divines, respectable
Government officials, and all sorts and conditions of observers.
In fact, so much new matter has appeared since I first took the
present work in hand that it has proved impossible to keep pace
with it. But I have endeavoured to present to the notice of the
reader fairly typical specimens of myth and legend from as many
as possible of the various Bantu-speaking tribes, confident that
the result will not be (if I may again quote Campbell) to "exhibit
the puerile and degraded state of intellect" among the said
tribes.
I have been obliged, however, to my great regret, to omit
some very striking legends of the Baganda, less known than that
of Kintu (familiar from several other works, and, moreover, told
at length in my own African Mythology). But it would have
been easy, given sufficient time, to expand this book to twice
the covenanted length.
A word as to the pronunciation of African names. No attempt
has been made to render them phonetically, beyond the rough-and-ready
rule that vowels are to be pronounced as in German or Italian,
consonants as in English, every syllable as ending in a vowel,
and every vowel to be pronounced. Thus it has not been considered
necessary to put an acute accent over the e in Shire (which,
by the by, ought to be Chiri) and Pare. Where ng
is followed by an apostrophe, as in 'Ryang'ombe' (but not in
'Kalungangombe'), it is sounded as in 'sing,' not as in 'finger.'
African experts may discover some inconsistency in the rendering
of tribal names. One ought, I suppose, either to use the vernacular
plural in every case, as in Basuto, Amandebele, Anyanja, or to
discard the prefix and add an English plural, as in Zulus (too
familiar a form to be dropped); but it did not seem possible
to attain consistency throughout. At any rate, one has avoided
the barbarism of 'Basutos,' though sanctioned by no less an authority
than Sir Godfrey Lagden Moffat, as will have been noticed, was
guilty of 'Bechuanas,' and I have not ventured to correct his
text.
It may not be superfluous to point out that the person-class
in the Bantu languages has, in the singular, the prefix mu-
(sometimes umu- or omu-, and sometimes shortened
into m-) and, in the plural, ba- (aba-,
va-, ova-, a-). The prefix ama- or
ma-, sometimes found with tribal names, belongs to a different
class. It is probably a plural of multitude (or 'collective plural'),
which has displaced the ordinary form.
The titles of works cited in the footnotes have been abbreviated
in most instances. The full titles of such works, together with
other details, will be found in the Bibliography.
It is a pleasant task to convey my sincere thanks to those
who have kindly permitted me to make use of their published work:
the Revs. E. W. Smith and T. Cullen Young; Mr. Frederick Johnson
(Dar-es-Salaam), for his Makonde and Iramba tales, published
in a form not readily accessible to the general reader; Captain
R. S. Rattray, who is better known nowadays in connexion with
the Gold Coast, but once upon a time did very good work in Nyasaland;
Dr C. M. Doke (University of the Witwatersrand); M. Henri A.
Junod; the Rev. Father Schmidt, editor of Anthropos, for
permission to use P. Arnoux's articles on Ruanda; Professor Meinhof,
for matter appearing in his Zeitschrift für Eingeborenensprachen
(Hamburg), and his contributor, the Rev. C. Hoffmann (another
contributor, the Rev. M. Klamroth, is, unfortunately, no longer
living); the Rev. J. Raurn (and Dr Mittwoch, editor of the series
in which his Chaga Grammar appeared), for the story of
Murile; the Rev. Dr Gutmann, for some delightful Chaga tales;
the Rev. D. R. Mackenzie and the late Rev. Donald Fraser, for
some very interesting quotations from their respective works.
If any others have been inadvertently omitted I can only crave
their indulgence.
A. W.
CONTENTS
I. INTRODUCTORY
II. WHERE MAN CAME FROM, AND HOS DEATH CAME
III. LEGENDS OF THE HIGH GODS
IV. THE HEAVEN COUNTRY AND THE HEAVEN PEOPLE
V. MORTALS WHO HAVE ASCENDED TO HEAVEN
VI. THE GHOSTS AND THEGHOST COUNTRY
VII. THE AVENGER OF BLOOD
VIII. HEROES AND DEMI-GODS
IX. THE WAKILINDI SAGA
X. THE STORY OF LIONGO FUOMO
XI. THE TRICKSTERS HLAKANYANA ANDHUVEANE
XII. THE AMAZIMU
XIII. OF WERE-WOLVES,HALF-MEN, GNOMES, GOBLINS, AND OTHER MONSTERS
XIV. THE SWALLOWING MONSTER
XV. LIGHTNING, THUNDER, RAIN, AND THERAINBOW
XVI. DOCTORS, PROPHETS, AND WITCHES
XVII. BRER RABBIT IN AFRICA
XVIII. LEGENDS OF THETORTOISE
XIX STORIES OF SOME OTHERANIMALS
XX. SOME STORIES WHICH HAVE TRAVELLED
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INDEX
CHAPTER I: INTRODUCTORY
Who are the Bantu?
BANTU is now the generally
accepted name for those natives of South Africa (the great majority)
who are neither Hottentots nor Bushmen-that is to say, mainly,
the Zulus, Xosas (Kafirs), Basuto, and Bechuana -to whom may
be added the Thongas (Shangaans) of the Delagoa Bay region and
the people of Southern Rhodesia, commonly, though incorrectly,
called Mashona.
Abantu is the
Zulu word for 'people' (in Sesuto batho, and in Herero
ovandu) which was adopted by Bleek, at the suggestion
of Sir George Grey, as the name for the great family of languages
now known to cover practically the whole southern half of Africa.
It had already been ascertained, by more than one scholar, that
there was a remarkable resemblance between the speech of these
South African peoples and that of the Congo natives on the one
hand and of the Mozambique natives on the other. It was left
for Bleek-who spent the last twenty years of his life at the
Cape-to study these languages from a scientific point of view
and systematize what was already known about them. His Comparative
Grammar of South African Languages, though left unfinished
when he died, in 1875, is the foundation of all later work done
in this subject.
The Bantu languages possess a remarkable degree
of uniformity. They may differ considerably in vocabulary, and
to a certain extent in pronunciation, but their grammatical structure
is, in its main outlines, everywhere the same. But to speak of
a 'Bantu race' is misleading. The Bantu-speaking peoples vary
greatly in physical type: some of them hardly differ from some
of the 'Sudanic'-speaking[1] Negroes of West Africa (who, again,
are by no means all of one pattern), while others show a type
which has been
[1. Most of these languages, which had long
seemed to be a hopeless chaos, have been found to belong to one
family, called by Professor Westermann the 'Sudanic.' Typical
members of this family are Twi (spoken in the Gold Coast Colony),
Ewe, and Yoruba.]
accounted for by a probable 'Hamitic' invasion
from the north.
But on questions connected with 'race' and
racial characteristics ethnologists themselves are by no means
agreed, and in any case we need not discuss them in this book.
The Bantu-speaking peoples, then, include
such widely separated tribes as the Duala, adjoining the Gulf
of Cameroons, in the north-west; the Pokomo of the Tana valley,
in the north-east; the Zulus in the south-east; and the Hereros
in the south-west. Some are tall and strongly built, like the
Zulus; some as tall or taller, but more slender, though equally
well formed, like the Basuto-or even over-tall and too thin for
their height, like the Hereros; others short and sturdy, like
the Pokomo canoe-men, or small, active, and wiry, like some of
the Anyanja. They vary greatly in colour, from a very dark brown
(none, I think, are quite black) to different shades of bronze
or copper. Colour may not be uniform within the same tribe: the
Zulus themselves, for instance, distinguish between ' black'-that
is, dark brown-and ' red '-or lighter brown-Zulus.[1]
It does not seem likely, then, that all these
various tribes ever formed parts of one family, as their languages
may be said to do. But it may be assumed that a considerable
body, speaking the same language, set out (perhaps two or three
thousand years ago) from somewhere in the region of the Great
Lakes towards the south and east. Whether they came into Africa
across the Isthmus of Suez, bringing their language with them,
or-as seems more likely developed it in that continent need not
concern us here. As they moved on, separating in different directions
(as our Teutonic ancestors did when they moved into Europe),
their several languages grew up.
[1. The expression 'Red Kafirs,' however,
so often heard in South Africa, does not refer to skin colour,
but to the custom of painting the body with red ochre or some
similar mineral-a custom not without hygienic justification,
under the given conditions.]
The Bushmen
They did not find an empty continent awaiting
them. The only previous inhabitants of whom we have any certain
knowledge are the Bushmen, the Pygmies of the Congo forests (and
some scattered remnants of similar tribes in other parts), and
perhaps the Hottentots.[1] The present-day Bushmen, most of whom
are to be found in the Kalahari Desert, are small (often under
four feet in height), light-complexioned (Miss Bleek says "about
putty-colour"), and in various other respects differ markedly
from the Bantu. They live by hunting, trapping, and collecting
whatever small animals, insects, fruits, and roots are regarded
as edible. They were driven into the more inhospitable regions
and partially exterminated, first by the invading Bantu and then
by Europeans-whose treatment of them is a very black page in
our history. The Bantu, however, in some cases killed the men
only, and married the women, which accounts for unusual types
met with here and there among the South African Bantu.[2] And
sometimes (as G. W. Stow thought was the case with the earliest
Bechuana immigrants) the newcomers may have settled down more
or less peaceably with the old inhabitants. This I think not
unlikely to have happened in the district west of the Shire,
in Nyasaland, where the local Nyanja-speaking population (calling
themselves, not quite correctly, 'Angoni') are small, dark, and
wiry, and seem to have absorbed a strong Bushman element. This
fact, if true, may explain some of their notions about the origin
of mankind, as we shall see later on.
The Bantu Languages
The Bantu languages, on the whole, are beautiful
and harmonious. None of them differ from each other much
[1. I say 'perhaps' because, though we know
that the Hottentots were in the Cape Peninsula long before the
first Bantu reached the Fish river, we do not know the relative
times of their earlier migrations.
2 Indeed, tradition records that a certain
Xosa chief chose a Bushwoman for his principal wife, so impressed
was he by her skill in preparing a certain kind of food to his
taste.]
more than French does from Spanish or English
from Danish. No two, for instance, would be as far apart as English
and French, or French and Welsh, though all these belong to the
same Indo-European family. The words used are often quite different
(we know that English and American people, both speaking English,
may use different words for the same thing); but the grammar
is everywhere, in its main outlines, the same. It is scarcely
necessary, at this time of day, to say that an unwritten language
may have a grammar,[1] and even a very complicated one.
It is not often that a speaker of one Bantu
language can understand another without previously learning it;
but most natives pick up each other's speech with surprising
quickness. An East African who has travelled any considerable
distance from his home will probably speak three or four dialects
with ease.
Customs and Beliefs: The Spirit World
Besides this relationship in language, all
the Bantu have many customs and beliefs in common. All of them
have, more or less vaguely, the idea of one God, though some
of them do not clearly distinguish him from the sky or the sun,
or even, as we shall see, from the first ancestor of the tribe.
They believe in survival after death, and think that the ghosts
of the dead can interfere to almost any extent in the affairs
of the living. They do not seem to have any idea of immortality
as we understand it; in fact, some distinctly say that the ghosts
go on living only as long as people remember them (which is very
much what Maeterlinck says in The Blue Bird!). Ordinary
people have no memory or
[1 This is not the place to give details of
Bantu grammar; but it may be explained that nouns are divided
into classes, distinguished by prefixes, which also serve to
differentiate the singular and plural. The class which consists
of nouns denoting persons has, in the singular, the prefix Mu
or M, in the plural Ba, or some modification of
the same; thus Mu-ila is one individual of the Ila tribe, Ba-ila
more than one. Sometimes the plural prefix Ama is used,
as in Ama-ndebele. Other prefixes (Ki, Chi, Si, or Se-
sometimes Lu) are used with the same stem to indicate
the language, as Ki-swahili, Chi-nyanja, Se-suto, Lu-ganda. But
it is often more convenient to use the stem without the prefix.]
tradition of anyone beyond their great-grandparents,
so that, except for great chiefs and heroes, there would never
be more than three generations of ghosts in existence. But, however
that may be, the influence of the dead is seen in every department
of life. A man gets directions from his father's spirit before
starting on any undertaking-either in a dream, or by consulting
a diviner, or through all sorts of omens. For instance, a Yao,[1]
when thinking of going on a journey, would go to his chief, who
would then take a handful of flour and drop it slowly and carefully
on the ground. If it fell in the shape of a regular cone the
omen would, so far, be good. They would then cover up the cone
with a pot, and leave it till the next morning. If it was found
to be quite undisturbed the man could go on his journey with
an easy mind; but if any of the flour had fallen down he would
give it up at once. Either the spirits did not, for some reason
of their own, wish him to go, or they knew that some danger awaited
him, and this was their warning.
If anyone is ill it is supposed that some
ancestral ghost is offended and has sent the sickness, or else
that some human enemy has bewitched the patient. In either case
the diviner has to consult the spirits to find out who is responsible
and what is the remedy. Drought, floods, a plague of locusts,
or any other natural calamity may be due to the anger of the
spirits.
In short, one may say that this belief in
the power and influence of the dead is the basic fact in Bantu
religion. We hear, rather doubtfully, of other spirits, some
of which may be personified nature powers, but many of these
(such as the Mwenembago, 'Lord of the Forest,' of the Wazaramo,
in Tanganyika Territory) seem to have been human ghosts to begin
with.
The dead are supposed to go on living for
an indefinite time underground, very much as they have done on
the upper earth. There are many stories describing the
[1 The home of the Yao tribe is in the Lujenda
valley, in Portuguese East Africa, whence they have spread into
Tanganyika Territory and Nyasaland.]
adventures of people who have accidentally
reached this country (called by the Swahili kuzimu[1]),
usually through following a porcupine, or some other burrowing
animal, into its hole. This happened, in Uganda, to Mpobe the
hunter, to the Zulu Uncama, and to an unnamed man of the Wairamba
(in Eastern Unyamwezi). The story is found in so many different
places that the idea seems to be held wherever a Bantu language
is spoken.
One does not hear very much of ghosts appearing
to survivors "in their habit as they lived"; though
it -is a common occurrence (as I suppose it is everywhere) for
people to see and talk with their dead friends in dreams. But
they often come back in other shapes-mostly as snakes, and very
often as birds-sometimes in the form of that uncanny insect the
mantis, which some people call "the spirits' fowl."
Later on we shall find some very striking tales, in which the
ghost of a murdered man or woman haunts the murderer in the shape
of a bird and calls on the kinsmen to avenge the slain.
The High God
The High God, when thought of as having a
definite dwelling-place at all-for usually they are rather vague
about him-is supposed to live above the sky, which, of course,
is believed to be a solid roof, meeting the earth at the point
which no one can travel far enough to reach. People have got
into this country by climbing trees, or, in some unexplained
way, by a rope thrown up or let down; and, like Jack after climbing
the beanstalk, find a country not so very different from the
one they have left. In a Yao tale a poor woman, who had been
tricked into drowning her
[1. The Swahili are a Bantu-speaking people,
descended partly from Arab traders and colonists, and partly
from the different African tribes with whom these Arabs intermarried.
Their home is the strip of coast from Warsheikh to Cape Delgado,
but they have travelled far and wide as traders, carriers, and
Europeans' servants, and spread their language over a great part
of the continent. The root -zimu, with different prefixes,
is found in many Bantu languages, and sometimes means a mere
ghost. sometimes a kind of monster or cannibal ogre.]
baby, climbed a tree into the Heaven country
and appealed to Mulungu,[1] who gave her child back to her.
The High God is not always-perhaps not often-connected
with creation. The earth is usually taken for granted, as having
existed before all things. Human beings and animals are sometimes
spoken of as made by him, but elsewhere as if they had originated
quite independently. The Yaos say, " In the beginning man
was not, only Mulungu and the beasts." But they do not say
that God made the beasts, though they speak of them as "
his people." The curious thing is that they think Mulungu
in the beginning lived on earth, but went up into the sky because
men[2] had taken to setting the bush on fire and killing "his
people." The same or a similar idea (that God ceased to
dwell on earth because of men's misconduct) is found to be held
by other Bantu-speaking tribes, and also by the Ashanti people
in West Africa and the 'Hamitic' Masai in the east. It may be
connected with the older and cruder notion (still to be traced
here and there) that the sky and the earth, which between them
produced all living things, were once in contact, and only became
separated later.
Whatever may once have been the case, prayers
and sacrifices are addressed to the ancestral spirits far more
frequently than to Mulungu or Leza. The High God is not, as a
rule, thought of as interfering directly with the course of this
world; but this must not be taken too absolutely. Mr C. W. Hobley,
among the Akamba, and the Rev. D. R. Mackenzie, among the people
of North Nyasaland,
[1. This word, which in some languages means
'the sky,' is used for 'God' by the Yaos, the Anyanja, the Swahili
(who shorten it into Muungu), the Giryama, and some others. Other
names are Chiuta, Leza, Kalunga (in Angola), Nzambe (on the Congo;
American Negroes have made this into jumbi, mostly used
in the plural, meaning ghosts or bogies of some sort), Katonda
(in Uganda), and Unkulunku (among the Zulus). This last (which-is
not, as some have thought, the same word as Mulungu) has sometimes
been taken to mean the High God, sometimes the first ancestor
of the tribe, who lived so long ago that no one can trace his
descent from him.]
2 For whom Mulungu was in no way responsible.
The first human pair were found by the chameleon (a prominent
character in African mythology) in his fish-trap! See Duff Macdonald,
Africana, Vol i, p. 295.]
have recorded instances of direct prayer to
the High God in times of distress or difficulty.
The Origin of Mankind
As to the way in which mankind came into being,
there are different accounts. The Zulus and the Thongas (Delagoa
Bay people) used to believe that the, first man came out of a
reed; some say a reed-bed, but the more unlikely sounding alternative
is probably the true one, as some native authorities distinctly
mention the exploding of the reed to let him out. Besides, it
is a custom of the Basuto to stick a reed in the ground beside
the door of a hut in which a baby has been born. The Hereros
think their ancestors came out of a certain tree called Omumborombonga.
This identical tree (I understand that ordinary members of the
species are not uncommon) is believed to exist somewhere in the
Kaoko veld, north of the Ugab river, in the South western Territory.
The Hereros, who are great stock breeders (or were till the tribe
fell on evil days), said that their cattle came out of Omumborombonga
along with them, but the small stock, sheep and goats (kleinvee
in Dutch), came out of a hole in the ground, along with the Bushmen
and, presumably, the game on which the Bushmen lived. The mention
of sheep and goats in this connexion is curious, as the Bushmen
never kept any domestic animals, except dogs. The Bechuana did
not attempt to account for the origin of the Bushmen: they had
been in the country, along with the game, from time immemorial,
before the Bechuana came into it.
The hole in the ground is interesting, because
the Anyanja of Nyasaland used to say that the first people came
out of a hole or cave somewhere to the west of Lake Nyasa: the
place, which is called Kapirimtiya, has even been pointed out
to Europeans. The footprints of the first man and of the animals
which came out with him are said to be impressed on a rock in
this place.
The Bantu never seem to have regarded death
as an inevitable process of nature. Everywhere we find stories
explaining how it began, and usually blaming the chameleon. I
shall tell some of these in a later chapter. People who do not
accept the chameleon story sometimes speak of Death as a person,
and call him Walumbe, or Lirufu, or Kalunga-ngombe.
We hear now and then about people who live
in the sky, though it is not very clear who they are. In the
legends of the Baganda Heaven (Gulu), his sons, and his daughter
Nambi are very much like an ordinary human family; but Heaven
is less personal in the thought of the Bathonga, who call it
Tilo, and speak of its sending rain, lightning, locusts, and-twins!
M. Junod says it "is sometimes looked on as a real being,
sometimes as an impersonal power"; and the 'rain-doctor'
when facing the approaching thunderstorm, shouts, You, Heaven,
go further! I have nothing against you! I do not fight against
you!"-addressing it as a person. Besides Tilo himself, the
sky is inhabited by little people called Balungwana, who have
sometimes been seen to fall from the clouds when some disaster
was about to befall the country. Twins, too, are called the "children
of Heaven." [1] Elsewhere the Heaven-dwellers are, strangely
enough, described as having tails; but it is difficult to learn
much about them.
There is in the legends of some South African
tribes a mysterious being called Hobyana (Huveane) or Khudjana,
sometimes said to be " the creator of heaven and earth and
the first ancestor of the race, and sometimes the son of the
creator (Rivimbi, Luvimbi, or Levivi, by others vaguely identified
with a famous rain-maker of old times). But at the same time
he is represented as a tricksy being, some of whose exploits
recall those of the European Till Eulenspiegel. He does not seem
to be known beyond the Zambezi-indeed, I doubt whether his legend
reaches as far as that; but parts of it coincide with incidents
in the life of some very different heroes-Kachirambe and the
boy who saved his people from the Swallowing Monster, as we shall
see later on.
[1. Twins are in some parts of Africa considered
very lucky, in others very unlucky-so much so that it has sometimes
been the custom to kill one or both.]
As a rule one does not go to fairy-tales for
high moral teaching; they are the playground of irresponsible
fancy, and we do not look too closely into the ethics of Jack
the Giant-killer or Rumpelstilzchen. Legends, of a more or less
religious character, are a different matter, and this story of
the Swallowing Monster may be taken as coming under that description.
There is another type of story embodying a deep feeling of right
and wrong, in which the spirit of a murdered person haunts the
slayer in the form of a bird, and at last brings him to justice,
as in the stories of "Nyengebule" and "Masilo
and Masilonyane."
Ogres (Amazimu)
The monster just mentioned links on to a class
of beings variously described in English as 'cannibals,' 'ogres,'
or merely 'monsters'-in Zulu amazimu; in other languages
madimo, madimu, or zimwi. It is a little
misleading to call them cannibals, as they are never merely human
beings, though sometimes taking (temporarily, at least) human
shape. Zulu folklore is full of them, but one meets them more
or less everywhere, and one favourite story, about the girl who,
in some versions, was swallowed, in others carried about in a
bag, crops up in all sorts of unexpected places. The irimu
of the Chaga people (on Kilimanjaro mountain) is sometimes spoken
of as a leopard; but he is clearly not an ordinary leopard, and
in a Nyanja story, which will be told in full later on, we shall
find a hyena who can turn himself into a man when he pleases.
It is everywhere thought possible for animals to change into
human beings, or human beings into animals; there are even at
the present day people who say they have known it to happen:
it is a favourite trick of the most wicked kind of witch. Besides
turning themselves into animals, witches and wizards have the
power of sending particular creatures out on their horrid errands-the
baboon, the hyena, the owl; sometimes the leopard and the wild
cat. This is why Zulus do not (or did not till lately) like you
to use the words ingwe (leopard) and impaka (wild
cat; the domestic cat, ikati, does not matter); you must call
them by some other name. Another kind of familiar is the resuscitated
and mutilated corpse (Zulu umkovu, Yao ndondocha),
of which some account will be given in Chapter XVI.
Animal Stories
Many of the stories which I shall have to
tell are entirely concerned with animals, who are shown speaking
and acting just as if they were human beings. We all remember
the "Uncle Remus" stories, which originally came from
Africa, though naturally somewhat changed through being adapted
to American surroundings: Uncle Remus felt called upon to explain
that "de beastesses," were once upon a time like people;
the original story-teller would not have thought it necessary,
since, to his mind, there was no great difference. We do not
hear animals talk, but that may be because we cannot understand
their language-and why should we suppose that their minds work
otherwise than ours?
It seems quite likely that our Æsop's
Fables originated in Africa. Luqman, the Arab fabulist spoken
of with approval by Muhammad, in the thirty-first chapter of
the Koran, is said to have been an 'Ethiopian'-that is, a Negro-slave.
His stories were passed on to Greece, where he was known as Aithiops,
and this was taken to be his name and turned into Æsop.
The favourite animal in the Bantu stories
is the Hare: there are no rabbits in Africa south of the Sahara,
and it would seem that Europeans, warned by the calamities of
Australia, have refrained from introducing them. Uncle Remus,
knowing more about rabbits than hares, has turned him into Brer
Rabbit, just as the hyena (who cheats and ill-treats the hare,
and is finally 'bested' by him) has become Brer Wolf or Brer
Fox. If Uncle Remus nearly always gives animals a title-'Brer
Rabbit,' 'Mis' Cow,' and so on-this must be because his African
forefathers did the same; we generally find them distinguished
in some way when figuring in tales; sometimes, indeed, they are
called by quite a different name. But the Bantu do not go as
far as the Bushmen, who use different forms of words (with extra
clicks) for the speeches of animals in the stories, and have
a different tone of voice for each animal when reciting these
speeches.
In some parts, as in the Congo forest country,
where there are no hares, the same tales are told of a little
antelope, the water chevrotain (Dorcatherium), called
by the Congo natives nseshi. The reason why these two
creatures, so small and weak, are made the principal heroes of
African folklore seems to be a deep-seated, inarticulate feeling
that the strong cannot always have things their own way and the
under-dog must some time or other come into his own. The lion
and the elephant stand for stupid, brutal force, though the hyena,
on the whole, gets the worst character; the tortoise overcomes
every one else in the end (even the hare) by quiet, dogged determination;
but he sometimes (not always) shows a very unamiable side to
his disposition.
These are the principal figures in the animal
stories, though a good many others make their appearance incidentally.
The Zulu stories which have been collected
(there must still be many others not published or even written
down) are more or less like our own fairy-tales: about chiefs'
sons and beautiful maidens, lost children, ogres, witches, enchanters,
and so forth; but they also have their hare stories.
Much the same may be said of the Basuto, only
they give some of the hare's most famous adventures to the jackal.
This trait is probably borrowed from the Hottentots, who, like
the Galla in North-eastern Africa (where the Hottentots came
from, no one knows how long ago), have no opinion of the hare's
intelligence, and tell you that it is the jackal who is the clever
one. And some of the same incidents are told by the Zulus of
a queer little being called Hlakanyana, a sort of Tom Thumb,
apparently human, but by some people identified not with the
hare, but with a kind of weasel.
The circumstances of his birth are peculiar,
which is also the case with some very different personages: Kachirambe
of the Nyanja, Galinkalanganye of the Hehe, and usually the boy-hero
who slays the Swallowing Monster. Ryang'ombe, the hero of the
Lake Regions, distinguished himself by eating a whole ox when
only a few hours old-a feat in which he even surpassed Hlakanyana.
The Baganda and Banyaruanda have many tales
or legends of a type similar to those mentioned above, while
other Bantu tribes seem to have more animal stories and less
of the other kind; but they probably exist side by side everywhere.
In attempting, as I have done, to present the most attractive
specimens of both I have sometimes found it necessary to combine
two or more versions so as to get a more complete and coherent
whole.
CHAPTER II: WHERE MAN CAME FROM, AND HOW DEATH CAME
No one seems to know
when the South African Bantu first came into the country now
occupied by them. It is certain that the Bushmen, and in some
places the Hottentots, were there before them. One proof of this
is found in the names of places, and especially of rivers, which
in the Cape Province often contain clicks (the Iqora, called
by Europeans Bushman's River; the Inxuba, which is the Fish river;
and many others); while in Natal and Zululand most of the river-names
have a decided Bantu sound-Umgeni, Tugela, and so on. The Bantu
came from the north-east, and reached the Kei river about the
end of the seventeenth century, when they first came in contact
with the Dutch colonists. But they must have been in Natal and
the regions to the north-east long before that, for in 1498,
when Vasco da Gama's fleet touched somewhere near the mouth of
the Limpopo, one of his crew, Martin Affonso, found he could
understand the talk of the natives, because it was very much
like what he had picked up on the West Coast, probably in Angola
or on the Congo. It is also known that the Makaranga, who are
still living in Southern Rhodesia, were there in 1505, when the
Portuguese first heard of them, and they must have settled there
long before, as they had something like an organized kingdom,
under a paramount chief, whom the Portuguese called Monomotapa.
Zulu Clan Tradition
These Makaranga are by some thought to be
the ancestors of the Amalala, the first of the Bantu to take
up their abode in the countries we know as Natal and Zululand.
One of their tribes has a quaint story of the way in which their
first ancestor brought his family to their new home. This was
Malandela, son of Gumede, who came into the Umhlatuze valley,
Father Bryant thinks, about 1670. It is said that when they had
marched, day after day, for many weary miles, and the old man
found his strength failing, he made his wives and children get
into an isilulu-" one of the huge globular baskets
still used for storing grain."[1] He then, with one last
effort, launched the basket on its way with one mighty kick,
and fell back dead. It rolled on "over hill and dale, river
and forest, till at last it stopped and steadied; and when those
within ventured to look out they found themselves in this country
where we now live," so some of their descendants, "who
are still nicknamed 'those belonging to the basket,'" told
Miss Colenso.[2] But Father Bryant, who has made very careful
inquiries into Zulu traditions, has unkindly spoilt this story.
He says that the real meaning of "those belonging to the
basket" is that Malandela's family, when driven by famine
from their old homes, brought with them these grain-baskets,
which were then a novelty to the people among whom they settled.
However that may be, Malandela was the father
of Ntombela, the father of Zulu, and so the ancestor of the great
Zulu kings. Solomon, son of Dinuzulu, who has recently died,
was the twelfth in descent from him. The graves of these kings,
from Malandela to Senzangakona, father of Tshaka, are pointed
out near Babanango, in the valley of the White Imfolozi river.
Dinuzulu too is buried near them, but his father lies in the
Inkandhla forest, in Zululand, and his grandfather, Mpande, at
Nodwengu.
Tribal Migrations
Zulus and Xosas alike trace their descent
from a tribe called Nguni (Abenguni, a name still preserved by
the Angoni of Nyasaland), who, after coming from the north, as
well as the Basuto, Bechuana, and Hereros, settled somewhere
in the Upper Limpopo valley. Father Bryant thinks that they must
have made a long circuit to the west,
[1. Alas, the degenerate izilulu (plural)
of the present day are not more than three or four feet across!
2 Josiah Gumede, who came to England in 1919
to petition the Imperial Government for justice to the Zulus,
claims to be a descendant of this family.]
crossing the Zambezi near its source, or even
going round its head-waters, as it would have been impassable
to them "by any eastern or even central crossing."[1]
Be that as it may, while some of the Nguni remained in the Limpopo
valley part of the tribe set off about the year 1300 to the eastward,
and these, again, two hundred years later, broke up into two
sections, one of which continued its southward march, and ultimately
gave rise to the Xosa and Tembu tribes. Zulu and Xosa may now
be considered as dialects of the same language: they do not differ
much more, if at all, than Lowland Scots and standard English,
and originally, of course, they were one.
As centuries progressed, old words and forms
fell out here and new came in there, each section developing
its speech along different lines, till to-day Ntungwa and Xosa
are separated by a quite considerable extent of dialectical difference
in speech. The Xosa language, it may be noted, has preserved
for us the old-time term ebu Nguni (Nguniland-there whence
they came) as signifying " in the West." [2]
The differences in vocabulary are considerable,
just as we find that in different English counties the same things
are not always called by the same names; the grammar is almost
identical; but the Xosa intonation, rather than the pronunciation
of individual sounds, is decidedly strange to an ear accustomed
to Zulu. This being so, it is only to be expected that both sections
of the South-eastern Bantu should have many tales and legends
in common, and I shall not always try to distinguish between
them.
The Reed and the Reed-bed
The Bantu, as a rule, do not try to account
for the origin of the human race as a whole, or, rather, their
legends seem to assume that the particular tribe in question
is the human race; though, as we have seen, there are some who
con-
[1. Yet we know that Zwangendaba's host crossed
in 1835 near Zumbo in the height of the dry season, when the
river was very low.
2 Bryant, Olden Times, p. 9.]
descend to recognize the Bushmen. They also
frequently fail to distinguish between a non-human creator and
the first human ancestor, which has led to a good deal of discussion
as to the real meaning of the Zulu Unkulunkulu, who 'broke off'
mankind from Uhlanga. Uhlanga means a reed, and there
seems no reason to doubt that this at first was intended quite
literally, for, as one native told Dr Callaway, " it was
said that two people came out of a reed. There came out a man
and a woman." Some have refused to believe that this was
really meant, and take Callaway's view that uhlanga is
a metaphorical expression for "a source of being."
It certainly has come to be used in this sense, but I should
be inclined to look on this as a later development and the reed
as the original idea. The Baronga of Delagoa Bay[1] told M. Junod
that "one man and one woman suddenly came out from a reed,
which exploded, and there they were!" Some native authorities
say that the first pair came out of a reed-bed (umhlanga),
but one is inclined to think that the cruder version is the more
primitive, and is reminded of the Hereros and their Omumborombonga
tree.
The Chameleon
Most) if not all, of the Bantu have the legend
of the chameleon-everywhere much the same, though differing in
some not unimportant details-explaining how death came into the
world, or, rather, how it was not prevented from coming. I will
give it first as it was told to Dr Callaway by Fulatela Sitole,
and afterwards mention some of the variations.
It is said he (Unkulunkulu) sent a chameleon;
he said to it, "Go, chameleon (lunwaba), go and say,
'Let not men die!'" The chameleon set out; it went slowly,
it loitered in the way; and as it went it ate of the fruit of
a bush which is called
[1. The Baronga are a branch of the great
Thonga nation (Amatonga). Father Bryant says that "the relationship
between the Nguni (Zulu-Xosa), Sutu (Basuto), and Thonga Bantu
families may be likened to that existing in Europe between the
English, Germans, and Scandinavians of the Nordic race."]
Ubukwebezane. At length Uhkulunkulu sent a
lizard [intulo, the blue-headed gecko] after the chameleon,
when it had already set out for some time. The lizard went; it
ran and made great haste, for Unkulunkulu had said, "Lizard,
when you have arrived say, 'Let men die!'" So the lizard
went, and said, "I tell you, it is said, 'Let men die!'"
The lizard came back again to Unkulunkulu before the chameleon
had reached his destination, the chameleon, which was sent first-which
was sent and told to go and say, "Let not men die!"
At length it arrived and shouted, saying, "It is said, 'Let
not men die!'" But men answered, "Oh, we have accepted
the word of the lizard; it has told us the word, 'It is said
"Let men die!'" We cannot hear your word. Through the
word of the lizard men will die." [1]
Here no reason is given for Unkulunkulu's
sending the second messenger. I do not think any genuine native
version suggests that he changed his mind on account of men's
wickedness. Where this is said one suspects it to be a moralizing
afterthought, due perhaps to European influence.
The Luyi Legend
Some other versions assume that the creator
had not made up his mind, and decided to let the issue depend
on which messenger arrived first. The Luyi tribe of the Zambezi
call the creator Nyambe, and give him a wife, Nasilele.[2] She
wanted men to die for ever, but Nyambe wished them to live again.
Nyambe had a dog of whom he was very fond. The dog died, and
Nyambe wished to restore him to life, but Nasilele objected.
" He is a thief, and I do not like him." Some time
after this Nasilele's mother died. (Nyambe and his wife are stated
to have been the first human couple; but the student of mythology
must learn not to be surprised at contradictions of this sort.)
She asked Nyambe to revive her mother, but he refused, because
she had wanted his dog to stay dead. Some versions add that he
gave in after a time, and set to work,
[1. Callaway, Amazulu, p. 3.
2. Told in full by Jacottet, "Textes
Louyi," No. XLV.]
but when the process was nearly complete Nasilele
ruined everything by her curiosity. Then came the question whether
mankind in general should die for ever or live again, and they
agreed to settle it by sending the chameleon andnot the lizard,
but the hare, who, as might be expected, arrived first.
Elsewhere the lizard overhears the message,
and, out of mere spiteful mischief, hastens to get in first with
the (alleged) counter-order. It is not surprising that both these
creatures should be held unlucky. No unsophisticated African
will touch a chameleon if he can help it, or likes to see a European
handling one; while for an intulo to enter a Zulu hut is the
worst of evil omens. In some parts, indeed, the herd-boys, whenever
they find a chameleon, will poison it by squirting tobacco-juice
or sprinkling snuff into its open mouth.
The chameleon is the creature usually associated
with this legend among Bantu-speaking peoples; the Hottentots,
in a similar story, make the messenger the hare, who is sent
out by the Moon to tell people, "As I die and, dying, live,
so shall ye die and, dying, live." In some versions he reverses
the message out of forgetfulness or stupidity; in one he does
it wilfully, having taken the place of the insect who was to
have carried the message.' It is to be noticed that the idea
throughout is not that man should be exempt from death, but that
he should return to life after it.
Legends current in Uganda
The Bantu must have brought this legend with
them when they came from the north, for it is also known to the
people of Uganda, as well as to others in between. But the Baganda
have another story telling how Death came-Death, who, in this
tale, is thought of as a person, and called Walumbe. This one
belongs to the Bahima (or Batusi) cowherds, who came in from
the north with their long-horned cattle, and made themselves
chiefs in Uganda and Unyoro
[1. Bleek, Reynard the Fox in South in
South Africa, pp. 69-73; Schulte, Namaland und Kalahari,
p. 448.]
and Ankole.[1] But it is the peasants, the
original Bantu living in the country before the Bahima came,
who have the chameleon story. The tale of Kintu, the first man,
who married the daughter of Heaven (Gulu), has been told so often
that it need not be repeated here. It may be read in Dr Roscoe's
The Baganda, and in a charming little book by Mrs Baskerville,
The King of the Snakes. There, too, can be found the story
of Mpobe, the hunter, who wandered into the presence of Death,
but was allowed to depart with a warning never to speak of what
he had seen. He was able to resist all persuasion to do so, till
at last his mother overcame his reluctance, and Death immediately
came to claim him.
Such personifications of Death do not seem
to be very common in Bantu mythology; but the Basumbwa of North-western
Unyamwezi, in a somewhat similar legend, call him Lirufu, and
one occasionally hears of a "chief of the ghosts,"
who may be identical with him.
Kalunga of the Ambundu
The Ambundu of Angola speak of Kalunga, a
word which may mean either Death, the King of the Netherworld
(usually called, why I do not know, Kalunga-ngombe, "Kalunga
of the cattle"), or the sea. This is not strange when one
remembers that, though living, many of them, on the coast, they
are a seagoing people, and to the sense of dread and mystery
with which the ocean would naturally affect them would be added
the memory of the thousands carried away on slave-ships, never
to return. The Ndonga and Kwanyama, to the south of Angola, use
this name for their High God, whom the Hereros too call Njambi
Karunga.
Some Mbundu stories give us a glimpse of Kalunga
and his kingdom. Here are two of them.[2]
[1. They are no longer a separate people in
Uganda itself, as they are in Ankole and Ruanda, since even their
kings and great chiefs married women of the country.
2 Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola,
pp. 223 and 249.]
The first is called "King Kitamba kia
Shiba." Kitamba was a chief who lived at Kasanji. He lost
his head-wife, Queen Muhongo, and mourned for her many days.
Not only did he mourn himself, but he insisted on his people
sharing his grief. "My village, too, no man shall do anything
therein. The young people shall not shout; the women shall not
pound; no one shall speak in the village." His headmen remonstrated
with him, but Kitamba was obdurate, and declared that he would
neither speak nor eat nor allow anyone else to do so till his
queen was restored to him. The headmen consulted together, and
called in a 'doctor' (kimbanda). Having received his fee
(first a gun, and then a cow) and heard their statement of the
case, he said, "All right," and set off to gather herbs.
These he pounded in a 'medicine-mortar,' and, having prepared
some sort of decoction, ordered the king and all the people to
wash themselves with it. He next directed some men to "dig
a grave in my guest-hut at the fireplace," which they did,
and he entered it with his little boy, giving two last instructions
to his wife: to leave off her girdle (i.e., to dress negligently,
as if in mourning) and to pour water every day on the fireplace.
Then the men filled in the grave. The doctor saw a road open
before him; he walked along it with his boy till he came to a
village, where he found Queen Muhongo sitting, sewing a basket,
She saw him approaching, and asked, "Whence comest thou?
" He answered, in the usual form demanded by native politeness,
"Thou thyself, I have sought thee. Since thou art dead King
Kitamba will not eat, will not drink, will not speak. In the
village they pound not; they speak not; he says, 'If I shall
talk, if I eat, go ye and fetch my head-wife.' That is what brought
me here. I have spoken." [1]
The queen then pointed out a man seated a
little way off, and asked the doctor who he was. As he could
not say, she told him, "He is Lord Kalunga-ngombe; he is
always consuming us, us all." Directing his attention to
another man", who was chained, she asked if he knew him,
and he
[1. Chatelain's literal translation of his
speech.]
answered, "He looks like King Kitamba,
whom I left where I came from." It was indeed Kitamba, and
the queen further informed the messenger that her husband had
not many years to live,[1] and also that "Here in Kalunga
never comes one here to return again. She gave him the armlet
which had been buried with her, to show to Kitamba as a proof
that he had really visited the abode of the dead, but enjoined
on him not to tell the king that he had seen him there. And he
must not eat anything. in Kalunga; otherwise he would never be
permitted to return to earth.
One is reminded of Persephone and the pomegranate
seed, but the idea is one which frequently recurs in Bantu legends
of the Underworld, there is no reason to suppose that it was
borrowed, directly or indirectly, from the Greeks. It seems quite
natural to think that the food of the dead would be fatal to
the living.
Meanwhile the doctor's wife had kept pouring
water on the grave. One day she saw the earth beginning to crack;
the cracks opened wider, and, finally, her husband's head appeared.
He gradually made his way out, and pulled his small-son up after
him. The child fainted when he came out into the sunlight, but
his father washed him with some 'herb-medicine,' and soon brought
him to.
Next day the doctor went to the headmen, presented
his report, was repaid with two slaves,[3] and returned to his
home. The headmen told Kitamba what he had said, and produced
the token. The only comment he is recorded to have made, on looking
at the armlet, is "Truth, it is the same." We do not
hear whether he countermanded the official mourning, but it is
to be presumed he did so, for he made no further difficulty about
eating or drinking. Then, after a few years, he died, and the
story concludes, "They wailed the funeral; they scattered."
[1. This seems to be shown by the appearance
of his wraith in the Underworld, but the point is not further
explained.
2. Kalunga therefore denotes the place, as
well as its ruler.
3. Chatelain's informants in the eighteen-eighties
treat this sort of thing quite as a matter of course.]
How Ngunza defied Death
The other story is about two brothers. Ngunza
Kilundu was away from home when a dream warned- him that his
younger brother Maka was dead. On his return he asked his mother,
"What death was it that killed Maka?" She could only
say that it was Lord Kalunga-ngombe who had killed him. "Then,"
said Ngunza, "I will go out and fight Kalunga-ngombe."
He went at once to a blacksmith and ordered a strong iron trap.
When it was ready he took it out into the bush and set it, hiding
near by with his gun. Soon he heard a cry, as of some creature
in distress, and, listening, made out words of human speech:
"I am dying, dying." It was Kalunga-ngombe who was
caught in the trap, and Ngunza took his gun and prepared to shoot.
The voice cried out, "Do not shoot me! Come to free me!
Ngunza asked, "Who are you, that I should set you free?"
The answer came: "I am Kalunga-ngombe." "Oh, you
are Kalunga-ngombe, who killed my younger brother Maka!"
Kalunga-ngombe understood the threat which was left unspoken,
and went on to explain himself. "You accuse me of killing
people. I do not do it wantonly, or for my own satisfaction;
people are brought to me by their fellow-men, or through their
own fault. You shall see this for yourself. Go away now and wait
four days: on the fifth you may go and fetch your brother in
my country."
Ngunza did as he was told, and went to Kalunga.
It is not said how he got there-probably by some such means as
the doctor in the other story. There he was received by Kalunga-ngombe,
who invited him to take his place beside him. The new arrivals
began to come in. Kalunga-ngombe asked the first man, "What
killed you?" The man answered that on earth he had been
very rich; his neighbours were envious and bewitched him, so
that he died.[1] The next to arrive was a woman, who admitted
that 'vanity' had been the cause of her death-that is, she had
been
[1. A more likely occurrence-and one that
has been known to take place-would have been that an accusation
of witchcraft was trumped up, which led to his execution.]
greedy of finery and admiration, had coquetted
with men, and had in the end been killed by a jealous husband.
So it went on: one after another came with more or less the same
story, and at last Kalunga-Ngombe said, "You see how it
is-I do not kill people; they are brought to me for one cause
or another. It is very unfair to blame me. Now you may go to
Milunga " and fetch your brother Maka."
Ngunza went as directed, and was overjoyed
at finding Maka just as he had left him at their home, and, apparently,
leading much the same sort of life as he had on earth. They greeted
each other warmly, and then Ngunza said, "Now let us be
off, for I have come to fetch you home." But, to his surprise,
Maka did not want to go. "I won't go back; I am much better
off here than I ever was while I lived. If I come with you, shall
I have as good a time?" Ngunza did not know how to answer
this, and, very unwillingly, had to leave his brother where he
was. He turned away sadly, and went to take leave of Kalunga,
who gave him, as a parting present, the seeds of all the useful
plants now cultivated in Angola, and ended by saying, "In
eight I days I shall come to visit you at your home."
This part of the story grows very puzzling,
as no reason is given for the visit, and it would almost seem,
from what follows, as if some condition had been imposed which
Ngunza did not keep.[2] Kalunga came to Ngunza's home on the
eighth day, and found that he had fled eastward that is, inland.
He pursued him from place to place, and finally came up with
him. Ngunza asked why Kalunga should have followed him, adding,
"You cannot kill me, for I have done you no wrong. You have
been insisting that you do not kill anyone-that people are brought
to you through some fault of theirs." Kalunga, for all answer,
threw his hatchet at Ngunza, and Ngunza "turned into a kituta
spirit." This is not further explained, but we
[1. It is not clear what this place was. Chatelain
could not even make out the word in the original manuscript.
2 Chatelain seems to have had some difficulty
in getting a connected narrative out of the "poorly written
notes" left by a native helper who died.]
find elsewhere that a kituta (or kianda)
is "a spirit or demon . . . who rules over the water and
is fond of great trees and of hill-tops." Such river-spirits
figure in several other stories from Angola.
In the story from Uganda already referred
to Mpobe had to die because he had, in spite of the warning received,
spoken about his visit to the kingdom of the dead. Something
of the sort may have been said in the correct version of the
Mbundu story. Then, again, Ngunza is not said to have been killed,
but to have become a kituta-one does not see why. In the
ordinary course of things, one gathers, those who depart this
life go on living for an indefinite time in Kalunga; but after
that they die again, and this time cease, to exist. We shall
have to consider this point more fully, when speaking of the
ancestral spirits.
It seems quite clear from all these legends
that the African does not, when he thinks about the matter at
all, look upon death as an essential fact in nature. It appears
to be accepted that, but for some unforeseen accident, or perhaps
some piece of carelessness or wilful disobedience, people need
never have died at all. To the same set of ideas belongs the
prevalent belief that any death whose cause is not understood
(and the number of such deaths is now steadily decreasing) must
be due to witchcraft. Kalunga, if we are to think of him as the
High God, is exceptional for living underground. Leza, Mulungu,
Iruwa, and so on, if they have a local habitation at all, are
placed in the sky, as we shall see in the next chapter.
CHAPTER III: LEGENDS OF THE HIGH GODS
THE Leza and Nyambe
of the Upper and Middle Zambezi tribes exhibit the same confusion
between the High God and the first man which we noticed in the
case of the Zulu Unkulunkulu; and, further, they appear to be
more or less identified with the sky and the rain. The Basubiya
say that Leza once lived on earth. He was a very strong man,
a great chief; when he was seated in his khotla (place
of the chief's council) "it was as though the sun were sitting
there." It was he who sent out the chameleon with the message
that men should live again after death. Leza is said to send
rain; the Baila use such expressions as "Leza will fall
much water, Leza throws down water."
The Rev. E. W. Smith obtained from these people
a curious story,[1] the conclusion of which recalls the only
comfort Gautama Buddha could give to the bereaved mother. It
also indicates the belief that Leza causes death-at any rate,
premature death.
The Woman's Search for God
An old woman, whose parents had died when
she was a child, lost all her sons and daughters, one after another,
and was left with no one belonging to her. When she was very
old and weary she thought she must be about to follow them; but
instead of that she found herself growing younger, and was seized
with a strong desire to find Leza and ask him the meaning of
it all. Thinking that he had his abode in the sky, she began
to cut down trees and make a scaffolding by which she could climb
up. A similar device is said to have been tried by the Baluyi,
by the Wasu of Pare (East Africa), and by the ancestors of the
Ashanti.
But when she had built it up to a considerable
height the lower poles rotted away, and the whole fell down,
she falling with it. She was not hurt, and tried again, but with
no better success. At last she gave up in despair, and set out
[1 Smith and Dale, The Ila-speaking Peoples,
vol. ii, p. 197.]
to reach the place where, as she believed,
the sky joins the earth. So she wandered through one country
after another, and when the people asked her what she wanted
she said, "I am seeking Leza." "What do you want
of him?" "My brothers, you ask me? Here in the nations
is there one who has suffered as I have suffered? . . . I am
alone. As you see me, a solitary old woman, that is how I am!"
The people answered, "Yes, we see! That
is how you are! Bereaved of friends and kindred? In what do you
differ from others? Shikakunamo[1] sits on the back of every
one of us, and we cannot shake him off!"
Prayer to the High God
It is often stated that Africans in general
neither pray to the High God nor offer sacrifices to him, nor,
in fact, notice him at all, beyond recognizing his existence.
This is certainly not true in the case of the Baila, and we have
evidence to the same effect from various quarters. The Bapedi
(a branch of the Basuto living in the Transvaal) say that their
High God (Modimo o mogolo) is called Huveane, and they
pray to him for rain.[2] He made the sky and the earth, and when
he had finished them he climbed up into the sky (conceived, of
course, as a solid vault) by driving in pegs on which he set
his feet, taking out each one as soon as he had stepped on the
next, so that people should not be able to follow him. And in
the sky he has lived ever since. This seems to be the original
form of the incident, which, when the myth had degenerated into
a comic folk-tale, appears as a trick played by the graceless
Huveane on his father.
Mr Hobley distinctly states that the Akamba
tribe, in Kenya Colony, pray to the God whom they call Engai,
[1. Shikakunamo is one of the names sometimes
used by the Baila for Leza; it means 'the besetting one,' the
one who will never let you alone-in this case sending one affliction
after another. But in general he is described as compassionate
and merciful, despite the unreasonableness of mankind, who beg
him for, boons, and then complain of what they get.
2. We shall meet with a different Huveane-or
with a very different conception of the same being-in a later
chapter.]
especially in seasons of distress. When sickness
is rife among the people the headman prays first to Engai and
then to the spirit (imu) supposed to have caused the sickness."
They first pray to Engai, because they believe the spirit has
gone to Engai."
Gutmann speaks of sacrifices offered to God
(Iruwa) by the Wachaga, which are clearly distinguished from
offerings made to the ancestral spirits, and quotes old forms
of prayer used on such occasions. The Ngonde (Konde) people,
at the north end of Lake Nyasa, pray to Kyala (also known as
Ndorombwike), and other instances might be cited. Thus the High
God cannot in all cases be described as 'otiose, dwelling apart
and not concerning himself with mankind or his affairs.
Chungu's Prayer
The Ngonde, just mentioned, say as a rule
that they do not pray directly to Kyala, but ask the spirits
of their forefathers to intercede for them with him. Yet sometimes
they pray directly: "Be gracious to us, O God, and hear
the prayers of those whom we have named"-i.e., the
ancestral spirits. Mr Mackenzie tells of a chief called Chungu,
known to his people as "the man who speaks with God,"
and relates a remarkable story[1] of this Chungu having been
called in when the Domira steamer had run aground (near
Karonga's, on Lake Nyasa) and could not be got off. Chungu came
down to the shore and prayed, after sacrificing a white cock,
and immediately the vessel floated. It is a pity that this incident
does not seem to have been reported by any of the Europeans who
must have been on board.
Legend of Ngeketo
These same Ngonde people have a strange legend
about one Ngeketo, once a god of theirs, but now, as they say,
worshipped only by the white men. He was the youngest of three,
the others being Lyambilo (still worshipped by the Wakinga) and
Mbasi, by some writers called 'the Devil,'
[1. The Spirit-ridden Konde, p. 23.]
though that notion is wholly foreign to Bantu
thought. These two became jealous of Ngeketo, because he was
the first to plant maize in the country-the old home of the Ngonde,
near what is now Mahenge. Together with "the elders of the
people" (who usually, on principle, dislike innovations),
they conspired to kill Ngeketo; but after three days he came
back to life in the form of a serpent. Thereupon they cut him
in pieces, but the pieces joined together, and he revived once
more. Again they killed him, and again he arose. Some people
saw him, but he disappeared and went away to the coast, "where
he became the god of the white men."
We are assured that this story cannot be due
to missionary influence: it was known to the old men before the
white men came, and they told Mr Mackenzie that it had not been
changed in any way. It seems most likely that Ngeketo was not
really a High God, but a human ancestor, though not honoured
as such in the ordinary way, either because his family had died
out or because the tribe had moved away from the place where
he was buried and where only offerings could be made to his spirit.
If he really introduced the maize plant (which, as we know, was
brought from Brazil by the Portuguese) his legend must certainly
be later than the sixteenth century; but the mention of that
grain may be a modernizing touch, in the usual manner of story-tellers,
and, originally, he may have planted millet or beans, both of
which seem to have been known from very early times. It is interesting
to note, in passing, that where there is a tradition about millet
the discovery is attributed to a woman, and, strangely enough,
is usually associated with a discreditable motive.
Imana of the Ruanda
The people of Ruanda recognize a Supreme Being
called Imana, clearly distinguished from the deified hero Ryang'ombe,
whose legend will be given in another chapter, and from the imandwa,
or ghosts. He is often spoken of as a helper in difficulty and
distress, but is never prayed to direct: appeals to him are always
expressed, one might say, as conditional wishes. Thus: "If
Imana were with me he would help me." Imana is frequently
referred to in Ruanda proverbs, such as: "Imana gives you-it
is not a thing bought" (i.e., his gifts are free);
"He who has received a gift from Imana is not stripped of
it by the wind"; "Imana has long arms"; "There
is none equal to Imana"; "A cultivator who has not
Imana on his side has [at any rate] his two arms." This
last seems to mean that a man must depend on his own exertions,
instead of waiting on Providence, and so might be held to run
counter to the general trend of thought as expressed in the others.
But it may be merely a counsel of despair; in any case, one has
not sufficient information to see what lies at the back of this
utterance.
Imana figures in various legends, which show
him distinctly acting and speaking as a person, though, strangely
enough, his name is not, grammatically, placed in the personal
class, but in that containing the names of animals-a point which
opens up avenues of speculation not to be entered on here.[1]
The Serpent the Enemy
One of these legends[2] suggests marked Hamitic
influence, in the mention of the serpent. Imana, once upon a
time, used to talk with men. One day he said to a man (whether
this was the first man on earth does not appear), " Do not
go to sleep to-night; I am coming to give you some good news."
There was a serpent hidden in the hut, who overheard these words.
The man kept awake till cockcrow, after which he was overpowered
by sleep, and did not hear when Imana came and called him. The
serpent was on the watch and answered the call. Imana (who is
never assumed to be omniscient) thought the man was speaking,
and said,
[1. Spirits, as a rule, are not placed in
the personal class of nouns, but yet not in the same class as
Imana. Mulungu would have the plural milungu (not Walungu,
as if personal), but I must say I have never come across it in
the plural, except where there was reason to suspect European
influence.
2 Johanssen, Ruanda, p. 119.]
You will die, but you will rise again; you
will grow old, but you will get a new skin, you, your children,
and your grandchildren." Next morning the man went to see
Imana, and complained that he had not received any message. Imana
asked, It was not you, then, to whom I spoke in the night?"
"No." "Then it must have been the snake, who is
for ever accursed. If a Tusi ever comes across that snake let
him kill it-likewise the Hutu and the Twa. Let them kill one
wherever they find it. But as for you, you will die, you and
your children and your children's children."
Abarea, a local headman of the Galla, in the
north-east of Kenya Colony, told me a somewhat similar story
current among his people. In some respects it has a closer resemblance
to the chameleon legend: here the messenger is a bird (as far
as I could make out, a sort of hornbill) who is beguiled by the
snake into reversing his message. As Abarea remarked in Swahili,
"Nyoka ni adui-the snake is the enemy."
It seems to be assumed that Imana is unable
to reverse the doom incurred through the serpent's treachery.
Batusi, Bahutu, and Batwa are the three tribes who make up the
population of Ruanda: the shepherd aristocracy, the Bantu cultivators,
and the potter serfs, probably descended from the forest Pygmies.
The Story of the Glutton
Then we have the tale of Sebgugugu, the Greedy
Man,[1] enforcing the homely old moral of the Goose who laid
the Golden Eggs, through a quite extraordinary case of stupid
and obstinate selfishness. Sebgugugu was a poor man whose sole
wealth was a white cow with her calf. One day, while his wife
was away, hoeing her garden-plot in the jungle, and he was sitting
in the sun outside his hut, a bird came and perched on the gate-post.
It began to sing, and as he listened he seemed to hear these
words: "Sebgugugu, kill the White One (Gitale); kill
the White One and get a
[1. Père Hurel, La Poésie
chez les primitifs, p. 174 . The story is also told, with
variations, by Johanssen, Ruanda, p. 120.]
hundred!" When his wife came home the
bird was still singing, and he said, " Look here, wife!
Do you hear what this bird says? " She answered, "Nonsense!
It's only a bird singing." Again it sang the same words,
and Sebgugugu said," Don't you understand? Imana is telling
me that if I kill Whitey I shall get a hundred cows. Isn't it
so?" "What do you mean? I have to feed our children
on her milk, and if you kill her they will die. Do you mean to
say you are going to believe what a bird tells you?" But
he would not listen; he took his axe and went and killed the
cow. The family had beef for dinner, and lived for some time
on the rest of the meat, but no cows appeared in place of the
White One. Then the bird came again, and this time advised him
to kill the calf, which he did, in spite of his wife's opposition.
When the meat was finished and no cows were forthcoming they
all began to be very hungry. (An African might ask, "What
about the garden produce?" -but no doubt it was the wrong
time of year for that.) Sebgugugu said to his wife, " Now
the children are starving! " She answered, " Did I
not tell you what would happen when you would kill Whitey? "
Then, in despair, they decided to tramp in search of food.
He tied up some of the children in mats, and
put the rest into a basket, which his wife carried on her head;
he took up the bundles, and so they started. They went on till
they were quite tired out, and sat down by the wayside, and Sebgugugu
cried out in his despair, "What shall I do with my children?"
Then Imana, who is the creator, came along and said, "Sebgugugu,
what is your trouble?" The man told him, and Imana pointed
to a distant hill, saying, "See, yonder is a cattle-kraal.
Go there and drink the milk of the cows. They are being herded
for me by a crow. You must always give him some of the milk,
and be sure never to strike him or use bad words to him."
So they went to the kraal. There was no one there, but they found
vessels full of milk. When Sebgugugu had drunk as much as he
wanted he gave his wife some, and she fed the children. Then
they all sat down and waited to see what would happen.
When the sun was low they saw the cattle coming
home; there was no man or boy with them, but a great white-necked.
crow kept flying to and fro above them, calling them and keeping
them together. When they arrived Sebgugugu lit a fire at the
kraal gate to drive away the mosquitoes, fetched a pail, and
milked the cows, doing as he had been told and giving a bowl
full of milk to the crow herdsman, before they all had their
supper.
In this way all went well for some time, and
then Sebgugugu began to be discontented. It is not clear what
he had to complain of; but evidently he was "that sort of
man." He said to his wife, "Now the children are old
enough to herd the cattle for me I don't see what we want with
that crow. I shall kill him." The wife protested in vain,
and Sebgugugu, taking his bow and arrows, lay in wait for the
return of the cattle when evening fell. When the crow came near
enough he shot an arrow at him, missed, shot again-the crow flew
away, and when he looked round there were no cattle to be seen-not
so much as a stray calf! The family were once more reduced to
destitution. Sebgugugu said, "What shall I do?" His
wife, of course, could give him no comfort, so they picked up
the children and set out on their travels. Worn out, as they
sat by the wayside resting, he cried once more to Imana, and
the long-suffering Imana directed him to a wonderful melon-vine
growing in the bush, from which he could gather not only melons
and gourds, but a variety of other fruits. Only he must not attempt
to cultivate or prune the vine, or do anything but gather daily
supplies from it. He found the vine, gathered gourds, and his
wife cooked them. So again for a time all -went well, till the
man took it into his head that the vine would be more productive
if its branches were cut, and it immediately withered away, like
Jonah's gourd. Again he was in despair, but Imana gave him one
more chance. Going into the bush to cut firewood, he came across
a rock with several small clefts, from which oozed forth Guinea
corn, milk, beans, and other kinds of food. He gathered up what
he could carry and returned to his wife.
Next day he went back to the rock, taking
with him a basket and ajar; but he grew impatient, because the
corn, and so on, trickled out slowly, and he took a long time
in filling his basket. He complained of this to his wife, but
persevered for some days, and then told her that he was going
to widen the cracks in the rock, so that they could get more
abundant supplies. She tried to dissuade him, with the usual
result: he went and cut some stout poles and hardened them in
the fire. He went to the rock and tried to enlarge the clefts,
using his poles as levers, but, with a crash like thunder, they
closed up, and no more corn or milk -came forth. He went back
to the camping-place and found no one there; his wife and children
had disappeared without leaving a trace, and he was alone in
the forest. We are left to suppose that this was the end of him.
Another version gives one more incident, perhaps
less dramatically effective, in which he is guilty of wilful
disobedience, and is devoured by a monstrous wild beast. Both
agree in showing that Imana's patience had its limits.
Imana and the Childless Woman
One more legend[1] about Imana suggests the
idea of a wise and loving providence. A childless woman came
to him with the petition made by such women in all ages. Imana,
reader of hearts, said to her, "Go home, and if you find
a little creature in your path take it up and be kind to it."
She set out, pondering over these words, of which she could not
see the sense, and as she drew near her sister's house she saw
the latter's little children playing in the dirt. One of them
getting in her way, she pushed it back, saying angrily, "Be
off! You're all over mud!" The child's mother came out,
picked it up, and washed it clean. Her sister went home and waited
a year: nothing happened. She went again to Imana, who asked
if she had not seen the little creature he told her of. She answered,
No." He said, "You saw it, but you would not touch
it with your hands." She still denied it, and he explained,
telling her
[1. Johanssen, Ruanda, p. 124.]
that she was not fit to be a mother and should
have no children.
Another story, in which Imana appears in a
very human aspect, will be given in the next chapter.
It has been suggested that Imana may be the
same as Kihanga, supposing this last name to be derived from
kuhanga (in some languages kupanga), 'to form,
construct, create.' But Kihanga is a different person, an ancient
king of Ruanda, who, legend says, was the first to introduce
cattle to that country. (Or, rather, it was his injured daughter
Nyiraruchaba who was responsible, but "that's another story.")
Imana must also be distinguished from Ryang'ombe,
who is supposed to be the chief of the imandwa (ghosts).
His roper lace is among the heroes, and we shall come to his
legend later on, in Chapter VIII.
CHAPTER IV: THE HEAVEN COUNTRY AND THE HEAVEN PEOPLE
THE Zulus appear to have recognized a sky-god
distinct from Unkulunkulu. This seems to strengthen the probability
that the name Unkulunkulu is not, as Bleek thought, identical
with Mulungu, since the latter name for the High God in some
languages actually means 'sky.' "The king which is above,"
Umpengula Mbanda informed Dr Callaway, " we did not hear
of him first from white men. In summer-time, when it thunders,
we say, 'The king is playing.' And if there is one who is afraid
the elder people say to him, 'It is nothing but fear. What thing
belonging to the king have you eaten?'[1] This is why I say that
the Lord of whom we hear through you we had already heard of
before you came. But he is not like the Unkulunkulu, who, we
say, made all things. But the former we call a king, for, we
say, he is above; Unkulunkulu is beneath."[2]
They seem, however, to have been somewhat
hazy on the subject, for another informant said that they were
the same, Unkulunkulu being "the creator of all things,"
who is in heaven, though at first he was on earth; but "
he went up to heaven afterwards." This would connect with
the Yao legend, alluded to in our introductory chapter, that
Mulungu used to live on the earth, but afterwards ascended to
the sky by means of the spider's thread. The idea appears to
be tolerably widespread, and is found outside the Bantu area.
The Nandi myth of the Thunder leaving the earth and taking up
his abode in the sky (impelled by the misconduct of the ancestral
Dorobo) is perhaps an echo of it.
'Leza,' the name used for the High God by
the Baila, Batonga, and several other tribes of Northern Rhodesia
and the adjoining territories,[3] also, in one language at least,
means
1. I.e. you must have committed some
sin against him or you would not be afraid.
2. Callaway, Amazulu, p. 19.
3. Also, along with Mulungu, by the Anyanja.]
'rain.' "But," says E. W. Smith,
"it is not plain that they regard rain and God as one and
the same"; rather they speak of Leza as "the rain-giver,"
"the giver of thunder and much rain," "the one
who does what no other can do." So, too, the Wachaga, who
call their God 'Iruwa,' use the same word for the sun, but insist
that the sun is not the same thing as God. Yet it is possible
that in the beginning it really was the material sun that was
worshipped. A story, recorded by Bruno Gutmann,[1] seems to point
this way.
The Man who would shoot Iruwa
A poor man, living somewhere in the Chaga
country, on Kilimanjaro mountain, had a number of sons born to
him, but lost them all, one after another. He sat down in his
desolate house, brooding over his troubles, and at last burst
out in wild wrath: " Who has been putting it into Iruwa's
head to kill all my boys? "-a fairly literal rendering,
which suggests that he thought an enemy had done this. (Iruwa
would never have thought of it on his own account.) But if this
is correct his conclusion is scarcely logical; yet how many,
in the bitterness of their hearts, would have felt much the same,
even if they had expressed it differently! "I will go and
shoot an arrow at Iruwa." So he rose up and went to the
smith's forge, and got him to make some iron arrow-heads. When
they were ready he put them into his quiver, took up his bow,
and said, " Now I am going to the farthest edge of the world,
to the place where the sun comes up. The very moment I see it
I will loose this arrow against it-tichi!" imitating
the sound of the arrow. So he set out and walked, on and on,
till he came to a wide meadow, where he saw a gateway and many
paths, some leading up towards the sky, some downward to the
earth. And he stood still, waiting till the sun should rise,
and keeping very quiet. After a while he heard a great noise,
and the earth seemed to shake with the trampling of many feet,
as if a great procession were approaching. And he heard people
shouting one to another: "Quick! Quick! Open the gate
[1. Volksbuch, p. 144.]
for the King to pass through!" Presently
he saw many men coming towards him, all goodly to look on and
shining like fire. Then he was afraid, and hid himself in the
bushes. Again he heard these men crying: "Clear the way
where the King is going to pass!" They came on, a mighty
host, and all at once, in the midst of them, he was aware of
the Shining One, bright as flaming fire, and after him followed
another long procession. But suddenly those in front stopped
and began asking each other, "What is this horrible smell
here, as if an earth-man had passed?" They hunted all about
till they found the man, and seized him and brought him before
the King, who asked, Where do you come from, and what brings
you to us? And the man answered, "Nay, my lord, it was nothing-only
sorrow which drove me from home, so that I said to myself, let
me go and die in the bush." Then said the King, "But
how about your saying you wanted to shoot me? Go on! Shoot away!"
The man said, "O my lord, I dare not-not now!" "What
do you want of me? You know that without my telling you, O chief!"
"So you want me to give you your children back?" The
King pointed behind him, saying, "There they are. Take them
home with you!" The man looked up and saw all his sons gathered
in front of him; but they were so beautiful and radiant that
he scarcely knew them, and he said, "No, O chief, I cannot
take them now. They are yours, and you must keep them."
So Iruwa told him to go home and look out carefully on the way,
for he should find something that would greatly please him. And
he should have other sons in place of those he had lost.
And so it came to pass, for in due time other
sons were born to him, who all lived to grow up. And what he
found on the road was a great store of elephants' tusks, so that
when his neighbours had helped him to carry them home he was
made rich for life.
One must not too hastily conclude that the
man's desire for sons was only selfish, and that, so long as
he had enough to work for him and keep up his position in the
tribe, he did not care whether they were the same ones he had
lost or not. But it is easy to understand that he did not feel
comfortable with these strange, bright beings, who, one must
remember, had died as small children, perhaps as babies. It is
a remarkable point that they should have been found in the company
of the sun-god; for as a rule the Bantu think. of their dead
as living underground. These same Chaga people point out their
mountain tarns as entrances to the ghost world, and have many
legends which assume it to be below rather than above. As they
have been a good deal in touch with the Masai, and, indeed, to
some extent mixed with them, this idea may perhaps be derived
from an outside, probably a Hamitic, source. Though the Masai,
apparently, concern themselves very little with the spirit world.
Another Bantu-speaking tribe subjected to
strong Hamitic influence is -that of the Banyaruanda, by Lake
Kivu, on the confines of British and Belgian territory. Their
royal family and the clans composing the aristocracy are taller
and lighter-complexioned than the cultivators who form the bulk
of the population, and also markedly different in feature, though
they have adopted the speech of the Bahutu, as they call the
indigenous peasants. The name of their High God, Imana, is one
I have been unable to trace beyond Ruanda. As we saw in the last
chapter, he certainly seems to be regarded definitely as a person,
and a beneficent as well as a just one, if we are to allow any
weight to the legends.
Here is one recorded by Père Hurel.[1]
The Girls who wanted New Teeth
A number of young girls agreed together to
"go and get teeth created for them."[2] But one of
their companions was unable to join the party. This girl's mother
was dead, and
[1. La Poésie chez les primitifs,
p. z7.
2. This, as it sounds, is obscure, and no
explanation is given. It may mean that, having lost their first
teeth, they thought a special act of creation was needed to procure
the second set; but they would seem to have been beyond the usual
age for that process. Or they may only have wanted their teeth
to be made white and even.]
she had a stepmother who kept her hard at
work and otherwise made her life a burden, so that she had become
a poor, stunted drudge, ill-clothed and usually dirty. As for
going to ask for new teeth, this was quite out of the question.
So when her friends came back and showed her their beautiful
teeth she said nothing, but felt the more, and went on with her
work. When the cows came home in the evening she lit the fire
in the kraal, so that the smoke might drive away the mosquitoes,
and then helped with the milking,[1] and when that was done served
the evening meal. After supper she slipped away, took a bath,
oiled herself, and started out without anyone seeing her. Before
she had gone very far in the dark she met a hyena, who said to
her, "You, maiden, where are you going?" She answered,
"I'm going where all the other girls went. Father's wife
would not let me go with them, so I'm going by myself."
The hyena said, "Go on, then, child of Imana!" and
let her go in peace. She walked on, and after a while met a lion,
who asked her the same question. She answered him as she had
done the hyena, and he too said, "Go on, child of Imana!"
She walked on through the night, and just as dawn was breaking
she met Imana himself, looking like a great, old chief with a
kind face. He said to her, "Little maid, where are you going?
" She answered, "I have been living with my stepmother,
and she always gives me so much to do that I could not get away
when the other girls came to ask you for new teeth, and so I
came by myself." And Imana said, "You shall have them,"
and gave her not only new teeth, but a new skin, and made her
beautiful all over. And he gave her new clothes and brass armlets
and anklets and bead ornaments, so that she looked quite a different
girl, and then, like a careful father, he saw her on her way
home, till they had come so near that she could point out her
village. Then he said, "When you get home whatever you do
you must not laugh or smile at anyone, your father or your stepmother
or anyone else." And so he left her.
[1. This is exceptional, as in most cattle-keeping
Bantu tribes the girls are strictly forbidden to go near the
cattle. The Hereros are another exception.]
When her stepmother saw her coming she did
not at first recognize her, but as soon as she realized who the
girl was she cried out, "She's been stealing things at the
chief's place! Where did she get those beads and those bangles?
She must have been driving off her father's cows to sell them.
Look at that cloth! Where did you get it?" The girl did
not answer. Her father asked her, "Where did you pick up
these things?"-and still she did not answer. After a while
they let her alone. The stepmother's spiteful speeches did not
impress the neighbours, who soon got to know of the girl's good
fortune, and before three days had passed a respectable man called
on her father to ask her in marriage for his son. The wedding
took place in the usual way, and she followed her young husband
to his home. There everything went well, but they all-his mother
and sisters and he himself-thought it strange that they never
saw her laugh.
After the usual time a little boy was born,
to the great joy of his parents and grandparents. Again all went
well, till the child was four or five years old, when, according
to custom, he began to go out and herd the calves near the hut.
One day his grandmother, who had never been able to satisfy her
curiosity, said to him, "Next time your mother gives you
milk say you will not take it unless she smiles at you. Tell
her, if she does not smile you will cry, and if she does not
do so then you will die!" He did as she told him, but his
mother would not smile; he began to cry, and she paid no attention;
he went on screaming, and presently died. They came and wrapped
his body in a mat, and carried it out into the bush-for the Banyaruanda
do not bury their dead-and left it there. The poor mother mourned,
but felt she could not help herself. She must not disobey Imana's
commandment. After a time another boy was born. When he was old
enough to talk and run about his grandmother made the same suggestion
to him as she had done to his brother, and with the same result.
The boy died, and was carried out to the bush. Again a baby was
born-this time a bonny little girl.
When she was about three years old her mother
one evening took her on her back and went out to the bush where
the two little bodies had been laid long ago. There, in her great
trouble, she cried to Imana, "Yee, baba wee! O my
father! O Imana, lord of Ruanda, I have never once disobeyed
you; will you not save this little one?" She looked up,
and, behold! there was Imana standing before her, looking as
kind as when she had first seen him, and he said, "Come
here and see your children. I have brought them back to life.
You may smile at them now." And so she did, and they ran
to her, crying, "Mother! Mother!" Then Imana touched
her poor, worn face and eyes dimmed with crying and her bowed
shoulders, and she was young again, tall and straight and more
beautiful than ever; the story says: "He gave her a new
body and new teeth." He gave her a beautiful cloth and beads
to wear, and he sent his servants to fetch some cows, so many
for each of the boys. Then he went with them to their home. The
husband saw them coming, and could not believe his eyes-he was
too much astonished to speak. He brought out the one stool which
every hut contains, and offered it to the guest, but Imana would
not sit down yet. He said, "Send out for four more stools."
So the man sent and borrowed them from the neighbours, and they
all sat down, he and his wife and the two boys, and Imana in
the place of honour. Then Imana said, "Now look at your
wife and your children. You have got to make them happy and live
comfortably with them. You will soon enough see her smiling at
you and at them. It was I who forbade her to laugh, and then
some wicked people went and set the children on to try to make
her o so, and they died. Now I have brought them back to life.
Here they are with their mother. Now see that you live happily
together. And as for your mother, I am going to burn her in her
house, because she did a wicked thing. I leave you to enjoy all
her belongings, because you have done no wrong." Then he
vanished from their sight, and while they were still gazing in
astonishment a great black cloud gathered over the grandmother's
hut; there was a dazzling flash, followed by a terrible clap
of thunder, and the hut, with every one and everything in it,
was burned to ashes. Before they had quite recovered from the
shock Imana once more appeared to them, in blinding light, and
said to the husband, "Remember my words, and all shall be
well with you!" A moment later he was gone.
The Thunder's Bride
In this story we find Imana associated with
thunder and lightning, as the Zulu lord of Heaven and the Thonga
Tilo are, so that we may suppose him to be a sky-god, or, at
any rate, to have been such in the beginning. In the Ruanda story
which follows,[1] the Thunder is treated as a distinct personage
(as he is by the Nandi), but he is nowhere said to be identical
with Imana.
There was a certain woman of Ruanda, the wife
of Kwisaba. Her husband went away to the wars, and was absent
for many months. One day while she was all alone in the hut she
was taken ill, and found herself too weak and wretched to get
up and make a fire, which would have been done for her at once
had anyone been present. She cried out, talking wildly in her
despair: "Oh, what shall I do? If only I had some one to
split the kindling wood and build the fire! I shall die of cold
if no one comes! Oh. if some one would but come-if it were the
very Thunder of heaven himself!"
So the woman spoke, scarcely knowing what
she said, and presently a little cloud appeared in the sky. She
could not see it, but very soon it spread, other clouds collected,
till the sky was quite overcast; it grew dark, as night inside
the hut, and she heard thunder rumbling in the distance. Then
there came a flash of lightning close by, and she saw the Thunder
standing before her, in the likeness of a man, with a little
bright axe in his hand. He fell to, and had split all the wood
in a twinkling; then he built it up and lit
[1. Père Hurel, La Poésie
chez les primitifs, p. 21.]
it, just with a touch of his hand, as if his
fingers had been torches. When the blaze leapt up he turned to
the woman and said, "Now, O wife of Kwisaba, what will you
give me?" She was quite paralysed with fright, and could
not utter a word. He gave her a little time to recover, and then
went on: "When your baby is born, if it is a girl, will
you give her to me for a wife?" Trembling all over, the
poor woman could only stammer out, "Yes!" and the Thunder
vanished.
Not long after this a baby girl was born,
who grew into a fine, healthy child, and was given the name of
Miseke. When Kwisaba came home from the wars the women met him
with the news that he had a little daughter, and he was delighted,
partly, perhaps, with the thought of the cattle he would get
as her bride-price when she was old enough to be married. But
when his wife told him about the Thunder he looked very serious,
and said, "When she grows older you must never on any account
let her go outside the house, or we shall have the Thunder carrying
her off."
So as long as Miseke was quite little she
was allowed to play out of doors with the other children, but
the time came all too soon when she had to be shut up inside
the hut. One day some of the other girls came running to Miseke's
mother in great excitement. "Miseke is dropping beads out
of her mouth! We thought she had put them in on purpose, but
they come dropping out every time she laughs." Sure enough
the mother found that it was so, and not only did Miseke produce
beads of the kinds most valued, but beautiful brass and copper
bangles. Miseke's father was greatly troubled when they told
him of this. He said it must be the Thunder, who sent the beads
in this extraordinary way as the presents which a man always
has to send to his betrothed while she is growing up.' So Miseke
had always to stay indoors and amuse herself as best she could-when
she was not helping in the house-
[1. It is not uncommon in some African tribes
for a grown man to bespeak a girl, for himself or for his son,
while she is still a baby.]
work-by plaiting mats and making baskets.
Sometimes her old playfellows came to see her, but they too did
not care to be shut up for long in a dark, stuffy hut.
One day, when Miseke was about fifteen, a
number of the girls made up a party to go and dig inkwa[1]
and they thought it would be good fun to take Miseke along with
them. They went to her mother's hut and called her, but of course
her parents would not hear of her going, and she had to stay
at home. They tried again another day, but with no better success.
Some time after this, however, Kwisaba and his wife both went
to see to their garden, which was situated a long way off, so
that they had to start at daybreak, leaving Miseke alone in the
hut. Somehow the girls got to hear of this, and as they had already
planned to go for inkwa that day they went to fetch her.
The temptation was too great, and she slipped out very quietly,
and went with them to the watercourse where the white clay was
to be found. So many people had gone there at different times
for the same purpose that quite a large pit had been dug out.
The girls got into it and fell to work, laughing and chattering,
when, suddenly, they became aware that it was growing dark, and,
looking up, saw a great black cloud gathering overhead. And then,
suddenly, they saw the figure of a man standing before them,
and he called out in a great voice, "Where is Miseke, daughter
of Kwisaba?" One girl came out of the hole, and said, "I
am not Miseke, daughter of Kwisaba. When Miseke laughs beads
and bangles drop from her lips." The Thunder said, "Well,
then, laugh, and let me see." She laughed, and nothing happened.
"No, I see you are not she." So one after another was
questioned and sent on her way. Miseke herself came last, and
tried to pass, repeating the same words that the others had said;
but the Thunder insisted on her laughing, and a shower of beads
fell on the ground. The Thunder caught her up and carried her
off to the sky and married her.
Of course she was terribly frightened, but
the Thunder
[1. White clay, used for painting pots, which
is found in dry stream-beds.]
proved a kind husband, and she settled down
quite happily and, in due time, had three children, two boys
and a girl. When the baby girl was a few weeks old Miseke told
her husband that she would like to go home and see her parents.
He not only consented, but provided her with cattle and beer
(as provision for the journey and presents on arrival) and carriers
for her hammock, and sent her down to earth with this parting
advice: "Keep to the high road; do not turn aside into any
unfrequented bypath." But, being unacquainted with the country,
her carriers soon strayed from the main track. After they had
gone for some distance along the wrong road they found the path
barred by a strange monster called an igikoko, a sort
of ogre, who demanded something to eat. Miseke told the servants
to give him the beer they were carrying: he drank all the pots
dry in no time. Then he seized one of the carriers and ate him,
then a second-in short, he devoured them all, as well as the
cattle, till no one was left but Miseke and her children. The
ogre then demanded a child. Seeing no help for it, Miseke gave
him the younger boy, and then, driven to extremity, the baby
she was nursing, but while he was thus engaged she contrived
to send off the elder boy, whispering to him to run till he came
to a house." "If you see an old man sitting on the
ash-heap in the front yard that will be your grandfather; if
you see some young men shooting arrows at a mark they will be
your uncles; the boys herding the cows are your cousins; and
you will find your grandmother inside the hut. Tell them to come
and help us." The boy set off, while his mother kept off
the ogre as best she could. He arrived at his grandfather's homestead,
and told them what had happened, and they started at once, having
first tied the bells on their hunting-dogs. The boy showed them
the way as well as he could,
[1. This might seem like a contradiction if
the turning aside had really meant going far astray. But Miseke
was in familiar country; the bypath into which her men had turned
was not so very far from the right road, though shunned on account
of the monster which haunted it. Being screened from the sun
in her hammock, or, rather, carrying-basket, she would not have
seen them take the wrong turning in time to direct them.]
but they nearly missed Miseke just at last;
only she heard the dogs' bells and called out. Then the young
men rushed in and killed the ogre with their spears. Before he
died he said, "If you cut off my big toe you will get back
everything belonging to you." They did so, and, behold!
out came the carriers and the cattle, the servants and the children,
none of them any the worse. Then, first making sure that the
ogre was really dead, they set off for Miseke's old home. Her
parents were overjoyed to see her and the children, and the time
passed all too quickly. At the end of a month she began to think
she ought to return, and the old people sent out for cattle and
all sorts of presents, as is the custom when a guest is going
to leave. Everything was got together outside the village, and
her brothers were ready to escort her, when they saw the clouds
gathering, and, behold! all of a sudden Miseke, her children,
her servants, her cattle, and her porters, with their loads,
were all caught up into the air and disappeared. The family were
struck dumb with amazement, and they never saw Miseke on earth
again. It is to be presumed that she lived happily ever after.
Climbing into Heaven
All primitive peoples, quite naturally, think
of the sky as a solid vault, which joins the earth at the horizon-the
place where, as the Thonga people say, the women can hit it with
their pestles. Only no one now living has ever been able to reach
that place. And even the tales about people who have got into
the Heaven country do not represent them as having reached it
in that way. Either they climb a tree, or they ascend by means
of a rope,[1] or the spider obligingly spins a thread for them.
The Zulus had an old saying: " Who can, plait a rope for
ascending, that he may go to heaven?" [2] implying that
such a thing is utterly impossible. Yet in the "Praises"
[1. I have never seen it explained bow the
rope gets into position.
2. Ubani ongapot' igoda lokukupuka aye ezulwini?]
(Izibongo) of King Senzangakona, the
father of Tshaka, he is said to have accomplished this feat.
The son of Jama the king, he twisted a cord;
Fearless he scaled the mansion of Heaven's lord,
Who over this earth of ours the blue vault hollowed.
And the ghosts of the house of Mageba fain would have followed,
But never will they attain,
Though they strive again and again
For the pass that cannot be won by spear or by sword-
No hold for the wounded feet that bleed in vain.[1]
No one appears to know anything more about
this adventure of Senzangakona's. It is not said that he returned
from his expedition, and, as tradition states that he died a
natural death, it would not seem to refer to his departure from
this world.
The Road to Heaven
The Baronga (in the neighborhood of Delagoa
Bay) have a very old song, which runs something like this:
The Ronga story of a mortal who found the
way there is as follows. There was once a girl who was sent by
her mother to fetch water from the river. On the way, talking
and laughing with her companions, she dropped her earthen jar
and broke it. "Oh, what shall I do now?" she cried,
in great distress, for these large jars are not so easily replaced,
and she knew there would be trouble awaiting her on her return.
She exclaimed, "Bukali bwa ngoti! Oh, that I had
a rope!" and looking up, sure enough she saw a rope uncoiling
itself from a cloud. She seized it and climbed, and
[1. A very free paraphrase of
The literal rendering of the last two words
is "that they may break their little toes."]
soon found herself in the country above the
sky, which appeared to be not unlike the one she had left. There
was what looked like a ruined village not far off, and an old
woman sitting among the ruins called to her, "Come here,
child! Where are you going?" Being well brought up and accustomed
to treat her elders with politeness, she answered at once, and
told her story. The old woman told her to go on, and if she found
an ant creeping into her ear to let it alone. "It will not
hurt you, and will tell you what you have to do in this strange
country, and how to answer the chiefs when they question you."
The girl walked on, and in a little while
found a black ant crawling up her leg, which went on till it
reached her ear. She checked the instinctive impulse to take
it out, and went on till she saw the pointed roofs of a village,
surrounded by the usual thorn hedge. As she drew near she heard
a tiny whisper: "Do not go in; sit down here." She
sat down near the gateway. Presently some grave old men, dressed
in white, shining bark-cloth, came out and asked her where she
had come from and what she wanted. She answered modestly and
respectfully, and told them she had come to look for a baby.[1]
The elders said, "Very good; come this way." They took
her to a hut where some women were at work. One of them gave
her a shirondo [2] basket, and told her to go to the garden
and get some of the new season's mealies. She showed no surprise
at this unexpected request, but obeyed at once, and (following
the directions of the ant
[1. This seems to need explanation. Nothing,
so far, has been said about a baby. I was tempted to think that
the narrator might have forgotten the real beginning of the story,
which was that the girl had been carrying her baby brother on
her back and dropped him into the water when stooping to fill
her jar., But M. Junod (from whose book Chants et contes des
Baronga, p. 237, this story is taken) would not hear of this
suggestion when I asked him. I cannot help thinking that this
version is a confusion of two different stories, one of a girl
breaking a jar (or, as in a Chaga tale, letting the monkeys get
into the bean-patch), and another of a married woman who was
tricked into drowning her baby and, in the end, got it back from
the lord of Heaven. This is given in Duff Macdonald's Africana,
vol i, P. 298.
2 A round basket with sloping sides, used
chiefly for carrying mealies. There is quite an art in filling
these baskets so as to make them hold the largest possible quantity;
great nicety of arrangement is required.]
in her ear) pulled up only one stalk at a
time, and arranged the cobs carefully in the basket, so as not
to waste any space. When she returned the women praised her for
performing her task so quickly and well, and then told her first
to grind the corn and then to make porridge. Again instructed
by the ant, she put aside a few grains before grinding, and,
when she was stirring the porridge, threw these grains in whole,
which, it seems, is a peculiar fashion in the cooking of the
Heaven-dwellers. They were quite satisfied with the way in which
the girl had done her work, and gave her a place to sleep in.
Next morning the elders came to fetch her, and conducted her
to a handsome house, within which a number of infants were laid
out on the ground, those on one side wrapped in red cloth, on
the other in white. Being told to choose, she was about to pick
up one of the red bundles, when the ant whispered, "Take
a white one," and she did so. The old men gave her a quantity
of fine cloth and beads, as much as she could carry in addition
to the baby, and sent heron her way home. She reached her village
without difficulty, and found that every one was out, as her
mother and the other women were at work in the gardens. She went
into the hut, and hid herself and the baby in the inner enclosure.
When the others returned from the fields, towards evening, the
mother sent her younger daughter on ahead to put on the cooking-pots.
The girl went in and stirred the fire; as the flames leapt up
she saw the treasures her sister had brought home, and, not knowing
how they had come there, she was frightened, and ran back to
tell her mother and aunts. They all hurried in, and found the
girl they had thought lost, with a beautiful baby and a stock
of cloth to last a lifetime. They listened to her story in great
astonishment; but the younger sister was seized with envy, and
wanted to set off at once for that fortunate spot. She was a
rude, wilful creature, and her -sister, knowing her character,
tried to dissuade her, or, at any rate, to give her some guidance
for the road. But she refused to listen. "You went off without
being told anything by anybody, and I shall go without listening
to anyone's advice."
Accordingly when called by the old woman she
refused to stop, and even spoke insultingly; whereupon the crone
said, Go on, then! When you return this way you will be dead!"
"Who will kill me, then?" retorted the girl, and went
on her way. When the ant tried to get into her ear she shook
her head and screamed with impatience, refusing to listen when
it tried to persuade her. So the ant took itself off in dudgeon.
In the same way she gave a rude answer to
the village elders when they asked her why she had come, and
when requested to gather mealies she pulled up the stalks right
and left, and simply ravaged the garden. Having refused to profit
by the ant's warnings, she did not know the right way to prepare
the meal or make the porridge, and, in any case, did the work
carelessly. When taken to the house where the babies were stored
she at once stretched out her hand to seize a red-wrapped one;
but immediately there was a tremendous explosion, and she was
struck dead. "Heaven," we are told, gathered up her
bones, made them into a bundle, and sent a man with them to her
home. As he passed the place where she had met with the ant that
insect called out, " Are you not coming back dead? You would
be alive now if you had listened to advice!" Coming to the
old woman's place among the ruins, the carrier heard her cry,
"My daughter, haven't you died on account of your wicked
heart?" So the man went on, and at last he dropped the bones
just above her mother's hut. And her sister said, "She had
a wicked heart, and that is why Heaven was angry with her."
There are points here which remind us of a
familiar story in Grimm's fairy-tales, and we shall meet with
others still more like it later on. There are other stories of
people who ascended to the Heaven country, some of which will
be given in the next chapter.
CHAPTER V: MORTALS WHO HAVE ASCENDED TO HEAVEN
IN the instances hitherto
mentioned, where a rope has been spoken of as the means of reaching
the Heaven country, no explanation is offered as to the origin
of the rope, or the means by which it became available. There
are some stories and legends, possibly older, where the communication
is said to be established through the spider's web. When Mulungu
was compelled to leave the earth, say the Yaos, he said, I cannot
climb a tree (as though that were the obvious way of reaching
the sky), and went to call the spider, who " went on high,
and returned again and said, 'I have gone on high nicely. . .
. You now, Mulungu, go on high.'" That is, we may suppose,
he spun his web (the narrator probably did not see why the spider
should not be able to do this upward as well as downward) till
it reached the sky, and spun another thread coming down. The
Subiya also say that Leza ascended to heaven by a spider's thread.
This notion occurs in a tale[1] of, in some
respects, much later development. It comes, like those about
Kalunga already given, from Angola, and relates to "the
son of Kimanaweze." Kimanaweze seems to be a mythical personage,
perhaps originally identical with the first man, as, according
to Héli Chatelain, " much of what the natives say
of him corresponds with what the Amazulu tell of their Unkulunkulu."
He figures in more than one folk-tale. The one I am about to
give is further remarkable, not merely for personifying the Sun
(which, to a certain extent, is done by the Wachaga), but for
giving him the Moon as a wife. The Bantu in general speak of
the Moon as a man, and say that he has two wives, the Evening
Star and the Morning Star, which they do not realize to be one
and the same.
The Daughter of the Sun and Moon
Kimanaweze's son, when the time came for him
to choose a wife, declared that he would not "marry a woman
of the
[1. Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola,
p. 31.]
earth, but must have the daughter of the Sun
and Moon. He wrote "a letter of marriage"-a modern
touch, no doubt added by the narrator[1]-and cast about for a
messenger to take it up to the sky. The little duiker (mbambi)
refused, so did the larger antelope, known as soko, the
hawk, and the vulture. At last a frog came and offered to carry
the letter. The son of Kimanaweze, doubtful of his ability to
do this, said, "Begone! Where people of life, who have wings,
gave it up dost thou say, 'I will go there But the frog persisted,
and was at last sent off, with the threat of a thrashing if he
should be unsuccessful. It appears that the Sun and Moon were
in the habit of sending their handmaidens down to the earth to
draw water, descending and ascending by means of a spider's web.
The frog went and hid himself in the well to which they came,
and when the first one filled her jar he got into it without
being seen, having first placed the letter in. his mouth. The
girls went up to heaven, carried their water-jars into the room,
and set them down. When they had gone away he came out, produced
the letter, laid it on a table, and hid.
After a while "Lord Sun" (Kumbi
Mwene) came in, found the letter, and read it. Not knowing what
to make of it, he put it away, and said nothing about it. The
frog got into an empty water-jar, and was carried down again
when the girls went for a fresh supply. The son of Kimanaweze,
getting no answer, refused at first to believe that the frog
had executed his commission; but, after waiting for some days,
he wrote another letter and sent him again. The frog carried
it in the same way as before, and the Sun, after reading it,
wrote that he would consent, if the suitor came himself, bringing
his 'first-present'-the usual gift for opening marriage negotiations.
On receiving this the young man wrote another letter, saying
that he must wait till told the amount of the 'wooing-present,'
or bride-price (kilembu).
He gave this to the frog, along with a sum
of money, and it was conveyed as before. This time the Sun consulted
his wife, who was quite ready to welcome the mysterious son-in-law.
[1. We often find stories brought up to date
in this way.]
She solved the question of providing refreshments
for the invisible messenger by saying, "We will cook a meal
anyhow, and put it on the table where he leaves the letters."
This was done, and the frog, when left alone, came out and ate.
The letter, which was left along with the food, stated the amount
of the bride-price to be "a sack of money." He carried
the letter back to the son of Kimanaweze, who spent six days
in collecting the necessary amount, and then sent it by the frog
with this message: "Soon I shall find a day to bring home
my wife." This, however, was more easily said than done,
for when his messenger had once more returned he waited twelve
days, and then told the frog that he could not find people to
fetch the bride. But the frog was equal to the occasion. Again
he had himself carried up to the Sun's palace, and, getting out
of the water-jar, hid in a corner of the room till after dark,
when he came out and went through the house till he found the
princess's bed chamber. Seeing that she was fast asleep, he took
out one of her eyes without waking her, and then the other.[1]
He tied up the eyes in a handkerchief, and went back to his corner
in the room where the water-jars were kept. In the morning, when
the girl did not appear, her parents came to inquire the reason,
and found that she was blind. In their distress they sent two
men to consult the diviner, who, after casting lots, said (not
having heard from them the reason of their coming), "Disease
has brought you; the one who is sick is a woman; the sickness
that ails her the eyes. You have come, being sent; you have not
come of your own will. I have spoken." The Sun's messengers
replied, "Truth. Look now what caused the ailment."
He told them that a certain suitor had cast a spell over her,
and she would die unless she were sent to him. Therefore they
had best hasten on the marriage. The men brought back word to
the Sun, who said, "All right. Let us sleep. To-morrow they
shall take her down to the earth." Next day, accordingly,
he gave orders for the spider to "weave a large cobweb"
for sending his daughter down. Meanwhile the frog had gone
[1. The frog's magic powers are implied, if
not explicitly stated.]
down as usual in the water-jar and hidden
himself in the bottom of the well. When the water-carriers had
gone up again he came out and went to the village of the bridegroom
and told him that his bride would arrive that day. The young
man would not believe him, but he solemnly promised to bring
her in the evening, and returned to the well.
After sunset the attendants brought the princess
down by way of the stronger cobweb and left her by the well.
The frog came out, and told her that he would take her to her
husband's house; at the same time he handed back her eyes. They
started, and came to the son of Kimanaweze, and the marriage
took place. And they lived happy ever after-on earth, for, as
the narrator said, "They had all given up going to heaven;
who could do it was Mainu the frog."
In its present form, as will have been noticed,
this story is strongly coloured by Portuguese influence. The
water-carriers, the Sun's house, with its rooms and furniture,
the bag of money, all belong to present-day Loanda. But, for
all that, the groundwork is essentially African. The frog and
the diviner would, by themselves, be sufficient to prove this.
(The frog, by the way, is usually a helpful creature in African
folklore.) The glaring improbabilities in the story must not
be regarded too critically; it is constantly taken for granted,
as we shall find when considering the animal stories proper,
that any animal may speak and act like a human being-though the
frog, in this instance, seems to possess more than ordinary human
powers. The specially strong cobweb prepared for the daughter's
descent, while the water-carriers had been going up and down
every day without difficulty, may have been necessitated by the
number of the bride's attendants; but we are not told why they
should have returned and left her alone at the foot of the heavenly
ladder.'
[1. The people of the Lower Congo have a story
about the spider fetching fire from heaven at the request of
Nzambi, who is here regarded as the Earth-mother and the daughter
(according to R.E. Dennett) of Nzambi Mpungu, the "first
father," or the personified sky. (Other authorities insist
that everywhere in Africa the relation of sky and earth is that
of husband and wife.) He was helped by the tortoise, the woodpecker,
the rat, and the sandfly, whom he conveyed up by means of his
thread. The story maybe found in Dennett, Folk-lore of the
Fjort [Fiote], p.74]
In other cases we find people reaching the
Heaven country by climbing a tree, as is done by the mother in
the Yao tale of "The Three Women." In the Zulu story[1]
of "The Girl and the Cannibals" a brother and sister,
escaping from these ogres, climb a tree and reach the Heaven
country.
The Heaven-tree
And there is a curious tradition among the
Wachaga [2] about a mysterious tree. A girl named Kichalundu
went out one day to cut grass. Finding it growing very luxuriantly
in a certain place, she stepped on the spot and sank into a quagmire.
Her companions took hold of her hands and tried to pull her out,
but in vain; she vanished from their sight. They heard her singing,
"The ghosts have taken me. Go and tell my father and mother,"
and they ran to call the parents. The whole countryside gathered
about the place, and a diviner advised the father to sacrifice
a cow and a sheep. This was done, and they heard the girl's voice
again, but growing fainter and fainter, till at last it was silent,
and they gave her up for lost. But after a time a tree grew up
on the spot where she had disappeared. It went on growing, until
at last it reached the sky. The herd-boys, during, the heat of
the day, used to drive their cattle into its shade, and themselves
climbed up into the spreading branches. One day two of them ventured
higher than the rest, and called out, "Can you see us still?"
The others answered, "No! Do come down again!" but
the two daring fellows refused. "We are going on into the
sky to Wuhu, the World Above!" Those were their last
words, for they were never seen again. And the tree was called
Mdi Msumu," the Story-tree."
The Tale of Murile
From the same region of Kilimanjaro comes
the story of Murile, who also reached the Upper World, though
neither by a rope nor a tree, and also came back.[3]
[1. Callaway, Nursery Tales, pp. 145
and 147
2 Gutmann, Volksbuch, p. 152.
3 Raum, Versuch, p. 307.]
A man and his wife living in the Chaga country
had three sons, of whom Murile was the eldest. One day he went
out with his mother to dig up maduma,[l] and, noticing
a particularly fine tuber among those which were to be put by
for seed, he said, " Why, this one is as beautiful as my
little brother!" His mother laughed at the notion of comparing
a taro tuber with a baby; but he hid the root, and, later,
when no one was looking, put it away in a hollow tree and sang
a magic song over it. Next day he went to look, and found that
the root had turned into a child. After that at every meal he
secretly kept back some food, and, when he could do so without
being seen, carried it to the tree and fed the baby, which grew
and flourished from day to day. But Murile's mother became very
anxious when she saw how thin the boy was growing, and she questioned
him, but could get no satisfaction. Then one day his younger
brothers noticed that when his portion of food was handed to
him, instead of eating it at once, he put it aside. They told
their mother, and she bade them follow him when he went away
after dinner, and see what he did with it. They did so, and saw
him feeding the baby in the hollow tree, and came back and told
her. She went at once to the spot and strangled the child which
was "starving her son."
When Murile came back next day and found the
child dead he was overcome with grief. He went home and sat down
in the hut, crying bitterly. His mother asked him why he was
crying, and he said it was because the smoke hurt his eyes. So
she told him to go and sit on the other side of the fireplace.
But, as he still wept and complained of the smoke when questioned,
they said he had better take his father's stool and sit outside.
He picked up the stool, went out into the courtyard, and sat
down. Then he said, "Stool, go up on high, as my father's
rope does when he hangs up his beehive in the forest!" [2]
And the stool rose
[1. A kind of arum (Colocasia), the
roots of which are used as food by the Wachaga; the taro of
Polynesia.
2 He would throw one end of a rope up so as
to pass over a branch, and then fasten it to the beehive, which
would then be hauled up into place. These hives (made from the
hollowed section of a log) are placed in trees by many East African
tribes and left till full of honey, when the bees are smoked
out, escaping through a hole made for the purpose in the back
of the hive. The Zulus and other South African Bantu appear to
content themselves with taking the honey found in hollow trees
or holes in the rock, where the wild bees make their nests.]
up with him into the air and stuck fast in
the branches of a tree. He repeated the words a second time,
and again the stool moved upward. Just then his brothers happened
to come out of the hut, and when they saw him they ran back and
said to their mother, "Murile is going up into the sky!"
She would not believe them. "Why do you tell me your eldest
brother has gone up into the sky? Is there any road for him to
go up by?" They told her to come and look, and when she
saw him in the air she sang:
Mrile, wuya na kunu!
Wuya na kunu, mwanako!
Wuya xa kunu! "
[Murile, come back hither!
Come back hither, my child!
Come back hither!]
But Murile answered, "I shall never comeback,
Mother! I shall never come back!"
Then his brothers called him, and received
the same answer; his father called him-then his boy-friends,
and, last of all, his uncle (washidu, his mother's brother,
the nearest relation of all). They could just hear his answer,
"I am not coming back, Uncle! I am never coming back!"
Then he passed up out of sight.
The stool carried him up till he felt solid
ground beneath his feet, and then he looked round and found himself
in the Heaven country. He walked on till he came to some people
gathering wood. He asked them the way to the Moon-chief's kraal,.
and they said, "just pick up some sticks for us, and then
we will tell you." He collected a bundle of sticks, and
they directed him to go on till he should come to some people
cutting grass. He did so, and greeted the grass-cutters when
he came to them. They answered his greeting, and when he asked
them the way said they would show him if he would help them for
a while with their work. So he cut some grass, and they pointed
out the road, telling him to go on till he came to some women
hoeing. These, again, asked him to help them before they would
show him the way, and, in succession, he met with some herd-boys,
some women gathering beans, some people reaping millet, others
gathering banana-leaves, and girls fetching water-all of them
sending him forward with almost the same words. The water-carriers
said, "Just go on in this direction till you come to a house
where the people are eating." He found the house, and said,
"Greeting, house-owners! Please show me the way to the Moon's
kraal." They promised to do so if he would sit down and
eat with them, which he did. At last by following their instructions
he reached his destination, and found the people there eating
their food raw. He asked them why they did not use fire to cook
with, and found that they did not know what fire was. So he said,
"If I prepare nice food for you by means of fire what will
you give me?" The Moon-chief said, "We will give you
cattle and goats and sheep." Murile told them to bring plenty
of wood, and when they came with it he and the chief went behind
the house, where the other people could not see them. Murile
took his knife and cut two pieces of wood, one flat and the other
pointed, and twirled the pointed stick till he got some sparks,
with which he lit a bunch of dry grass and so kindled a fire.
When it burned up he got the chief to send for some green plantains,
which he roasted and offered to him. Then he cooked some meat
and various other foods. The Moon-chief was delighted when he
tasted them, and at once called all the people to ether, and
said to them, "Here is a wonderful doctor come from a far
country! We shall have to repay him for his fire." The people
asked, "What must be paid to him?" He answered, "Let
one man bring a cow, another a goat, another whatever he may
have in his storehouse." So they went to fetch all these
things. And Murile became a rich man. For he stayed some years
at the Moon's great kraal and married wives and had children
born to him, and his flocks and herds increased greatly. But
in the end a longing for his home came over him. And he thought
within himself: " How shall I go home again, unless I send
a messenger before me? For I told them I was never coming back,
and they must think that I am dead."
He called all the birds together and asked
them one by one, If I send you to my home what will you say?
" The raven answered, " I shall say, Kuruu! kuruu!"
and was rejected. So, in turn, were the hornbill, the hawk, the
buzzard, and all the rest, till he came to Njorovil, the mocking-bird,
who sang:
[Murile is coming the day after to-morrow,
Missing out to-morrow.
Murile is coming the day after to-morrow.
Keep some fat in the ladle for him! "]
Murile was pleased with this, and told her
to go. So she flew down to earth and perched on the gate-post
of his father's courtyard and sang her song. His father came
out and said, "What thing is crying out there, saying that
Murile is coming the day after to-morrow? Why, Murile was lost
long ago, and will never come back!" And he drove the bird
away. She flew back and told Murile where she had been. But he
would not believe her; he told her to go again and bring back
his father's stick as a token that she had really gone to his
home. So she flew down again, came to the house, and picked up
the stick, which was leaning in the doorway. The children in
the house saw her, and tried to snatch it from her, but she was
too quick for them, and took it back to Murile. Then he said,
"Now I will start for home." He took leave of his friends
and of his wives, who were to stay with their own people, but
his cattle and his boys came with him. It was a long march to
the place of descent,[1] and Murile began to grow very tired.
There
[1. We are not told how the cattle were to
be got down, but probably they had to go clown the slope where
the sky joins the earth at the horizon, which would account for
the journey being longer than Murile's when he came up by Means
of the magic stool!]
was a very fine bull in the herd, who walked
beside Murile all the way. Suddenly he spoke and said, "
As you are so weary, what will you do for me if I let you ride
me? If I take you on my back will you cat my flesh when they
kill me? " Murile answered, No! I will never eat you!"
So the bull let him get on his back and carried him home. And
Murile sang, as he rode along:
So he came home. And his father and mother
ran out to meet him and anointed him with mutton-fat, as is the
custom when a loved one comes home from distant parts. And his
brothers and every one rejoiced and wondered greatly when they
saw the cattle. But he showed his father the great bull that
had carried him, and said, "This bull must be fed and cared
for till he is old. And even if you kill him when he is old I
will never eat of his flesh." So they lived quite happily
for a time.
But when the bull had become very old Murile's
father slaughtered him. The mother foolishly thought it such
a pity that her son, who had always taken so much trouble over
the beast, should have none of the beef when every one else was
eating it. So she took a piece of fat and hid it in a pot. When
she knew that all the meat was finished she ground some grain
and cooked the fat with the meal and gave it to her son. As soon
as he had tasted it the fat spoke and said to him, "Do you
dare to eat me, who carried you on my back? You shall be eaten,
as you are eating me!"
Then Murile sang: "O my mother, I said
to you, 'Do not give me to eat of the bull's flesh!'" He
took a second taste, and his foot sank into the ground. He sang
the same words again, and then ate up the food his mother had
given him. As soon as he had swallowed it he sank down and disappeared.
Other people who tell the story simply say,
"He died." Be that as it may, that was the end of him.
The inhabitants of the Moon country, according
to this legend, were very much like the earth-dwellers, except
that they seem to have been less advanced in culture, having
no knowledge of cooking or of fire. I have not come across any
other reference to the Moon-chief, or his kraal, though, as already
stated, the Bantu in general, when they think about the matter
at all, describe the Moon as a man, like the Arabs and our Saxon
forefathers.[1] In Nyasaland they give names to the Moon's two
wives: the Evening Star is Chekechani, a poor housekeeper, who,
during the fortnight he spends with her, starves him till he
pines away to nothing. Puikani, the Morning Star, brings him
back to life,[2] and feeds him up till he becomes quite round
at the end of the month. The Giryama, in Kenya, call the planet
Venus "the Moon's wife," but no one seems to have recorded
any story connected with this expression.
Tailed Heaven-folk
The Ronga notion, too, as we have seen, appears
to be that the dwellers above the sky are not very different
from those beneath it. But we find here and there (so far only
in detached fragments) traces of belief in a race of Heaven dwellers
distinct from ordinary mortals. For instance, they are sometimes
said to have tails. One clan of the Wachaga claims that its ancestor
fell from the sky during a rainstorm. He belonged to a race called
the Wakyambi, living in the sky, "far above the sun,"
and having tails. This ancestor, finding himself among tailless
beings, and feeling ashamed of his peculiar appearance, secretly
cut off his tail; consequently his descendants have none. Another
legend says
[1. The Wasu, in Pare (south-east of Kilimanjaro),
are an exception: they say that the sun is the father and the
moon the mother of mankind.
2 At new moon they say, mwezi wafa,
" the moon is dead."]
that once upon a time a man and a woman came
down from the sky on a cloud and lighted on the hill Molama,
in Machame. In the morning the inhabitants of the place found
them standing there, and saw that they had tails like cows. When
asked where they came from they answered, "God has sent
us down on a cloud. We are looking for a place to live in."
The people replied, "If you want to live with us you must
have your tails cut off." They consented, and settled in
that place, whither their descendants still come to sacrifice.
It is said that cattle were sent down to them from the sky; they
found them standing in front of their hut on the second morning.
The Wasu, the neighbours of the Wachaga on
the southeast, speak of certain tailed beings inhabiting the
clouds. Their nature is not very clear, but they are said to
be always at war with the "good old people "-the ghosts
of the human dead. "Sometimes," says a missionary long
resident in Pare,[1] "they are held to be kind spirits who
give people cattle, sometimes evil beings who bring disaster."
It would probably be nearer the mark to say that, like ordinary
human ghosts, they are beneficent or the reverse, according to
their state of mind and the behaviour of the living.
Some of the Congo tribes, also, believe in
the existence of 'Cloud folk' having tails. It is probable that
if we could get at the folklore of all the tribes intervening
between these two widely separated localities we should find
the same notion everywhere. Outside the Bantu area the Lang'o,
in the region of the Upper Nile (who, like the Wachaga, say that
the first human pair had tails), and the Ewe, in West Africa,
have traditions to the same effect, and something not very different
comes out in the folk-tales of the Masai.
Whether, as one writer has suggested, these
myths imply some dim race-memory of an ape ancestry our knowledge
is not sufficient to decide; the general trend of Bantu thought
(as shown in stories about baboons, for instance) would seem
to negative such a conclusion. One might also ask whether the
custom among some primitive tribes of
[1. Dannholz, Im Banne des Geisterglaubens,
P. 24.]
wearing an artificial tail (as the principal,
if not the sole, article of dress) could be the origin or the
result of the tradition.
The Celestial Bellman
Murile-who reversed the action of Prometheus
in bringing fire to, not from, heaven-is a somewhat
mysterious figure, perhaps surviving from some forgotten mythology
which, if recovered, would bridge some gaps in his story. There
is a queer, fragmentary legend[1] about a person called Mrule,
"the stranger from the sky," who may or may not have
been originally the same as Murile. He had only one leg, and
of the rest of his body only half was like a man; the other side
was covered with grass.[2] He first alighted among the Masai
(probably in the steppe to the north-west of Kilimanjaro), and
went on thence to "our hill-country," ascending the
mountain at Shira, hopping on his one leg. He was unable to speak.
If he met anyone he only made a sound like mremrem. So
it is hardly surprising that the people fled before him and barricaded
themselves in their huts. He wandered on from place to place,
and could get food nowhere. When he came to a homestead the inmates
would call to him through their barred doors to go away. Naturally
displeased, he found his way to the chief's place, but was not
more kindly received there.[3] Then at last he spoke:
It was high noon, with the sun just overhead.
He sprang into the air, rose straight up towards the sun, and
was never seen on earth again.
[1. Gutmann, Volksbuch, p.150.
2 We shall meet with these half-men everywhere;
they will be fully discussed in Chapter XIII. The grass growing
out of one side is curious. I do not remember anything like it
elsewhere, except in Zulu accounts of the Inkosazana,
a strange being described as the Queen of Heaven, and in those
of certain mysterious monsters. The half-men usually have nothing
on their non-human side, or else it is made of wax.
3 One is reminded of a story by Mr H. W. Nevinson-one
hopes not true-of an unfortunate Negro sailor shipwrecked on
the Norfolk coast.]
But not long after this the chief fell into
the fire, burning himself badly. His people consulted the diviners,
who answered, You have sinned against Mrule. You all said, 'He
will bring ill-luck to the country if we take him in. Who ever
saw a being with one leg?' And the chief never asked him, What
brings you here?' Because no one asked him anything he went away.
But he is surely a great healer." Thus spoke the diviners.
But all this time tortoises had been collecting in the plain.
They gathered themselves into a long procession and came marching
up to the chief's homestead, where they arranged themselves in
a circle round the spot from which Mrule had ascended. And their
leader chanted:
"Propitiate, propitiate, and, when ye
have done so, asperse!"
The diviners interpreted this saying to the
chief, and he at once sent for a black cow which had lately calved,
a sheep, and the "water of expiation." They sacrificed
the cow and the sheep, made a cut in the neck of the tortoise-chief,
and took a drop of blood from him. Then they mixed this with
the blood of the sacrifices and the water, and sprinkled the
chief with it-also the whole of the ground within the circle
of tortoises. So the curse was lifted, the tortoises went their
way into the plain, and the chief recovered from his injuries.
In quite recent times a legend has grown up
out of one of those rumours which arise no one knows how. "It
was after the first white men had come into our country."[1]
One day at noon a man appeared, floating in the air. He was light-complexioned,
and held a bell in either hand. And he cried, with a loud voice:
Pay that thou owest to thy brother!
Hast thou a beast of his, give it back!
Hast thou a goat of his, give it back!
Thus saith the King.
Let every stranger in the land return to his own home;
Every child held in pawn shall go free to his father's house.
Cease from violence; break the spear!
Thus saith the King."
[1. The first European to reach Chaga was
Rebmann, in 1848.]
At sunset he was seen again. Sometimes he
appeared in one place, sometimes in another; but he never touched
the earth. The chief of Moshi (was this the famous Mandara, properly
called Rindi?) ordered his men to keep a look-out for him. They
sat and stared at the sky till the cool of the evening drove
them indoors. But they never saw him more.
CHAPTER VI: THE GHOSTS AND THE GHOST COUNTRY
THE core of Bantu religion,
we may say, is the cult of the dead.
The belief in a High God is more or less vaguely
some tribes it is almost forgotten, or, at any rate, not much
regarded-but everywhere among Bantu-speaking peoples the spirits
of the departed are recognized, honoured, and propitiated. There
is not the slightest doubt that these people believe in something
which survives the death of the body. No African tribe can be
said with certainty to think that death ends all, perhaps not
even the Masai,[1] of whom this has been asserted in a somewhat
haphazard fashion. The universal Bantu custom of offerings to
the spirits of deceased relatives is surely a sufficient proof
to the contrary.
One cannot expect to find a reasoned theory
of spiritual existence among people as relatively primitive as
these, nor complete agreement between the beliefs of different
tribes, or even between individuals of the same tribe. But, generally
speaking, it is everywhere held that something, which we will
call the ghost, lives on when the body dies, and can, to some
extent, influence the affairs of the living. The ghosts can communicate
with the living through dreams, through signs and omens, and
through the medium of diviners or prophets. They may bring disaster
on the family or the tribe if offended by neglect or, sometimes,
as a judgment on some undiscovered sin. They are not invariably
malignant, as sometimes stated; in fact, they are quite often
regarded with affectionate respect, and show themselves helpful
to their kinsfolk in time of need.
Spirit not Immortal
Though the ghost survives the body for an
indefinite period it is not necessarily thought of as living
on for ever. Some people distinctly state (perhaps only after
having been
[1. See Hollis, The Masai, p. 307.]
forced by questioning to think the matter
out) that after the lapse of several generations they simply
go back to nothingness, except in the case of outstanding personalities,
remembered beyond the circle of their immediate descendants,
such as ancient chiefs and tribal benefactors. In other words,
the ghosts last only as long as they are remembered by the living:
the parents and grandparents are always commemorated and sacrificed
to; the three preceding generations maintain a precarious existence,
fighting for a share in the offerings and occasionally forcing
attention by terrifying apparitions; any older than these are
said to " go to pieces." Where reincarnation is definitely
believed in, as seems to be the case to a great extent, life
lasts as long as there is a child of the line to carry it on,
and only comes to an end if the family dies out. Yet another
view prevails among the Wazaramo,[l] a tribe of Tanganyika Territory,
in the immediate neighbourhood of Dar-es- Salaam. With them family
ghosts (those of father, grandfather, and maternal uncle) are
called makungu, and are honoured and propitiated in the
usual way. With the passing of generations they lose their individuality,
and are merged in the host of spirits known collectively as vinyamkela
or majini. The difference between these two classes is
variously stated, but every one seems to be agreed that the latter
are the more powerful of the two, while both have more power
than ordinary kungu ghosts. Some say that the vinyamkela
(singular kinyamkela) are the ghosts of children, the
majini those of adults, while others hold that the former
were in their lifetime kindly, inoffensive people, the majini
men of violence. This last name is of comparatively recent introduction,
being borrowed from the Arabic jinn; the earlier name for such
a ghost was dzedzeta, or, according to some, mwene
mbago, which means "lord (or lady) of the forest."
This being is invisible, except to the 'doctors,' whose business
is to exorcize him, and has his abode in hollow trees. The kinyamkela
is also, as a rule, invisible, but when he (or she) appears it
is as half a human body, "with one leg, one hand, one eye,
and one
[1. Klamroth, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen,
pp. 46-70 and 118-124.]
ear." I shall have something more to
say about these half-human beings later on.
Abode of the Ghosts
Different accounts are given as to the whereabouts
of the ghosts, but the most general notion seems to be that they
remain for some time in or about the grave, or perhaps at a certain
place in the hut they inhabited during life, and afterwards depart
to the country of the dead, which is imagined to be underground.
Here they live very much as they did on earth, as one gathers
from the numerous legends of persons who have reached this country
and come back to tell the tale.
The Yao chief Matope, who died near Blantyre
in 1893, was buried, according to local custom, in his hut, which
was then shut up and left to fall into ruin. A year after his
death the headman brought out his stool and sprinkled snuff round
it as an offering to his spirit. I was told that this would be
done again in the following year; after that he would cease to
haunt the spot. It was not said on this occasion where he was
expected to go.
The Wazaramo believe ghosts as a rule to be
mischievous: thus persons passing near a recent grave after dark
may be pelted with stones by the kungu-a trick which is
also sometimes played by the kinyamkela. But this characteristic
is by no means universal.
The Dead return in Animal Form
Another very general belief is that the dead
are apt to reappear in animal forms, most usually those of snakes
or lizards, though, apparently, almost any animal may be chosen.
The Atonga of Lake Nyasa say that by taking certain medicines
a person can ensure his changing after death into whichever animal
he may fancy. Some say that their great chiefs come back as lions.
Wizards of a specially noisome kind can turn themselves at will,
while living, into hyenas or leopards-it is not so clear whether
they assume the forms of these animals after death. The precautions
taken by way of annihilating, if that were possible, the dead
bodies of such people would seem to have the object of preventing
this.
The Country of the Dead
The ghost country can be reached through caves
or holes in the ground; a favourite incident in folk-tales is
the adventure of a man who followed a porcupine or other such
creature into its burrow, and by and by found himself in the
village of the dead. Mr Melland[1] says that by the Wakuluwe
(a tribe near the south end of Lake Tanganyika) the fisinzwa
(ghosts) "are supposed to remain in a village in the centre
of the earth." Casalis, [2] an early observer of the Basuto
(about 1840), says: "All natives place the spirit world
in the bowels of the earth. They call this mysterious region
mosima, the abyss." This word in recent dictionaries
is said to mean only: "a hole in the ground, den, hole of
a wild animal," so that the other signification, whether
primary or derived, has probably been forgotten. The spirit country
is very generally known by a name related to the Swahili kuzimu.
The stem -zimu, or a similar form, occurs in many languages,
meaning either a spirit or the kind of monstrous ogre who will
be discussed later.
The Bapedi of the Transvaal used to say that
the gateway to Mosima was in their country, and could be entered
by anyone who had the courage. It seems to have been necessary
for two or more persons to go together; they held each other's
hands before entering the pass, and shouted: " Ghosts, get
out of the way! We are going to throw stones!" After which
they passed in without difficulty.
As already stated, the ghosts are believed
to lead much the same life in their village as they did on the
upper earth; but details vary from place to place. Some of Casalis'
informants described valleys always green (no droughts such as
South African farmers dread) grazed over by immense herds of
beautiful hornless cattle. Others seemed to think that the life
was but a dull one, without joy or sorrow."
[1. Through the Heart of Africa, p.
24.
2. Les Bassoutos, p. 761.]
The Wakuluwe shades are described as weary
and homesick, which is the reason why from time to time they
come up and fetch a relative to keep them company. In their country
it is always night-the absence of daylight is not as a rule mentioned
in these accounts-but "the village. . . is said to be lighted
by a mightier light than [any on] earth, and the spirits wear
shining clothes, and the huts are thatched with shining grass."
On Kilimanjaro the spirit land may be reached
by plunging into pools, but there are also certain gateways-perhaps
some of the caves which abound in the sides of that mountain.
The gates are all closed nowadays-more's the pity!
The Haunted Groves
But sometimes the ghosts have their dwelling
above ground, in the "sacred groves" where the dead
are buried. This custom of burial in the forest is very general
in East Africa; the trees of the burying-ground are never cut
down, and care is taken to protect them, as far as possible,
against the bush-fires which rage at the end of the dry season.
Hence in Nyasaland you will find here and there, towering over
the level scrub, a clump of tall trees, and in their shade some
pots, a broken hoe or two, or the fragments of a bow will mark
the place of graves.
In these groves the spirits sometimes hold
their revels: people in distant villages have heard their drums.
There are places deep in the woods where the earth has been swept
clean, as if for a dancing-floor, and here they assemble. Passers-by
may hear faint music, but see no one; the sounds seem to be in
front, but when they have gone on a little way they are heard
behind them.
In Nyasaland there are ghosts which haunt
particular hills, probably those where old chiefs have been buried,
and there are strange accounts given of "the spirits' hill"
[1]-piri la mizimu-where women passing by carrying pots
on their heads have had the pots taken from them by baboons.
One is left to infer that the baboons are shapes assumed by
[1. Scott, Dictionary, P- 416.]
the ghosts, though this is not expressly stated,
and elsewhere one finds baboons mentioned only as wizards' familiars,
not as reincarnated ancestors. There are bananas grown on the
spirits' hill-you can cut a bunch and eat some; but if you carry
any away they will have disappeared before you reach your village.
Ghost Stories: the Kinyamkela's Bananas
Near Mkongole, in the Zaramo country, there
was once a hollow tree haunted by a kinyamkela. Two boys
from Mkongole, Mahimbwa and Kibwana, strolling through the woods,
happened to come upon this tree, and saw that the ground had
been swept clean all round it and that there was a bunch of bananas
hanging from a branch. They took the bananas down, ate them,
and went home quite happy. But that night, when they were both
asleep in the 'boys' house' of their village, they were awakened
by a queer noise, and saw the one-legged, one-armed kinyamkela
standing in the doorway. He called out to them: "You have
eaten my bananas! You must die!" And with that they were
suddenly hit by stones flying out of the darkness. There was
a regular rain of stones, lumps of earth, and even human bones.
The boys jumped up, ran out, and took refuge in another hut,
but the stones followed them there. This went on for four nights-apparently
without anyone getting seriously hurt-and then a doctor named
Kikwilo decided to take the matter in hand. He said to the boys,
"You have eaten the kinyamkela's bananas; that is
why he comes after you." He took a gourd, twice seven small
loaves of bread, a fowl, some rice, and some bananas, and went
to the kinyamkela's tree, where he laid the things down,
saying, "The boys are sorry for what they did. Can you not
leave them alone now?" That night the kinyamkela
appeared again to Mahimbwa and Kibwana, and said, "It's
all right now; the matter is settled; but don't let it happen
again."
So there was peace in the village, and all
would have been well if the business had stopped there. But there
was a certain man named Mataula, a wood-carver, addicted to hemp-smoking
(this is perhaps mentioned to show that he was not quite responsible),
who was, unluckily, absent at the time. When he came back and
heard the story he declared that some one must have been playing
a trick on the boys, and announced that he would sit up that
night and see what happened. So he loaded his gun and waited.
The kinyamkela must have heard his words, for as soon
as it was dark he began to be pelted with bones and all sorts
of dirt, and at last an invisible hand began to beat him with
a leg-bone. He could not fire, as he could see no one, and was
quite helpless to defend himself against the missiles. The neighbours
had no cause to bless him, for they began to be persecuted similarly,
and at last the whole population had to emigrate, as life in
the village had become unendurable.[1]
Some well-authenticated reports from clergy
of the Universities' Mission who have seen and felt lumps of
mud thrown about without visible agency make one wonder whether
stories like this ought not to be taken seriously. Similar occurrences
nearer home have sometimes been satisfactorily explained, but
not always.
Kwege and Bahati
Another story from Uzaramo [2] shows the dead
coming back in the form of birds. This is less usual than for
them to come as snakes or lions, except in the special case of
a murdered man or woman, as will be illustrated by the story
of Nyengebule to be told presently.
There was once upon a time a man who married
a woman of the Uwingu clan (uwingu means 'sky') who was
named Mulamuwingu, and whose brother, Muwingu, lived in her old
home, a day or two's journey from her husband's.
The couple had a son called Kwege, and lived
happily enough till, in course of time, the husband died) leaving
his wife with her son and a slave, Bahati, who had belonged to
an old friend of theirs and had come to them on that friend's
death.
[Klamroth, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen,
p. 118 .
2. Ibid., p. 128.]
Now the tabu of the Sky clan was rain-that
is, rain must never be allowed to fall on anyone belonging to
it; if this were to happen he or she would die.
One day when the weather looked threatening
Mulamuwingu said, "My son Kwege, just go over to the garden
and pick some gourds, so that I can cook them for our dinner."
Kwege very rudely refused, and his mother rejoined, "I am
afraid of my mwidzilo (tabu). If I go to the garden
I shall die." Then Bahati, the slave, said, "I will
go," and he went and gathered the gourds and brought them
back.
Next day Kwege's mother again asked him to
go to the garden, and again he refused. So she said, "Very
well; I will go; but if I die it will be your fault." She
set out, and when she reached the garden, which was a long way
from any shelter, a great cloud gathered, and it began to rain.
When the first drops touched her she fell down dead.
Kwege had no dinner that evening, and when
he found his mother did not come home either that day or the
next (it does not seem to have entered into his head that he
might go in search of her) he began to cry, saying, "Mother
is dead! Mother is dead!" Then he called Bahati, and they
set out to go to his uncle's village.
Now Kwege was a handsome lad, but Bahati was
very ugly; and Kwege was well dressed, with plenty of cloth,
while Bahati had only a bit of rag round his waist.
As they walked along Kwege said to Bahati,
"When we come to a log lying across the path you must carry
me over. If I step over it I shall die." For Kwege's mwidzilo
was stepping over a log.
Bahati agreed, but when they came to a fallen
tree he refused to lift Kwege over till he had given him a cloth.
This went on every time they came to a log, till he had acquired
everything Kwege was wearing, down to his leglets and his bead
ornaments. And when they arrived at Muwingu's village and were
welcomed by the people Bahati sat down on one of the mats brought
out for them and told Kwege to sit on the bare ground. He introduced
himself to Muwingu as his sister's son, and treated Kwege as
his slave, suggesting, after a day or two, that he should be
sent out to the rice-fields to scare the birds. Kwege, in the
ragged kilt which was the only thing Bahati had left him, went
out to the fields, looked at the flocks of birds hovering over
the rice, and then, sitting down under a tree, wept bitterly.
Presently he began to sing:
I, Kwege, weep, I weep!
And my crying is what the birds say.
Oh, you log, my tabu!
I cry in the speech of the birds.
They have taken my clothes,
They have taken my leglets,
They have taken my beads,
I am turned into Bahati.
Bahati is turned into Kwege.
I weep in the speech of the birds."
Now his dead parents, had both been turned
into birds. They came and perched on the tree above him, listening
to his song, and said, "Looo! Muwingu has taken Bahati into
his house and is treating him like a free man and Kwege, his
nephew, as a slave! How can that be?"
Kwege heard what they said, and told his story.
Then his father flapped one wing, and out fell a bundle of cloth;
he flapped the other wing and brought out beads, leglets, and
a little gourd full of oil. His mother, in the same way, produced
a ready-cooked meal of rice and meat. When he had eaten they
fetched water (by this time they had been turned back into human
beings), washed him and oiled him, and then said, "Never
mind the birds-let them eat Muwingu's rice, since he has sent
you to scare them while he is treating Bahati as his son!"
So they sat down, all three together, and talked till the sun
went down.
On the way back Kwege hid all the cloth and
beads that his parents had given him in the long grass, and put
on his old rag again. But when he reached the house the family
were surprised to see him looking so clean and glossy, as if
he had just come from a bath, and cried out, "Where did
you get this oil you have been rubbing yourself with? Did you
runoff and leave your work to go after it?" He did not want
to say, "Mother gave it me," so he simply denied that
he had been anointing himself.
Next day he went back to the rice-field and
sang his song again. The birds flew down at once, and, seeing
him in the same miserable state as before, asked him what he
had done with their gifts. He said they had been taken from him,
thinking that, while he was about it, he might as well get all
he could. They did not question his good faith, but supplied
him afresh with everything, and, resuming their own forms, they
sat by him while he ate.
Meanwhile Muwingu's son had taken it into
his head to go and see how the supposed Bahati was getting on
with his job-it is possible that he had begun to be suspicious
of the man who called himself Kwege. What was his astonishment
to see a good-looking youth, dressed in a clean cloth, with bead
necklaces and all the usual ornaments, sitting between two people,
whom he recognized as his father's dead sister and her husband.
He was terrified, and ran back to tell his father that Kwege
was Bahati and Bahati Kwege, and related what he had seen. Muwingu
at once went with him to the rice-field, and found that it was
quite true. They hid and waited for Kwege to come home. Then,
as he drew near the place where he had hidden his cloth, his
uncle sprang out and seized him. He struggled to get away, but
Muwingu pacified him, saying, "So you are my nephew Kwege
after all, and that fellow is Bahati! Why did you not tell me
before? Never mind; I shall kill him to-day." And kill him
they did; and Kwege was installed in his rightful position. Muwingu
made a great feast, inviting all his neighbours, to celebrate
the occasion. "Here ends my story," says the narrator.
Kwege, it will be seen, is described as anything
but a model son, who does not deserve the kindness of his very
forbearing parents; but it is evidently reckoned for righteousness
to him that he submitted to any amount of inconvenience and indignity
rather than break his mwidzilo. Another point to notice
is the curious limitation in the powers of the ghosts. They can
assume any form they please and go anywhere they wish; they can
produce magical stores out of nowhere; but they never seem to
suspect that Kwege is deceiving them when he says he has been
robbed of their gifts. Why Kwege should not have exposed Bahati
when he reached his uncle's house is not clear, unless, with
African fatalism,[1] he felt sure that he would not be believed.
"False Bride" Stories
This story reminds one of Grimm's "Goose
Girl," as far as Bahati's imposture is concerned; but the
theme is a world-wide one. In Angola the story of Fenda Madia
has probably come from Portugal, and has nothing to do with the
ghosts, but the Zulu "Untombiyapansi" (more shortly
told by McCall Theal as "The Girl and the Mbulu") is
genuine African. Here a girl on her way to her sister's kraal
(her parents being dead) is overtaken by an imbulu, It
a fabulous creature which can assume the human form, but can
never part with its tall." It tricks her out of her clothes,
rides on her ox, and personates her on arriving at the village,
where it is received as the chief's daughter, while Untombiyapansi
is sent to scare the birds. She summons her dead parents from
underground by striking the earth with a brass rod, and they
appear in their own proper form and succour her. The imbulu
is detected and killed, and the chief, already married to her
sister, takes Untombiyapansi as his second Wife.[2]
The Makonde people,[3] in Tanganyika Territory,
have a story of an orphan, who deserves more sympathy than Kwege.
He was bullied by the other boys, who robbed him of the animals
he had caught when he was more successful than they. So one day
he proposed that they should go to hunt
[1. It is scarcely fair to use this expression
as if it applied to all Africans; but the characteristic is noticeable
among tribes who have suffered from slave-raids or the oppression
of more powerful neighbours.
2. Callaway, Nursery Tales, P. 303.
3. The Makonde Plateau is near the East Coast,
south of Lindi and to the north of the river Ruvuma. This story
was collected by Mr Frederick Johnson.]
in a certain wood, where his father and mother
were buried. When they came to the grave he told the others to
sit down, saying, "If you see anything coming out don't
run." Then he began to sing (his companions joining in the
chorus):
There is a certain attractive simplicity about
the literal translation of what follows:
Now came a snake from the grave there and
lay down and coiled itself, and the boys wanted to run, and he
said, "Do not run." And they sat there, clapping their
hands. That snake came from the grave of his father. And he arose
and sang at the grave of his mother, and a snake also came from
that place and coiled itself there. And he sang again-
nearly the same song as before:
Father! Mother! from Dead Men's Town,
CHORUS: Ngondo liyaya! The raiders
come![1]
Come forth, come forth, and swallow them down,
Who scorned and wronged me day by day,
And robbed me of all my lawful prey.
'You've no father or mother!' they said.
'Your parents have gone to the Place of the Dead!'"
The snakes then rose up and swallowed all
the boy's companions. Their son sang again, and they retired
into their holes, while he went back to the village. The parents
of the other boys asked him about them, but he only answered,
"I do not know; they left me in the forest."
[1. Repeated after each line, as before.]
As the boys did not come home their parents
consulted a diviner, who told them that "the orphan had
hidden his companions." So they questioned the orphan lad,
and he told every one who had lost a boy to bring him a slave
a touch which cannot be very recent. They did so, and he set
off for the grave with his newly acquired retinue, all singing
together. He called once more on his parents, and the boys all
came out, safe and sound, and marched back to the village. The
orphan lad went with his slaves to an unoccupied piece of land
in the bush, where they built a new village and he became a chief
and lived there with his people.'
An African 'Holle' Story
How a girl reached the land of the ghosts
and came back is told by the Wachaga.[2] Marwe and her brother
were ordered by their parents to watch the bean-field and drive
away the monkeys. They kept at their post for the greater part
of the day, but as their mother had not given them any food to
take with them they grew very hungry. They dug up the burrows
of the field-rats, caught some, made a fire, roasted their game,
and ate it. Then, being thirsty, they went to a pool and drank.
It was some distance off, and when they came back they found
that the monkeys had descended on the bean-patch and stripped
it bare. They were terribly frightened, and Marwe said, "Let's
go and jump into the pool." But her brother thought it would
be better to go home without being seen and listen to what their
parents were saying. So they stole up to the hut and listened
through a gap in the banana-leaves of the thatch. Father and
mother were both very angry. "What are we to do with such
good-for-nothing creatures? Shall we beat them? Or shall we strangle
them?" The children did not wait to hear any more, but rushed
off to the pool. Marwe threw herself in, but her brother's courage
failed him, and he ran back home and told the parents: "Marwe
has gone into the pool." They went down at once, quite
[1. Johnson, "Notes on Kimakonde."
2. Gutmann, Volksbuch, p. 117.]
forgetting the hasty words provoked by the
sudden discovery of their loss, and called again and again, "Marwe,
come home! Never mind about the beans; we can plant the patch
again!" But there was no answer. Day after day the father
went down to the pool and called her always in vain. Marwe had
gone into the country of the ghosts.
You entered it at the bottom of the pool.
Before she had gone very far she came to a hut, where an old
woman lived, with a number of children. This old woman called
her in and told her she might stay with her. Next day she sent
her out with the others to gather firewood, but said, "You
need not do anything. Let the others do the work." Marwe,
however, did her part with the rest, and the same when they were
sent out to cut grass or perform any other tasks. She was offered
food from time to time, but always made some excuse for refusing
it. (The living who reach the land of the dead can never leave
it again if they eat while there a belief met with elsewhere
than in Africa.) So time went on, till one day she began to weary,
and said to the other girls, "I should like to go home."
The girls advised her to go and tell the old woman, which she
did, and the old body had no objection, but asked her, "
Shall I hit you with the cold or with the hot? " It is not
easy to see what is meant by this question, but in all stories
of this kind, which are numerous, the departing visitor to the
ghost land is given a choice of some kind-sometimes between two
gifts, sometimes between two ways of going home. Perhaps the
meaning of the alternative here proposed has been lost in transmission
or in translation. The good girl always chooses the less attractive
article or road, and Marwe asked to be "hit with the cold."
The woman told her to dip her arms into a pot she had standing
beside her. She did so, and drew them out covered with shining
bangles. She was then told to dip her feet, and found her ankles
adorned with fine brass and copper chains. Then the woman gave
her a skin petticoat worked with beads, and said, "Your
future husband is called Sawoye. It is he who will carry you
home."
She went with her to the pool, rose to the
surface, and left her sitting on the bank. It happened that there
was a famine in the land just then. Some one saw Marwe, and ran
to the village saying that there was a girl seated by the pool
richly dressed and wearing the most beautiful ornaments, which
no one else in the countryside could afford, the people having
parted with all their valuables to the coast-traders in the time
of scarcity. So the whole population turned out, with the chief
at their head. They were filled with admiration of her beauty.
(It seems that her looks had not suffered in the ghost country,
in spite of her not eating.) They all greeted her most respectfully,
and the chief wanted to carry her home; but she r1efused. Others
offered, but she would listen to none till a certain man came
along, who was known as Sawoye. Now Sawoye was disfigured by
a disease from which he had suffered called woye, whence
his name. As soon as she saw him Marwe said, "That is my
husband." So he picked her up and carried her home and married
her.
This is a somewhat unusual kind of wedding,
from the Bantu point of view: nothing is said about the parents.
But the whole circumstances were unusual: it is not every day
that a girl comes back from the country of the dead, having had
her destined husband pointed out by the chieftainess of the ghosts.
We are not told, but I think we must be meant
to understand, that Sawoye soon lost his disfiguring skin disease
and appeared as the handsomest man in the clan. With the old
lady's bangles they bought a fine herd of cattle and built themselves
the best house in the village. And they would have lived happy
ever after if some of his neighbours, had not envied him and
plotted to kill him. They succeeded, but his faithful wife found
means to revive him, and hid him in the inner compartment of
the hut. Then, when the enemies came to divide the spoil and
carry Marwe off to be given to the chief as his wife, Sawoye
came out, fully armed, and killed them all. After which he and
Marwe were left in peace.
Other "Holle" Stories
Two interesting variants come from the Ngonde
country. One is described by a learned German writer as "psychologically
incomprehensible"; but if he had a complete version before
him he would seem curiously to have missed the point. A woman
is "persuaded by another"-evidently a jealous co-wife-to
throw away her baby, because it is weakly: other versions show
that he ought to have added "in the hope of getting it back
improved in health and looks." The rest of the story is
much the same as that of "La Route du ciel," and follows
much more naturally from its opening than does that tale, except
that the jealous woman, instead of being struck dead, gets only
half a baby, with one arm, one leg, and so on.[1]
In the other story the opening is more mysterious:
the mother, coming to a river too deep to ford, heard a voice
telling her to throw her baby into the water, and she would be
able to walk over dryshod. She did so, and the water parted to
let her cross; but when she had reached the other side she could
not find the child again. She had to go home without it, and
was told by her husband to go away and never come back till she
had found it. Wandering through the forest, she met, one after
another, a lion, a leopard, a crocodile, and other animals, all,
apparently, suffering from ophthalmia, who asked her where she
was going, requested of her a most unpleasant service, and after
she had rendered it allowed her to pass on. She then met a very
old man, who told her that she would shortly come to a place
where the path divided, and would hear a voice on one side saying
mbo, and one on the other side saying ndi. She
was to follow the first, which she did, and arrived at a hut,
where a woman showed her a number of beautiful children and told
her to choose one. There is the usual sequel: the envious neighbour
disregards all advice and meets in the end with her deserts-in
this case by having to carry home a wretched, diseased, and crippled
infant.[2]
[1. Unpublished; quoted by Dr Fülleborn,
in Das deutsche Njassa-und Ruwuma-gebiet, p. 335.
2 Nauhaus, "Was sich die Konde in Deutsch-Ostafrika
erzählen."]
The incident of the stream stands alone, so
far as I know, in stories of this type. The dividing of a river
occurs more than once in a very different connexion-in traditions
of tribal migrations, as when one of the Ngoni chiefs was said
to have struck the Zambezi with his stick, to let the people
cross.[1] The voices-from the river and from the two paths-may
belong to some bit of forgotten mythology. In one of the hare
stories which form the subject of Chapter XVII the hyena tells
the hare that when crossing the river he may hear a voice ordering
him to throw away his bread. This, of course, is a trick on the
hyena's part, but seems to be accepted as a possible occurrence,
and may be an echo of some belief in river-spirits.
Do the Dead return to Life?
The possibility of the dead returning to life
is frequently assumed in folk-tales, [2] but I do not know that
it is seriously believed in at the present day, as seems to be
the case for the visits of living men and women to the Underworld.
The Rev. Donald Fraser relates an extraordinary incident [3]:
a man was thought to have died, but came to, and said that he
had reached the ghosts' country, where he saw and spoke to people,
but none would answer him; in fact, they showed him decidedly
that they did not want him, and he had to come back.
The Wazaramo appear to have a divinity called
Kolelo, who lives in a cave in the form of a huge serpent. Remembering
the very common belief that the spirits of the dead come back
in the form of snakes, it may be considered probable that this
Kolelo was originally an ancestral ghost. He played a great part
in the troubles of 1905 (known as the "Majimaji Rebellion")
in what was then German East Africa; but his legend will come
in more fittingly in Chapter XVI.
[1. The Rev. T. Cullen Young thinks this may
have arisen from the fact that the Ngoni had never seen a log
canoe, which might be described as a stick ('log,' 'tree,' and
'stick ' might sometimes be expressed by the same word), and
misunderstood as the tradition was passed on.
2 As in the story of "Tangalimlibo,"
Theal, Kaffir Folklore, p.54.
3 Winning a Primitive People, p. 126.]
The name seems also to be attached to a cave
in the Nguu country, the seat of a famous oracle-also to be mentioned
in Chapter XVI.
The notion that the soul of a murdered person
may come back in the shape of a bird, to make the crime known
and call for justice on the murderer, has been touched on in
a previous page. In the next chapter will be given several stories
showing how the innocent blood cries for vengeance, and how its
cry never passes unheard.
CHAPTER VII: THE AVENGER OF BLOOD
THE usual unwritten
law of primitive peoples is, in theory at least, "a life
for a life," the clan of the murdered man being entitled
to kill the murderer, if they can get hold of him; if not, one
of his family, or, at any rate, a member of the same clan. No
difference was originally made between intentional and accidental
killing, though this distinction came to be recognized later.
In time the principle of ransom came into force-the weregild
of our Saxon ancestors. The Yaos would express it thus in a case
where the relations had failed to kill the murderer out of hand
and had captured a relative of his: "You have slain our
brother; we have caught yours; and we will send him after our
brother-or keep him as a slave-unless you pay a ransom."
This last alternative has tended more and more to become the
usual practice in Africa.
Murder of a Relative
But a difficulty arose when a man killed one
of his own relations. In that case who could demand compensation?
for the slayer and the slain were of the same clan. And the general
belief about this shows that such a thing is regarded with horror
and as almost unthinkable. Such a man would be seized by a kind
of madness-the Anyanja call it chirope,[1] and say, "
The blood of his companion enters his heart; it makes him just
like a drunk man." Or, as the Yaos say,[2] " He will
become emaciated, lose his eyesight, and ultimately die a miserable
death." Though the owner of a slave in theory had the power
of life and death, he was afraid of chirope if he killed him.
He could escape only by being 'doctored ' with a certain charm,
which, one may suppose, would not be too easily procured.
The Warrior's Purification
A man who had killed another in battle also
had to be 'doctored,' for fear that he should be haunted by the
ghost
[1. Scott, Dictionary, p. 96.
2. Duff Macdonald, Africana, vol. i,
p. 168.]
of the slain-no doubt because, from the nature
of the case, the dead man's kin could not follow the usual procedure.
With the Zulus [1] the 'doctoring' (ukuqunga) was a long
and complicated process, involving various tabus: an essential
point was that the warrior must cut open the corpse of his foe
before it began to swell. This precaution (the neglect of which
rendered him liable to be possessed by the avenging ghost-a form
of insanity known as iqungo) has, not unnaturally, been
misunderstood and given rise to reports of "atrocities,"
"mutilation of the dead," and so on, as happened in
the Zulu War of 1879.
The Two Brothers
There is a well-known story, current, probably,
among all the South African Bantu, in which the secret murder
of a brother is brought to light and avenged. It is usually called
"Masilo and Masilonyane," though the Zulu variant has
a different name. In some versions the guilty brother is killed
when detected, but in what would appear to be the oldest and
most authentic he is driven from the clan and becomes an outcast.
Perhaps we find the beginning of a change from the older view
in one case, where he is said to have been killed, not by a member
of the family, but by a servant (mohlanka) of Masilonyane's-presumably
not a member of the clan.
In the most usual form of the story [2] the
two brothers, Masilo and Masilonyane, went hunting together and
happened upon a ruined village. The younger, Masilonyane, went
straight on through the ruins with his dogs, while his brother
turned aside and skirted round them. In the middle of the ruins
Masilonyane found a number of large earthen pots turned upside
down. He tried to turn up one of the largest, but it resisted
all his efforts. After he had tried in vain several times he
called to his brother for help, but
[1. Colenso, Zulu-English Dictionary,
p. 513.
2. I have here, more or less, combined two
versions: one by S. H. Edwards, in the South African Folk-Lore
Journal, vol. i, p. 139, and the other by Jacottet, in his
Treasury of Ba-Suto Lore, p. 56.]
Masilo refused, saying, "Pass on. Why
do you trouble about pots?" Masilonyane persevered, however,
and at length succeeded in heaving up the pot, and in doing so
uncovered a little old woman who was grinding red ochre between
two stones. Masilonyane, startled at this apparition, was about
to turn the pot over her again, but she remonstrated: "My
grandchild, do you turn me up and then turn me upside down again?"
She then requested him to carry her on his back. Before he had
time to refuse she jumped up and clung to him, so that he could
not get rid of her. He called Masilo, but Masilo only jeered
and refused to help him. He had to walk on with his burden, till,
at last, seeing a herd of springbok, he thought he had found
a way of escape, and said, "Grandmother, get down, that
I may go and kill one of these long-legged animals, so that I
may carry you easily in its skin." She consented, and sat
down on the ground, while Masilonyane called his dogs and made
off at full speed after the game. But as soon as he was out of
her sight he turned aside and hid in the hole of an ant-bear.
The old woman, however, was not to be defeated. After waiting
for a time and finding that he did not come back she got up and
tracked him by his footprints, till she came to his hiding place.
He had to come out and take her up again, and so he plodded on
for another weary mile or two, till the sight of some hartebeests
gave him another excuse for putting her down. Once more he hid,
and once more she tracked him; but this time he set his dogs
on her, and they killed her. He told the dogs to eat her, all
but her great toe, which they did. He then took an axe and chopped
at the toe, when out came many cattle, and, last of all, a beautiful
cow, spotted like a guinea-fowl.
This incident, monstrous as it appears to
us-especially as there has been no hint that the old woman was
of unusual size; indeed, she was not too big to be carried on
Masilonyane's back-is not uncommon in Bantu folklore, and in
some cases seems to link on to the legend of the Swallowing Monster.
Now Masilo, who had shirked all the unpleasant part of the day's
adventures, came running up and demanded a share of the cattle.
Masilonyane, not unnaturally, refused, and they went on together.
After a while Masilonyane said he was very
thirsty, and his brother said he knew of a water-hole not far
off. They went there, and found that it was covered with a large,
flat stone. They levered up the stone with their spears, and
Masilonyane held it while Masilo stooped to drink. When he, in
his turn, stooped to reach the water Masilo dropped the stone
on him and crushed him to death. Then he collected the cattle
and started to drive them home. Suddenly he saw a small bird
perching on the horn of the speckled cow; it sang:
(People say it was Masilonyane's heart which
was changed into a bird.) Masilo threw a stone at the bird, and
seemed to have killed it, but it came to life again, and before
he had gone very far he saw it sitting on the cow's horn, and
killed it once more, as he thought.
When he reached his home all the people crowded
together and greeted him. "Dumela! Chief's son! Dumela!
Chief's son! Where is Masilonyane?" He answered, "I
don't know; we parted at the water-hole, and I have not seen
him since." They went to look at the cattle, and exclaimed
in admiration, "What a beautiful cow! just look at her markings!"
While they were standing there the little
bird flew up with a great whirring of wings and perched on the
horn of the speckled cow and sang:
Masilo threw a stone at the bird, but missed
it, and the men said, "just leave that bird alone and let
us hear." The bird sang the same words over and over again,
and the people heard them clearly. They said, "So that is
what you have done! You have killed your younger brother."
And Masilo had nothing to say. So they drove him out of the village.
A different version from North Transvaal[1]
makes the cattle come out of a hollow tree, and says nothing
about the old woman. It also prefixes to the story some incidents
not found elsewhere, which show Masilonyane in a less favourable
light than that in which we have so far regarded him. At any
rate, he does something, by his arrogance, to provoke his elder
brother's enmity. Their father had entrusted them with the means
of buying a beast or two to start a herd-the recognized manner
of providing for sons. Masilonyane (here called Mashilwane),
by clever trading and repeated strokes of good luck, soon became
richer than his brother, and so provoked Masilo's envy. Mashilwane
did nothing to conciliate him; on the contrary, he kept on boasting
of his prosperity, and even, when his wife died, said, "I
am Mashilwane, whom death cannot touch!"
Another point of difference in this version
is that it is one of Mashilwane's dogs who reveals the murder
and leads the clansmen to the place where the body is hidden.
In the other there is no question of the body; indeed, in one
form of the story the murdered man comes to life again, the bird
suddenly taking his shape. On the whole the North Transvaal version
seems later and more consciously elaborated perhaps in response
to questions from European auditors.
A hunter's dogs figure in a story from Angola,[2]
where an elder brother kills a younger, being envious of his
success. He gives part of the body to the two dogs, but they
refuse to eat it; instead they lift up their voices and denounce
him. He kills and buries them; they come to life, follow him
home, and report the whole affair in the village. The story ends:
"They wailed the mourning"; nothing is said about the
fate of the murderer. A brother killing a brother is something
quite outside the common course of law.
It is not entirely the same with a wife, who,
by the nature of the case, must belong to a different clan; the
duty of
[1. Hoffmann, Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen,
vol. vi, No. 5.
2. Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola, p. 127.]
exacting retribution naturally falls on her
relations once the crime is made known.
The Xosa Tale of Nyengebule
So it was with Nyengebule.[1] He had two wives,
who, one day, went out together to collect firewood in the forest.
The younger found a bees' nest in a hollow tree, and called her
companion to help her take out the honeycomb. When they had done
so they sat down and ate it, the younger thoughtlessly finishing
her share, while the elder kept putting some aside, which she
wrapped up in leaves to take home for her husband. Arriving at
the kraal, each went to her own hut. The elder, on entering,
found her husband seated there, and gave him the honeycomb. Nyengebule
thanked her for the attention, and ate the honey, thinking all
the time that Nqandamate, the younger wife, who was his favourite,
would also have brought him some, especially as he was just then
staying in her hut. When he had finished eating he hastened thither
and sat down, expecting that she would presently produce the
titbit. But he waited in vain, and at last, becoming impatient,
he asked, "Where is the honey?" She said, "I have
not brought any." Thereupon he lost his temper and struck
her with his stick, again and again. The little bunch of feathers
which she was wearing on her head (as a sign that she was training
for initiation as a doctor) fell to the ground; he struck once
more in his rage; she fell, and he found that she was dead. He
made haste to bury her, and then-he is shown as thoroughly selfish
and callous throughout-he gathered up his sticks and set out
for her parents' kraal, to report the death (which he would represent
as an accident) and demand his lobolo-cattle [2] back.
But the little plume which had fallen from her head when he struck
her turned into a bird and flew after him.
When he had gone some distance he noticed
a bird sitting on a bush by the wayside, and heard it singing
these words:
[1. South African Folk-Lore Journal,
July 1879.
2 A man who loses his wife before she has
had any children is entitled to get back the cattle he paid on
his marriage-unless her parents can give him another daughter
instead of her.]
It kept up with him, flying alongside the
path, till at last he threw a stick at it. It paid no attention,
but kept on as before, so he hit it with his knobkerrie, killed
it, threw it away, and walked on.
But after a while it came back again and repeated
its song. Blind with rage, he again threw a stick at it, killed
it, stopped to bury it, and went on his way.
As he was still going on it came up again
and sang:
At that he became quite desperate, and said,
"What shall I do with this bird, which keeps on tormenting
me about a matter I don't want to hear about? I will kill it
now, once for all, and put it into my bag to take with me."
Once more he threw his stick at the little bird and killed it,
picked it up, and put it into his inxowa-the bag, made
from the skin of some small animal, which natives carry about
with them to supply the place of a pocket. He tied the bag up
tightly with a thong of hide, and thought he had now completely
disposed of his enemy.
So he went on till he came to the kraal of
his wife's relations, where he found a dance going on. He became
so excited that he forgot the business about which he had come,
and hurried in to join in the fun. He had just greeted his sisters-in-law
when one of them asked him for snuff. He told her-being in a
hurry to begin dancing and entirely forgetful of what the bag
contained-to untie the inxowa, which he had laid aside. She did
so, and out flew the bird dri-i-i! It flew up to the gate-post,
and, perching there, began to- sing:
He heard it, and, seeing that every one else
had also heard it, started to run away. Some of the men jumped
up and seized hold of him, saying, "What are you running
away for?" He answered-his guilty conscience giving him
away against his will-"Me! I was only coming to the dance.
I don't know what that bird is talking about."
It began again, and its song rang out clearly
over the heads of the men who were holding him:
They listened, the meaning of the song began
to dawn on them, and they grew suspicious. They asked him, "What
is this bird saying?" He said, "I don't know."
They killed him.
With this brief statement the story closes,
leaving to the imagination the clamour that arose, the cries
of the mother and sisters, the brothers rushing for their kerries,
the doomed man's frantic struggles.... Bambulala, "They
killed him."
Father Torrend says:
Tales of this kind, showing that every crime
finds an unexpected revealer, appointed by a superior power,
are very common in the whole of the Zambezi region. In this particular
tale [which will be given presently] the revealer is a child
. . . in others it is a little dog, but in tales far more numerous
it is a little bird which no killing can prevent from rising
from the dead and singing of the criminal deed until punishment
is meted out to the guilty person."[1]
One such story was collected by Mrs Dewar
[2] among the Winamwanga, to the north of Lake Nyasa, on the
farthest edge of the "Zambezi region," since their
country is near the sources of the Chambezi.[3] As set down by
her it is very short, but it may be worth while to reproduce
it here, as it gives the notes of the bird's song.
Once upon a time there was a man and his younger
brother. The younger brother was chief [It is not explained how
this happened, but no doubt he was the son of the ' Great Wife,'
and as such his father's heir.] One day when he climbed a mpangwa
[1. Bantu Folklore, p. 17.
2 Chinamwanga Stories, p. 29.
3 But the story is not confined to that region,
its underlying motive being practically universal.]
tree [which bears an edible fruit, much liked]
his elder brother killed him. Afterwards he came to life again
as a little bird and sang:
["Nzye! [a mere exclamation] He has killed
me because of the mpangwa fruit,
The mpangwa by the roadside.
Doesn't it help us in time of need?"]
That is all, but the rest is not difficult
to guess. The bird's song seems somewhat obscure, but probably
means that the young man was gathering the fruit to eat in a
time of scarcity. This is a detail stressed in the next story,[1]
though the other incidents are quite different.
Out of the Mouths of Babes
Once upon a time there was a married couple
who had two children. Not long after the birth of the second
the wife said she wanted to go and see her mother. The husband
agreed, and they set out. It happened to be a time of famine,
and they had little or nothing to eat, so when they came to a
wild fig-tree by the wayside the man climbed it and began to
shake down the fruit.[2] The wife and the elder child picked
up the figs and ate them as fast as they fell. Presently there
fell, among the rest, a particularly large and fine one. The
husband called out: "My wife, do not eat that fig! If you
do I will kill you." [3] The wife, not without spirit, answered,
"Hunger has no law. And, really, would you kill me, your
wife, for a fig? I am eating it; let us see whether you dare
kill me!"
She ate the fig, and her husband came down
from the tree and picked up his spear.
[1. Torrend, Bantu Folklore, p. 9.
2. It is edible, but somewhat insipid, and
not considered worth eating when anything better is to be had.
3. The selfish and greedy husband and father
is frequently held up to reprobation in folk-tales. Refusal to
share food with others is looked on as something worse than mere
lack of manners-it is "simply not done."]
"My fig! Where has it gone?" he
said, pointing the weapon at her.
She answered, "I have eaten it."
He said not another word, but stabbed her.
As she fell forward on her knees the baby she was carrying on
her back stared at him over her shoulder. He took no notice,
only saying, "My children, let us go now, as I have killed
your mother."
The elder boy picked up his little brother
and put him on his back. The baby, Katubi, looked behind him
at the dead woman and began to cry. His brother sang:
The father asked him what he was saying, but
he said, I am not speaking; it is only baby crying." The
father said, "Let us go on. You shall eat when you get there."
They went on and on, and at last the baby himself began to sing:
That is, he is carrying him on his back, as
his mother had been doing.
The father heard it, and, thinking it was
the elder boy who sang, said, "What are you talking about,
you little wretch? I am going to kill you. What, are you going
to tell tales when, we get to your grandmother's?" The child,
terrified, said, "No! I won't say anything!"
Still they went on, and the baby kept looking
behind him, and after a while began again:
[1. The baby's name is significant; it means
"Expose the truth "-literally, Make the thing white."
These songs, of which each line is usually repeated at least
twice, are an essential feature in the story. The words are always
known to some, at any rate, of the audience, who sing them in
chorus every time they occur. Bishop Steere says (Swahili
Tales, p. vii): "It is a constant characteristic of
popular native tales to have a sort of burden, which all join
in singing. Frequently the skeleton of the story seems to be
contained in these snatches of singing, which the story-teller
connects by an extemporized account of the intervening history."
And he cried again. The father asked, "What
are you crying for?" and the boy said that he was not crying;
he was only trying to quiet the baby. The man, looking back,
saw a number of vultures hovering over the place he had left,
and as he did so he heard the song again:
The boy, when asked once more why the baby
was crying, answered, "He is crying for Mother!" And
the father said, Nonsense! Let us get on. You're going to see
your grandmother!"
The same incident was repeated, till the father,
in a rage, turned back and began beating both the children. The
boy asked, "Are you going to kill me, as you killed Mother?"
The furious man shouted, "I do mean to
kill you!" How ever, he held his hand for the moment, and
the boy slipped past him and went on in front, and presently
the baby's voice was heard again:
They reached the village at last, and the
man exchanged greetings with his mother-in-law. He seems to have
failed to satisfy her when she inquired after his wife, for,
on the first opportunity, she questioned the little boy: "Now
where has your mother been left?" The child shook his head,
and did not speak for a while. Then he said, "Do you expect
to see Mother? She has been killed by Father-all for the sake
of a wild fruit!"
At the same moment the baby began to sing:
The grandmother must have been convinced by
this portent, for she questioned the boy no further, but only
said, Stop, Baby! We are just going to kill your father also!"
She set some men to dig a deep, narrow hole inside the hut, while
she prepared the porridge. When the hole was ready she had a
mat spread over it, and then brought in the porridge and sent
the boy to call his father to supper. The guilty man came in,
saw the mat spread in what appeared to be the best place, and
immediately sat down on it. The grandmother had large pots of
boiling water ready, and as soon as he had fallen into the hole
they poured it over him and killed him.[1]
The significance of this story is emphasized
by the fact that "the revealer is a little being which might
have been thought to have no notion of right or wrong."
This is still more strongly brought out-in a somewhat crude fashion
in Father Torrend's alternative version, where it is actually
the unborn child which makes its way into the world to proclaim
the father's guilt.
The same people, the Bwine-Mukuni, have another
tale, which we need not reproduce in full, where a young chief,
killed by his covetous companions, "was changed into a little
bird with pretty colours," which, though not merely killed
but burnt to ashes, revives and flies to the house of the dead
man's sister. Its song has a certain beauty.
[1. This mode of execution seems in the folk-tales
to be considered appropriate for aggravated cases of murder,
like the above, or as an effectual means of putting an end to
extra-human pests, like the imbulu of the Zulu story referred
to in a previous chapter. In another version, also given by Father
Torrend, the man is speared by his wife's brothers.]
There are six stanzas. In the fourth Nemba,
the chief's sister, is called on to begin threading beads for
the mourners towear. The last verse is as follows:
This is explained by Torrend as referring
to Bantu notions of a future life, and his note may fitly close
this chapter.
The souls, though "having no feet,"
are supposed to go to a deep river of God, far away, not a simple
mulonga "river," but a rironga, "big,
deep river," where God washes the wrongs clean and where
birds with beaks all white-that is, innocent souls-cry vengeance
against the spilling of blood.[2]
[1. I have nowhere else seen any reference
to this notion. In whatever form the dead are supposed to appear
they are normally assumed to have their full complement of limbs.
Is there a belief that some kinds of birds are without feet,
as was formerly said about the bird of Paradise ? The "birds
with white beaks" are mentioned in the third verse of the
song.
2 Bantu Folklore, p. 25.]
CHAPTER VIII: HEROES AND DEMI-GODS
GREAT chiefs, or men otherwise distinguished,
whose memory lives on after many generations, are not only honoured
beyond the worship paid to ordinary ghosts, but become the subjects
of many a legend. Some of these heroes are plainly mythical,
others are known to have actually existed, and some historical
persons have become legendary without receiving divine honours.
One knows that the genesis of myths is not confined to remote
ages; they may spring up any day, even in civilized countries:
there have been at least three well-known examples within the
last twenty years. I remember being present at a conversation
during which, as I believe, a legend was nipped in the bud. Some
Zulus, after consulting together in undertones, asked Miss Colenso,
very respectfully, whether it was true that her father had prophesied
before his death that his house (Bishopstowe, near Pietermaritzburg)
would be burned down. She answered that very likely he might
have said, some time or other, that if due precautions were not
taken a fire might reach the house during the grass-burning season-which,
in fact, actually happened, owing, however, to a sudden change
of wind rather than to any lack of care. I fear the questioners
were disappointed; but one can imagine how the story would have
grown if not discouraged.
The Ox-eater
In the countries to the west of Lake Victoria
there is a cult of a being known as Ryang'ombe, or Lyang'ombe,
concerning whom curious legends are current. His name means "Eater
of an ox"; in full it is, in the language of the Baziba,
Kashaija Karyang'ombe, "the little man who eats an [whole]
ox." The name is distinctly Bantu, and is connected with
his story. In Ruanda and Urundi, where his worship is fully developed,
it does not seem to be entirely understood; and another indication
of his Bantu origin is to be found in the fact that the mysteries
of Ryang'ombe are supposed specially to belong to the Bahutu,
the Bantu agricultural community; and, though the Batusi aristocracy
frequently take part in them, there is a very strict rule that
the reigning chief must never have been initiated into this particular
rite. This seems strange, as Rehse, writing of the Baziba, says
that Ryang'ombe is "the spirit of the cattle, only venerated
by the Bahima."[1] But there is much in the whole subject
which still awaits investigation. The Baziba tell a story which
differs considerably from the Ruanda legend as given by P. Arnoux[2]
and by Johanssen;[3] but, for all one knows, both may circulate
side by side-in one of the countries at any rate. Some feats
of his remind one strongly of the Zulu Hlakanyana, but the latter
is merely a trickster, and never, so far as I know, attained
the status of a national hero, or became an object of worship.
Ryang'ombe, according to this story,4 spoke before he was born,
and ate a whole ox immediately after his entrance into the world.
His father told him of a terrible ogre, Ntubugezi, notorious
for killing people; Ryang'ombe at once made for the giant's abode,
insulted and defied him, and made him give up eleven head of
cattle, which he (Ryang'ombe) swallowed at once. He then attacked
another ogre, Ntangaire, and swallowed him whole, but did not
long enjoy his triumph, for Ntangaire cut his way out and killed
him. In the Ruanda legend, likewise, Ryang'ombe's mortal career
ends disastrously, though after a different fashion.
Ryang'ombe in Ruanda
The Banyaruanda give Ryang'ombe's family affairs
in great detail. His father was Babinga, described as the "king
of the imandwa";[5] his mother, originally called
Kalimulore,[6] was an uncomfortable sort of person, who had
[1. The Bahima are the Hamitic invaders who
form the pastoral aristocracy in Buganda, Bunyoro, and elsewhere.
In Ruanda they are called Batusi.
2. Anthropos (1913),vol.viii.
3. Ruanda, pp.109-111.
4. H.Rehse, Kiziba p. 371
5. The imandwa are a superior order
of spirits, distinct from the common herd of ghosts, who are
called bazimu, and mostly thought of as malevolent. All
the imandwa are known by name; many of them are in one
way or another related to Ryang'ombe, and each has his or her
own special ritual.
6. After the birth of her son she was known
as Nyiraryang'ombe ('Mother of Ryang'ombe').]
the power of turning herself into a lioness,
and took to killing her father's cattle, till he forbade her
to herd them, and sent some one else in her place. She so frightened
her first husband that he took her home to her parents and would
have no more to do with her. After her second marriage, to Babinga,
there seems to have been no further trouble. It is not clear
how Babinga could have been " king of the ghosts "
while still living, but when he died his son, Ryang'ombe, announced
that he was going to take his father's place. This was disputed
by one-of Babinga's followers named Mpumutimuchuni, and the two
agreed to decide the question by a game of kisoro,[l]
which Ryang'ombe lost. Perhaps we are to understand by the long
story which follows that he passed some time in exile; for he
went out hunting, and heard a prophecy from some herd-lads which
led to his marriage. After some difficulties with his parents-in-law
he settled down with his wife, and had a son, Binego, but soon
left them and returned to his own home.
As soon as Binego was old enough his mother's
brother set him to herd the cattle; he speared a heifer the first
day, a cow and her calf the next, and when his uncle objected
he speared him too. He then called his mother, and they set out
for Ryang'ombe's place, which they reached in due course, Binego
having, on the way, killed two men who refused to leave their
work and guide him, and a baby, for no particular reason. When
he arrived he found his father playing the final game with Mpumutimuchuni.
The decision had been allowed to stand over during the interval,
and Ryang'ombe, if he lost this game, was not only to hand over
the kingdom, but to let his opponent shave his head-that is,
deprive him of the crest of hair which marked his royal rank.
Binego went and stood behind his father to watch the game, suggested
a move which enabled him to win, and when Mpumutimuchuni protested
stabbed him. Thus he secured his father in the kingship, which,
apparently, was so far counted to him for righteousness as to
outweigh all the
[1. A game variously known as mankala,
mweso, bao, msuo, etc., and played all over
Africa, either on a board or with four rows of holes scooped
in the ground.]
murders he had committed. Ryang'ombe named
him, first as his second-in-command and afterwards as his successor,
and Binego, as will be seen, avenged his death. Like all the
imandwa, with the exception of Ryang'ombe himself, who
is uniformly kind and beneficent, he is thought of as mischievous
and cruel, and propitiated from fear, especially when the diviner
has declared, in a case of illness, that Binego is responsible.
During these ceremonies, and also in the mysteries celebrated
from time to time, certain persons are not only recognized as
mediums of Ryang'ombe, Binego, or other imandwa, but actually
assume their characters and are addressed by their names for
the time being.
Ryang'ombe's Death
The story of his death is as follows.
Ryang'ombe one day went hunting, accompanied
by his sons, Kagoro and Ruhanga, two of his sisters, and several
other imandwa. His mother tried to dissuade him from going,
as during the previous night she had had four strange dreams,
which seemed to her prophetic of evil. She had seen, first, a
small beast without a tail; then an animal all of one colour;
thirdly, a stream running two ways at once; and, fourthly, an
immature girl carrying a baby without a ngobe.[1] She
was very uneasy about these dreams, and begged her son to stay
at home, but, unlike most Africans, who attach great importance
to such things, he paid no attention to her words, and set out.
Before he had gone very far he killed a hare, which, when examined,
was found to have no tail. His personal attendant at once exclaimed
that this was the fulfilment of Nyiraryang'ombe's dream, but
Ryang'ombe only said, "Don't repeat a woman's words while
we are after game." Soon after this they encountered the
second and third portents (the "animal all of one colour"
was a black hyena), but Ryang'ombe still refused to be impressed.
Then they met a young girl carrying a baby, without the usual
skin in which it is supported. She stopped Ryang'ombe
[1. The skin in which an African woman carries
a baby on her back. The Zulus call it imbekko.]
and asked him to give her a ngobe.
He offered her the skin of one animal after another; but she
refused them all, till he produced a buffalo hide. Then she said
she must have it properly dressed, which he did, and also gave
her the thongs to tic it with. Thereupon she said, "Take
up the child." He objected, but gave in when she repeated
her demand, and even, at her request, gave the infant a name.
Finally, weary of her importunity, he said, "Leave me alone!"
and the girl rushed away, was lost to sight among the bushes,
and became a buffalo. Ryang'ombe's dogs, scenting the beast,
gave chase, one after the other., and when they did not return
he sent his man, Nyarwambali, to see what had become of them.
Nyarwambali came back and reported: "There is a beast here
which has killed the dogs." Ryang'ombe followed him, found
the buffalo, speared it, and thought he had killed it, but just
as he was shouting his song of triumph it sprang up, charged,
and gored him. He staggered back and leaned against a tree; the
buffalo changed into a woman, picked up the child, and went away.
At the very moment when he fell a bloodstained
leaf dropped out of the air on his mother's breast. She knew
then that her dream had in fact been a warning of disaster; but
it was not till a night and a day had passed that she heard what
had happened. Ryang'ombe, as soon as he knew he had got his death-wound,
called all the imandwa together, and told first one and,
on his refusal, another to go and call his mother and Binego.
One after another all refused, except the maidservant, Nkonzo,
who set off at once, travelling night and day, till she came
to Nyiraryang'ombe's house and gave her the news. She came at
once with Binego, and found her son still living. Binego, when
he had heard the whole story, asked his father in which direction
the buffalo had gone; having had it pointed out, he rushed off,
overtook the woman, brought her back, and killed her, with the
child, cutting both in pieces. So he avenged his father.
Ryang'ombe then gave directions for the honours
to be paid him after his death; these are, so to speak, the charter
of the Kubandwa society which practises the cult of the imandwa.
He specially insisted that Nkonzo, as a reward for her services,
should have a place in these rites, and, accordingly, we find
her represented by one of the performers in the initiation ceremony,
as photographed by P. Schumacher. Then "at the moment when
his throat tightened" he named Binego as his successor,
and so died.
Here Ryang'ombe appears as a headstrong adventurer,
whose principal virtue is courage, and it is a little difficult
to gather from his story, as here related, why he should have
been credited with so many good qualities. He shows some affection
for his mother (though not sufficient to make him consider her
wishes) and for his son, and gratitude to the poor dependent
who fulfilled his last request-but that is all one can say.
Spirits inhabiting Volcanoes
The definition of a myth, as laid down by
the Folk-Lore Society, is: "A story told to account for
something"; of a legend: "A story told as true, but
consisting either of fact or fiction, or both indifferently."
The story of Ryang'ombe would seem to come under both definitions,
for it is certainly (at least in Ruanda-in Kiziba it is more
like an ordinary fairy-tale) told as true, and it is held to
account not only for the kubandwa mysteries (of which
P. Arnoux has given a very full account in the seventh and eighth
volumes of Anthropos), but for certain volcanic phenomena.
The Virunga volcanoes, north of Lake Kivu,
are a striking feature of the Ruanda country. They are among
the few still active in Africa, and there have been several remarkable
eruptions in quite recent times. It appears that after his death
Ryang'ombe took up his abode in the Muhavura volcano, the most
easterly of the group, where he still lives, though occasionally
migrating to Karisimbi, about midway between Lake Kivu and the
smaller lake, Bolere. The memory of former eruptions is preserved
in accounts of battles between Ryang'ombe and his enemy, Nyiragongo,
who then lived in Mount Mikeno. Ryang'ombe, with his fiery sword,
cleft this mountain from top to bottom, and drove Nyiragongo
westward to the mountain which still bears his name. He then
cut off the top of this peak with his sword, threw Nyiragongo
into it, and piled hot stones on him to keep him down. One is
reminded of Enceladus, buried under Etna by Zeus.
The other imandwa, Ryang'ombe's relatives
and dependents, are supposed to be living with him in Muhavura.
As already mentioned, they are, in the main, spiteful and mischievous,
and a great part of his energy is devoted to keeping them within
bounds. The inferior ghosts, the bazimu, are by some said to
haunt their former dwelling-places; others say that the good
ones-i.e., those who during their lifetime were initiated into
the kubandwa mysteries go to join Ryang'ombe in Muhavura,
while the 'profane' (nzigo) are sent to Nyiragongo.[1]
This notion may be due to the Hamitic invaders, as the idea of
a future state of rewards and punishments is, in general, foreign
to Bantu thought. The absence of any really moral distinction
('good' being simply synonymous with 'initiated'), coupled with
the recent date of the earliest missions to Ruanda, would negative
the supposition of Christian influence.
Names Common to Ruanda and Buganda
Before quitting the subject of Ryang'ombe
I should like to call attention to an interesting point. Dr Roscoe,
writing of Buganda, speaks of "the fetish Lyang'ombe,"
[2] but gives no details about him. In the absence of any further
information it is impossible to determine whether the name alone
was carried from Ruanda into Kiziba, and thence into Buganda,
whether it was accompanied by any elements of the original story,
or whether a fresh one grew up in its new
[1.Anthropos (1912), vol. vii.
2. The Northern Bantu, p. 134. This
word-of which anthropologists are now somewhat shy-is used by
Dr Roscoe as the equivalent of ejembe, literally, 'a horn,'
because the objects in question are usually horns, filled with
charms of all sorts and believed to be the abode, for the time
being, of some particular spirit. The Baganda speak of "the
horn of Lyang'ombe," "the horn of Nambaga," and
so on. It seems hardly correct to speak of "the fetish Lyang'ombe,"
as it is the horn, and not the spirit, which is the 'fetish '-if
that word must be used.]
home. It is evident that some, at any rate,
of the Ruanda myths, if they were ever heard, would be speedily
forgotten in a country with no active volcanoes.
Then there is Mukasa. In Buganda he is the
most important of the ' gods '-i.e., heroes or demi-gods,
originally ghosts, and quite distinct from Katonda, the creator,
probably also from Gulu, the sky-god. He has much the same character
as Ryang'ombe in Ruanda, being "a benign god, who never
asked for human life, and, perhaps, a man of old time, deified
on account of his benevolence. But the Banyaruanda make Mukasa
the son-in-law of Ryang'ombe, and so far from being of a kindly
disposition that his wife died of his cruel treatment. He was,
curiously enough, the ferryman on the Rusizi, the river which
runs out of Lake Kivu into Tanganyika. The story of his marriage
seems to be connected with some traditional hostility between
two sections of the Ruanda people.
Another point to notice is that the 'mediums'-people
possessed by the 'gods' (balubale), through whom they
give their oracles-are called in Luganda emandwa, which,
as mentioned above, is the name for the superior class of spirits
in Ruanda.
Culture-heroes
Dr Haddon says: "The term hero is usually
applied to one who stands out from among ordinary mortals by
his . . . conspicuous bravery or sustained power of endurance
. . . but [also by] inventiveness, moral or intellectual qualities,
or the introduction of new cults."[1] This might apply to
Ryang'ombe. 'Culture-heroes' are those who have done anything
"to improve the conditions of human existence." I suppose
we might reckon among these the Thonga chief who taught his people
to peg out hides on the ground in order to dress them. The earlier
process was for a number of men to stand round, hold the edges
of the hide in their teeth, and lean back till it was sufficiently
stretched. It is not clear how far this is to be taken seriously,
but we have
[1. Encyc1opædia of Religion and
Ethics, vol. vi, p. 633]
a distinct culture-hero in Kintu, who brought
goats, sheep, fowls, millet, and the banana into Buganda. Several
tribes have a legend of a mighty hunter who came into the country
with trained dogs and, like Theseus, cleared out dangerous wild
beasts or fought with monsters. Such was Mbega of the Wakilindi,
whom we shall meet in the next chapter.
Such also was Kibwebanduka, the tribal hero
of the Wazaramo, who led them from Khutu to their present home
(probably about 1700), and drove out the cannibal Akamba, who
were then occupying it.[1] It is said that his footprints and
those of his dog are still to be seen on a rock somewhere in
Khutu, to the north-west of the Zaramo country. The Baziba have
a similar hero, Kibi, who came from Bunyoro.
Sometimes animals figure as culture-heroes;
one of the hare's many adventures turns on this notion, though
sometimes the same story is told of an unnamed man or boy, who
combines his benefits with flagrant cheating. One example of
this, though not the best or most typical, occurs in the story
of Hlakanyana (told in Chapter XI, below). Meanwhile the tale
of Sudika-Mbambi will serve to illustrate what has just been
said. It comes, like that of "The Son of Kimanaweze,"
given in Chapter V, from Angola.[2]
Sudika-Mbambi the Invincible
Sudika-Mbambi was the son of Nzua dia Kimanaweze,
who married the daughter of the Sun and Moon. The young couple
were living with Nzua's parents, when one day Kimanaweze sent
his son away to Loanda to trade. The son demurred, but the father
insisted, so he went. While he was gone certain cannibal monsters,
called makishi, descended on the village and sacked it-all
the people who were not killed fled. Nzua, when he returned,
found no houses and no people; searching over the cultivated
ground, he at last came across his wife, but she was so changed
that
[1. I do not know whether there is any warrant
for this accusation against the Akamba. Cannibalism is regarded
with horror by the East African tribes in general, though some
of them are very sure that their neighbours practise it. For
Kibwebanduka see Klamroth, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen,
p. 44.
2 Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola,
p. 85.]
he did not recognize her at first. "The
makishi have destroyed us," was her explanation of
what had happened.
They seem to have camped and cultivated as
best they could; and in due course Sudika-Mbambi ('the Thunderbolt')
was born. Like others who will be mentioned later, he was a wonder-child,
who spoke before his entrance into the world, and came forth
equipped with knife, stick, and "his kilembe"-a
'mythic plant,' explained as "life-tree," which he
requested his mother to plant at the back of the house. Scarcely
had he made his appearance when another voice was heard, and
his twin brother Kabundungulu was born. The first thing they
did was to cut down poles and build a house for their parents.
Ryang'ombe and (as we shall see) Hlakanyana were similarly precocious,
but their activities were of a very different character. Soon
after this Sudika-Mbambi announced that he was going to fight
the makishi. He told Kabundungulu to stay at home and to keep
an eye on the kilembe: if it withered he would know that
his brother was dead; he then set out. On his way he was joined
by four beings who called themselves kipalendes and boasted
various accomplishments-building a house on the bare rock (a
sheer impossibility under local conditions), carving ten clubs
a day, and other more recondite operations, none of which, however,
as the event proved, they could accomplish successfully. When
they had gone a certain distance through the bush Sudika-Mbambi
-directed them to halt and build a house, in order to fight the
makishi." As soon as he had cut one pole all the
others needed cut themselves. He ordered the kipalende
who had said he could erect a house on a rock to begin building,
but as fast as a pole was set up it fell down again. The leader
then took the work in hand, and it was speedily finished.
Next day he set out to fight the makishi,
with three kipalendes, leaving the fourth in the house.
To him soon after appeared an old woman, who told him that he
might marry her granddaughter if he would fight her (the grandmother)
and overcome her. They wrestled, but the old woman soon threw
the kipalende, placed a large stone on top of him as he lay on
the ground, and left him there, unable to move.
Sudika-Mbambi, who had the gift of second-sight,
at once knew what had happened, returned with the other three,
and released the kipalende. He told his story, and the
others derided him for being beaten by a woman. Next day he accompanied
the rest, the second kipalende remaining in the house.
No details are given of the fighting with the makishi,
beyond the statement that " they are firing."[1] The
second kipalende met with the same fate as his brother,
and again Sudika-Mbambi was immediately aware of it. The incident
was repeated on the third and on the fourth day. On the fifth
Sudika-Mbambi sent the kipalendes to the war, and stayed
behind himself. The old woman challenged him; he fought her and
killed her-she seems to have been a peculiarly malignant kind
of witch, who had kept her granddaughter shut up in a stone house,
presumably as a lure for unwary strangers. It is not stated what
she intended to do with the captives whom she secured under heavy
stones, but, judging from what takes place in other stories of
this kind, one may conclude that they were kept to be eaten in
due course.
Sudika-Mbambi married the old witch's granddaughter,
and they settled down in the stone house. The kipalendes
returned with the news that the makishi were completely
defeated, and all went well for a time.
Treachery of the Kipalendes
The kipalendes, however, became envious
of their leader's good fortune, and plotted to kill him. They
dug a hole in the place where he usually rested and covered it
with mats; when he came in tired they pressed him to sit down,
which he did, and immediately fell into the hole. They covered
it up, and thought they had made an end of him. His younger brother,
at home, went to look at the 'life-tree,' and found that it had
withered. Thinking that, perhaps,
[1. Through the Portuguese occupation (dating
from the sixteenth century) guns would be familiar objects to
the Angola natives.]
there was still some hope, he poured water
on it, and it grew green again.
Sudika-Mbambi was not killed by the fall;
when he reached the bottom of the pit he looked round and saw
an opening. Entering this, he found himself in a road-the road,
in fact, which leads to the country of the dead. When he had
gone some distance he came upon an old woman, or, rather, the
upper half of one,[1] hoeing her garden by the wayside. He greeted
her, and she returned his greeting. He then asked her to show
him the way, and she said she would do so if he would hoe a little
for her, which he did. She set him on the road, and told him
to take the narrow path, not the broad one, and before arriving
at Kalunga-ngombe's house he must "carry a jug of red pepper
and a jug of wisdom." [2] It is not explained how he was
to procure these, though it is evident from the sequel that he
did so, nor how they were to be used, except that Kalunga-ngombe
makes it a condition that anyone who wants to marry his daughter
must bring them with him. We have not previously been told that
this was Sudika-Mbambi's intention. On arriving at the house
a fierce dog barked at him; he scolded it, and it let him pass.
He entered, and was courteously welcomed by people who showed
him into the guest-house and spread a mat for him. He then announced
that he had come to marry the daughter of Kalunga-ngombe. Kalunga
answered that he consented if Sudika-Mbambi had fulfilled the
conditions. He then retired for the night, and a meal was sent
in to him-a live cock and a bowl of the local porridge (funji).
He ate the porridge, with some meat which he had brought with
him; instead of killing the cock he kept him under his bed. Evidently
it was thought he would assume that the fowl was meant for him
to eat (perhaps we have here
[1. Half-beings are very common in African
folklore, but they are usually split lengthways, having one eye,
one arm, one leg, and so on. This case I thought to be quite
unique, but have since come across something of the same sort
in a manuscript from Nyasaland.
2 What is meant by "a jug of wisdom"
is not clear, but very likely it is merely a nonsense expression,
used for the sake of the pun: ndungu is 'red pepper,'
and ndunge 'wisdom.']
a remnant of the belief, not known to or not
understood by the narrator of the story, that the living must
not eat of the food of the dead), and a trick was intended, to
prevent his return to he upper world. In the middle of the night
he heard people inquiring who had killed Kalunga's cock; but
the cock crowed from under the bed, and Sudika-Mbambi was not
trapped.
Next morning, when he reminded Kalunga of
his promise, he was told that the daughter had been carried off
by the huge serpent called Kinyoka kya Tumba, and that if he
wanted to marry her he must rescue her.
Sudika-Mbambi started for Kinyoka's abode,
and asked for him. Kinyoka's wife said, "He has gone shooting."[1]
Sudika-Mbambi waited awhile, and presently saw driver ants approaching-the
dreaded ants which would consume any living thing left helpless
in their path. He stood his ground and beat them off; they were
followed by red ants, these by a swarm of bees, and these by
wasps, but none of them harmed him. Then Kinyoka's five heads
appeared, one after the other. Sudika-Mbambi cut off each as
it came, and when the fifth fell the snake was dead. He went
into the house, found Kalunga's daughter there, and took her
home to her father.
But Kalunga was not yet satisfied. There was
a giant fish, Kimbiji, which kept catching his goats and pigs.
SudikaMbambi baited a large hook with a sucking-pig and caught
Kimbiji, but even he was not strong enough to pull the monster
to land. He fell into the water, and Kimbij swallowed him.
Kabundungulu, far away at their home, saw
that his brother's life-tree had withered once more, and set
out to find him. He reached the house where the kipalendes
were keeping Sudika-Mbambi's wife captive, and asked where he
was. They denied all knowledge of him, but he felt certain there
had been foul play. "You have killed him.
[1. This need not mean that we must suppose
Kinyoka to have been other than a real serpent. Readers of "Uncle
Remus" will not need to be reminded that animals in folk-tales
perform all sorts of actions which would be quite impossible
if their real character were strictly kept in view.]
Uncover the grave." They opened up the
pit, and Kabundungulu descended into it. He met with the old
woman, and was directed to Kalunga-ngombe's dwelling. On inquiring
for his brother he was told, "Kimbiji has swallowed him."
Kabundungulu asked for a pig, baited his hook, and called the
people to his help. Between them they landed the fish, and Kabundungulu
cut it open. He found his brother's bones inside it, and took
them out. Then he said "My elder, arise!" and the bones
came to life. Sudika-Mbambi married Kalunga-ngombe's daughter,
and set out for home with her and his brother. They reached the
pit, which, it would seem, had been filled in, for we are told
that "the ground cracked," and they got out. They drove
away the four kipalendes-one is surprised to learn that
they did not kill them out of hand-and, having got rid of them,
settled down to a happy life.
But the end of the story is decidedly disappointing.
Kabundungulu felt that he was being unfairly treated, since his
brother had two wives, while he had none, and asked for one of
them to be handed over to him. Sudika-Mbambi pointed out that
this was impossible, as he was already married to both of them,
and no more was said for the time being. But some time later,
when Sudika-Mbambi returned from hunting, his wife complained
to him that Kabundungulu was persecuting them both with his attentions.
This led to a desperate quarrel between the brothers, and they
fought with swords, but could not kill each other. Both were
endowed with some magical power, so that the swords would not
cut, and neither could be wounded. At last they got tired of
fighting and separated, the elder going east and the younger
west. The narrator adds a curious sentence to the effect that
Sudika-Mbambi is the thunder in the eastern sky and Kabundungulu
the echo which answers it from the west.
Nature-myths of this sort, so far as I am
aware, occur very rarely, if at all, among the Bantu, and I am
inclined to doubt whether this conclusion really belongs to the
story.
The Wonder-child
Many Bantu tribes have a tale which may well
come under this heading. It has points of contact with those
of Sudika-Mbambi (though the main theme is quite different) and
Ryang'ombe on the one hand and, on the other, with the tricksters
Huveane and Hlakanyana. The hero-always a wonder-child, like
Ryang'ombe and Hlakanyana-is called by the Yaos Kalikalanje,
by the Anyanja Kachirambe, by the Hehe Galinkalanganye,[1] by
the Baronga Mutipi (in another story Mutikatika), and by the
Lambas Kantanga. They all have the following points in common:
A woman gets into difficulties-usually when
alone in the bush-and is helped by an ogre, a demon, or an animal
(in one case a hyena; in another a lion), on promising to hand
over to this being the next child to which she gives birth.
The birth takes place with unusual circumstances,
and the child shows marvellous precocity.
The mother, about to hand him over to the
devourer, finds him too sharp for her, and devises one stratagem
after another, which he always defeats.
Finally the ogre (or other enemy) is killed.
The opening incident varies considerably in
the different stories. In one the woman cannot lift her load
of firewood by herself; in another it is her water-jar, with
which her companions unkindly refuse to help her (in both these
cases the birth is expected very shortly); others introduce the
episode (which also occurs in several quite different stories)
of the woman sent out by her husband to look for water in which
there are no frogs. In the Angola story of Na Nzua the mother
has a craving for fish, which can only be satisfied by her promising
the child, when born, to the river-spirit Lukala. Except in the
above particular, this story differs
[1. This, from various indications, would
seem to be the form whence the preceding two are derived. It
means "the one who was held over the fire" (from kalanga,
'roast,' 'scorch'), because as soon as he was born he told his
mother to put him on a potsherd and hold him over the fire. This
may be connected with a custom of passing new-born babies through
the smoke. The Yao name has the same meaning, but is differently
explained. Kachirambe, in Nyanja, has no meaning applicable
to the story.]
markedly from the rest. That of Kachirambe,[l]
again, has an entirely different opening, and is altogether so
curious that it may well be related here.
Kachirambe of the Anyanja
Some little girls had gone out into the bush
to gather herbs. While they were thus busied one of them found
a hyena's egg [2] and put it into her basket. Apparently none
of the others saw it; she told them, somewhat to their surprise,
that she had now picked enough, and hastened home. After she
was gone the hyena came and asked them, "Who has taken my
egg?" They said they did not know, but perhaps their companion
who had gone home had carried it off. Meanwhile the girl's mother,
on finding the egg in her basket, had put it on the fire. The
hyena arrived and demanded the egg; the woman said it was burnt,
but offered to give him the next child she had to cat. Apparently
this callous suggestion was quite spontaneous on her part; but
as there was no child in prospect just then she probably thought
that the promise was quite a safe one, and that by the time its
fulfilment became possible some way out could be found. The hyena,
however, left her no peace, waylaid her every day when she went
to the stream for water, and kept asking her when the child was
to be produced. At last he said, " If you do not have that
child quickly I will eat you yourself." She went home in
great trouble, and soon after noticed a boil on her shin-bone,
which swelled and swelled, till it burst, and out came a child.[3]
He was fully armed, with bow, arrows, and quiver, had his little
gourd of charms slung round his neck, and was followed by his
[1. Rattray, Some Folk-lore Stories and
Songs in Chinyanja, p.133.
2. There is no attempt at explaining this,
and I have seen no other mention of a hyena's egg. But this animal
is, in popular belief, so abnormal that anything may be expected
of it.
3. This strange incident has several parallels,
though none, so far as I am aware, in connexion with this particular
story. The Wakuluwe (Tanganyika Territory) say that the first
woman brought forth a child in this way, and the (non-Bantu)
Nandi have a tradition that their first ancestor was an old man
who produced a boy and a girl from the calf of his leg.]
dogs! He announced himself in these words:
"I, Kachirambe, have come forth, the child of the shin-bone!"
The mother was struck with astonishment, but it does not seem
to have occurred to her to go back on her promise. When next
she went to draw water and the hyena met her with the usual question
she replied, "Yes, I have borne a child, but he is very
clever; you will never be able to catch him, but I myself will
beguile him for you. I will tie you up in a bundle of grass,
and tell Kachirambe to go and fetch it." So she tied up
the hyena in a bundle of the long grass used for thatching, and
left it lying beside the path. Kachirambe, when sent to fetch
it, stood still a little way off, and said, "You, bundle,
get up, that I may lift you the better!" And the bundle
of grass rose up of itself. Kachirambe said, "What sort
of bundle is this that gets up by itself? I have never seen the
like, and I am not going to lift it, not I!" So he went
home.
The hyena, after releasing himself from the
grass, came back and said to the woman, "Yes, truly, that
youngster of yours is a sharp one!" She told him to go in
the evening and wait in a certain place; then she called Kachirambe
and said, "I want you to set a trap in such and such a place
for the rats; they have been destroying all my baskets."
Kachirambe went and chose out a large, flat stone; then he cut
a forked stick, and whittled the cross-piece and the little stick
for the catch, and twisted some bark-string, and made a falling
trap, of the kind called diwa, and set and baited it.
In the evening his mother said to him, "The trap has fallen.
Go and see what it has caught!" He said, "You, trap,
fall again, so that I may know whether you have caught a rat!"
The hyena, waiting beside the trap, heard him, lifted up the
stone, and let it fall with a bang. Kachirambe said, What sort
of trap is it that falls twice? I have never seen such a one."
Next the mother told the hyena that she would
send Kachirambe to pick beans. The boy took the basket and went
to the field, but then he turned himself into a fly, and the
hyena waited in vain. Kachirambe returned home with a full basket,
to his mother's astonishment. She was nearly at her wits' end,
but thought of one last expedient; she sent him into the bush
to cut wood. The night before he had a dream, which warned him
that he was in great danger, so he took with him his bow, and
his quiver full of arrows, and his 'medicine-gourd,' as well
as a large knife. He climbed up into a tree which had dead branches,
and began to cut. Presently he saw the hyena below, who said,
"You are dead to-day; you shall not escape. Come down quickly,
and I will eat you!" He answered, "I am coming down,
but just open your mouth wide!" The hyena, with his usual
stupidity, did as he was told, and Kachirambe threw down a sharp
stick which he had just cut-it entered the hyena's mouth and
killed him. Kachirambe then came down and went home; when drawing
near the house he shot an arrow towards it, to frighten his mother,
and said, "What have I done to you, that you should send
wild beasts after me to eat me?" She, thoroughly scared,
begged his pardon, and we are to suppose that he granted it,
for the story ends here.
Galinkalanganye was not so forgiving; he contrived
to change places with his mother after she was asleep, and it
was she who was carried off by the hyena. Similarly, Mutipi's
mother was eaten by the lion to whom she had promised her son,
and Kalikalanje himself killed his mother, after he and his companions
had shot Namzimu (the demon who had come to claim him). The tricks
devised for handing over these lads to the enemy, and the stratagems
by which they are defeated, vary in the different stories, but
the bundle of grass appears in every one, and also in that of
Huveane.
CHAPTER IX: THE WAKILINDI SAGA
A SAGA is defined by
one authority as "a series of legends which follows in detail
the lives and adventures of characters who are probably historical."
We are therefore quite right in applying this name to the stories
related about the high chiefs of Usambara, who are certainly
historical characters, though perhaps not all of the adventures
attributed to them ever really took place.
Usambara is one of the most beautiful countries
to be found in Africa-a land of rocky hills and clear streams,
of woods and fertile valleys. The upland pastures feed herds
of cattle and countless flocks of sheep and goats; the bottom
lands and even the hill-slopes are carefully cultivated and bear
abundant crops of plantains and sugar-cane, rice and maize and
millet. The first European to visit this country was Krapf, the
missionary, who walked overland from Rabai in 1848, and was overjoyed
at the thought of planting a mission in such a little paradise.
The paramount chief, Kimweri, received him hospitably, and consented
to give him a piece of ground to build on, though circumstances
prevented this plan from being carried out till the arrival of
the Universities' Mission, some twenty years later. Krapf was
greatly impressed, not only by the scenery and the abundant resources
of the country, but by the evidences of order and good government
which met him on every side.
This Kimweri, who died at a great age in 1869,
seems to have been the fifth of his line. Its founder is described
as an Arab who came from Pemba to the Zigula country and built
his house on the hill Kilindi, in the district of Nguu, or Nguru.
Here he settled down, married more than one wife, and had a numerous
family. One of his wives, seemingly the youngest, or, at any
rate, the latest married, had two sons, of whom the younger is
the Shambala national hero, Mbega.[1]
[1. The main source of this narrative is a
Swahili account, written by the late Abdallah bin Hemedi, and
printed at the Universities' Mission, Magila.]
Mbega, a Child of Ill-omen
Mbega would, in ordinary circumstances, have
had short shrift, for he cut his upper teeth first, and such
infants are, by most of the Bantu, considered extremely unlucky.
Indeed, so strong is the belief that if allowed to grow up they
would become dangerous criminals that in former times they were
invariably put to death. At Rabai, on the now forsaken site of
the old fortified village on the hill-top, a steep declivity
is pointed out where such ill-omened babies were thrown down.
It must have been the rarity of this occurrence that caused it
to be regarded as unnatural, and so produced the belief. Mbega's
parents, however, no doubt because his father despised such pagan
superstitions (he must have been a Moslem, though his sons did
not follow his faith), paid no attention to this custom, but
on the contrary took every care of him, and he grew up strong
and handsome and beloved by every one, except his half-brothers,
the sons of the other wives. Their hostility could not injure
him as long as his father lived, but both parents died while
he was still a youth. He had a protector, however, in his elder
brother, "his brother of the same father and the same mother"-a
tie always thus carefully specified in a polygamous society.
But this brother died, and the rest took on themselves the disposal
of his property, which-along with the guardianship of the widow
and children-should naturally have passed to Mbega. They did
not even summon him to the funeral.
When all the proper ceremonies had been performed
and the time came for "taking away the mourning," which
means slaughtering cattle and making a feast for the whole clan,
at, or after, which the heir is placed in possession, all the
relatives were assembled, but not the slightest notice was taken
of the rightful heir. Mbega, naturally, was deeply wounded-the
record represents him as saying, "Oh, that my brother were
alive! 1 have no one to advise me, no one; my father is dead,
and my mother is dead!" So he went his way home, and wept
upon his bed (akalia kitandani pake), and was ready to
despair.
Mbega shut out from his Inheritance
The brothers chose the son of a more distant
kinsman to succeed to the property and marry the widow, and handed
over to him the dead man's house and a share of his cattle, dividing
the rest among themselves. Mbega, hearing of this, as he could
not fail to do, consulted with the old men of the village, and
sent them to his brothers and the whole clan, with the following
message: "Why do they not give me my inheritance? Never
once when one of the family died have they called me to the funeral.
What wrong have I done?"
When the messengers had finished speaking
"those brothers looked each other in the eyes, and every
man said to his fellow, 'Do you answer.'" At last one of
them spoke up and said, "Listen, ye who have come, and we
will tell you. That Mbega of yours is mad. Why should he send
you to us instead of coming himself? Tell him that there is no
man in our clan named Mbega. We do not want to see him or to
have anything to do with him."
The old men asked what Mbega had done, that
they should hate him so, and the spokesman replied that he was
a sorcerer (mchawi) who had caused all the deaths that
had taken place in the clan. Anyone might know that he was not
a normal human creature, since he was a kigego who had
cut his upper teeth first; but his parents had been weak enough
to conceal the fact and bring him up like any other child. He
went on to say that when Mbega's mother died he and the others
had consulted a diviner, who told them that Mbega-was responsible
(a cruel slander on a most affectionate son), and they had represented
to their father that he ought to be killed, "but he would
not agree through his great love for him." Now that Mbega's
parents and his own brother were no more they would take things
into their own hands, since, if let alone, he would exterminate
the whole clan. They did not wish to have his blood on their
hands, but let him depart out of the country on peril of his
life, and, as for the messengers: "Do not you come here
again with any word from Mbega." They replied, with the
quiet dignity of aged councillors, "We shall not come again
to you." So they returned to Mbega, who received them with
the usual courtesies and would not inquire about their errand
till they had rested and been fed and had a smoke. Then they
told him all, and he said, "I have heard your words and
theirs, and in truth I have no need to send men to them again.
I, too, want no dealings with them."
Mbega, a Mighty Hunter
Now Mbega, though hated by his near kinsmen,
was beloved by the rest of the tribe, more especially the young
men, whom he took with him on hunting expeditions and taught
the use of trained dogs, then a novelty in the country. His father,
no doubt, had brought some with him from Pemba. The name of Mbega's
own favourite dog, Chamfumu, has been preserved. The chronicler
adds: "This one was his heart." It does not seem clear
whether this phrase merely expresses the degree of his affection
for this particular dog, or whether there is some hint that Mbega's
life was bound up with him. This idea of the totem animal as
'external soul' was probably not strange to the old-time Washambala,
but Abdallah bin Hemedi might well fall to understand it, and
nothing of the sort appears anywhere else in the story.
The land was sorely plagued with wild beasts,
which ravaged the flocks and destroyed the crops. We hear most
of the wild swine, which still, in many parts of East Africa,
make the cultivator's life a burden to him. Mbega and his band
of devoted followers scoured the woods with the dogs, put a stop
to the depredations of the animals, and supplied the villagers
with meat.
When Mbega's messengers had reported the answer
returned by his brothers he called his friends together, told
them the whole story, and informed them that he would have to
leave the country. They asked where he was going, and he replied
that he did not know yet, but would find out by divination, and
would then call them together and take leave of them.
We are given to understand that Mbega was
highly skilled in magic-white magic, of course-and this may have
lent some colour to his brothers' accusations. If the expression
he used on this occasion ("I am going to use the sand-board")
is to be taken literally it seems to refer to the Arab method
of divining by means of sand spread on a board, the knowledge
of which Mbega's father may have brought with him from Pemba.
The young men protested against the notion
of his leaving them, and declared that they would follow him
wherever he went. He was determined not to allow this , knowing
it would cause trouble with their parents, but said no more till
he had decided on his course. He then consulted the oracle, and
determined to direct his steps towards Kilindi, where he was
well known. Next day, his friends being assembled, he told them
he must leave them. He would not tell them where he was going,
in case they should be asked by his brothers. They were very
unwilling to agree to this, insisting that they would go with
him, but were persuaded at last to give way. He sent for all
his dogs and distributed them among the young men, keeping for
himself seven couples, among them the great Chamfumu, "who
was his heart." He also gave them his recipes for hunting
magic, in which, to this day, most natives put more faith than
in the skill of the hunter or the excellence of his weapons.
Mbega goes to Kilindi
So Mbega went forth, carrying his spears,
large and small, and his dog-bells, and his wallet of charms,
and, followed by his pack, came on the evening of the second
day to the gate of Kilindi town. It was already shut for the
night, and, though those within answered his call, they hesitated
to admit him till he had convinced them that he was indeed Mbega
of Nguu, the hunter of the wild boar. Then the gate was thrown
open, and the whole town rushed to welcome him, crying, "It
is he! It is he!" They escorted him to the presence of the
chief, who greeted him warmly, assigned him a dwelling, and gave
orders that everything possible should be done to honour him.
"So they gave him a house, with bedsteads and Zigula mats"-about
all that was usual in the way of furniture-and when all the people
summoned for the occasion had gone their several ways rejoicing
Mbega rested for two or three days.
He remained at Kilindi for many months, and
not only cleared the countryside of noxious beasts, but secured
the town by his magic against human and other enemies. He possessed
the secret of raising such a thick mist as to render it invisible
to any attacking force, and could supply charms to protect men
and cattle from lions and leopards. He seems also to have had
some skill as a herbalist, for we are told that he healed the
sick. In these ways, and still more "because he was he,"
he made himself universally beloved. The chief's son, in particular,
who insisted on making blood brotherhood with him, worshipped
him with all a youth's enthusiasm.
Death of the Chief's Son
As time went on all the wild pigs in the immediate
neighbourhood of Kilindi were killed or driven away, and the
cultivators had peace; but one day it was reported that there
was a number of peculiarly large and fierce ones in a wood two
or three days' journey distant. Mbega at once prepared to set
out, and the chief's son wished to go with him. Mbega was unwilling
to take the risk, and his companions all tried to dissuade the
young man, but he insisted, and they finally gave way, on condition
of his getting his father's leave. The father consented, and
he joined the party.
The pigs, when found, were indeed fierce:
it is said they "roared like lions." The dogs, excited
beyond their wont by a stimulant Mbega administered to them,
were equally fierce, and when the hunters rushed in with their
spears some of them were overthrown in the struggle and others
compelled to take refuge in trees. A number of pigs were killed,
but five men were hurt, and when the ground was cleared it was
found that the chief's son was dead.
There could be no question of returning to
Kilindi: Mbega knew he would be held responsible for the lad's
death, and for once was quite at a loss. When the others said,
"What shall we do? " he answered, "I have nothing
to say; it is for you to decide." They said they must fly
the country, and as he, being a stranger, did not know where
to go they offered to guide him. So they set out together, fifteen
men in all (the names of ten among them have been preserved by
tradition), with eleven dogs-it would seem that three had perished
in the late or some other encounter with the wild boars. Their
wanderings, recorded in detail, ended in Zirai, on the borders
of Usambara, where they settled for some time, and Mbega's fame
spread throughout the country. The elders of Bumburi (in Usambara)
sent and invited him to become their chief, "and he ruled
over the whole country and was renowned for his skill in magic,
and his kindness, and the comeliness of his face, and his knowledge
of the law; and if any man was pressed for a debt Mbega would
pay it for him." He married a young maiden of Bumburi, and
no doubt looked forward to spending the rest of his life there.
But he had reckoned without the men of Vuga.
Mbega called to be Chief of Vuga
Vuga, the most important community of Usambara,
had for some time been at war with the hillmen of Pare. The headman,
Turi, having heard reports of Mbega's great powers, especially
as regards war-magic, first sent messengers to inquire into the
truth of these reports, and then came himself in state to invite
him to be their chief. He encamped with his party at Karange,
a short distance from Bumburi, with beating of drums and blowing
of warhorns. Mbega, hearing that they had arrived, prepared to
go to meet them, and also to give some proof of his power. Having
put on his robe of tanned bullock's hide and armed himself with
sword, spear, and club, he sent off a runner, bidding him say,
"Let our guest excuse me for a little, while I talk with
the clouds, that the sun may be covered, since it is so hot that
we cannot greet each other comfortably." For it was the
season of the kaskazi, the north-east monsoon, when the
sun is at its fiercest.
The Vuga men were astonished at receiving
this message, but very soon they saw a mist rising, which spread
till it became a great cloud and quite obscured the sun. Mbega
had filled his magic gourd with water and shaken it up; then
taken a fire-brand, beaten it on the ground till the glowing
embers were scattered, and then quenched them with the water
from the gourd. The rising steam formed the cloud, and the Vuga
elders were duly impressed.
When, at last, they saw h m face to face they
felt that all they had been told of him was true, so comely was
his face and so noble his bearing. Turi explained why he had
come, and after the usual steps had been taken for entertaining
the guests Mbega agreed to accept the invitation on certain conditions.
These chiefly concerned the building of his house and the fetching
of the charms which he had left in charge of his Kilindi friends
at their camp in the bush. These were to be taken to Vuga by
a trusty messenger and hidden at a spot on the road outside the
town, which he would have to pass.
Everything being agreed upon, Mbega went to
inform his father-in-law, and ask his leave to take away his
wife-an interesting point, as indicating that the tribal organization
was matrilineal. It should also be noted that the father-in-law,
while consenting for his own part, said that his wife must also
be consulted. She, however, made no difficulty, "but I must
certainly go and take leave of my daughter."
Mbega than bade farewell to the elders of
Bumburi, insisting that he did not wish to lose touch with them
and enjoining on them to send word to him at Vuga of any important
matter. He wanted his wife's brother to accompany him, so that
she might not feel cut off from all her relatives; also four
of the old men.
The party set out, travelling by night and
resting by day, when Mbega sacrificed a sheep and performed various
'secret rites,' which he explained to his brother-in-law. On
the following morning they reached the place where the charms
had been deposited, and the man who had hidden them produced
them and handed them over to Mbega, who gave them to his wife
to keep. They camped in this place for the day, and when night
came on a lion made his appearance. The men scattered and fled;
Mbega followed the lion up and killed him with one thrust of
his spear. When his men came back he gave most careful directions
about taking off and curing the skin, for reasons which will
appear later. They then set out once more, and reached Vuga by
easy stages early in the morning. The war-drum was beaten, and
was answered by drums from the nearest hills, and those again
by others from more distant ones, proclaiming to the whole countryside
that the chief had come. And from every village, far and near,
the people thronged to greet him. His house was built, thatched,
and plastered according to his instructions, and when it was
finished he had cattle killed and made a feast for the workers,
both men and women. He then sent for the lion-skin, which meanwhile
had been carefully prepared, and had it made into a bed for his
wife, who was shortly expecting her first child.
Soon after she had taken her place on this
couch Turi's wife was sent for, and, she having called the other
skilled women to attend on the queen, before long the cry of
rejoicing, usual on such occasions, was raised. All the people
came, bringing gifts and greetings, and Mbega had a bullock killed,
and sent in some meat for the nurses. His first question to them
was whether the birth had taken place on the lion-skin; when
informed that it had he asked whether the child was a boy or
a girl. They told him that it was a boy, and he asked, "Have
you given him his 'praise-name' yet?"[1] They answered that
they had not done so, where-
[1. The term used is jina la mzaha,
translated by Madan, in his Swahili dictionary, as "nickname,"
but the meaning is really the same as the Zulu isibongo,
an honorific title. Its use caused some heart-burnings in a later
generation, when two branches of the family quarrelled. Stanley,
in 1871, had some trouble with a kind of brigand called Simba
Mwene, who had a fortified stronghold on the road to Unyanyembe,
but this man, I believe, was in no way connected with the Wakilindi,
and had assumed the title with no right to it.]
upon he said that the boy's name was to be
Simba, the Lion, and by this name he was to be greeted. Mbega's
original name-the one first given him in his childhood-was Mwene,
hence his son was to be greeted as Simba (son) of Mwene, which
became a title handed down in the male line of the dynasty. But
the name officially bestowed on the boy, at the usual time, was
Buge.
As soon as the child was old enough his mother's
kinsmen claimed him, and he was brought up by his uncles at Bumburi-another
indication of mother-right in Usambara. Mbega afterwards married
at least one other wife, and had several sons, but Buge's mother
was the 'Great Wife,' and her son the heir. When he had arrived
at manhood his kinsmen at Bumburi asked Mbega's permission to
install him as their chief, which was readily granted. The lad
ruled wisely, and bade fair to tread in his father's footsteps.
His younger brothers, as they grew up, were also put in charge
of districts, ruling as Mbega's deputies; this continued to be
the custom with the Wakilindi chiefs, who also assigned districts
to their daughters.
Mbega's Death and Burial
Now it came to pass that Mbega fell sick,
but no one knew it except five old men who were in close attendance
on him. His failing to appear in public created no surprise,
for he had been in the habit, occasionally, of shutting himself
up for ten days at a time and seeing no one, when it was given
out that he was engaged in magic, as was, indeed, the case. His
illness, which was not known even to his sons, lasted only three
days, and the old men kept his death secret for some time. They
sent messengers to Bumburi by night to tell Buge that his father
was very ill and had sent for him, He set off at once, and, on
arriving, was met by the news that Mbega was dead. The funeral
was carried out secretly-no doubt in order to secure- the succession
by having Buge on the spot before his father's death was known.
First a black bull was killed and skinned and the grave lined
with its hide; then a black cat was found and killed and a boy
and a girl chosen who had to lie down in the grave, side by side,
and stay there till the corpse was lowered into it. This, no
doubt, was a symbolical act, representing what in former times
would have been a human sacrifice. When the corpse was laid in
the grave the two came out of it, and were thenceforth tabu
to each other: they were forbidden to meet again as long as they
lived. Then the cat was placed beside the dead man and the grave
filled in.
All this was done without the knowledge of
the people in the town. The elders agreed to install Buge as
successor to his father, and his wife was sent for from Bumburi.
She arrived in the early morning, and at break of day the drums
were sounded, announcing the death of the chief, and Buge sacrificed
two bullocks at his father's grave. Then he was solemnly proclaimed
as chief, and his younger brother Kimweri took his place at Bumburi.
Mboza and Magembe
Buge's reign was a short one; when he died
Shebuge, the son of his principal wife, was still under age.
He had, by another wife, a son, Magembe, and a daughter, Mboza,
somewhat older than her brother. She was a woman of considerable
ability and great force of character, as is apparent from the
fact that the elders consulted her about the succession. She
advised them to appoint Kimweri, keeping her own counsel as to
further developments, for she was determined that her own full
brother, Magembe, should succeed him.
Kimweri died after a reign of eight years,
and was buried with the same rites as his father and brother,
Mboza hurrying on the funeral without waiting for her brothers.
Shebuge and Magembe, unable to arrive in time, sent cattle for
the sacrificial feast. Mboza summoned a council of the elders,
and gave her vote in favour of electing Magembe to the chieftainship,
to which they agreed. She then said that in her opinion the mourning
had lasted long enough, and they should now end it with the usual
feast, after which she would go home to Mwasha and-when the proper
number of days had passed-send the herald (mlao) with
orders for the warriors to go and fetch the chief (zumbe).
Now word was brought to Shebuge at Balangai
that Magembe was about to be proclaimed chief of Vuga by his
sister Mboza. He made no protest, but contented himself with
saying that he certainly intended to claim his share of his father's
treasure, and to call himself, henceforward, not Shebuge, but
Kinyasi. This he explained to mean: "I walk alone; I have
no fellow."
When six months had passed Mboza sent word
that the kitara (as the Zulus would say, "the King's
kraal") was to be made ready, and messengers sent to fetch
Magembe from Mulungui, where he lived. When she heard the signal-drums
announcing his arrival she would set out for Vuga with her people.
So far all her plans had worked smoothly, as no one dared oppose
her, "for she was a woman of a fierce spirit and feared
throughout the country, because of her skill in magic."
But now she met with a check: her messengers, on their way to
Mulungui, were intercepted by Shebuge Kinvasi's maternal uncles,
who induced them to delay while they themselves started for Balangal
and conducted their nephew in triumph to Vuga. The messengers
reached Mulungui, and set out on the return journey with Magembe,
but always, without knowing it, a stage behind his rival. When,
with the dawn, they reached Kihitu the royal drums crashed out
in the town, and, marching on, they were further perplexed by
hearing the shouts of Mbogo! Mbogo! ('Buffalo!'), with
which the multitude were greeting the new chief. They were speedily
enlightened by people coming from the town. Magembe, as soon
as he knew that matters were finally settled, left Usambara in
disgust, never to return; but this comes a little later in the
story; for the moment the chronicler is more concerned with Mboza.
That princess left Mwasha as soon as the boom
of the great drum was heard, and by midday had halted at the
villages just outside Vuga, when she heard from some people returning
from the town, who stopped to greet her, the name of the new
chief. She at once sent for the elders and some of the principal
men. "Let them come hither to the gate, that I may question
them!" The men delivered their message to the Mlugu,[l]
who asked: "Why so? Can she not enter the town and greet
the chief?" Whereto the reply was brief and sufficient:
"She does not want to do so."
So they all went out and found her standing
in the road, staff in hand, her sword girt about her and her
kerrie stung over her shoulder, and they greeted her, but she
answered not a word. At last she spoke and said, "Who is
the chief who has entered the town?"
And the Mlugu answered, "It is Shebuge
Kinyasi of Balangai." Said Mboza: "Whose counsel was
this? When I called you, together with all the men of your country,
and said to you, men of Vuga, 'Let us now all of us choose the
chief,' we chose Magembe. Who,then,has dared to change the decision
behind my back?"
Mboza emigrates and founds another Kingdom
They explained what had happened, and, once
it had been made clear to her that Shebuge had already entered
the kigiri, [2] she knew the matter was past remedy, and
shook the dust of Vuga from her feet, sending back to Shebuge's
uncles a message which the bearers could not understand, but
took to be a curse, and were filled with fear accordingly. Shebuge,
however, paid no heed to it.
Mboza, with her husband, her three sons and
two daughters, her servants, and her cattle, left at once for
Mshihwi, the husband's home country. There she founded a new
settlement, which she called Vuga, as a rival to her brother's
town. The local inhabitants were very ready to welcome her, and
to all who came to greet her she distributed cattle and goats
and announced her intentions: "I set this my son Shebuge
as chief in this my town, and he shall be
[1. A high official; the title is sometimes
rendered 'Prince.'
2 Kigiri is, properly, the mausoleum
of the chiefs, which is placed in a special hut within the royal
kraal. When the new chief has been introduced into this, in the
course of his installation, his appointment is confirmed beyond
recall. When she heard that this had taken place Mboza knew that
her case was hopeless.]
greeted as 'Lion Lord,' like as his uncle
at Vuga." She thus founded a rival line, and when, in the
course of years, she felt her end approaching she straitly charged
all her children never to set foot in the original Vuga, or to
be induced, on any pretext, to enter into friendly relations
with their kinsmen there. To her eldest son she left all her
charms, and imparted to him her secret knowledge, to be made
use of in case of war-such as the magic for raising a mist and
the charms for turning back the enemy from the town. Her last
words to him were an injunction to keep up the feud for ever,
"you and your brothers, your sons and your grandsons."
Shebuge's Wars and Death
Shebuge Kinyasi, for his part, was little
disposed towards conciliation, and the two Vugas were soon at
war, which continued till his attention was claimed in other
directions. Unlike his grandfather, Mbega, who is not extolled
as a warrior, but as a great hunter and a general benefactor
to his people, Shebuge was ambitious to distinguish himself as
a conqueror. He was successful for a time, making tributary,
not only all the districts now included in Usambara, but the
Wadigo and other tribes as far as the coast at Pangani, Tanga,
and Vanga. The Wazigula, however, refused to submit to him, and
in a fight with them he was cut off with a few followers and
overpowered by numbers. "They let off arrows like drops
of rain or waves in a storm. And Shebuge was hit by an arrow,
and he died.".
Next morning, when the Wazigula came to pick
up the weapons of the slain, they found a man sitting beside
Shebuge's body. He drew his bow on the first man who approached
him and shot him dead, and so with the next and the next, but
at last the rest surrounded him and seized him, and asked, "Who
art thou?" And he said, "I am Kivava, a man overcome
with sorrow and compassion." They said, "Wherefore
are thy compassion and thy sorrow. He answered, In your battle
yesterday my chief was slain." They asked him, "What
chief?"
He told them: "In yesterday's fight Shebuge
died. My fellows fled, but, as for me, I had sworn a free man's
oath: this Shebuge who is dead was my friend at home; I bade
farewell to my comrades; but, as for me, I cannot leave Shebuge.
If I were to go back to Vuga, how should I face Shebuge's children,
and his wives? My life is finished to-day. I was called 'the
Chief's Friend'-I can no longer bear that name. It is better
that I too should die as Shebuge has died."
They declared that they did not want to kill
him, and turned to leave, but he, to provoke them, shot an arrow
after them and hit the Zigula chief's son. Then at last they
seized him, and he said, "Slay me not elsewhere, only on
this spot where Shebuge is lying." So they slew him and
left him there. And when they reached their village they told
to all men the tale of Shebuge's friend, who kept troth and loved
him to the death.
The fugitives of Shebuge's host, who meanwhile
had reached the Ruvu river, heard the news on the following day;
they gathered together and returned to the battlefield, which
was quite deserted by the enemy. They made a bier and took up
Shebuge's body and laid him on it, and so brought him back to
Vuga for burial. And his son Kimweri succeeded him.
From thenceforth it was fixed that the chiefs
of Vuga should bear the names of Kimweri and Shebuge in alternate
generations. This Kimweri is he who was mentioned at the beginning
of the chapter and is usually known as "the Great."
With him we have definitely passed into the light of history,
as known to Europeans-and there we may leave the Wakilindi.
CHAPTER X: THE STORY OF LIONGO FUMO
BISHOP STEERE wrote,
in 1869, that "the story of Liongo is the nearest approach
to a bit of real history I was able to meet with. It is said
that a sister or Liongo came to Zanzibar, and that her descendants
are still living there."[1]
Since reading these words I have been informed
that there is now at Mombasa a family of the Shaka clan and tribe
claiming descent from Liongo Fumo. Even apart from this, there
seems every reason to believe that he had a real existence, though
some mythical elements have been incorporated into his legend.
Shaka, which gives its name to one of the
thirteen tribes (miji, or, as they are more usually called,
mataifa) of Mombasa, was a small principality at the mouth
of the Ozi river, founded in very early times by colonists from
Persia. The ruins of Shaka may still be seen not very far from
the present town of Kipini, and another group of ruins, somewhat
nearer it, goes by the name of Wangwana wa Mashah, "the
noblemen of the Shahs." The rulers of Shaka, to whose family
Liongo Fumo belonged, bore the Persian title of Shah.
Liongo Fumo, Poet and Bowman
Shaka was conquered by Sultan Omar of Pate,
whose dates are variously given, but he seems to have been more
or less contemporary with our Edward III, one authority even
putting him as early as 1306. It is therefore safe to say that
Liongo flourished during the twelfth century, if not earlier.
It is true that one informant said to me, Liongo warred with
the Portuguese," which would put him not earlier than the
sixteenth century, but this is not supported by the general weight
of authority.
Liongo's grave was pointed out to me at Kipini
in 1912, also the site of the well outside the city gate which
plays a
[1. Swahili Tales, p. vi.]
part in his story, and even the exact spot
where he met his death. Most people, there and at Lamu, knew,
at any rate, the song which is handed down as having been sung
by him in prison, and almost anyone you met, Swahili or Pokomo,
could tell you his story.
Many poems attributed to him circulate in
manuscript among educated Swahili, and some are recited from
memory even by the illiterate. It was two poor labourers, working
on a cotton plantation, who showed me Liongo's grave They were
evidently quite familiar with the story. One of the Poems was
printed by Steere at the end of his Swahili Tales, with an English
translation and a rendering into modern Swahili supplied by a
native scholar at Zanzibar. As a rule, the language in which
they are written is to a Swahili much as Chaucer's English is
to us.
Liongo, as we have seen, was of the house
of the Shaka Mashah, but, though the eldest son, could not succeed
his father, his mother having been one of the inferior wives.
He seems, however, to have been in every way more able than his
brother, the lawful Shah Mringwari. His extraordinary stature
and strength, his courage, his skill with the bow, and his poetical
talents have been celebrated over and over again in song and
story. The Pokomo fisherfolk tell how he conquered them and imposed
on them the "tribute of heads"-that is to say, from
every large village two boys and two girls, from every small
village one of each. Also how he was "a tall man" (muntu
muyeya) and very strong, and once, leaving Shaka in the morning,
walked to Gana (at or near the present Chara)-about two days'
journey each way-and returned the same day.
Liongo and his brother were not on good terms.
By whose fault the quarrel began we are not told, but it is quite
conceivable that the elder, kept by no fault of his own out of
a position which he considered his due, and which he was more
competent to fill than Mringwari, chafed under a sense of injustice,
which embittered his already overbearing temper. It does not
appear that, like Absalom, he stole the hearts of the people,
for Mringwari had always been the more popular of the two, and
Liongo's high-handed ways soon made him hated; yet he always
had some to love him. Like Napoleon, he seems to have had a gift
that way, which he exercised when he chose. Among the poems attributed
to him is the tender Pani kiti:
Anyhow, the enmity between the two went so
far that Liongo attempted Mringwari's life.
The "Hadithi yar Liongo"
A poem of uncertain date (not supposed to
be written by him, but telling his story) relates how certain
Galla, coming to Pate to trade, heard of Liongo from the sultan,
who dwelt so much on his prowess that their curiosity was aroused,
and they expressed a wish to see him. So he sent a letter to
Liongo at Shaka, desiring him to come. Liongo replied "with
respect and courtesy" that he would come, and he set out
on the following day, fully armed and carrying three trumpets
.[2] The journey from Shaka to Pate was reckoned at four days,
but Liongo arrived the day after he had started. At the city
gate he blew such a blast that the trumpet was split, and the
Galla asked, "What is it? Who has raised such a cry?"
He answered, "It is Liongo who has come!"
Liongo sounded his second trumpet, and burst
it; he then took the third, and the townsfolk all ran together,
the Galla among them, to see what this portended. He then sent
a messenger to say, "Our lord Liongo asks leave to enter."
The gate was thrown open, and he was invited in, all the Galla
being struck with astonishment and terror at the sight of him.
"This is a lord of war," they said; "he can put
a hundred armies to flight."
He sat down, at the same time laying on the
ground the
[1. Steere's translation, in Swahili Tales,
P. 473.
2. Panda, probably of ivory, like the
great siwa of Lamu, still in existence.]
wallet which he had been carrying. After resting
awhile he took out from it a mortar and pestle, a millstone,
cooking pots of no common size, and the three stones used for
supporting them over the fire.[1] The Galla stood by, gaping
with amazement, and when at last they found speech they said
to the sultan, "We want him for a prince, to marry one of
our daughters, that a son of his may bring glory to our tribe."
The sultan undertook to open the matter to Liongo, who agreed,
on certain conditions (what these were we are not told), and
the wedding was celebrated with great rejoicing at the Galla
kraals. In due course a son was born, who, as he grew up, bade
fair to resemble his father in strength and beauty.
It would seem as if Liongo had been living
for some time at Pate (for he did not take up his abode permanently
with the Galla)-no doubt as a result of the quarrel with his
brother. But now some one-whether an emissary of Mringwari's
or some of the Galla whom he had offended-stirred up trouble;
"enmity arose against him," and, finding that the sultan
had determined on his death, he left Pate for the mainland. There
he took refuge with the forest-folk, the Wasanye and Wadahalo.
These soon received a message from Pate, offering them a hundred
reals (silver dollars) [2] if they would bring in Liongo's
head. They were not proof against the temptation, and, unable
to face him in fight, planned a treacherous scheme for his destruction.
They approached him one day with a suggestion for a kikoa,[3]
since a regular feast-in their roving forest life-"is not
to be done." They were to dine off makoma (the fruit
of the Hyphaene palm), each man taking his turn at climbing
a tree and gathering for the party, the intention being to shoot
Liongo when they had him at a disadvantage. However, when it
came to his
[1. This poet describes Liongo as a giant,
on the scale of Goliath of Gath. The Galla-who as a rule are
tall men-"only reached to his knees." But most accounts
speak of him merely as an ordinary human being of unusual stature
and strength.
2 Of course a touch inserted by some comparatively
recent writer or copyist.
3 Defined by Madan as " a meal eaten
in common provided by each of those who join in it by turns."
The one in the story was repeated as many times as there were
people taking part.]
turn, having chosen the tallest palm, he defeated
them by shooting down the nuts, one by one, where he stood. This,
by the by, is the only instance recorded of his marksmanship,
though his skill with the bow is one of his titles to fame.
Liongo escapes from Captivity
The Wasanye now gave up in despair, and sent
word to the sultan that Liongo was not to be overcome either
by force or guile. He, unwilling to trust them any further, left
them and went to Shaka,[l] where he met his mother and his son.
His Galla wife seems to have remained with her people, and we
hear nothing from this authority of any other wives he may have
had. Here, at last, he was captured by his brother's men, seized
while asleep-one account says: "first having been given
wine to drink": it was probably drugged. He was then secured
in the prison in the usual way, his feet chained together with
a post between them, and fetters on his hands. He was guarded
day and night by warriors. There was much debating as to what
should be done with him. There was a general desire to get rid
of him, but some of Mringwari's councillors were of opinion that
he was too dangerous to be dealt with directly: it would be better
to give him the command of the army and let him perish, like
Uriah, in the forefront of the battle. Mringwari thought this
would be too great a risk, and there could be none in killing
him, fettered as he was.
Meanwhile Liongo's mother sent her slave-girl
Saada every day to the prison with food for her son, which the
guards invariably seized, only tossing him the scraps.
Mringwari, when at last he had come to a decision,
sent a slave-lad to the captive, to tell him that he must die
in three days' time, but if he had a last wish it should be granted,
"that you may take your leave of the world." Liongo
sent word that he wished to have a gungu dance performed
where he could see and hear it, and this was granted.
[1. Pate, in the poem I have been quoting
from, but this is inconsistent with the further development of
the narrative.]
He then fell to composing a song, which is
known and sung to this day:
O thou handmaid Saada, list my words to-day!
Haste thee to my mother, tell her what I say.
Bid her bake for me a cake of chaff and bran, I pray,
And hide therein an iron file to cut my bonds away,
File to free my fettered feet, swiftly as I may;
Forth I'll glide like serpent's child, silently to slay.
When Saada came again he sang this over to
her several times, till she knew it by heart-the guards either
did not understand the words or were too much occupied with the
dinner of which they had robbed him to pay any attention to his
music. Saada went home and repeated the song to her mistress,
who lost no time, but went out at once and bought some files.
Next morning she prepared a better meal than usual, and also
baked such a loaf as her son asked for, into which she inserted
the files, wrapped in a rag.
When Saada arrived at the prison the guards
took the food as usual, and, after a glance at the bran loaf,
threw it contemptuously to Liongo, who appeared to take it with
a look of sullen resignation to his fate.
When the dance was arranged he called the
chief performers together and taught them a new song-perhaps
one of the "Gungu Dance Songs" which have been handed
down under his name. There was an unusually full orchestra: horns,
trumpets, cymbals (matoazi), gongs (tasa), and
the complete set of drums, while Liongo himself led the singing.
When the band was playing its loudest he began filing at his
fetters, the sound being quite inaudible amid the din; when the
performers paused he stopped filing and lifted up his voice again.
So he gradually cut through his foot-shackles and his handcuffs,
and, rising up in his might, like Samson, burst the door, seized
two of the guards, knocked their heads together, and threw them
down dead. The musicians dropped their instruments and fled,
the crowd scattered like a flock of sheep, and Liongo took to
the woods, after going outside the town to take leave of his
mother, none daring to stay him.
Liongo undone by Treachery at last
Here he led an outlaw's life, raiding towns
and plundering travellers, and Mringwari was at his wits' end
to compass his destruction. At last Liongo's son-or, as some
say, his sister's son[1]-was gained over and induced to ferret
out the secret of Liongo's charmed life, since it had been discovered
by this time that neither spear nor arrow could wound him. The
lad sought out his father, and greeted him with a great show
of affection; but Liongo was not deceived. He made no difficulty,
however, about revealing the secret-perhaps he felt that his
time had come and that it was useless to fight against destiny.
When his son said to him) after some hesitation, "My father,
it is the desire of my heart-since I fear danger for you-that
I might know for certain what it is that can kill you,"
Liongo replied, "I think, since you ask me this, that you
are seeking to kill me." The son, of course, protested:
"I swear by the Bountiful One I am not one to do this thing!
Father, if you die, to whom shall I go? I shall be utterly destitute."
Liongo answered, My son, I know how you have
been instructed and how you will be deceived in your turn. Those
who are making use of you now will laugh you to scorn, and you
will bitterly regret your doings! Yet, though it be so, I will
tell you! That which can slay me is a copper nail driven into
the navel. From any other weapon than this I can take no hurt."
The son waited two days, and on the third made an excuse to hasten
back to Pate,[2] saying that he was anxious about his mother's
health. Mringwari, on receiving the information, at once sent
for a craftsman and ordered him to make a copper spike of the
kind required. The youth was feasted and made much of
[1. His nearest relation and rightful heir,
in Bantu usage; but this would not be the case in Moslem law,
whether Arab or Persian, and most accounts call the traitor his
son. This was the promising son of the Galla wife. We bear of
no other children; yet there must have been more if it is true
that there are direct descendants of his now living.
2 Liongo seems to have been living unmolested
for some time at Shaka, where he may have rallied some followers
to his cause, while Mringwari, apparently, had retreated to Pate.]
for the space of ten days, and then dispatched
on his errand, with the promise that a marriage should be arranged
for him when he returned successful. On arriving at Shaka he
was kindly welcomed by his father (who perhaps thought that,
after all, he had been wrong in his suspicions), and remained
with him for a month without carrying out his design either from
lack of opportunity or, as one would fain hope, visited by some
compunction. As time went on Mringwari grew impatient and wrote,
reproaching him in covert terms for the delay. "We,. here,
have everything ready"-i.e., for the promised wedding
festivities, which were to be of the utmost magnificence. It
chanced that on the day when this letter arrived Liongo, wearied
out with hunting, slept more soundly than usual during the midday
heat. The son, seizing his opportunity, screwed his courage to
the sticking-place, crept up, and stabbed him in the one vulnerable
spot.
Liongo started up in the death-pang and, seizing
his bow and arrows, walked out of the house and out of the town.
When he had reached a spot half-way between the city gate and
the well at which the folk were wont to draw water his strength
failed him: he sank on one knee, fitted an arrow to the string,
drew it to the head, and so died, with his face towards the well.
The townsfolk could see him kneeling there,
and did not know that he was dead. Then for three days neither
man nor woman durst venture near the well. They used the water
stored for ablutions in the tank outside the mosque; when that
was exhausted there was great distress in the town. The elders
of the people went to Liongo's mother and asked her to intercede
with her son. "If she goes to him he will be sorry for her."
She consented, and went out, accompanied by the principal men,
chanting verses (perhaps some of his own poems) "with the
purpose of soothing him." Gazing at him from a distance,
she addressed him with piteous entreaties, but when they came
nearer and saw that he was dead she would not believe it. "He
cannot be killed; he is angry, and therefore he does not speak;
he is brooding over his wrongs in his own mind and refuses to
hear me!" So she wailed; but when he fell over they knew
that he was dead indeed.
They came near and looked at the body, and
drew out the copper needle which had killed him, and carried
him into the town, and waked and buried him. And there he lies
to this day, near Kipini by the sea.
The Traitor's Doom
The news reached Pate, and Mringwari, privately
rejoicing at the removal of his enemy, sent for Mani Liongo,
the son (who meanwhile had been sumptuously entertained in the
palace), and told him what had happened, professing to be much
surprised when he showed no signs of sorrow. When the son replied
that, on the contrary, he was very glad Mringwari turned on him.
"You are an utterly faithless one! Depart out of my house
and from the town; take off the clothes I have given you and
wear your own, you enemy of God!" Driven from Pate, he betook
himself to his Galla kinsmen, but there he was received coldly,
and even his mother cast him off. So, overcome with remorse and
grief, he fell into a wasting sickness and died unlamented.
The Pokomo tradition has it that Liongo's
enemies, having made use of the son for their own purposes, slew
him, for they said, "If you kill a snake you must cut off
its head. If you do not cut off its head it will bite again.
Therefore it is better to kill this son also!" Hamisi wa
Kayi, who told the story to Bishop Steere at Zanzibar, said,
"And they seized that young man and killed him, and did
not give him the kingdom." In any case he reaped the due
reward of his treason.
The mourning for Liongo, in which the townsfolk
of Shaka joined with his mother, shows that she was not alone
in the more favourable view of him. "Liongo was our sword
and spear and shield; there is none to defend us now he is gone!"
The grave, as I saw it in 1912, was a slight
elevation in the ground, which might once have been a barrow.
It was roughly marked at the head and foot with rows of white
stones, evidently remnants of a complete rectangle. The native
overseer in charge of the plantation in which it was situated
told me that he and the European superintendent had measured
the grave some time before, and found its length from east to
west to be "fourteen paces"-some twelve or fourteen
yards, suggesting that Liongo might, indeed, have been a giant
whose knees were level with the head of a tall Galla. He and
others said that the grave had formerly been marked with an inscribed
stone "seven hundred years old"-but some European had
dug it up and taken it away. As far as I know it has never been
traced. So much for Liongo. With all his faults he had
The idea of the charmed life, protected against
every weapon but one, or vulnerable in one point only is familiar
from European mythology (Balder, Siegfried, Achilles), but it
is still a matter of living belief in Africa. Chikumbu, a Yao
chief living on Mlanje in 1893, could, I was assured, be killed
by one thing only-a splinter of bamboo; he had 'medicines' against
everything else. A generation or two earlier Chibisa, a chief
of the Mang'anja, was proof against everything but a 'sand-bullet,'
which killed him as he stood on an ant-hill shouting his war-song.
Since writing this chapter I have found a
curious parallel in a Rumanian ballad which is quoted in Panait
Istrati's Les Haidoucs. The brigand Gheorghitza, who could
be killed in one way only, was shot with a silver bullet, by
a close friend turned traitor, "in the seat of the soul
" (un peu au-dessus du nombril, où cela fait mal
aux vaillants). He seized his gun, leaned against a rock,
and took aim at his false friend, but death came upon him as
he knelt. For three days none durst come near him; then one Beshg
Elias went up to the body, cut off the head, and carried it,
to Bucharest. And all who met him wept when they saw the head
of Gheorghitza, "so beautiful was he!"
CHAPTER XI: THE TRICKSTERS HLAKANYANA AND HUVEANE
WE find two curious
figures in the mythology of the South-eastern Bantu. Huveane
belongs to the Bapedi[1] and Bavenda, in the Eastern Transvaal.
We have met with him before, as the First Man (though, incongruously
enough, we also hear about his father) and, in some sense, the
creator; but, as was stated at the time, he also appears in a
very different character. Hlakanyana plays a conspicuous part
in Zulu folklore; he no longer belongs to mythology proper, being
more on the level of Jack the Giant-killer and Tom Thumb in our
own fairytales. But there seems to be some uncertainty about
his real nature. One of his names is Ucakijana, which means the
Little Weasel, and though the people who told his story to Bishop
Callaway explained this by saying he was like a weasel for his
small size and his cunning, it may well be that he had actually
been an animal to begin with. Some of his adventures are exactly
the same as those which by other Bantu tribes are ascribed to
the hare, the really epic figure in their folklore, and the authentic
ancestor of Uncle Remus's Brer Rabbit. It is quite possible,
though I do not know of any direct evidence for this, that he
was originally a totem animal, and, as such, a mysterious power,
like the Algonkin hare, in North America, who made the world.
As for Huveane, his name is a diminutive of
Huve (or Hove)-a name given in some accounts to his father. Some
of the Bushman tribes have a divinity Huwe (or Uwe) who created
and preserves all wild things, and to whom they pray to give
them food. In Angola Huwe (represented, of course, by a masked
man) is said to appear to the young Bushmen when they are being
initiated into manhood.
It might be thought that the Bantu had borrowed
the idea of Huve, if not of Huveane, from the Bushmen; but Miss
Bleek, who knows more about the Bushmen than anyone
[1. A branch of the great Suto-Chuana group
of tribes, between Pretoria and Pietersburg. They are perhaps
better known as Sekukuni's people.]
else, is of opinion, for several reasons,
that the reverse is more likely to be true.
The name of Huveane's father varies a good
deal; some call him Hodi, others, again, Rivimbi or Levivi. The
Thonga[1] clans in the Spelonken district of the Transvaal have
heard of him in a very confused and fragmentary way, probably
from the Bavenda, but it is the latter, along with the Bapedi,
who really know the legend.
Huveane produces a Child
Of this legend there are various versions,
none apparently complete, but they can be used to supplement
each other. One, obtained from the Masemola section of the Bapedi,
[2] begins in a way which recalls the story of Murile. Only whereas
Murile cherished a Colocasia tuber, which magically developed
into an infant, Huveane is quite baldly stated to have "had
a baby." The narrator seems to see nothing improbable in
this (though Huveane's parents and their neighbours did), and
no explanation is given of this extraordinary proceeding; but
the Basuto have a story resembling this in which the result is
produced by the boy having swallowed some medicine intended for
his mother. Another version has it that Huveane modelled a baby
in clay and breathed life into it. This may possibly have some
vague connexion with the idea of his having originated the human
race; it may, on the other hand, be due to some echo of missionary
teaching.
The creation idea had, no doubt, fallen more
or less into the background by the time the story had taken shape
as above; but in any case one must not be troubled by such incongruities
as the existence of Huveane's parents. The impossibility of such
a situation would never occur to the primitive mind.
Huveane kept his child in a hollow tree, and
stole out
[1. The tribe of which the Delagoa Bay Baronga
are a branch. They extend from St Lucia Bay, in the south, to
the Sabi river, in the north. Some clans of the Bila section
of the tribe, now known as Magwamba, are isolated in the Eastern
Transvaal.
2. Hoffmann, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen,
Vol vi, P. 238.]
early every morning to feed it with milk before
it was time for him to begin herding the sheep and goats. His
parents noticed that he used to take the milk, and could not
make out what he did with it; so one day his father followed
him stealthily, saw him feeding the child, hid till Huveane had
gone away, and carried the baby to his wife. They then placed
it among the firewood and other things stacked up under the eaves
of the hut. When Huveane brought the flock home he went straight
to his tree and found no baby there. He went into the courtyard,
sat down by the fire, where his parents were seated, and did
not speak, only looking miserable. His mother asked him what
was the matter, and he said the smoke was hurting his eyes. "Then
you had better go out and sit somewhere else." He did so,
but remained gloomy. At last his mother told him to go and fetch
a piece of wood from the pile, which he did, and found the baby
wrapped in a sheepskin and quite safe. His parents, relieved
to find that he had recovered his spirits, let him have his way,
and he went on caring for the child, whom he called Sememerwane
sa Matedi a Telele, "One who causes much trouble."
Huveane plays Tricks with the Stock
His parents continued, however, to be uneasy;
they could not understand how the child had been produced, and
the neighbours, when the story leaked out, began to talk of witchcraft.
Huveane did not trouble himself, but went on herding his father's
stock and devising practical jokes to play upon him. When a ewe
or goat had twins, which not infrequently happened, he took one
of the lambs or kids and shut it up in a hollow ant-heap. In
this way he gradually collected a whole flock. Some one, who
had noticed that the ewes, when driven out in the morning, always
collected round the ant-heaps, told Huveane's father, and the
latter followed his son to the pasture, heard the bleating of
the lambs and kids inside the ant-heaps, took away the stones
which blocked the entrance, and seized the lambs to take them
to their mothers. But as he did not know to which mother each
belonged the result was confusion worse confounded. Huveane,
exasperated beyond endurance, struck his father with the switch
he had in his hand. No doubt this helped to bring matters to
a crisis, but for the moment the old man was too much impressed
with the sudden increase of the flock to be very angry. In the
evening, when the villagers saw the full number being driven
home, they were filled with envy, and asked him where he had
got all those animals. He told the whole story, which gave rise
to endless discussions.
Plans for Huveane's Destruction
It was certain that Huveane could be up to
no good; he must have produced those sheep and goats by magic-and
how came he to have a child and no mother for it? He certainly
ought to be got rid of. They put it to his father that the boy
would end by bewitching the whole village. They handed him some
poison, and in the evening, when Huveane was squatting by the
fire, his mother brought him a bowl of milk. He took it, but,
instead of drinking, poured it out on the ground. The neighbours
took counsel, and suggested to the father that he should dig
a pit close to the fireplace, where Huveane was in the habit
of sitting, and cover it over. But Huveane, instead of sitting
down in his usual place, forced himself in between his brothers,
who were seated by the fire, and in the struggle for a place
one of them fell into the pit. Next they dug another pit in the
gateway of his father's enclosure, where he would have to pass
when he came home with the flocks in the evening. He jumped over
the pitfall, and all his sheep and goats did likewise.
This having failed, some one suggested that
a man with a spear should be tied up in a bundle of grass, a
device adopted, as we have seen, by Kachirambe's mother. This
was done, and Huveane's father sent him to fetch the bundle.
He took his spear with him-to his father's surprise-and, when
near enough, threw it with unerring aim. The man inside jumped
up and ran away. Huveane returned to his father, saying, "Father,
I went to do as you told me, but the grass has run away."
Huveane's Practical Jokes
The villagers were driven to the conclusion
that it was quite impossible to compass Huveane's destruction
by any stratagem, however cunning, and they were fain to let
him be. He knew- that he was a match for them, and thenceforth
set himself to fool them by pretended stupidity. Whatever tricks
he played on them he knew that he was safe.
One day he found a dead zebra, and sat down
on it while watching his flock. In the evening, when he returned
and was asked where he had been herding that day, he said, "By
the striped hill." Three or four days running he gave the
same answer, and, his relatives' curiosity being roused, some
of them followed him and found the zebra-by this time badly decomposed.
They told him, "Why, this is game; if you find an animal
like this you should heap branches over it, to keep the hyenas
away, and come and call the people from the village to fetch
the meat." Next day Huveane found a very small bird lying
dead; he heaped branches over it and ran home with the news.
Half the village turned out, carrying large baskets; their feelings
on beholding the 'game' may be imagined. One of the men informed
him that this kind of game should be hung round one's neck; he
did this next day, and was set down as a hopeless idiot. Several
other tricks of the same kind are told of him; at last, one day,
his father, thinking he should no longer be left to himself,
went herding with him. When the sun was high he became very thirsty;
Huveane showed him a high rock, on the top of which was a pool
of water, and knocked in a number of pegs, so that he could climb
up. They both went up and drank; then Huveane came down, took
away the pegs, one by one, and ran home, where his mother had
prepared the evening meal. Huveane ate all that was ready; then
he took the empty pots, filled them with cow dung, and ran off
to drive in the pegs and let his father come down. The old man
came home and sat down to the supper, which, as his graceless
son now informed him had been magically changed, so as to be
entirely uneatable. After this the parents and neighbours alike
seem to have felt that there was nothing to be done with Huveane,
except to put up with him as best they could. We hear nothing
more about the child in the hollow tree.
It almost seems as if the trick played by
Huveane on his father were a kind of inverted echo of one tradition
about the High God, whom some call Huveane. "His abode is
in the sky. He created the sky and the earth. He came down from
the sky to make the earth and men. When he had finished he returned
to the sky. They say he climbed up by pegs,[1] and after he had
gone up one step he took away the peg below him, and so on, till
he had drawn them all out and disappeared into the sky."
[2]
Some say that all the incidents detailed above
belong, not to Huveane (whom the narrators call the Great God,
Modimo o Moholo), but to his son Hutswane, who, it is believed,
will one day come again, bringing happiness and prosperity to
mankind-a somewhat unexpected conclusion after all that we have
heard about him.
Hlakanyana's Precocious Development and Mischievous Pranks
"Uhlakanyana is a very cunning man; he
is also very small, of the size of a weasel"-icakide;
hence his other name. He is "like the weasel; it is as though
he really was of that genus; he resembles it in all respects."
As already stated, it is probable that he really was a weasel,
though the fact had been so far forgotten by the time the story
was written down as we have it that the narrators thought the
name needed explanation. Why the weasel was chosen does not seem
clear: his exploits are credited by most of the Bantu to the
hare, by a few to the jackal.[3]
Hlakanyana was a chief's son. Like Ryang'ombe,
he spoke before he was born; in fact, he repeatedly declared
[1. No doubt driven into the solid vault of
the sky, where it was believed to join the earth at the horizon.
2 Hoffmann, in Zeitschrifif für Eingeborenensprachen,
vol. xix, p. 270
3 Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 3]
his impatience to enter the world. No sooner
had he made his appearance than he walked out to the cattle-kraal,
where his father had just slaughtered some oxen, and the men
were sitting round, ready for a feast of meat. Scared by this
portent-for they had been waiting for the birth to be announced-they
all ran away, and Hlakanyana sat down by the fire and began to
eat a strip of meat which was roasting there. They came back,
and asked the mother whether this was really the expected baby.
She answered, "It is he"; whereupon they said, "Oh,
we thank you, our queen. You have brought forth for us a child
who is wise as soon as he is born. We never saw a child like
this child. This child is fit to be the great one among all the
king's children, for he has made us wonder by his wisdom."
[1]
But Hlakanyana, thinking that his father did
not take this view, but looked upon him as a mere infant, asked
him to take a leg of beef and throw it downhill, over the kraal
fence (the gateway being on the upper side). All the boys and
men present were to race for it) and "he shall be the man
who gets the leg." They all rushed to the higher opening,
but Hlakanyana wormed his way between the stakes at the lower
end of the kraal, picked up the leg, and carried it in triumph
to meet the others, who were coming round from the farther side.
He handed it over to his mother, and then returned to the kraal,
where his father was distributing the rest of the meat. He offered
to carry each man's share to his hut for him, which he did, smeared
some blood on the mat (on which meat is laid to be cut up), and
then carried the joint to his mother. He did this to each one
in turn, so that by the evening no house had any meat except
that of the chief's wife, which was overstocked. No wonder that
the women cried out, "What is this that has been born to-day?
He is a prodigy, a real prodigy!" His next feat was to take
out all the birds which had been caught in the traps set by the
boys, and bring them home, telling his mother to cook them and
cover the pots, fastening down the lids. He then went off to
sleep in the boys' house (ilau),
[1. Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 8.]
which he would not ordinarily have entered
for several years to come, and overbore their objections, saying,
" Since you say this I shall sleep here, just to show you!"
He rose early in the morning, went to his mother's house, got
in without waking her, opened the pots, and ate all the birds,
leaving only the heads, which he put back, after filling the
lower half of the pots with cow dung, and fastened down the lids.
Then he went away for a time, and came back to play Huveane's
trick on his mother. He pretended to have come in for the first
time, and told her that the sun had risen, and that she had slept
too long-for if the birds were not taken out of the pot before
the sun was up they would turn into dung. So he washed himself
and sat down to his breakfast, and when he opened the pots it
was even as he had said, and his mother believed him. He finished
up the heads, saying that, as she had spoilt his food, she should
not have even these, and then announced that he did not consider
himself her child at all, and that his father was "a mere
man, one of the people and nothing more." He would not stay
with them, but would go on his travels. So he picked up his stick
and walked out, still grumbling about the loss of his birds.
He goes on his Travels
When he had gone some distance and was beginning
to get hungry he came upon some traps with birds in them and,
beginning to take them out, found himself stuck fast. The owner
of the traps was a 'cannibal'-or, rather, an ogre who, finding
that birds had more than once disappeared from his traps, had
put sticks smeared with birdlime in front of them. Now he came
along to look at them, and found Hlakanyana, who, quite undisturbed,
addressed him thus: "Don't beat me, and I will tell you.
Take me out and cleanse me from the birdlime and take me home
with you. Have you a mother?" The ogre said he had. Hlakanyana,
evidently assuming that he was to be eaten, said that he were
beaten and killed at once his flesh would be ruined for the pot.
"I shall not be nice; I shall be bitter. Cleanse me and
take me home with you, that you may put me in your house, that
I may be cooked by your mother. And do you go away and just leave
me at your home. I cannot be cooked if you are there; I shall
be bad; I cannot be nice." The hare, in some stories, uses
the same stratagem to escape being eaten.
The ogre, a credulous person, like most of
his kind, did as he was asked, and handed Hlakanyana over to
his mother, to be cooked next morning.
When the ogre and his younger brother were
safely out of the way Hlakanyana proposed to the old woman that
they should "play at boiling each other." He got her
to put on a large pot of water, made up the fire under it, and
when it was beginning to get warm he said, "Let us begin
with me." She put him in and covered the pot. Presently
he asked to be taken out, and then, saying that the fire was
not hot enough, made it up to a blaze and began, very rudely,
to unfasten the old woman's skin petticoat. When she objected
he said: "What does it matter if I have unfastened your
dress, I who am mere game, which is about to be eaten by your
sons and you?" He thrust her in and put on the lid. No sooner
had he done so than she shrieked that she was being scalded;
but he told her that could not be, or she would not be able to
cry out. He kept the lid on till the poor creature's cries ceased,
and then put on her clothes and lay down in her sleeping-place.
When the sons came home he told them to take their 'game' and
eat; he had already eaten, and did not mean to get up. While
they were eating he slipped out at the door, threw off the clothes,
and ran away as fast as he could. When he had reached a safe
distance he called out to them, "You are eating your mother,
you cannibals!" They pursued him hot-foot; he came to a
swollen river and changed himself into a piece of wood. They
came up, saw his footprints on the ground, and, as he was nowhere
in sight, concluded he had crossed the river and flung the piece
of wood after him. Safe on the other bank, he resumed his own
shape and jeered at the ogres, who gave up the pursuit and turned
back.
He kills a Hare, gets a Whistle, and is robbed of it
Hlakanyana went on his way, and before very
long he spied a hare. Being hungry, he tried to entice it within
reach by offering to tell a tale, but the hare would not be beguiled.
At last, however (this part of the story is not very clear, and
the hare must have been a different creature from the usual Bantu
hare!), he caught it, killed it, and roasted it, and, after eating
the flesh, made one of the bones into a whistle. He went on,
playing his whistle and singing:
"Ngahlangana no Nohloya
Saptlapekana
Ngagwanya
Wapehwa wada wavutwa."
["I met Hloya's mother,
And we cooked each other.
I did not burn;
She was done to a turn."]
In time he came to a large tree on the bank
of a river, overhanging a deep pool. On a branch of the tree
lay an iguana, I who greeted him, and Hlakanyana responded politely.
The iguana said, "Lend me your whistle, so that I can hear
if it will sound." Hlakanyana refused, but the iguana insisted,
promising to give it back. Hlakanyana said, "Come away from
the pool, then, and come out here on to the open ground; I am
afraid near a pool. I say you might run into the pool with my
whistle, for you are a person that lives in deep water."
The iguana came down from his tree, and when Hlakanyana thought
that he was at a safe distance from the river he handed him the
whistle. The iguana tried the whistle, approved the sound, and
wanted to take it away with him. Hlakanyana would not hear of
this, and laid hold of the iguana as he was trying to make off,
but received such a blow from the powerful tail that he had to
let go, and the iguana dived into the river, carrying the whistle
with him.
[1. This is the word used by Callaway (probably
unaware that there are no iguanas on the African continent) to
translate uxamu, which is really the monitor lizard (Monitor
niloticus).]
In a Xosa version it is Hlakanyana who steals
the whistle from the iguana.
One of the Ronga stories about the hare describes
him as challenging a poor gazelle to the game of "cooking
each other." Having killed her, he made her horns into a
kind of trumpet, which he used to sound an alarm of war.
In fact, this trick, in one form or other,
and attributed to different actors, is found throughout the Bantu
area. Compare the case of Jack and the Cornish giant.
Hlakanyana again went on till he came to a
place where a certain old man had hidden some bread.[1] He ran
off with it, but not before the owner had seen him; the old man
evidently knew him, for he called out, "Put down my bread,
Hlakanyana." Hlakanyana only ran the faster, the old man
after him, till, finding that the latter was gaining on him,
he crawled into a snake's hole. The old man put in his hand and
caught him by the leg. Hlakanyana cried, laughing, "He!
He! you've caught hold of a root!" [2] So the old man let
go, and, feeling about for the leg, caught a root, at which Hlakanyana.
yelled, "Oh! Oh! you're killing me!" The old man kept
pulling at the root till he was tired out and went away. Hlakanyana
ate the bread in comfort, and then crawled out and went on his
way once more.
He nurses the Leopard's Cubs
In the course of his wanderings he came upon
a leopard's den, where he found four cubs and sat down beside
them till the mother leopard came home, carrying a buck with
which to feed her little ones. She was very angry when she saw
Hlakanyana, and was about to attack him, but he disarmed her
by his flattering tongue, and finally persuaded her to let him
stay and take care of the cubs, while she went out to hunt. "I
will take care of them, and I will build a beautiful house, that
you may lie here at the foot of the
[1. Isinkwa. Though now used for' bread'
in our sense (which was unknown to the Bantu before they came
in contact with Europeans), this word really means steamed dumplings
of maize or amabele (millet).
2. So Brer Tarrypin says to Brer Fox, "Tu'n
loose dat stump-root an' ketch hold o' me!" This incident
occurs over and over again in Bantu folklore.]
rock with your children." He also told
her he could cook a somewhat unnecessary accomplishment, one
would think, in this case; but it would seem that he had his
reasons. The leopard having agreed, Hlakanyana brought the cubs,
one by one, for her to suckle. She objected, wanting them all
brought at once, but the little cunning fellow persisted and
got his way. When they had all been fed she called on him to
make good his promise and skin the buck and cook it, which he
did. So they both ate, and all went to sleep. In the morning,
when the leopard had gone to hunt, Hlakanyana set to work building
the house. He made the usual round Zulu hut, but with a very
small doorway; then, inside, he dug a burrow, leading to the
back of the hut, with an opening a long way off. Then he took
four assagais which he had carried with him on his travels, broke
them off short to rather less than the width of the doorway,
and hid them in a convenient place. Having finished, he ate one
of the cubs. When the mother came home he brought them out as
before, one by one, taking the third twice, so that she never
missed any of them. He did the same the next day, and the next.
On the fourth day he brought out the last cub four times., and
at length it refused to drink. The mother was naturally surprised
at this, but Hlakanyana said he thought it was not well. She
said, "Take care of it, then," and when he had carried
it into the house called him to prepare supper. When she had
eaten Hlakanyana went into the house, and the leopard called
out that she was coming in to look after the child. Hlakanyana
said, "Come in, then," knowing that she would take
some time squeezing herself through the narrow entrance, and
at once made his escape through the burrow. Meanwhile she had
got in, found only one cub, concluded that he must have eaten
the rest, and followed him into the burrow. By this time Hlakanyana
was out at the other end; he ran round to the front of the house,
took his assagais from the hiding-place, and fixed them in the
ground at the doorway, the points sloping inward. The leopard
found she could not get very far in the burrow, so she came back
into the hut, and, squeezing through the doorway to pursue Hlakanyana
into the open, was pierced by the assagais and killed.
Makanyana and the Ogre
Hlakanyana now sat down and ate the cub; then
he skinned the leopard, and gradually-for he remained on the
spot for some time-ate most of the flesh, keeping, however, one
leg, with which he set out once more on his travels, "for
he was a man who did not stay long in one place." Soon after
he met a hungry ogre, with whom he easily made. friends by giving
him some meat, and they went on together. They came across two
cows, which the izimu said belonged to him. Hlakanyana
suggested that they should build a hut, so that they could slaughter
the cows and eat them in peace and comfort. The ogre agreed;
they killed the cows and started to build. As rain was threatening
Hlakanyana said they had better get on with the thatching.
This is done by two people, one inside the
hut and the other on the roof, passing the string with which
the grass is tied backward and forward between them, pushing
it through by means of a pointed stick. Hlakanyana went inside,
while the ogre climbed on the roof. The latter had very long
hair (a distinguishing feature of the amazimu), and Hlakanyana
managed to knit it, lock by lock, into the thatch, so firmly
that he would not be able to get off. He then sat down and ate
the beef which was boiling on the fire. A hailstorm came on,
Hlakanyana went into the house with his joint, and the ogre (who
seems to have been a harmless creature enough) was left to perish.
"He was struck with the hailstones, and died there on the
house"-as anyone who has seen an African hailstorm can readily
believe.
Having caused the death of another izimu
in a way which need not be related here, as the same thing occurs
(with more excuse) in a different story, Hlakanyana took up his
abode for a time with yet another, who seems to have had no reason
to complain of him. As usual, when no ill fortune befell him
he became restless, and took the road once more, directing his
steps towards the place on the river where the iguana had robbed
him of his whistle. He found the iguana on his tree, called him
down, killed him, and recovered the whistle. Then he went back
to the ogre's hut, but the owner had gone away, and the hut was
burned down. So he said, "I will now go back to my mother,
for, behold, I am in trouble."
He goes Home
But his return was by no means in the spirit
of the Prodigal Son, for he professed to have come back purely
out of affection for her., saying, "Oh, now I have returned,
my mother, for I remembered you!" and calmly omitting all
mention of his exploits during his absence. She believed this,
being only too ready to welcome him back, and he seems to have
behaved himself for a time. Nothing is said of his father's attitude,
or of that of the clansmen.
The next episode is a curious one: it is told
all over Africa in connexion with different characters-the hare,
the jackal, a man, an old woman, a girl, a boy. The attraction
evidently lies in the repeated enumeration of objects, adding
one every time, after the fashion of The House that Jack Built.
The day after his return home Hlakanyana went
to a wedding, and as he came over a hill on the way back he found
some umdiandiane-a kind of edible tuber, of which he was
very fond. He dug it up and took it home to his mother, asking
her to cook it for him, as he was now going to milk the cow.
She did so, and, tasting one to see if it was done, liked it
so much that she ate the whole. When he asked for it she said,
" I have eaten it, my child," and he answered, "Give
me my umdiandiane, for I dug it up on a very little knoll,
as I was coming from a wedding." His mother gave him a milk-pail
by way of compensation, and he went off. Soon he came upon some
boys herding sheep, who were milking the ewes into old, broken
potsherds. He said, "Why are you milking into potsherds?
You had better use my milk-pail, but you must give me a drink
out of it." They used his milk-pail, but the last boy who
had it broke it. Hlakanyana said, " Give me my milk-pail,
my milk-pail my mother gave me, my mother having eaten my umdiandiane"-and
so on, as before. The boys gave him an assagai, which he lent
to some other boys, who were trying to cut slices of liver with
splinters of sugar-cane. They broke his assagai, and gave him
an axe instead. Then he met some old women gathering firewood,
who had nothing to cut it with, so he offered them the use of
his axe, which again got broken. They gave him a blanket, and
he went on his way till nightfall, when he found two young men
sleeping out on the hillside, with nothing to cover them. He
said, "Ah, friends, do you sleep without covering? Have
you no blanket?" They said, "No." He said, "Take
this of mine," which they did, but it was rather small for
two, and as each one kept dragging it from the other it soon
got torn. Then he demanded it back. "Give me my blanket,
my blanket which the women gave me," and so on. The young
men gave him a shield. Then he came upon some men fighting with
a leopard, who had no shields. He questioned them as he had done
the other people, and lent one of them his shield. It must have
been efficient as a protection, for they killed the leopard,
but the hand-loop by which the man was holding it broke, and
of course it was rendered useless. So Hlakanyana said:
Give me my shield, my shield the young men
gave me,
The young men having torn my blanket,
My blanket the women gave me,
The women having broken my axe,
My axe the boys gave me,
The boys having broken my assagai,
My assagai the boys gave me,
The boys having broken my milk-pail,
My milk-pail my mother gave me,
My mother having eaten my umdiandiane,
My umdiandiane I dug up on a very little knoll,
As I was coming from a wedding."
They gave him a war-assagai (isinkemba).
Here the story as given by Bishop Callaway
breaks off, the narrator saying, "What he did with that
perhaps I may tell you on another occasion." But a Xosa
version recorded by McCall Theal [1] which gives the series of
exchanges rather differently, puts this episode before that of
the ogre's traps (also quite different in detail) and that of
the leopard's cubs, and follows it up with two more incidents.
One (relating to the tree belonging to the chief of the animals,
of which no one knows the name) is much better told elsewhere,
as an adventure of the hare; the other recalls an exploit of
the hare in providing food for the lion, which is told by the
Pokomo on the Tana river, and by many other people besides. But
in this case Hlakanyana made provision only for himself. He came
to the house of a jackal and asked for food. Being told there
was none, he said, "You must climb up on the house and cry
out with a loud voice, 'We are going to be fat to-day, because
Hlakanyana is dead I'" When the jackal did so all the animals
came running to hear the news, and, finding the door open, went
in. Hlakanyana, hidden inside, shut the door, killed them at
his leisure, and ate. We hear no more about the jackal.
Then he returned home for the last time, and
his story reaches its conclusion. He went out to herd his father's
calves-no doubt seized by a sudden impulse to make himself useful-and
found a tortoise, which he picked up and carried home on his
back. His mother said, "What have you got there, my son?"
And he answered, "just take it off my back, Mother."
But that she could not do, however hard she tried, for the creature
held fast. So she heated some fat and poured it on the tortoise,
which let go only too quickly, "and the fat fell on Hlakanyana
and burned him, and he died. That is the end of this cunning
little fellow."
But I suspect that this is only a late version,
and that the real Hlakanyana never came to an end in that sense,
any more than Huveane. Has anyone ever heard the end of Jack
the Giant-killer?
Though Hlakanyana is not, so far as one knows,
associated with any such traditions, however dim, as those told
of Huveane, it is by no means impossible that he may, in the
far-off origins of myth, have played a similar part.
[1. Kaffir Folklore, p. 96.]
Huveane was really a benefactor, as well as
a trickster, though in the popular tales the latter aspect has
tended to predominate, and we may even discover traces of such
a character in Hlakanyana, as when he supplies the herd-]ads
with a milk-pail, the women with an axe, and so forth, though
the emphasis is certainly laid on the way in which he invariably
got back his own with interest.
This union of apparently incompatible characteristics
does not seem to strike the primitive mind as impossible. Wundt,
in his Völkerpsychologie,[l] points out that legendary
heroes are of three kinds, the deliverer and benefactor, the
malignant, hurtful demon, and the mischievous jester, who stands
midway between the two. And in the imagination of very primitive
people we not infrequently find "these qualities united
in one and the same being. Thus Manabozho of the Algonkin is
both demiurgus (creator) and deliverer, but at the same time
he plays the part sometimes of a harmful demon, sometimes of
a tricksy, humorous sprite," the hero of innumerable popular
jests.
[1. Vol. V, Part II, P- 47]
CHAPTER XII: THE AMAZIMU
THE word izimu,
in the Zulu tales, is usually, as by Callaway and Theal, translated
'cannibal.' But this word, with us, is ordinarily applied to
people who, for one reason or another, are accustomed to eat
human flesh. As Callaway pointed out long ago, however, "it
is perfectly clear that the cannibals of the Zulu legends are
not common men; they are magnified into giants and magicians."
Perhaps it might also be said that the attributes of the legendary
amazimu were transferred to the abhorred beings, who,
driven to cannibalism by famine, kept up the habit when it was
no longer needed and, as Ulutuli Dhladhla told the bishop, "rebelled
against men, forsook them, and liked to eat them, and men drove
them away . . . so they were regarded as a distinct nation, for
men were game (izinyamazane) to them."[1] In fact, he distinctly
says that "once they were men," and implies that they
were so no longer.
Cannibals
The practice of cannibalism undoubtedly exists
in Africa, though it is much less common than is sometimes supposed;
and it is usually of a ceremonial character, which is a different
matter from using human flesh as ordinary food. This last seems
to be-or to have been-done by some tribes in West Africa-e.g.,
the Manyema-but one need not accept all the sensational statements
that have been published on this subject. So far as there is
any truth in these, the custom probably originated in famine
times, as it did with the people referred to by Bishop Callaway's
informant. Thus, it is said, in Natal, after a long drought,
a certain chief of the Abambo, named Umdava, "told his people
to scatter themselves over the veld and catch all the people
they came upon in the paths to serve as food . . . and those
people lived on human flesh till the time for the crops came
round." [2] The dwellers on Umkambati (the Table Mountain
[1. Nursery Tales, p. 156.
2 Colenso, Zulu-English Dictionary,
P. 705.]
near Pietermaritzburg) were more than once
attacked by these cannibals.
The old chief Nomsimekwana, who died less
than thirty years ago, had a narrow escape from them in his childhood.
They seized his whole family and drove them along, making the
boy carry on his head the pot in which, so they told him, he
was to be cooked. Watching his opportunity, at a turn in the
path hidden by the tall grass he slipped into the Umsunduzi river,
and lay concealed under the bushes which overhung the bank-the
spot was pointed out to me in 1895. Failing to find him, the
enemy came to the conclusion that he had been killed by the hippopotami,
who at that time abounded in the river, and passed on their way.
Nomsimekwana's sister and the other captives were ultimately
killed and eaten.
Those man-eaters who refused to give up the
practice when the necessity for it had passed fled to the mountains,
pursued by universal execration, and eked out a wretched existence
in dens and caves, sallying forth, when occasion offered, to
attack lonely travellers. Moshesh, paramount chief of the Basuto,
spared no pains in putting an end to these horrors, though he
refused to exterminate the criminals, as his councillors advised,
provided they would turn from their evil ways. He gave them cattle,
and encouraged them to till the soil, and when that generation
had died out cannibalism was a thing of the past,
Ulutuli Dhladhla, whom we quoted in a previous
paragraph, said that "the word amazimu, when interpreted,
means to gormandize-to be gluttonous." But the word exists
in so many Bantu languages, with (as far as one can discover)
no such connotation, that I cannot help thinking him mistaken.
Moreover, it has, distinctly, some relation to mzimu (of
a different noun class), which means 'a spirit' -in the first
instance an ancestral spirit. It is not used in Zulu, where the
ancestral spirits are called amadhlozi, or amatongo,
save in the phrase izinkomo ezomzimu, "cattle of
the spirits"-i.e., slaughtered as a sacrifice to them. Here
umzimu seems to be "a collective name for amatongo."
Ogres
The Basuto use the word madimo (singular
ledimo) for 'cannibals,' badimo for 'spirits' or
'gods.' Zimwi is the Swahili word for a being best described
as an ogre; the word occurs in old, genuine Bantu tales, and
I have heard it used by a native; but most Swahili nowadays seem
to prefer the Arabic loan-words jini and shetani.
A ghost is mzuka; but the stem -zimu survives in
the expression kuzimu, "the place of spirits "-thought
of as underground -and muzimu, a place where offerings
are made to, spirits. The Wachaga and the Akikuyu have their
irimu, the Akamba the eimu (the Kamba language
is remarkable for dropping out consonants), and the Duala, on
the other side of Africa, their edimo. Other peoples in
West Africa, while having a notion of beings more or less similar,
call them by other names. The makishi of the Ambundu in
Angola play the same part in folk-tales as the amazimu-their
name may perhaps be connected with the Kongo nkishi (nkisi
in some dialects), which meant originally 'a spirit,' but now
more usually 'a charm,' or the object commonly called a 'fetish.'
The Aandonga (in the Ovambo country south of Angola), strangely
enough, tell the usual ogre tales of the esisi 'albino.'
Albinos are found, occasionally, in all parts of Africa; they
are not, as a rule, so far as one can learn, regarded with horror,
though the Mayombe of the Lower Congo think that they are spirit
children, and observe particular ceremonies on the birth of such
a one.
The appearance of the izimu is variously
described, but it seems to be agreed that he can assume the appearance
of an ordinary human being, if it is not his usual guise. The
Zulus and the Ambundu say they may be recognized by their long,
unkempt hair-a noticeable point among people who either shave
off their hair frequently for reasons of cleanliness, or build
it up into elaborate structures, like the conical coiffures of
Zulu wives or the head-rings of their husbands.
The makishi are sometimes said to have
many heads; in one story when the hero cuts off a dikishi's
head he immediately grows a second; in another a dikishi
carries off a woman and makes her his wife; when her child is
born and found to have only one head the husband threatens to
call it "our folk" to eat her if she ever has another
like it. As the second baby appears with two heads the threat
was not fulfilled. But, thinking it best to be on the safe side,
the wife took the elder child and ran away, hid for the night
in a deserted house, was surprised when asleep by a wandering
dikishi, and eaten after all.
Other accounts of the amazimu are still
more weirdly sensational. The irimu of the Wachaga is
said to be a 'were-leopard'-that is, a man who is able at will
to change himself into a leopard. But in one story this irimu,
or leopard, is described as having ten tails; in another he presents
himself in human shape at a homestead, as a suitor to the daughter,
but is detected when she catches sight of a second mouth on the
back of his head.[1] In the Ronga story of "Nabandji"
[2] the people of the cannibal village whence the young man takes
a wife all have this peculiar feature. It may not be out of place
here to mention a Hausa (Nigeria) belief that a witch has mouths
all over her back. It is not easy to see what can have suggested
this notion.
The Chaga idea of the irimu seems to
be a fairly comprehensive one. An unfortunate man, who broke
a tabu, was turned into an irimu, with the result
that thorn-bushes grew out of his body, and he wandered about
the country, swallowing everything that came in his way. His
brother, whom he had considerately warned to keep his distance,
consulted a diviner and, by his advice, set the thorns on fire.
When they were all burned away the irimu returned to his
own proper shape.[3]
Sometimes the amazimu are said to have
only one leg, or only half a body; one story of a Kikuyu irimu
describes him as having one leg, but two heads, one of which
was stone; one-half of his body was human, but the other half
stone. The Basuto speak of a set of beings with one leg, one
arm,
[1. Gutmann, Volksbuch, p. 75
2. Junod, Chants et contes, p. 246.
3. Gutmann, Volksbuch, p. 73.]
one ear, and one eye, but these are called
matebele [1] (it is not quite clear why), not madimo.
They carry off a chief's daughter, though it is not suggested
that she is to be eaten. In the story of "The Mothemelle"
[2] we hear of cannibals (madimo) "hopping on one
leg." But these half-bodied beings, while appearing in folklore
all over Africa, are, as a rule, quite distinct from the amazimu.
They are not invariably malignant; often,. indeed, very much
the reverse. They will be discussed later on.
The Little People
Chatelain thought that the makishi
were the aboriginal inhabitants of the country, the 'Batua' (Batwa)
Pygmies, "not as they are now, but as they appeared to the
original Bantu settlers." But there is no evidence that
the Pygmies or the Bushmen (whom the Zulus call Abatwa) were
ever regarded as cannibals. Callaway's Zulu informants were very
emphatic about "the dreadfulness of the Abatwa," who,
if offended, as by a reference to their small stature, about
which they were especially sensitive, would shoot you with a
poisoned arrow as soon as look at you. But there is no reference
to their eating human flesh.
There is a distinct body of tradition about
these 'little people,' who are nowhere confused with the amazimu;
they may be dangerous if irritated, as stated above, but are
otherwise inoffensive, and even helpful, when approached in the
right way. The Wachaga have tales about the Wakonyingo, supposed
to live on the summit of Kilimanjaro (formerly believed inaccessible
to human feet), which show them in quite an amiable light. Even
the man who insulted them by taking them for children and asking
when their parents were coming home met with no worse fate than
waiting dinnerless till nightfall, and then going home as he
[1. This name is applied by the Basuto not
only to the Zulus of Rhodesia (Amandebele), but to the Zulus
and Xosa in general. Their relations with these people have so
often been hostile that their name may have been given for this
reason to the monsters in question.
2. Jacottet, Treasury of Ba-Suto Lore,
p. 224.]
had come, whereas his more tactful brother
was presented with a fine herd of cattle.
Dr Doke,[l] writing about the Lamba people,
also distinguishes between ogres (wasisimunkulu or wasisimwe[2]
and dwarfs (utuchekulu), whom he calls 'gnomes.' These,
however, differ from the other 'little people' in one important
respect-they eat people. The gnome is renowned for the one long
tooth, blood-red and sharp, with which it kills its victims.
Moreover, the Lamba people recognize the existence of pygmies
(utunyokamafumo), distinct from the gnomes. In the one
story in which they figure they come much nearer the character
of the wakonyingo. Yet in "The Choric Story [3] of
the Lion" a gnome shows himself helpful in saving a man
and his sister from an ogre.[4] And in another tale a gnome who
has been robbed of his drums by the chief's orders sprinkles
'medicine' over the men carrying them off, whereupon they all
fall down dead, and he recovers his property. But, having done
so, he sprinkles them again, and they return to life. And the
matter was arranged amicably in the end.
The Kamba Aimu
A different origin for the amazimu
has been suggested by others-viz., that they are the ghosts
of evil-disposed persons. This is expressly affirmed by the Akamba
about some spirits called limu ya kitombo. They
haunt woods and waste places . . . they are
evil spirits and are supposed to be the disembodied relics of
people who have killed their neighbours by the help of black
magic. . . . God has banished them to the woods, where they wander
about without anyone to care for them by sacrificing to them.
. . . A man who lived at Kitundu went out one night about midnight
to look at a maize-field
[1. Lamba Folklore, pp. 385-386.
2 This word contains the same root (-simwe)
as -zimu.
3 Dr Doke uses this expression to translate
ulusimi, "a prose story interspersed with songs,"
in which the audience join. See also Steere, Swahili Tales,
Preface, p. vii.
4 This belongs to the type of story labelled
"Robber Bridegroom" in the Folk-Lore Society's classification.]
some distance away.... On his way back he
met a spirit in the path; it was of enormous size, and had only
one leg ... before he could move he was struck down by a flash
of fire, and the spirit passed on its way.'
This may well have been the origin of the
amazimu, but I fancy that in most cases it has been forgotten,
and they are looked on as quite different from the ghosts, good
or bad. Another point to notice is that the ghosts are still
largely believed in and taken quite seriously, while the amazimu
proper occur only in stories related for entertainment (and,
possibly, instruction), but not accepted as fact. This fits in
with Mr Hobley's account of the aimu, described by the
Akamba as wicked ghosts, and actually seen (and even felt!) by
people now living.
It will be noticed that the Akamba, like the
Akikuyu, give the aimu, or some of them, only one leg.
Dr Lindblom also mentions this characteristic. In addition he
states that the eimu is "a figure appearing in different
shapes, sometimes smaller than a dwarf, sometimes of superhuman
size . . . though, on the other hand, he also often appears as
a wholly human being . . . he is a gluttonous ogre, and kidnaps
people in order to eat them up." This writer refers to several
Kamba stories-unfortunately not yet published in one of which
the eimu appears as a handsome young man and lures a girl
to his home; in another a Kamba woman turns into an eimu
and eats her own grandchild.[2]
The idea of the eimu seems here to
be mixed up, in some cases, with that of the Swallowing Monster,
in the peculiar form in which it occurs in Basutoland and in
Ruanda:
A favourite ending to many tales about the
eimu, or nearly related, more or less monstrous beings, is that
the monster, now
[1. Hobley, Bantu Beliefs, pp. 89 and
91. It is curious that both this and other authorities give the
plural of eimu as aimu, which is properly a plural
of the person class, whereas the right form would be maimu,
of the sixth noun class. Aimu is also the Kamba word for
the ancestral spirits, but this plural is seldom, if ever, used
for the ogres, while the singular of aimu, 'ghosts,' is
equally rare, so that there is not likely to be any confusion
between the two. Izimu and all cognate words in. Bantu
belong to the li-ma class (5-6), while the words for the
ancestral ghosts belong (with some exceptions, as aimu,
above) to the mu-mi class (3-4).
2 Lindblom, Kamba Tales, pp. viii and
ix.]
at length vanquished, tells his conqueror
in his death-hour to cut off his little finger, and, this having
been done, the people and cattle that he had devoured all come
to life again.
Stories of Escape from Ogres
There are several stories which, in slightly
differing shapes, are found probably in all parts of the Bantu
area. Some of them are familiar to us from European analogues,
though this does not necessarily mean that they have been imported.
In one the ogre puts a girl into a bag and carries her about
the country till she is rescued by her relations. Another tells
how a party of girls or lads pass the night in an ogre's hut,
and are rescued by the ready wit of the youngest. Then we have
the girl forcibly married to an ogre who makes her escape in
various ways. And, again, there is the theme, already referred
to, of the "Robber Bridegroom," though he is more commonly
a transformed animal (hyena, leopard, or lion) than an ogre properly
so called. But, as the Chaga irimu, for instance, is also
described as a 'were-leopard,' it is not always easy to keep
the two notions distinct.
Some stories of escape from ogres employ the
familiar device of obstacles created by the fugitives throwing
various things behind them, which become a rock, a fire, a forest
of knives, and a lake or river. This particular incident may
not be indigenous to Africa; it is not found in all the stories,
and those which have it-e.g., "Kibaraka," referred
to in our concluding chapter-contain other foreign elements.
There is no reason to suppose that most of the other incidents
are not of home growth.
Of the type first mentioned there is a well-known
example in the story of "Tselane," which (first published
by Arbousset in 1842) was introduced to English readers by Sir
James G. Frazer, under the title of "A South African Red
Riding-hood." [1] The resemblance to the European Red Riding-hood
is not very close, and applies chiefly to the opening incident,
which is not found in most of the versions.
[1. Folk-Lore Journal (1889), vol.
vii, p. 167.]
Tselane, remaining behind in the hut from
which her parents have migrated, is charged by her mother not
to open the door to anyone but herself. The ogre, by imitating
the mother's voice, gains admission and carries the girl off.
The same opening is found in "Demane and Demazana"
(where it is a brother, not the mother, whose voice is counterfeited),
but in the Zulu "Usitungusobendhle" [1] and the Xosa
"The Cannibal's Bird," [2] and in most, if not all,
of the other stories, a party of girls go out to bathe, or to
gather wild fruits, or for some other purpose, and one of them,
either unwittingly, or even in wanton mischief, offends the ogre,
who thereupon seizes her.
A curious point in the Sesuto, Xosa, and Zulu
versions is that when the ogre has been (as they think) finally
disposed of he is changed into a tree, which seems to have retained
harmful powers, for when people tried to get honey out of the
hollow trunk their hands stuck fast.[3] Something of the same
notion appears in the Swahili tale I am about to relate. It is
called " The Children and the Zimwi."
A Swahili Tale
Some little girls went out to look for shells
on the seashore. One of them found a very beautiful shell and,
fearing to lose it, laid it on a rock, so that she could pick
it up on the way home. However, as they were returning she forgot
it till they had passed the place, and then, suddenly remembering
it, asked her companions to go back with her. They refused, and
she went alone, singing to keep up her courage,[4] and found
a zimwi sitting on the rock. He said, "What do you
want?" and she sang her song over again. He said, "I
can't hear you. Come closer!" And when she
[1. Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 74.
2. Theal, Kaffir Folklore, p. 25.
3. The same thing happens in a Ronga story
to some women who had offended the ghosts by trespassing on their
sacred grove.
4. The words of the song are a mixture of
Yao and Swahili (indicating a probable origin for the story).
The meaning is not very clear, except for the two lines: "I
have forgotten my shell; I said, Let me go back and pick it up."
Neither is it clear from the text as it stands whether she began
to sing before or after she had seen the zimwi. If the latter,
the song may have been intended to propitiate him, though it
seems to have had the opposite effect.]
had done so he seized her and put her into
a barrel (pipa)[1] which he was carrying.
He then set off on his travels, and when he
came to a village made for the place of meeting [2] and announced
that he was prepared to give a musical entertainment in return
for a meal. "I have this drum of mine. I should like a fowl
and rice." He beat the drum, and the imprisoned child sang
in time to the rhythm, to the delight of every one. He was given
plenty of food, but gave none to the girl. He went on and repeated
his performance at the next village, which happened to be the
girl's own home. The report of his music seems to have preceded
him, for the people said, "We have heard, O zimwi, that
you have a most beautiful drum; now, please, play to us!"
He asked for pombe (native beer), and, being promised
that he should have some, began to beat the drum, and the girl
sang. Her parents at once recognized her voice, and when the
performance was over supplied the drummer with all the liquid
refreshment he required. He soon went to sleep, and they opened
the drum, released their daughter, and hid her in the inner compartment
of the hut. They then put into the drum a snake and a swarm of
bees and some biting ants, and fastened it up again.
In the Sesuto and Xosa versions the parents,
instead of making the ogre drunk, induce him to go to the stream
for water, and give him a leaky pot in order to delay his return
as long as possible. In one case they put in a dog as well as
the venomous ants, in the other snakes and toads, the latter
being supposed poisonous.
After a while they awakened him, saying, "Ogre,
wake up! Some strangers have arrived, and they want to hear.
[1. Later on it is called a drum (ngoma),
as it is in Dudley Kidd's story of "The Child in the Drum,"
in Savage Childhood, p. 233. In this the child is said
to be a boy; but I cannot help thinking this is a mistake. Europeans
seem to take for granted that a child is masculine unless otherwise
specified.
2. Called by Duff Macdonald the 'Forum'; in
Chinyania bwalo; in Swahili baraza. It is sometimes
merely an open space under the village fig-tree, sometimes an
erection like a bandstand, sometimes a more ambitious structure,
with seats for the elders, who hold their discussions there.
Strangers arriving at a village always make for this place.]
your music." So he lifted his drum and
began to beat it, but the voice was silent. He went on beating,
but no other sound was heard, and at last he took his leave,
and was not pressed to stay.
When he had gone a certain distance and was
no longer in sight of the village he stopped and opened his drum.
Immediately the snake shot out and bit him, the bees stung him,
and he died.
The Baleful Pumpkin
But that was not the end of him. On the spot
where he died there sprang up a pumpkin-vine, which bore pumpkins
of unusual size. One day some small boys passing by stopped to
admire them, and, prompted by the destructive instinct which
seems to be inherent in the very young of all climes, exclaimed,
"jolly fine pumpkins, these! Let's get father's sword and
have a slash at them!"
The largest of the pumpkins waxed wroth and
chased the children-breaking off its stem and rolling over and
over, one must suppose-and they took to their heels. In their
headlong flight they came to a river, and saw the old ferryman
sitting on the bank by his canoe.
"You, Daddy, ferry us over! Take us to
the other side! We are running away from a pumpkin."
The old man, without waiting for explanations,
took them across, and they ran on till they came to a village,
and found all the men sitting in the baraza, to whom they
appealed: "Hide us from that pumpkin! The zimwi has
turned into a pumpkin. You will just have to take it and burn
it with fire."
No doubt this version has lost some particulars
in transmission; the whole neighbourhood must have known the
story, and been aware that the pumpkin-plant had grown out of
the zimwi's remains; one may guess that the boys had,
over and over again, been told not to go near it, and, boylike,
were all the more attracted to the forbidden thing.
The men seem at once to have appreciated the
danger; they hurried the boys off into a hut and told them to
keep quiet behind the partition at the back. Presently the pumpkin
arrived. It is not explained how it had crossed the river, but
in such a case one marvel the more is easily taken for granted.
It spoke with a human voice, saying, "Have you seen my people
[i.e., my slaves] who are running away?"
The village elders, who by this time had returned
to their seats and were deliberately taking snuff, asked, "What
are your people like? We don't know anything about them."
But the pumpkin was not to be put off. "You have them shut
up inside the hut!"
Then the old headman gave the word, two or
three strong men seized the pumpkin, chopped it to pieces, and
built a roaring fire, in which it was consumed to ashes. They
scattered the ashes, and then released the boys, who went home
to their mothers.
We have already referred to versions in which
the dead ogre turns into a tree; in a Kiniramba story I collected
by Mr Frederick Johnson a porcupine, which seems to partake of
the nature of an ogre or some other uncanny being, is killed
and buried under the fireplace. "In the morning they found
a pumpkin growing." This began by speaking, repeating everything
that was said in its presence, and ended by swallowing all the
people in the village. The Shambala people also have a story
in which a pumpkin figures as the Swallowing Monster-but here
nothing is said about its origin.
To return to the story of the ogre, some other
versions give it a more dramatic ending. In these he reaches
his home, hands the bag to his wife, and tells her to open it
and cook the food. She refuses, on finding that "the bag
bites"; so, in turn, do his daughter and his son. He shuts
himself into the hut and opens the bag, with the result already
related; but instead of expiring on the spot he forces his way
out, and throws himself head first into a pool, or a marsh, out
of which a tree subsequently grows.
[1. Kiniramba Folk-tales, p. 334.]
The Magic Flight
The second of the types mentioned above is
well exemplified by the story of Sikulumi, which is told, without
much variation in its main features, by Zulus, Xosas, Basuto,
and Baronga.
One day a number of men seated by the fence
of the chief's cattle-fold saw several birds of a kind they had
never seen before perched on a tree not far off. The chief's
son, Sikulumi, said, "These are indeed beautiful birds.
I want to catch one and make a plume for my head [isidhodhlo]
of his feathers."
So he and some friends set off in pursuit
of the birds, which had already flown away while they were seizing
their knobkerries. They followed them across country for a long
time, and at last succeeded in knocking down several. By this
time the sun had set, and they were far from home; but as darkness
fell they perceived the glimmer of a distant fire, and made for
it straightway. When they came up with it they found it was burning
in an empty hut, which, though they could not know it, belonged
to some amazimu. They went in and made themselves at home,
plucked their birds, roasted, and ate them, after cutting off
the heads, which Sikulumi arranged all round the ledge of the
hut. Then they made plumes out of the feathers, and when they
had done so went to sleep-all but Sikulumi.
In the middle of the night an ogre arrived,
having left his fellows at a distance, and Sikulumi heard him
muttering to himself, "Something smells very good here in
my house!" [1] He looked at the sleepers, one by one-Sikulumi,
of course, pretending to be asleep-and said, "I will begin
with this one, I will cat that one next, and then that one, and
finish up with him whose little feet are white from walking through
the sand!" [2] He then caught sight of the birds' heads,
crunched them up, and swallowed them, before starting off to
call the other ogres to the feast.
[1. Endhlini yami lapa kwanuka 'zantungwana!
Some versions make him say, "I smell human flesh."
2. In the Ronga version he says, ". .
. I shall get fat right down to my little toe!"]
Sikulumi at once roused his friends and told
them what had happened, and they, picking up their plumes and
their sticks, set off for home, running for all they were worth.
They had gone quite a long way when Sikulumi remembered suddenly
that he had left his plume behind. His friends said, "Don't
go back. Take one of ours. Why should you go where cannibals
are?" But he persisted. He took his stick, rubbed it with
'medicine,' and planted it upright in the ground, saying, "If
this stick falls over without rising again you will know that
I am dead, and you must tell my father when you get home. As
long as it stands firm I am safe; if it shakes you will know
that I am running for my life."
Meanwhile the ogre had come back with his
friends, and when they found no one in the hut they were furious
with him for cheating them, so they killed and ate him.
On his way back to the hut Sikulumi saw an
old woman sitting by a big stone beside the path. She asked him
where he was going, and he told her. She gave him some fat, and
said, "If the ogres come after you put some of this on a
stone." He reached the hut, and found a whole party seated
round the fire, passing his plume from hand to hand. On the fire
a large pot was boiling, in which they were cooking toads.[1]
Sikulumi sprang in among them, snatched his plume from an old
hag who happened to be holding it at that moment, and at the
same time shattered the pot with a blow of his knobkerrie, scattering
the toads all over the floor. While the ogres were occupied in
picking them up he made his escape. They were not long, however,
in following him, and when he saw them he did as the friendly
old woman had told him and threw some of the fat on a stone.
When the ogres came up to this stone they began (it is not explained
why) to fight for the possession of it. One of them swallowed
it, whereupon the others killed and ate him. Sikulumi thus
[1. Is this significant? I do not remember
to have seen it noticed by any writer on folklore; but a Nyasaland
native told me that witches, at certain seasons, eat frogs (or
toads) as a part of their magical practices. The incident of
the stone, a little farther on, is not easy to understand.]
gained some advantage, but soon they had nearly
come up with him again. He threw some more fat on a stone, an
the same thing happened as before. Again they
started after him, and this time he threw down his skin cloak,
which began to run off by itself. The ogres ran after it, and
were so long catching it that he was able to rejoin his friends,
and they all made their way home.
Here, properly, the story comes to an end,
but the Baronga add another adventure at a cannibal village,
and the Xosa version [1] gives the further incident of the ogres
again nearly coming up with them and being baffled by a "little
man" (not accounted for by the narrator) who turned a large
stone into a hut. They took refuge in it, and the ogres, to whom
the outside still looked like a stone, tried to bite it, till
they broke all their teeth and went away.
The young men then reached their own village,
and found that it had been swallowed up, with all its inhabitants,
except one old woman, by a monster called an inabulele.
This episode really belongs to another story, which will be dealt
with in a later chapter. The tale then goes on to relate Sikulumi's
courtship and marriage to the daughter of Mangangezulu. It is
not said that her family are cannibals, though "no one ever
leaves the place of Mangangezulu," as they seem to be in
the habit of killing strangers. By the help of a friendly mouse
Sikulumi escapes with the girl, and she takes with her "an
egg, a milksack, a pot, and a smooth stone." When she throws
down the first it produces a thick mist, the milksack becomes
a lake, the pot darkness, and the stone a huge rock. Thus the
pursuers are baffled, and he reaches his home in safety.
The Ogre Husband
From the Duruma, a tribe living inland from
Mombasa to the west and north-west, comes the story of "Mbodze
and the Zimwi," which forms a good illustration of
our third type.
There was a girl named Mbodze, who had a younger
[1. Theal, Kaffir Folklore, P. 78.]
sister, Matsezi, and a brother, Nyange. She
went one day, with six other girls, to dig clay-either for plastering
the huts or for making pots, which is usually women's work. There
was a stone in the path, against which one after the other stubbed
her toes; Mbodze, coming last, picked up the stone and threw
it away. It must be supposed that the stone was an ogre who had
assumed this shape for purposes of his own; for when the girls
came back with their loads of clay they found that the stone
had become a huge rock, so large that it shut out the view of
their village, and they could not even see where it ended. When
they found that they could not get past it the foremost in the
line began to sing:
"Stone, let me pass, O stone! It is not
I who threw you away, O stone!
She who threw you away is Mbodze, Matsezi's sister,
And Nyange is her brother."
The rock moved aside just enough to let one
person pass through, and then closed again. The second girl sang
the same words, and was allowed to pass, and so did the rest,
till it came to Mbodze's turn. She, too, sang till she was tired,
but the rock did not move. At last the rock turned into a zimwi-or,
rather, we may suppose, he resumed his proper shape-seized hold
of Mbodze, and asked her, "What shall I do with you? Will
you be my child, or my wife, or my sister, or my aunt?"
She answered, "You may do what you like with me." So
he said," I will make you my wife"; and he carried
her off to his house.
There was a wild fig-tree growing in front
of the zimwi's house. Mbodze climbed up into it, and sang:
"Matsezi, come, come! Nyange, come, come!"
But Matsezi and Nyange could not hear her.
She lived there for days and months, and the
zimwi kept her well supplied with food, till he thought
she was plump enough to be eaten. Then he set out to call the
other ogres, who lived a long way off and were expected to bring
their own firewood with them. No sooner had he gone than there
appeared a chitsimbakazi,[l] like the friendly gnome in
the Lamba story, who, by some magic art, put Mbodze into a hollow
bamboo and stopped up the opening with wax. She then collected
everything in the house except a cock, which she was careful
to leave behind, spat in every room, including the kitchen, and
on both the doorposts, and started.
Before she had gone very far she met the ogres,
coming along the path in single file, each one carrying his log
of wood on his head. The first one stopped her, and asked, "Are
you Marimira's wife?"-Marimira being the ogre, Mbodze's
husband.
She sang in answer, "I am not Marimira's
wife: Marimira's wife has not a swollen mouth [like me [2]].
Ndi ndi! this great bamboo!"
At each ndi she struck the bamboo on
the ground, to show that it was hollow, and the ogre, seeing
that the upper end was closed with wax, suspected nothing and
passed on.
The other ogres now passed her, one after
another. The second was less easily satisfied than the first
had been, and insisted on having the bamboo unstopped, but when
he heard a great buzzing of bees [3] he said hastily, "Close
it! Close it!" The same happened with all the rest, except
the last, who was Marimira himself. He asked the same question
as the others, and was answered in the same way, and then said,
"What are you carrying in that stick? Unstop it and let
me see!" The sprite, recognizing him, said to herself, "Now
this is the end! It is Marimira; I must be very cunning,"
and she sang:
"I am carrying honey, ka-ya-ya!
I am carrying honey, brother, ka-ya-ya!
Ndi ndi! this great bamboo!"
[1. This sprite will come into the next chapter.
There is usually no indication as to its sex, unless we can infer
it from the termination -hazi which in some languages
is a feminine suffix. But in a Swahili story very like this one
the helpful being is expressly said to be "a little old
woman."
2 The appearance of the chitsimbakazi
is not described, but one may assume that it had some sort of
a snout, like an animal.
3 These bees are not accounted for; the text
says simply The bees buzzed at him-who-o-o-o!" Perhaps
we are to suppose that the sprite had filled up the top end of
the bamboo with honeycomb, and that the bees hatched out inside!]
But he kept on insisting that he must see,
and at last she took out the wax: the bees swarmed out and began
to settle upon him, and he cried in a panic, "Funikia!
funikia! Shut them up!"
So he passed on with his guests, and the sprite
went on her way.
The ogres reached Marimira's house, and he
called out, "Mbodze!" The spittle by the doorposts
answered, "He-e!" He then cried, "Bring
some water!" and a voice from inside answered, Presently!"
He got angry, and, leaving the others seated on the mats, went
in and searched through the whole house, finding no one there
and hearing nothing but the buzzing of flies. Terrified-and,
as will be seen, not without reason-at the thought of the guests
who would feel themselves to have been brought on false pretences,
he dug a hole to hide in and covered himself with earth-but his
one long tooth projected above the soil.
It will be remembered that a cock had been
left in the house when everything else was removed; and this
cock now began to crow, "Kokoikoko-o-o! Father's
tooth is outside!"
The guests, waiting outside, wondered. "Hallo!
Listen to that cock. What is he saying?" "Come! Go
in and see what Marimira is doing in there, for the sun is setting,
and we have far to go!" So they searched the house, and,
coming upon the tooth, dug him up and dragged him outside, where
they killed, roasted, and ate him-all but his head. While doing
so they sang:
After a while one of them bit off a piece
from the head; the others at once fell upon him and ate him.
This went on till only one was left. He fixed up a rope to make
a swing and climbed into it, but the rope was not strong enough;
it broke, and he fell into the fire. "And he began to cry
out, 'Maye! Maye! [Mother!] I'm dying!' And he started
to chew himself there in the fire," and so perished.
This incident is somewhat puzzling; it may
be a misunderstood report of an episode in another story [1]
in which the ogre tries to trick his victim by inducing him to
get into a swing fixed above a boiling cauldron, but is caught
in his own trap. The swing is quite a popular amusement in Africa,
wherever children can get a rope fixed to a convenient branch
of a tree.
Meanwhile the chitsimbakazi had reached
Mbodze's home. A little bird flew on ahead, perched outside the
house, and sang:
The mother said, "just listen to that
bird! What does it say? It is telling us to sweep the yard, because
Mbodze is coming." So she set to work at once, and presently
the sprite arrived and said, "Let me have a bath, and then
I will give you your daughter."
She gave her a bath and rubbed her with oil
and cooked gruel for her. The. sprite said, "Don't pour
it into a big dish for me; put it into a coconut shell,"
which the woman did. When the chitsimbakazi had eaten
she unstopped the bamboo and let Mbodze out, to the great joy
of the whole family, who could not do enough to show their gratitude.
The Were-wolf Husband
The ogre as bridegroom appears in a Chaga
story, of a kind found all over Africa,[2] and told to warn girls
against being overhard to please in the choice of a husband.
But the wooer is not so often called an ogre, as such, as a lion,
a hyena, or a leopard, who has assumed a man's shape for the
time being. Some of these stories are more detailed than the
one I am about to give, and will come better into the next chapter.
There was once a girl who refused to marry.[3]
Her
[1. Steere, Swahili Tales, p. 383:
"The Spirit and the Sultan's Son."
2. Thus by the Ewe on the Gold Coast, the
Ikom, the Hausa, and others. English-speaking people in Sierra
Leone call the ogre the Devil (the story is headed "Marry
the Devil, there's the Devil to pay"), but such a person
is not known to Africans, unless they have heard of him from
white people.
3 Gutmann, Volksbuch, p.75]
parents, too, discouraged all wooers who presented
themselves, as they said they would not give their daughter to
any common man. (This is an unusual touch: in most tales of this
kind it is the parents who remonstrate and the girl who is wilful.)
On a certain day the sword-dance was going
on at this girl's village, and men came from the whole countryside
to take part in it. Among the dancers there appeared a tall and
handsome young man, wearing a broad ring like a halo round his
head, who drew all eyes by his grace and noble bearing. The maiden
fell in love with him at first sight, and her parents also approved
of him. The dancing went on for several days, during which time
she scarcely took her eyes off him. But one day, as he happened
to turn his back, she caught sight of a second mouth behind his
head, and said to her mother, That man is a rimu!"
They would not believe it. " That fine fellow a rimu!
Nonsense I just you go with him and let him cat you, that's all!"
The suitor presented himself in due course,
and the marriage took place. After spending some days with the
bride's parents the couple left for their home. But her brothers,
knowing the husband to be a rimu, felt uneasy, and followed
them, without their knowledge, keeping in the bushes alongside
the path. When they had gone some distance the husband stopped
and said, " Look back and tell me if you can still see the
smoke from your father's hut." She looked, and said that
she could. They went on for another hour or two, and then he
asked her if she could see the hills behind her home. She said
yes, and again they went on. At last he asked her again if she
could see the hills, and when he found that she could not said,
What will you do now? I am a rimu. Climb up into this
tree and weep your last tears, for you must die!"
But her brothers, watching their chance, shot
him with poisoned arrows, and he died. She came down from the
tree and the brothers took her home.
CHAPTER XIII: OF WERE-WOLVES, HALFMEN, GNOMES, GOBLINS, AND
OTHER MONSTERS
WERE-WOLVES is a term used for convenience,
as being most familiar, but there are no wolves in Africa, at
any rate south of the Sahara. It is the hyena (called 'wolf '
by South Africans), the lion, and the leopard who have the unpleasant
habit of assuming at will the human form or, which comes to the
same thing, sorcerers have the power of turning themselves into
these animals; and some tribes even have the strange notion that
a course of treatment with certain medicines will enable a person
to take after his death the shape of any animal he wishes.
I have already referred to the numerous stories
of which the theme is the "Robber (or Demon) Bridegroom."
In one collected by R.E. Dennett on the Lower Congo the original
idea seems to have dropped out of sight: the chief character
is simply called a 'robber' (mpunia); and in Dr Doke's
book [1] he is a chiwanda, [2] which this writer translates
'devil'-a word I prefer to avoid in discussing African beliefs.
"The Choric Story of the Lion,"
also given by Dr Doke, [3] is a fairly good specimen of this
type, but is without the usual opening. Most stories of this
kind begin by saying that a girl refused every offer of marriage,
sometimes imposing a difficult, or even impossible, condition
on her suitors.
The Girl who married a Lion
A lion "went to a village of human beings
and married." It is not expressly said that he changed his
shape, but this seems to be implied in the following sentence:
"And the
[1. Lamba Folklore, p. 85.
2 The Balamba distinguish between chiwanda
('demon or evil spirit'), sisimwe ('ogre'), mukupe
('goblin,' 'half-man,' also called mupisi and chinkuwaila),
and akachekulu (pl. utuchekulu) ('gnome').
3 Lamba Folklore, p. 107.]
people thought that maybe it was but a man
and not a wild creature."
In due course the couple had a child. Some
time after this the husband proposed that they should visit his
parents, and they set out, accompanied by the wife's brother.
In several parallel stories a younger brother or sister of the
bride desires to go with her, and when she refuses follows the
party by stealth, but there is no indication of this here.
At the end of the first day's journey they
all camped in the forest, and the husband cut down thorn-bushes
and made a kraal (mutanda), after which he went away,
saying that he was going to catch some fish in the river. When
he was gone the brother said to his sister, "He has built
this kraal very badly," and he took his axe and cut down
many branches, with which to strengthen the weak places.
Meanwhile the husband had gone to seek out
his lion relations, and when they asked him, "How many animals
have you killed?" he replied, "Two and a young one."
When darkness fell he "had become a huge male lion,"
and led the whole clan (with a contingent of hyenas) to attack
his camp. Those inside heard the stealthy footfalls and sat listening.
The lions hurled themselves on the barrier, trying to break through,
but it was too strong, and they fell back, wounded with the thorns.
He who by day had been the husband growled: "M. .
.," and the baby inside the kraal responded: "M.
. ." Then the mother sang:
The were-lion's father, quite disgusted, said,
"You have brought us to a man who has built a strong kraal;
we cannot eat him." And as day was beginning to break they
all retired to the forest.
When it was light the husband came back with
his fish, and said that he had been detained, adding, "You
were nearly eaten," meaning that his absence had left them
exposed to danger. It seems to be implied that the others were
taken in by his excuses, but the brother, at any rate, must have
had his suspicions. When the husband had gone off again, ostensibly
to fish, he said, "See, it was that husband of yours who
wanted to eat us last night." So he went and walked about,
thinking over the position. Presently he saw the head of a gnome
(akachekulu) projecting from a cleft in a tree; it asked
him why he had come, and, on being told, said, "You are
already done for; your brother-in-law is an ogre that has finished
off all the people in this district." The creature then
asked him to sweep out the midden inside his house [1]-and after
he had done so told him to cut down the tree, which it then hollowed
out and made into a drum, stretching two prepared skins over
the ends. It then slung the drum round the man's waist, and said,
"Do as if you were going to do this"-that is, raise
himself from the ground. And, behold, he found himself rising
into the air, and he reached the top of a tree. The gnome told
him to jump down, and he did so quite easily. Then it said, "Put
your sister in the drum and go home." So he called her,
and, having stowed her in it, with the baby, rose up and sat
in the tree-top, where he began to beat the drum. The lion, hearing
the sound, followed it, and when he saw the young man in the
tree said, "Brother-in-law, just beat a little"; so
the man beat the drum and sang:
"Boom, boom sounds the little
drum
Of the sounding drum, sounds the little
drum!
Ogre,[2] dance, sounds the little drum
Of the sounding drum, sounds the little
drum!
The lion began to dance, and the skins he
was wearing fell off and were blown away by the wind, and he
had to go back and pick them up. Meanwhile the drum carried the
fugitives on, and the lion pursued them as soon as he had recovered
his skins. Having overtaken them, he called up into the tree,
"Brother-in-law, show me my child!" and the following
dialogue took place:
"What, you lion, am I going to show you
a relation of mine?"
[1. Meaning, evidently, the hollow tree!
2. It is noticeable that the name sisimwe
is here applied to the lion.]
"Would I eat my child?" conveniently
ignoring the fact that he had himself announced the killing of
"the young one."
"How about the night you came? You would
have eaten us!"
Again the brother-in-law beat the drum, and
the lion danced (apparently unable to help himself), and as before
lost his skins, stopped to pick them up, and began the chase
again, while the man went springing along the treetops like a
monkey. At last he reached his own village, and "his mother
saw as it were a swallow settle in the courtyard" of his
home. She said, "Well, I never! Greeting, my child!"
and asked where his sister was. He frightened her at first by
telling her that she had been eaten by her husband, who was really
a lion, but afterwards relented and told her to open the drum.
Her daughter came out with the baby, safe and sound, and the
mother said, praising her son, "You have grown up; you have
saved your sister!" She gave him five slave-girls-a form
of wealth still accepted in Lambaland not so very long ago.
The lion had kept up the pursuit, and reached
the outskirts of the village, but, finding that his intended
victims were safe within the stockade, he gave up and returned
to the forest.
The Hyena Bridegroom
A story from Nyasaland is different enough
from the above to be interesting. I was told it, many years ago,
by a bright little boy at Blantyre; but, as might be expected,
he did not know it perfectly, and very likely I missed some points
in writing it down from his dictation. I have therefore pieced
it out from another version, written out much later by a Nyanja
man, Walters Saukila, which clears up several difficult points.
There was a girl in a certain village who
refused all suitors, though several very decent young men had
presented themselves. Her parents remonstrated in vain; she only
said,
I don't like the young men of our neighbourhood;
if one came from a distance I might look at him!" So they
left off asking for her, and she remained unmarried for an unusually
long time.
One day a handsome stranger arrived at the
village and presented himself to the girl's parents. He had all
the appearance of a rich man; he was wearing a good cloth, had
ivory bracelets on his arms, and carried a gun and a powder-horn
curiously ornamented with brass wire. The maiden exclaimed, on
seeing him, "This is the one I like!" Her father and
mother were more doubtful, as was natural, since no one knew
anything about him; but in spite of all they could say she insisted
on accepting him. He was, in fact, a hyena, who had assumed human
shape for the time being.
The usual marriage ceremonies took place,
and the husband, in. accordance with Yao and Nyanja custom, settled
down at the village of his parents-in-law, and made himself useful
in the gardens for the space of several months. At the end of
that time he said that he had a great wish to visit his own people.
His wife, whom he had purposely refrained from asking, begged
him to let her accompany him. When all was ready for the journey
her little brother, who was suffering from sore eyes, said he
wanted to go too; but his sister, ashamed to be seen in company
with such an object, refused him sharply. He waited till they
had started, and then followed, keeping out of sight, till he
was too far from home to be sent back.
They went on for many days, and at last arrived
at the hyenas' village, where the bride was duly welcomed by
her husband's relations. She was assigned a hut to sleep in,
but, to keep her brother out of the way, she sent him into the
hen-house.
In the middle of the night, when she was asleep,
the people of the village took their proper shape and, called
together by the hyena husband, marched round the hut, chanting:
The little boy in the hen-house was awake
and heard them; his worst fears were confirmed. (W. Saukila says:
"Though that one was small as to his size, he was of surpassing
sense.") In the morning he told his sister what he had heard,
but she would not believe him. So he told her to tie a string
to her toe and put the end outside where he could get it. This
he drew into the hen-house, and that night, when the hyenas began
their march, he pulled the string and awakened his sister. She
was now thoroughly frightened, and when he asked her next morning,
"Did you hear them, sister?" she had nothing more to
say.
The Magic Boat
The boy then went to his brother-in-law and
asked him for the loan of an axe and an adze. The man (as he
appeared to be), who had no notion that he was detected and every
reason to show himself good-natured, consented at once, and watched
him going off into the bush, well pleased that the child should
amuse himself.
The latter soon found and cut down a tree
such as he needed, and then began to shape a thing which he called
nguli [1]-something in the nature of a small boat. When
he had finished it he got into it and sang
And the nguli began to rise up from
the earth. As he went on singing it rose higher and higher, till
it floated above the tops of the tallest trees. The hyena-villagers
all rushed out to gaze at this wonder, and the boy's sister came
with them. Then he sang once more:
"Chinguli changa, tsikatsika de-de,
tsikatsila!"
["My boat! come down! down, de-de!
[expressive of descending] come down!"]
[1. Nguli is properly a spinning-top-a
toy very popular in African villages. Chinguli, the word
used later on, means a large nguli, This object has hitherto
been a great puzzle. The Rev. H. B. Barnes (Nyanja-English
Vocabulary) says, "Chinguli in a native story
apparently plays the part of the 'magic carpet' in the Arabian
Nights." The explanation that it was "like a canoe
to look at" is due to Walters Saukila.]
And it floated gently down to the ground.
The people were delighted, and cried out to him to go up again.
He made some excuse for a little delay, and whispered to his
sister to get her bundle (which, no doubt, she had ready) and
climb in. She did so, and when both were safely stowed he sang
his first song once more. Again the vessel rose, and this time
did not come down again. The spectators, after waiting in vain,
began to suspect that their prey was escaping, and shouted to
the boy to come back, but no attention was paid to them, and
the nguli quickly passed out of sight. Before the day
was out they found themselves above the courtyard of their home,
and the boy sang the words which caused them to descend, so that
they alighted on their mother's grain-mortar. The whole family
came running out and overwhelmed them with questions; the girl
could not speak for crying with joy and relief, and her brother
told the whole story, winding up with: "Look here, sister,
you thought I was no good, because I had sore eyes-but who was
it heard them singing, 'Let us eat her!' and told you about it?"
The parents, too, while praising the boy, did not fail to point
the moral for the benefit of their foolish daughter, who, some
say, had to remain unmarried to the end of her days.
Anyone who has heard a native story-teller
chant Chinguli changa cannot help wondering whether we
have a far-off echo of it in Uncle Remus's "Ingle-go-jang,
my joy, my joy!" though it occurs in an entirely different
story.
The Half-men
Some of the amazimu, as stated in the
last chapter, are described as having only half a body, but this
by no means applies to all of them, and there is a distinct set
of half-beings who cannot be classed as ogres.
In Nyasaland a being called Chiruwi is, or
was, believed to haunt lonely places in the forest, carrying
an axe. He has one eye, one arm, one leg, the other half of his
body being made of wax. He challenges any man he meets to wrestle
with him; if the man can overcome him he offers to show him "many
medicines" if he will let him go, and tells him the properties
of the various trees and herbs. But if the man is thrown "he
returns no more to his village; he dies."
A little boy at Ntumbi, in the West Shire
district, told me a curious story in which "a big bird,"
with one wing, one eye, and one leg, carried some children across
a flooded river.
In a tale of the Bechuana, which is something
like this, the children are pursued by an ogre, take refuge up
a tree, and are rescued before he is able to cut it down by a
"great thing called Phuku-phuku," which is not
further described. What seems to be a parallel version attributes
the rescue to "a great bird," which "hovered over
them and said, 'Hold fast to me.'" There is no indication
that this bird was without the usual number of wings and legs;
but it is quite evident that he is, as the editor of the South
African Folklore Journal [1] remarks, "a personage
worth studying."
A fuller form of the story, however, was obtained
by the Rev. C. Hoffmann among the Bapedi in the Transvaal. But
even this throws no light on the bird's nature; he is simply
called nonyana votze, " a beautiful bird," and
carries the children home under his wings. In retelling it in
a more popular form for young readers [2] Mr Hoffmann calls him
a peacock, and represents him as such in his illustration; but
this must be a picturesque addition of his own, for the peacock
was quite unknown in South Africa till introduced by Europeans,
and it is very unlikely that the original narrators had ever
heard of it.
The Baronga tell of a village of "one-legged
people (mangabangabana), who also possess wings, or, at
any rate, the power of flying. They seem to be quite distinct
from ogres-called in Ronga simply "eaters of men,"
though they sometimes have another name, switukulumukumba.
A girl who escapes from the cannibals' village is, later on,
carried off by the flying half-men; but there is no suggestion
that they intend to eat her.
[1. Vol. i, Part I, January 1879, p. 16.
2. Afrikanischer Grossvater, p. 5.]
In the story of Namachuke, however, the one-legged
beings are certainly cannibal ogres. Part of this story is much
like that given in the last chapter, of the girl escaping from
the ogre's house; but the opening is different, and there is
also an unexpected sequel: Namachuke and her co-wives are beguiled
by curiosity into leaving their home and following the monsters,
and are devoured, together with the unfortunate children who
have come to look for them.
Similarly, the Zulu amadhlungundhlebe,
who had only one leg, were said to be man-eaters.
But these are exceptions: the genuine half-men
are more akin to Chiruwi, though their character varies; some
are merely terrifying, like the one formerly believed to haunt
the Cameroons Mountain, to see whom was death.
Sechobochobo of the Baila is "a kind
of wood-sprite, described as a man with one arm and one eye,
living in the forest; he brings good luck to those who see him;
he takes people and shows them trees in the forest which can
serve as medicines.
But the accounts of this being would seem
to vary, for elsewhere we read, "If one chances to see it
he will die."
Sikulokobuzuka
The Basubiya say that Sikulokobuzuka is wax
on one side of him; the leg on the other is like that of an animal.
Some say that he has a wife and children, in form like himself.
He lives on wild honey, and is reported to have a hut made of
elephants' tusks and python skins, but his village, where are
stored many pots of honey, meat, and fat, is invisible to human
eyes. His axe and spears are made of wax. The account given to
M. Jacottet by Kabuku, a young man of the Subiya tribe, scarcely
bears out the statement made by some that it is death to meet
Sikulokobuzuka-fortunately, he has a shorter name, Chilube, which
will be more convenient to use. A certain man, Mashambwa,[l]
told Kabuku that while looking for honey in
[1. "Textes Subiya," No. 47, p.
138.]
the forest he heard a honey-guide calling;
he whistled to it, and it led him to a tree containing a bees'
nest. He lit a torch, climbed the tree, smoked the bees out,
and had just taken the honey, when he saw Chilube approaching.
He came down, carrying his honey on a wooden platter, and met
Chilube, who at once demanded it. Mashambwa refused, and Chilube
said, "Come, then, let us wrestle." They did so, Mashambwa
taking care to get his opponent off the grass and on to a sandy
place, where, after a long struggle, he succeeded in throwing
him. He said, "Shall I kill you?" and Chilube replied,
"Don't kill me, my chief, and I will get you the medicine
for bewitching people and killing them." Mashambwa said,
"I don't want that," and Chilube said, "There
is another, which helps you to get plenty of meat." He agreed
to accept this, and Chilube said, "Let me go, and I will
get it for you." So he showed him all the herbs and trees
which possessed healing properties or were good as charms for
luck in hunting, or finding food in other ways, or for gaining
the favour of one's chief.
Mashambwa set off homeward, but soon lost
his way and wandered about till he once more met Chilube, who
guided him to his village, telling him that he must not speak
to anyone or answer if spoken to. This seems to have been a recognized
rule, for when Mashambwa reached home and the people found that
he did not respond to their greetings they knew that he had met
Chilube, and let him alone, but built a hut for him in a place
apart.
Mashambwa lay ill in that hut for a whole
year. Chilube arrived as soon as those who had built it had left,
and thenceforth came regularly, bringing him food and medicine.
At last he recovered, and, looking out over the forest one day,
saw a number of vultures. This appears to have been the sign
that his period of silence and seclusion was over, for he called
out, "Look at my vultures over there!"and the villagers
went to the spot and found a freshly killed animal. So they brought
back the meat and gave him some, and he ate with them and took
up his old life again.
After this it seems hardly fair to dismiss
Chilube as "cruel and wicked" or "a strange and
maleficent being" (in M. Jacottet's words, "être
étrange et malfaisant"). Nor is it apparent why
an up-to-date hunter, meeting Chilube in the forest, should,
without provocation, have pointed his gun at him and set his
dogs on him. Chilube fled-he is said (not unnaturally) to fear
dogs and guns-and one would not be surprised to learn that no
more medicines were shown to people in that neighbourhood.
In Angola[1] we find that Fenda Madia is helped
by an old woman with "one arm, one leg, one side of face,
and one side of body," and among the Wangonde a similarly
formed old woman takes some girls across a river.
There is a curious development of the same
notion in a story about a jealous woman who tricked her co-wife
into throwing away her baby. When she found out that the mother
had recovered her child and received rich gifts in addition she
threw her own baby into the river-and recovered it, indeed, but
only to find that it had but half a body.[2]
There is a strange legend of the Wagogo to
the effect that the first heaven (there are four in all, one
above the other) is inhabited by half-beings of this kind; I
do not know whether such a notion has been recorded elsewhere.
Perhaps the lake-god Mugasha, on the Victoria
Nyanza, who has only one leg, should be mentioned in this connexion;
and I recall a curious statement made by a Giryama, Aaron Mwabaya,
at Kaloleni in 1912: "When the print of a human foot is
seen side by side with a hyena's spoor the traces are those of
a sorcerer who is on one side human, on the other a hyena."
This I have never heard elsewhere: -people in Nyasaland had a
different way of accounting for human footprints beside a hyena's
track, but that is "another story."
Gnomes and Spirits
We have already come across Dr Doke's 'gnomes,'
fearsome beings called by the Balamba "little ancient ones,"
[1. Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola,
p. 32
2. See ante, p. 96.]
who kill their victims with "one long
tooth, blood-red and sharp." But, as we have seen in the
story of the lion, they are by no means always malignant. They
may be of either sex.
The chitsimbakazi of the Duruma perhaps
belongs to the same family; their neighbours the Giryama have
a katsumbakazi-no doubt the same word-of which W. E. Taylor
remarks that it is "said to be seen occasionally in daylight.
It is usually malignant." He does not describe its appearance,
beyond saying that its stature is very low-a point on which it
seems to be sensitive: "When it meets anyone it . . . asks
him, 'Where did you see me?' If the person is so unlucky as to
answer, 'Just here,' he will not live many days; but if he is
aware of the danger and says, 'Oh, over yonder,' he will be left
unharmed, and sometimes even something lucky will happen to him."
[1]
A similar story used to be told by the Zulus
of the Bushmen, only, instead of inflicting death by some occult
means, they would retaliate on the spot with a poisoned arrow.
The "little people" in Nyasaland,
known by a name which means "Where did you see me?"
are similarly quick to resent this insult.
The forests of the Tana Valley are haunted
by a thing which the Wapokomo call kitunusi, which behaves
like Chiruwi or Chilube, though not shaped like them. As far
as one can gather, its form is that of a normal human being,
and it does not seem to be particularly small. There are two
kinds: one walks about upright, "like a child of Adam, as
my informant said, the other hitches itself about in a sitting
position, though not devoid of legs. It wears a cloth of kaniki
(dark blue cotton stuff): if anyone who wrestles with it can
manage to tear off a bit of this his fortune is made: "he
puts it away in his covered basket [kidzamanda] and becomes
rich"; presumably the cloth multiplies itself, but this
is not explained. Those who meet the kitunusi and do not
stand up to it boldly are apt to
[1. Giryama Vocabulary, p. 32.]
be stricken with paralysis in all their limbs,
or with some other illness.
Two other creatures, classified by Professor
Meinhof as "haunting demons" (Spukdämonen),
are, or were some time ago, to be found in the Tana forests.
One is the ngojama, in sight like to a man, but with a
long claw ("an iron nail," say some) in the palm of
his right hand. Other people, the Galla, for instance, say that
the ngojama is simply a lion who has grown too old to
hunt game and taken to eating men. This is curiously borne out
by the very similar names for 'lion' in Zulu, Herero, and Tswa[1];
in the last-named language, moreover, it is confined to man eating
lions. I was told, by Pokomo natives, a strange story about a
man named Bombe, which to some slight extent resembles Mashambwa's
adventure with Chilube. The ngojama came upon Bombe when
he was up a tree taking honey, and waited to seize him when he
came down, but Bombe handed him the best pieces of honeycomb,
and made his escape while the monster lingered to eat them. When
he saw Bombe in his canoe, half-way across the river, he stood
on the bank, crying, "Wai! wai! If I had known I
would not have eaten the honey!" There is no suggestion
of a contest (as with the kitunusi), and it is evident
that the ngojama cannot swim. His last words to Bombe
were, "Go I You are a man I But we shall meet another day."
The other forest-haunting bogy is the ngoloko,
described to me as a huge serpent-so huge that when my informant's
father saw him at night he took him for a great dead tree-a white
bulk which would be clearly visible even without a moon. When
he got nearer he saw that it was a monstrous snake, with luminous
ears (a strange touch), which he had at first taken for flames.
They were like the yellow flowers I had just picked from a bush-which,
if I remember rightly, were something like the Corchorus
of our gardens. This seems to have been all I could gather about
the ngoloko. A writer in Blackwood's Magazine [2]
some years ago
[1. The language of a tribe near Inhambane,
in Portuguese East Africa.
2 November 1917.]
gave an account of what he had heard from
the natives about this being, but his description rather fits
the ngojama. He took it to be an anthropoid ape-hitherto
unknown in Africa east of the Great Lakes. He was shown a print
of its foot (which, in fact, seemed to show a long claw), and
heard uncanny roarings at night, which people assured him were
the voice of the ngoloko. But the print, of which a tracing
was procured, was credibly pronounced to have been made by the
foot of an ostrich; and the cry of the ostrich is powerful enough
to be heard at a great distance, especially by night.
About the kodoile, also enumerated
among the dangers of the Tana forests, I did not succeed in getting
any information, beyond the fact that "the Swahili call
it dubu," which is dubb, the Arabic name for the
bear. In the Pokomo New Testament (Revelation xiii, 2) 'bear'
is translated kodoile, and ngojama is the rendering
of 'dragon.' There are, so far as known at present, no bears
in Africa south of the Sahara-the 'Nandi bear,' concerning which
many reports have been in circulation, is now generally held
to be a mythical animal. In fact, a Zanzibar man who saw a bear
for the first time in his life in the London Zoo could only describe
it as "the illegitimate offspring of a hyena (yule mwana
haramu wa fisi).
CHAPTER XIV: THE SWALLOWING MONSTER
THE legend of a monster which swallows the
population of a village-or, indeed, of the whole country and
is subsequently slain by a boy hero seems to be current all over
Africa. We have found part of it fitted into one of the ogre
tales already dealt with, and we shall find some versions incorporating
parts of stories which, strictly speaking, should be classed
under other headings. McCall Theal [1] remarked:
There is a peculiarity in many of these stories
which makes them capable of almost indefinite expansion. They
are so constructed that parts of one can be made to fit into
parts of another, so as to form a new tale. . . . These tales
are made up of fragments which are capable of a variety of combinations.[2]
This might be taken to imply that conscious
invention was at work in so constructing the stories, but it
is not necessary to assume that this was the writer's meaning.
Classical mythology affords numerous examples of the way in which
floating traditions attach themselves to each other without special
intention on anyone's part. After writing has been introduced
and poets have given literary form to these traditions the case
is different. African folklore has not in general reached this
stage.
The main points of the legend are these:
Some versions add that the people in time
become envious and plan his destruction (here the incidents resemble
those of Huveane's story); and these, again, vary considerably.
Some say that he triumphed over his enemies in the end; others
that he was slain by them.
[1. The historian of South Africa, who also
collected the folklore of the Xosas.
2 Kaffir Folklore, p. vii.]
In most of these legends the boy is miraculously
precocious, like Hlakanyana and Kachirambe; but occasionally,
like Theseus, he has to wait till he is grown up. In one his
mother tells him to lift a certain stone, several years in succession,
and when at last he is able to do it he is reckoned strong enough
for the great enterprise.
The Whale and the Dragon
E. B. Tylor [1] was of opinion that this legend
is a kind of allegorical nature-myth.
Day is daily swallowed up by night, to be
set free at dawn, and from time to time suffers a like but shorter
durance in the maw of the Eclipse and the Storm-cloud. Summer
is overcome and prisoned by dark Winter, but again set free.
It is a plausible opinion that such scenes from the great nature-drama
of the conflict of light and darkness are, generally speaking,
the simple facts which in many lands and ages have been told
in mythic shape, as legends of a Hero or Maiden devoured by a
monster and hacked out again or disgorged.
The point is illustrated by examples from
the myths of the Burman Karens, the Maoris, and the North American
Indians, as well as by the stories of Ditaolane and Untombinde,
about to be related here. Tylor traces to the same origin the
legends of Perseus and Andromeda (ultimately modernized and Christianized
as St George and the Dragon), Herakles and Hesione, and Jonah's
'whale.' This last introduces a different element, which finds
a parallel in some African stories we shall have to consider
in a later chapter.
But such allegorizing, as Wundt [2] has shown,
is foreign to the thought of primitive people. They may think
that the lightning is a bird and that an eclipse is caused by
something trying to eat up the sun or moon; but this myth of
day and night is too abstract a conception for them.
It may be worth noting that a Christian writer
of Basutoland has made use of the Swallower legend as a dim
[1. Primitive Culture, vol. i, p. 334
sqq.
2 Völkerpsychologie, vol. v, Part
II, p. 268.]
foreshadowing of the promise of a Redeemer.[1]
In his somewhat mystical story Moeti oa Bochabela (The
Traveller to the East) the old men relate it to Fekisi, the
young dreamer, tormented by the "obstinate questionings"
of 'whence' and 'whither.' And, indeed, it might well lend itself
to such an interpretation.
Khodumodurno, or Karnmapa
The Basuto tell the legend as follows.
Once upon a time there appeared in our country
a huge, shapeless thing called Khodumodumo (but some people call
it Kammapa). It swallowed every living creature that came in
its way. At last it came through a pass in the mountains into
a valley where there were several villages; it went to one after
another, and swallowed the people, the cattle, the goats, the
dogs, and the fowls. In the last village was a woman who had
just happened to sit down on the ash-heap. She saw the monster
coming, smeared herself all over with ashes, and ran into the
calves' pen, where she crouched on the ground. Khodumodumo, having
finished all the people and animals, came and looked into the
place, but could see nothing moving, for, the woman being smeared
with ashes and keeping quite still, it took her for a stone.
It then turned and went away, but when it reached the narrow
pass (or nek) at the entrance to the valley it had swelled
to such a size that it could not get through, and was forced
to stay where it was.
Meanwhile the woman in the calves' pen, who
had been expecting a baby shortly, gave birth to a boy. She laid
him down on the ground and left him for a minute or two, while
she looked for something to make a bed for him. When she came
back she found a grown man sitting there, with two or three spears
in his hand and a string of divining bones (ditaola [2])
round his neck. She said, "Hallo, man!
[1 Thomas Mofolo, who has more recently written
an historical romance, Chaka, introduced to English readers
through the medium of Mr Dutton's translation.
2 So in some versions of the story he is called
Ditaolane; in others he is merely Moshanyana, which means 'little
boy.']
Where is my child?" and he answered,
"It is I, Mother!" Then he asked what had become of
the people, and the cattle, and the dogs, and she told him.
"Where is this thing, Mother?"
"Come out and see, my child."
So they both went out and climbed to the top
of the wall surrounding the calves' kraal, and she pointed to
the pass, saying, "That object which is filling the nek,
as big as a mountain, that is Khodumodumo."
Ditaolane got down from the wall, fetched
his spears, sharpened them on a stone, and set off to the end
of the valley, where Khodumodurno lay. The beast saw him, and
opened its mouth to swallow him, but he dodged and went round
its side-it was too unwieldy to turn and seize him and drove
one of his spears into it. Then he stabbed it again with his
second spear, and it sank down and died.
He took his knife, and had already begun to
cut it open, when he heard a man's voice crying out, "Do
not cut me!" So he tried in another place, and another man
cried out, but the knife had already slashed his leg. Ditaolane
then began cutting in a third place, and a cow lowed, and some
one called out, "Don't stab the cow!" Then he heard
a goat bleat, a dog bark, and a hen cackle, but he managed to
avoid them all, as he went on cutting, and so, in time, released
all the inhabitants of the valley.
There was great rejoicing as the people collected
their belongings, and all returned to their several villages
praising their young deliverer, and saying, "This young
man must be our chief." They brought him gifts of cattle,
so that, between one and another, he soon had a large herd, and
he had his choice of wives among their daughters. So he built
himself a fine kraal and married and settled down, and all went
well for a time.
Ingratitude of the Tribe
But the unintentionally wounded man never
forgot his grudge, and long after his leg was healed began, when
he noticed signs of discontent among the people, to drop a cunning
word here and there and encourage those who were secretly envious
of Ditaolane's good fortune, as well as those who suspected him
because, as they said, he could not be a normal human being,
to give voice to their feelings.
So before long they were making plans to get
rid of their chief. They dug a pit and covered it with dry grass-just
as the Bapedi did in order to trap Huveane-but he avoided it.
They kindled a great fire in the courtyard, intending to throw
him into it, but a kind of madness seized them; they began to
struggle with each other, and at last threw in one of their own
party. The same thing happened when they tried to push him over
a precipice; in this case he restored to life the man who was
thrown over and killed.
Next they got up a big hunt, which meant an
absence of several days from the village. One night when the
party were sleeping in a cave they induced the chief to take
the place farthest from the entrance, and when they thought he
was asleep stole out and built a great fire in the cave-mouth.
But, less successful than the MacLeods in the case of the MacDonalds
of Eigg, when they looked round they saw him standing among them.
After this, feeling that nothing would soften
their inveterate hatred, he grew weary of defeating their stratagems,
and allowed them to kill him without offering any resistance.
Something of the same kind is told of Chaminuka, the Prophet
of the Mashona, as will be seen in due course. Some of the Basuto,
when relating this story, add, " It is said that his heart
went out and escaped and became a bird."
The Guardian Ox
The legend of Ditaolane, however, does not
always end like this, on a bitter note of sorrow for human ingratitude.
One version makes him escape from his enemies, like Hlakanyana,
by turning himself into a stone, which one of them throws across
a river; but this, somehow, does not seem quite in character.
A Sesuto variant [1] ascribes his safety to
a favourite ox, which warns him of danger, cannot be killed without
its own consent, and returns to life after being slaughtered
and eaten. The peculiar relationship between Ditaolane and this
ox is not explained: but in a Zulu tale which resembles this
episode (though it has no reference to the Swallowing Monster)
the ox is said to have been born shortly before the boy and to
have been brought up with him.[2] The latter, with two others
of the same kind, being quite distinct from the subject of this
chapter, will not be dwelt on here. In this version the conclusion
is so well worked out in connexion with the earlier part that
it does not strike one as a mere accidental mixing up of two
stories. It seems, however, to stand alone among the many variants
of the Khodumodumo legend.
A notable point is that the young man's own
mother, frightened by the neighbours' talk, turns against him
and tries to poison him. Warned by the ox, he refuses the bread
she gives him; his father afterwards takes it by accident and
dies. The ox said: "You see, you would have died yourself;
your mother does not love you." Here, as in the case of
Huveane, we see natural affection overcome by the fear of one
who is regarded as an uncanny being. The circumstances of his
birth would have become known, and, the villagers would argue,
a being so powerful for good would be equally capable of doing
harm, quite regardless of the fact that he had never given them
cause to distrust him.
Untombinde and the Squatting Monster
In the Zulu tale of Untombinde the isiququmadevu
3 lives in the Ilulange, a mythical river not to be located nowadays.
The names applied to this monster in the course of the story
show that it is looked upon as a female.
A chief's daughter, Untombinde, goes, with
a number of
[1. Jacottet, Treasury of Ba-Suto Lore,
p. 76.
2 Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 221:
"Ubongopa ka'Magadhlela."
3 Callaway explains this word to mean "a
bloated, squatting, bearded monster."]
other girls, to bathe in the Ilulange, against
the warnings of her parents: "To the Ilulange nothing goes
and returns again; it goes therefor ever." The girls found,
oncoming out of the water, that the clothes and ornaments they
had left on the bank had disappeared; they knew that the isiququmadevu
must have taken them, and one after another petitioned politely
for their return. Untombinde, however, said, " I will never
beseech the isiququmadevu," and was immediately seized
by the monster and dragged down into the water.
Her companions went home and reported what
had happened. The chief, though he evidently despaired of recovering
her ("Behold, she goes there for ever!"), sent a troop
of young men to "fetch the isiququmadevu, which has
killed Untombinde." The warriors found the monster squatting
on the river-bank, and were swallowed up, every one, before they
could attack her. She then went on to the chief's kraal, swallowed
up all the inhabitants, with their dogs and their cattle, as
well as all the people in the surrounding country.
Among the victims were "two beautiful
children,[1] much beloved." Their father, however, escaped,
took his two clubs and his large spear, and went his way, saying,
"It is I who will kill the isiququmadevu."
By this time the monster had left the neighbourhood,
and the man went on seeking her till he met with some buffaloes,
whom he asked, "Whither has Usiququmadevu [2] gone? She
has gone away with my children!" The buffaloes directed
him on his way, and he then came across some leopards, of whom
he asked the same question, and who also told him to go forward.
He next met an elephant,
[1. The narrator says they were twins, but
nothing in the story turns on this, which is remarkable, as twins
are usually considered by the Bantu either as extremely unlucky
(in former times one of them was frequently killed) or as possessed
of abnormal powers and bringing a blessing to the family and
the village.
2. Note the different initial. U- is
the prefix for personal names, which has not hitherto been considered
necessary; it is used only by the father of the twins. The buffaloes,
the leopards, and the elephant, in replying, call her by three
elaborate "praise-names," with which the reader need
not be troubled. The father as deliverer is an important variation.]
who likewise sent him on, and so at last he
came upon the monster herself, and announced, " I am seeking
Usiququmadevu, who is taking away my children!" Apparently
she hoped to escape recognition, for she directed him, like the
rest, to "go forward." But the man was not to be deceived
by so transparent a device: he "came and stabbed the lump,
and so the isiququmadevu died."
Then all the people, cattle, and dogs, and,
lastly, Untombinde herself, came out unharmed, and she returned
to her father.
Her story is by no means finished, but the
rest of it belongs to an entirely different set of ideas, that
which is represented in European folklore by the tale of "Beauty
and the Beast."
The same monster figures in the story of "Usitungusobenhle,"
[1] but only as the final episode. Here it is a girl who effects
the deliverance. Nothing is said of her subsequent career, only:
"Men again built houses and were again happy; and all things
returned to their former condition."
The Family swallowed by the Elephant
Another story,[2] which treats the theme after
a somewhat different fashion (though agreeing in one point with
the last), is that of a woman who rashly built her house "in
the road, and left her children there while she went to look
for firewood. An elephant came by and swallowed the two children,
leaving a little girl who happened to be staying with them and
who told the mother, on her return, what had happened. The woman
(like the father in the previous tale) set out to look for the
elephant, carrying provisions (a large pot containing ground
maize and amasi [3]) and a knife. She went on her way,
asking all the animals she met where she could find an elephant
with one tusk, which had eaten her children. They told her to
go on till
[1. Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 84.
2. Ibid., p. 31: "Unanana-bosele."
3 Sour milk, a staple article of diet with
the pastoral tribes of Africa. Fresh milk is not, by the Zulus
at any rate, drunk by grown-up people; but it is given to children.]
she came to a place where there were white
stones on the ground under some high trees. She found the elephant
in the place indicated, and asked it the same question: it also
told her to go on, and, when she persisted, swallowed her. Inside
it "she saw large forests and great rivers and many high
lands; on one side there were many rocks; and there were many
people who had built their villages there, and many dogs and
many cattle; all were there inside the elephant; she saw, too,
her own children sitting there."
The elephant thus comes into line with Kammapa
and the other monsters, though we are not in their case told
anything about the country inside them. This is quite natural,
as the deliverer, coming from outside, would not, of course,
see anything of the interior. Tylor says that the description
of the country in the elephant's stomach "is simply that
of the Zulu Hades"; but I have hitherto failed to come upon
any other evidence for the country of the dead being so located.
The mother gave her children some amasi,
and, finding that they had eaten nothing since they had been
parted from her, said, "Why do you not roast this flesh?"
They said, "If we eat this beast, will it not kill us?"
She reassured them: "No, it will itself die."
She made a great fire-how we are not told;
but as she had been gathering wood she may have had some sticks
of the right kind for producing sparks by friction. She then
took her knife and cut pieces off the elephant's liver, which
she roasted and gave to the children. The other people, who had
never thought of this expedient and had likewise eaten nothing,
soon followed her example, with the result that "the elephant
told the other beasts, saying, 'From the time I swallowed the
woman I have been ill; there has been pain in my stomach.'"
The animals could do nothing to help him, merely suggesting that
the pain might be caused by his having so many people inside
him, and he soon afterwards died. The woman then began to cut
her way out, and before long a cow came out, saying, "Moo,
moo; at length we see the country!" followed by a goat,
a dog, and the people, who all, in their several ways, said the
same thing. "They made the woman presents: some gave her
cattle, some goats, and some sheep," and she set out for
home with her children, rich for life. There she found the little
girl who had been left behind and who had given her up for dead.
There is an important difference here, in
that the deliverance is effected from inside, by one of the persons
swallowed. In the story of "Little Red Stomach" ("Siswana
Sibomvana" [1]) the boy is swallowed by a monster called
"the owner of the water," but not further described,
and when it died in consequence (nothing is said of his inflicting
any further injury) cut his way out, and was none the worse.
But in the great majority of Bantu stories
the Swallower is cut open, as by Ditaolane, and usually (though
not always) by a small boy. The Zulu story last mentioned has
points of contact with a curious and rather repulsive incident
occurring in some of the animal tales, in which the tortoise,
or some other creature, gains entrance to the body of some large
animal and proceeds to eat it from the inside. We find this outside
the Bantu area, among the Malinke of French West Africa and the
Temne of Sierra Leone, [2] and Dr Nassau has recorded [3] from
the Bantu-speaking Benga of Spanish Guinea the story of the giant
goat, who was done to death through the greed of the tortoise
and the leopard.
The Devouring Pumpkin
In the story of Tselane [4] it was seen that
the slain ogre was changed into a tree. In "The Children
and the Ogre [zimwe]"-told in Swahili, but apparently
coming from the Yao tribe-a pumpkin-vine springs up on the spot
where he died. This in due course produces pumpkins, and one
of these, apparently offended by the remarks of some passing
children, breaks off its stem and rolls after
[1. Theal, Yellow and Dark-shinned People
of Africa, p. 227. Also in South African Folk-Lore Journal,
March 1879, P. 26.
2 Cronise and Ward, Cunnie Rabbit,
p. 231.
3 Where Animals Talk, p. 202.
4. See ante, p. 180.]
them. In Usambara a gourd or pumpkin appears
as the Swallowing Monster. Nothing is said as to its origin,
but a comparison with the Swahili story suggests that it may
have been the reincarnation of some ogre or wicked magician.'
Some little boys, playing in the gardens outside
their village, noticed a very large gourd, and said, "just
see how big that gourd is getting!" Then the gourd spoke
and said, "If you pluck me I'll pluck you!" They went
home and told what they had heard, and their mother refused to
believe them, saying, "Children, you lie!" But their
sisters asked to be shown the place where the boys had seen the
talking gourd. It was pointed out to them, and they at once went
there by themselves, and said, as their brothers had done, "just
see how big that gourd is getting!" But nothing happened.
They went home, and, of course, said that the boys had been making
fun of them. Then the boys went again and heard the gourd speak
as before. But when the girls went it was silent. It would probably
have been contrary to custom for all to go together.
The gourd continued to grow: it became as
big as a house, and began swallowing all the people in the village.
Only one woman escaped-we are not told how. Having swallowed
every one within reach, the gourd made its way into a lake and
stayed there.
In a short time the woman bore a boy, and,
apparently, they lived on together on the site of the ruined
village. When the boy had grown older he asked his mother one
day where his father was. She said, "He was swallowed up
by a gourd which has gone into the lake." So he went forth,
and when he came to a lake he called out, "Gourd, come out!
Gourd, come out!" There was no answer, and he went on to
another lake and repeated his command. He saw "one ear of
the gourd" come out of the water (by which it would appear
that the gourd had by this time assumed some sort of animal shape),
and climbed a tree, where he kept on shouting, "Gourd, come
out!" At last the gourd came out and set off in pursuit
of him; but he
[1. Seidel, Geschichlen und Lieder der
Afrikaner, p. 174]
ran home and asked his mother for his bow
and quiver. He hastened back, and when he came in sight of the
monster loosed an arrow and hit it. He shot again and again,
till, wounded by the tenth arrow, it died, roaring " so
that it could be heard from here to Vuga."[1] The boy then
called to his mother to bring a knife, and the usual ending follows.
It may be worth while to remark that the young chief seems to
have lived out his life without further trouble.
Another Talking Pumpkin
The pumpkin-monster who swallowed up a whole
population is also found, but in a totally different Setting-in
a Kiniramba story collected by Mr Frederick johnson.[2] Here
the first part, relating how Kiali left her husband because he
had murdered her sister, and was thrown into a hole and left
for dead by a porcupine on her way to her mother's village, has
very little to do with the episode which mainly concerns us.
The connecting-link is the porcupine, which assumed Kiali's shape
and took her place in her home, till exposed by the recovery
of the real Kiali. They threw it on the fire, and "it died,
and they buried it in the fireplace." Next morning a pumpkin
was seen growing on the spot, and, some one remarking on it,
it repeated the words. Everything that was said before it it
repeated, and when they brought an axe to make an end of this
uncanny growth "they were swallowed, and it swallowed all
the people in the land, except a woman who was with child and
had hidden herself in some cave." The child, when born,
asked, "Where are the people?" and, on being told,
went off to forge a weapon. This boy, Mlilua, is the hero of
another story where, in somewhat different circumstances, people
who have been swallowed are restored to life. In this one he
set out to seek the giant (lintu) of whom
[1. The old capital of the Shambala paramount
chiefs, distant about twenty-five miles from the mission station
where one gathers that the story was told.
2 The Aniramba are to be found in the central
districts of Tanganyika Territory
(Kiniramba Folk-tales, p. 334).]
his mother had told him, and brought her one
animal after another (beginning with a grasshopper!) only to
be told every time that this was not the right one. In the same
way the lad in the Swahili tale of "Sultan Majnun"
brought his mother the various animals he had killed, hoping
that each one was "the Nunda, eater of people."[1]
At last Mlilua found the monster bathing,
and shot an arrow at it. He went on shooting, while his mother
sang, "My son, throw the spines, Kiali, hundred spines [of
the porcupine]! If you do not throw to-day we shall be finished
completely!" (It is not clear whether this is a figurative
expression for arrows, or whether Mlilua really shot the spines
of the porcupine at the monster. The mention of the name Kiali
refers to the fact that the pumpkin took its origin from the
porcupine which had personated the woman Kiali.)
At last the giant's strength was exhausted,
and he said to Millua, When you begin cutting me begin at the
back. If you cut me in front you will kill your people."
Having said this, he died. Mlilua took the hint, and the people,
cattle, goats, and fowls came out safely, all except one old
woman, who, being in an awkward place, had her ear cut. She apparently
accepted his apologies, and made some beer, which she invited
him to drink. But she bewitched (poisoned?) him, and Mlilua died.
Three Variants
In the Delagoa Bay region the 'Swallowing'
(or 'Engulfing') Monster theme is represented, in a somewhat
different form, by two tales [2]: in one a little herd-boy, swallowed
by a cannibal ogre, made him so uncomfortable that the ogre's
own companions, with his consent, cut him open and thus released-not
only the boy, but all the people and cattle previously swallowed.
In the other tale the giant Ngumbangumba is
killed by the boy Bokenyane, who, like Kachirambe, is produced
from an abscess on his mother's leg, but, unlike him, is followed
[1. See infra, p. 220.
2 Junod, Chants et contes, pp. 198
and 200.]
by two younger brothers. Bokenyane first hit
the ogre with an arrow, and the other two went on shooting at
him till he died. It was the mother who cut the body open-in
this case with an axe. The conclusion is somewhat unusual. After
the people had begun rebuilding their villages they asked who
was their deliverer; the mother answered, "It is Bokenyane."
They gave the three brothers five wives apiece, and then chose
Bokenyane for their chief, because it was he who had shot the
first arrow.
The other two were not pleased with this decision,
and Bochurwane, the second, said, Let me reign!" Bokenyane
refused absolutely, but his brothers dispossessed him by force,
and he fled into the bush, where, in the end, he went mad.
Mrs Dewar's Chinamwanga collection[1] contains
two very different versions of the same tale-one, certainly,
incomplete. This one opens like "Tselane," but, as
a brother and sister are concerned, it also recalls "Demane
and Demazana" and the almost too well known parallel in
Grimm. It begins by saying that " Once upon a time a goblin
[ichitumbu] ate up all the people in the world. Only two
remained-Nachiponda and Changala."
But when Changala had killed the goblin with
his spear nothing further is recorded. When first wounded he
said, "A hippo-fly has stung me"-just as Ngumbangumba,
as each arrow hit him, remarked, "The mosquitoes are biting
me."
The second story, called "Ichitumbu,"
begins and ends like most of the others, but the mother is shut
up in a hut by her two sons (as Tselane is by her parents) while
they go to hunt, and foolishly opens the door to the goblin.
He suggests 'playing'; she wrestles with him, but is overcome
and carried off. The boys come up in time, set their dogs on
the goblin, and rescue her. Next day (in spite of the sons' warning)
the same thing happens, and again on the day after that; but
this time she is killed and eaten. The sons bring about the usual
ending, and so "became chiefs, and the people honoured them."
[1. See Chapter VII, p. 106.]
Yet another version has been obtained from
the Duala people, in the far north-west, but quite sufficient
have already been given.
The Nunda
Quite a different line of thought, which may
or may not have developed out of the "Swallowing Monster"
idea, is that connected with "the Nunda, eater of people."
This is found in the story of "Sultan Majnun," [1]
but has little if any connexion with the first part of the story,
which relates how a bird year after year stole the dates from
the sultan's garden, till defeated by his youngest son. This
may be of exotic origin, but the Nunda, whether under this name
or another, is not confined to Swahili-speaking Africans. The
peculiarities of this particular version seem to be: the Nunda
begins as an ordinary cat, which, being left unmolested when
catching and eating the chickens, grows in size and fierceness
with each successive year, till it ends as a monstrous creature
larger than an elephant. Secondly, though it has devoured everything
it came across, nothing is ever recovered. The youngest son,
who kills the Nunda in the end, does so only after bringing in
a succession of animals, each larger than the last, and ending
with an elephant. He is told by his mother, on every occasion,
"My son, this is not he, the Nunda, eater of people."
This "method of trial and error"
is that followed by Mlilua in the Kiniramba tale, which, however,
in what follows is true to the main type of the 'Swallower' stories.
Jonah's Whale, the Frog, and the Tortoise
Both Tylor and W. A. Clouston (though the
latter does not mention the African legend we have been discussing
in the pages he devotes to "Men swallowed by Monster Fish"
[2]) associate the Biblical story of Jonah with the same class
of ideas. Whether or not one can suppose any original connexion,
there is this important difference that Jonah was
[1. Steere, Swahili Tales, pp. 199
and 247.
2. Popular Tales and Fictions, vol.
i, pp. 403-411.]
returned to the upper air unharmed, and (so
far as one knows) without injury to the whale. But in all but
one of the examples he quotes as parallels the fish is cut open.
In these two cases we have a link with a curious incident which
occurs more than once in African ogre-tales: a frog, or in some
cases a tortoise, swallows some children in order to save them
from the ogre, and produces them safe and sound at their home.
A good, typical instance of this class of tale is that given
by M. Junod [1]under the title of "L'Homme-au-Grand-Coutelas."
We have the usual set of incidents-girls passing the night in
the ogre's hut and saved by the wakefulness of one among them;
the friendly frog is less frequently met with, but Dr Doke has
a similar ending to the story of "The Great Water-snake
and the People." [2] A man of the Luo tribe (a non-Bantu-speaking
people commonly called 'Kavirondo' in Kenya Colony) told me much
the same story, in which the girls were swallowed by a tortoise.
Those of us who have been brought up on Grimm
will easily remember "The Wolf and the Kids," which,
like "Red Riding-hood," if not springing from the same
root, must have originated in a similar stratum of thought. The
differences of background and colouring are as interesting as
the resemblance persisting through the long course of development
which has separated the European stream of tradition from the
African.
[1. Chants et contes, p. 144.
2 Lamba Folklore, p. 247- See infra,
p. 300.]
CHAPTER XV: LIGHTNING, THUNDER, RAIN, AND THE RAINBOW
IT is only natural
that lightning and thunder should powerfully affect the human
imagination all the world over.
Even when their causes are more or less understood
there are few or none but must feel a peculiar thrill at sight
of the flash and sound of the answering roar. To the primitive
mind lightning is a living thing, instinct with destructive power,
thunder the voice of some angry spirit or supra-mundane animal.
Lightning is, perhaps, most often conceived of as a bird, and
there seems no reason to doubt the good faith of those who declare
they have actually seen it.
Various descriptions are given of it: sometimes
it becomes identified with an actual bird; thus the Amandebele
give the name of isivolovolo both to the 'bird of heaven'
(inyoni yezulu) and to the white-necked fish-eagle, which
flies at a great height and whose droppings possess magical properties.
Dudley Kidd, in Bomvanaland, had a brown bird
pointed out to him as the lightning-bird. He was about to shoot
it, but was dissuaded, and therefore presumably was unable to
determine its species, as he gives no further information. The
bird known to Afrikanders as 'hammerkop' (the tufted umber) seems
in some way to be associated with lightning as well as rain;
to destroy its nest is to bring down a storm.
The Lightning-bird described
One of Bishop Callaway's informants had seen
a feather of the lightning-bird, which may very possibly have
been a peacock's feather, as it is a fact that peacocks' feathers
were sold in Natal about 1860 by some enterprising person who
declared that they had been obtained from the 'heavenbird.'[1]
According to this man, the bird "is quite peculiar, for
its feathers glisten. A man may think it is red; again he sees
that it is not so-it is green." [2] This suggests a kind
[1. Amazulu, p. 119.
2 Ibid., p. 383.]
of metallic iridescence, so that it is not
surprising if peacocks' feathers were accepted as being the genuine
article. Another account says that it has a red bill, red legs,
and a short red tail, like fire; "its feathers are bright
and dazzling, and it is very fat."
The Xosas call this bird impundulu-a
name nowadays adopted for an electric tram-car! It is said to
"appear as such"-that is to say, in its proper form
as a bird-only to women, but Dr Hewat [1] does not mention what
women, if any, have ever seen it. When it darts down as lightning
people only see the flash.
He goes on to say that the doctor [2] is supposed
to dig up the egg in order to destroy it; but it is somewhat
inconsistent with this to be told in the next sentence that "the
possession of the egg would bring great good fortune."
The Lightning-bird's Nest found in Mashonaland
The destruction of the egg seems elsewhere
to be considered essential, as would appear from a very interesting
account by a magistrate in Mashonaland, writing under the name'Mbizo.'[3]
He says that, the lightning having struck a tree near the native
messengers' camp at his station, a woman doctor was called in.
After examining the place she ran to and fro, round and round,
and at last fixed on a spot, which she marked by sticking a horn
into the earth, and said that the eggs would be found there.
(It seems that none but natives were present at this ceremony.)
"Digging operations followed"; but it is not said who
dug, which is not without importance. The three Government messengers
who were looking on reported that not far from the surface a
small round hole was found, very smooth, as if plastered; digging
down from this, at a depth of some two
[1. Bantu Folklore, p. 91.
2. Isanusi; in Natal he is inyanga
yezulu.
3 Nada (1924), p. 60.]
feet they found a nest with two eggs-quite
ordinary looking eggs apparently. The magistrate, on examining
the spot, could find no trace of the smooth hole, nor any reason
to doubt that the woman had placed the nest in the excavation
herself, probably diverting the spectators' attention, as conjurors
know how, at the critical moment. When he dropped the eggs on
the ground and broke them (they were unmistakably addled) all
the people present fled in real terror; but some one must have
returned later-perhaps the doctor herself-for "all particles
of the eggs were carefully gathered, doctored, and thrown into
a deep pool in the Sebakwe River."
This was done to prevent the lightning striking
again in the same spot, which, as a matter of fact, it never
did, in this instance, up to the time of writing, though fifteen
years had passed since the incident took place. If these precautions
are omitted it is believed that the bird will come back to pick
up its eggs, "with probably fatal results."
Mr Guy Taylor, the editor of Nada,
has in his possession a curious earthenware object, turned up
by the plough near the Chikuni Mission,[1] which the natives
declare is "an egg laid by lightning." None of the
local natives (Batonga and Baila) had ever seen anything like
it.
Heaven-doctors
The Natal 'heaven-doctors' are more concerned
with the bird itself than with its eggs. They set a bowl of
amasi mixed with various medicines in the place where they
wish the lightning to strike, and when they see the flash rush
forward and kill the bird. It seems to have been believed that
this had repeatedly happened. The bird was boiled down for the
sake of its fat, which was a very precious medicine, used, among
other purposes, for anointing the sticks held by the 'heaven-herds'
in the ceremony of conjuring the lightning, to be described presently.
The Bomvanas, it would seem, do not recognize the possibility
of this procedure, if Dudley Kidd was correct in stating it
[1. In Northern Rhodesia.]
as their belief that "the bird sets its
own fat on fire and throws it down."
Chimungu of the Baronga
The Baronga identify the lightning-bird with
a hawk called chimungu, which is believed to bury itself
in the ground where it strikes. These people credit the 'medicine'
prepared from it with the peculiar virtue of enabling its possessor
to detect thieves. One has not heard of this use of it among
the Zulus, with their well-known character for honesty. When
lightning has struck any spot of ground and burnt up the grass
on it the Ronga chief "casts the bones," and then sends
for the professional expert. This man arrives, with a long black
stick in his hand, digs at the spot indicated, and finds the
bird, alive or dead; one supposes that in the former case he
kills it, but this is not specified. He then carefully measures
the depth of the hole, making a notch on his stick for future
reference, takes the bird home, roasts it, and grinds it to powder.
What is done when a case of theft is reported may be read in
M. Junod's book.[1]
The Girl who saw the Lightning-bird
A Tumbuka native told the Rev. Donald Fraser
that he had never seen the lightning-bird, "but a girl of
our village saw it not long ago." It was a large black bird,
with "a big, curling tail, like a cock's." It seems
to have splashed into a pool of water near where she was hoeing
in her garden, and then to have "run up her hoe and scratched
her," after which it flew back into the clouds. As the narrator
had seen "the marks of its claws on her body" it is
probable that the girl had really been struck by lightning, which
has been known to leave curious scars. Further, it is believed
that "those little scarlet insects you see on the path during
the rains are the children of the lightning."[2]
The lakeside people of Buziba (on the eastern
shore of Lake Victoria) think lightning and thunder are caused
by
[1. The Life of a South African Tribe,
vol. ii, pp. 403-404
2. Winning a Primitive People, p. 65.]
flocks of small, glittering red birds, which
nest in the rocks near the lake. When Kayura, ruler of the storm
(he is the son of the one-legged lake-god Mugasha), is so disposed
he sends these birds out: the flashing of their feathers is the
lightning and the rushing sound of their wings the thunder. During
a thunderstorm Mugasha's missing leg is said to be seen in the
clouds-a phenomenon of which, so far as I am aware, no explanation
has been offered.
Other Embodiments of Lightning
But birds are not the only creatures held
responsible for, or supposed to be connected with, the lightning.
The Lambas [1] say that with the flash an animal like a goat,
but with the hind legs and tail of a crocodile, descends to earth,
let down by a cord like a "strong cobweb." Ordinarily
it is drawn up again, but should the 'cobweb' break the animal
would be heard crying like a goat, "and the people run together
to kill and burn it." They cannot do this without being
protected by special 'medicine,' as it is highly dangerous to
approach the creature.
No one will use for firewood a tree which
has been struck by lightning, while the Zulus (and other cattle-breeding
peoples) will never eat the flesh of an animal so killed, unless
it has been 'doctored' and they themselves have been washed with
the proper 'medicines.' It is a world-wide notion, quite easy
to understand, that any person or thing marked for destruction
by this mysterious power must be tabu. So the Romans used
to sacrifice a sheep on the spot where anyone had been struck
by lightning, and made it a sacred place for ever. The Bushongo
people of the Kasai suppose lightning to be an animal something
like a leopard, but black. It is called "Tsetse Bumba,"
and is the subject of a curious legend.[2] Bumba, the creator,
after producing nine creatures, of which Tsetse was one, and,
subsequently, the human race, imposed on them various tabus,
which are observed to this day. But Tsetse refused to obey these
[1. Doke, The Lambas of Northern Rhodesia,
p. 225.
2. Torday and Joyce, Les Bushongo,
p. 20.]
rules, and began working mischief; so Bumba
drove her from the earth, and she took refuge in the sky, where
she has dwelt ever since. But when people began to suffer because
they could not get fire Bumba allowed her to return now and then,
and, though every one of these occasions was marked by disaster,
men were able to light their fires from trees which had been
struck, and thenceforth carefully kept them burning in their
huts.
The Lightning-dog of the Congo
The people of the Lower Congo call lightning
Nzazi (or Nsasi); with them it takes the form of a kind of magic
dog, either red or black, with shaggy hair and a curly tail.
When he comes down he gives one sharp bark-ta!-and with
the second bark he goes up again. No charm can avail against
him, and neither wizard nor witch-doctor has power to avert his
attacks. The Zulus, however, know better, as we shall see. R.
E. Dennett was told this story by a Luangu man:
A man met a beautiful dog, and was so pleased
with its appearance that he determined to take it home with him.
As it was raining heavily he took it with him inside his shimbee
(hut) and, lighting a fire, proceeded to dry and warm his pet.
Suddenly there was an explosion, and neither man, dog, nor shimbee
were ever seen again. This dog was Nsasi, so Antonio told me.[2]
This same man, Antonio Lavadeiro (the Lower
Congo people very often have Portuguese names), had a strange
experience on his own account, which seems to imply that Nzazi
is not himself a dog, but hunts with twelve couple of hounds.
Here Nzazi is the thunder, and his dogs the lightning. Antonio
was playing at marbles under a shed with some friends during
a heavy shower of rain, when "it thundered frightfully,
and Nzazi sent his twenty-four dogs down upon them. They seized
one of the party who had left the shed for a moment, and the
fire burnt up a living palm-tree." [3]
[1. Torday, writing in French, made Tsetse
feminine, but this may only have
been because of the gender of la foudre.
2. The Black Man's Mind, p. 138.
3. Folk-lore of the Fjort, P. 7.]
But Antonio also told of a man, still living
when he spoke, who had been caught up to heaven by a flash of
lightning and had a very good time there for two or three weeks.
He was then asked by Nzambi (God) himself whether he would rather
stay for ever or return to earth. He said he wanted to return,
as he missed his friends and relations. So he was sent back to
them.
Dudley Kidd mentions, somewhat vaguely, "a
fat baby said by the people of Mashonaland to cause the thunder
when it crawls on the ground after descending from the sky at
the spot where the lightning struck the earth. No further details
are given about this infant, which seems to have been reported
at second or third hand, or even less directly. We have already
seen that some, at least, of the Mashona believe in the lightning-bird.
The Balungwana
But one wonders whether there may be some
obscure connexion with the balungwana of the Baronga.
These are tiny beings, sometimes called 'dwarfs' (psimhunwanyana),
but more often by the name which seems to mean 'little Europeans.'[2]
They are said to come down from the sky when heavy rain is falling;
if there is thunder without rain people say, "The balungwana
are playing up there." Nothing is said about lightning in
connexion with them, and they sometimes appear before a great
disaster, such as the locust visitation of 18 94, when "a
little man and a little woman" fell from the sky and said
to the people, "Do not kill the locusts; they belong to
us[1]" In 1862, just before the war between two rival Gaza
chiefs, a mulungwana alighted on a hill at Lourenço
Marques, and was seen by many people. M.Junod's informant had
not himself seen him: he was "too little" at the time,
and his parents would not let him go and look. He added, surprisingly,
that "the white men
[1. The Essential Kafir, p. 121.
2 Junod, Life of a South African Tribe,
vol. ii, P. 405. Possibly the name is not, as one thinks at first,
a diminutive of the Ronga word for 'white men' (perhaps borrowed
from Zulu), but of a plural of Mulungu, as used by many East
African tribes, though not by the Baronga. In that case it would
mean ' little gods.']
seized him and took him to Mozambique."
It does not appear that any inquiries were made of the Portuguese
authorities concerning this extraordinary capture.
Heaven-herds, or Heaven-doctors
Thunderstorms being exceedingly frequent and
violent in tropical and sub-tropical Africa, more particularly,
perhaps, in the south, where the abundance of ironstone in the
hills may add to the danger from lightning, the art-or science-of
averting them, or, at any rate, of preventing damage, has been
developed in great detail. The Zulus have their 'heaven-herds'
(who shepherd the thunderclouds), or 'heaven-doctors.' They instinctively
feel a storm coming on, a faculty acquired by what is called
'eating the heaven'-that is, eating the flesh of a beast killed
by lightning-they also make cuts in their bodies and rub in a
'medicine' compounded from this flesh, with, in addition, that
of the lightning-bird, scrapings from the 'thunderbolt,' and,
perhaps, certain herbs. The 'thunderbolt' may be a meteorite;
it is said to be "a thing like the shank of an assagai,"
which buries itself in the ground where the lightning strikes,
the spot being marked by "a heap of jelly-like substance."
The 'doctor,' who has been watching the flash, at once digs here
and finds the object.
These experts are supposed to turn back hail
and lightning, but not rain, which, in a land of frequent and
disastrous droughts, is a blessing anxiously awaited. They have
to undergo a special initiation and observe certain tabus,
which do not, to our thinking, seem to have much point: for instance,
they must never drink from a cup of beer unless it is quite full,
or eat izindumba beans unless given to them. But if these
and other prohibitions are infringed the 'doctor' loses his power,
and if he is unsuccessful in averting a storm it is at once attributed
to his not having 'fasted'-a term which includes other matters
besides abstinence from food.
When a storm is coming on the inyanga yezulu
seizes his sticks, which have been rubbed with the proper 'medicines,'
and takes up his station outside the house-sometimes on the wall
of the cattle-fold, if this is of stone. He brandishes his sticks,
and shouts, 'scolding the heaven,' ordering the storm to depart,
and whistling to it as herd-boys do to their cattle. While this
goes on no one in the house is supposed to speak; and if it is
hailing people do no work, for this, it is believed, would attract
the lightning.
Birds which bring Rain
Rain, of course, is a pressing preoccupation
for many natives of Africa, and the professional rain-doctor
is an important person. He will be more fitly treated in the
next chapter; but there are also rain-rites in which all the
people take part, and rain-charms which may be used by individuals.
Thus the ground horribill (insingizi [1]) is a bird intimately
associated with rain. When there has been no rain for some time
they catch an insingizi, kill it, and throw it into a
pool, when, "if it rains"-for it seems as if this result
were by no means certain-" it is said it rains for the sake
of the insingizi which has been killed: the heaven becomes
soft; it wails for it by raining, wailing a funeral wail."
[2] If a number of these birds are seen gathered together in
one place, uttering their cries, it is supposed that they are
calling for rain, and that it will soon follow.
The Bateleur eagle (ingqungqulu) is
looked to for omens of various kinds; among others it announces
the coming of rain. But it is not, like the other bird, used
as a rain-charm.
Shouting for Rain
The feast of first-fruits (ukutshwama)
was formerly, perhaps is still, held in or about the month of
January, when the new crops begin to be fit for use. But it sometimes
happens that the rains have been late in coming, and consequently
there is no 'new food' to be eaten. On such occasions the assembled
people intone 'magical songs,'
[1. The dictionaries give both 'ground hornbill'
and 'turkey-buzzard' as equivalents for insingirti. There
is no clue as to which is meant here, but I imagine the former.
2 Callaway, Amazulu, p. 407.]
which are believed to produce the desired
effect. These same songs may also be used with the opposite intention,
viz., to stop excessive and long-continued rain when an
army is on the march.
I have heard people 'shouting for rain' on
the slopes of Mount Bangwe, in the Shire Highlands, with weird,
wailing cries-perhaps calling on the spirit of the old chief
Kankomba, who used to be invoked for the same purpose in Duff
Macdonald's day.[1] But this is straying too far from our proper
subject, and it is time to consider the myths of the rainbow.
The Rainbow
Africans have been struck not so much by the
beauty of the rainbow as by its strangeness, and they nearly
always look on it as malignant and dangerous. This may seem unaccountable
to us, accustomed to think of it as the symbol of hope, and familiar
with the lovely figure of Iris, the messenger of the gods. But
it is a common belief that it stops the rain, and this is quite
enough to constitute it an enemy. Its colours are sometimes said
to be the glow of a destroying fire: "If it settles on the
trees," said a Luyi man to Emile Jacottet, "it will
burn all the leaves." It is curiously associated with ant-heaps,
in which it is supposed to live. Anyone who sees it-that is,
sees the place where its end seems to rest on the earth-runs
away as fast as he can: "if he sees you he will kill you."
It is described--one cannot see why-as an animal as big as a
jackal, with a bushy tail. Others say it is like a many-coloured
snake,[2]
[1. Africana, vol. i, p. 70.
2 Virgil, in the fifth book of the Æneid
(84-93), tells how, when Æneas had made offerings at his
father's tomb, a snake came out from "the foot of the shrine"
and glided round it seven times. Its scales were blue and gold,
and glittered in many colours like the rainbow. It tasted the
food and drink there set out, and then crept back into the earth
whence it came. Æneas did not know whether to think it
"the genius of the place" or an attendant on his father:
an African would never have doubted that it was Anchises himself.
The reference to the rainbow is curious, but must not be pressed
as indicating that in ancient Italy it was thought of as a snake;
while in Africa the rainbow snake has no connexion with the ancestral
ghost.]
which is more intelligible. Some Zulus say
that it is a sheep, or lives with a sheep. The common Zulu expression
for it, however (the only one I remember to have heard), is utingo
lwenkosikazi, 'the Queen's arch'-that is, one of the arched
wattles forming the hut of that mysterious being the Queen of
Heaven, concerning whom it is difficult to obtain exact information.
The Kikuyu [1] say it is a 'wicked animal,'
which lives in the water, comes out at night, eats goats and
cattle, and has even been known to eat people. There was one
which lived in Lake Nalvasha and swallowed the cattle of the
Masai, but was at last killed by the young warriors. This, it
seems, was related as an actual occurrence.
It is worth noting that the Kikuyu say, "the
rainbow in the water [in the spray from a waterfall] and the
sky is not the animal itself, but its picture," because
in a very distant region of West Africa the Ewe (in Togo) say
the same thing: the rainbow is the reflection of the snake in
the clouds. These people also think that it hides in an ant-hill,
whence it rises up after rain.
One of the Kikuyu stories of the rainbow ("The
Giant of the Great Water") could really be classed with
those about the Swallowing Monster, recounted in a previous chapter.
The Baganda are perhaps exceptional in their
way of regarding the rainbow, whom they call Musoke; he is the
patron of fishermen. It is wrong, by the by, to point at the
rainbow, so they say: anyone who does so will find his finger
become stiff. The Baila,[2] on the contrary, point at the rainbow
to drive it away, not with the finger, but with the pestle used
for pounding grain. They call it the bow of Leza (God), but none
the less credit it with preventing the fall of rain.
Where the Rainbow ends
"They have a curious idea that just below
where the bow touches earth there is a very fierce goat-ram,
which burns
[1. W. S. and K. Routledge, With a Prehistoric
People, pp. 307-314.
2. Smith and Dale, The Ila-speaking Peoples,
vol. ii, p. 220.]
like fire." But here and there one comes
upon traces of the notion-familiar to us in Europe-that some
treasure would be found at the point where the rainbow touches
the ground, if one could only reach it. The Ewe (who, however,
need not concern us here) think this is where the valuable 'Aggrey
beads' are to be found. A Chaga story told by Dr Gutmann[1] relates
how a needy Dorobo set out from his home to ask Iruwa for cattle.
When he came to the " rainbow's end " he stood still
and uttered his prayer. And this he did for many days. But no
cattle appeared. Then he was seized with rage (the story-teller
says, " his heart rose up "); he drew his sword and
cut the rainbow in two. Half of it flew up to the sky; the other
half fell to the ground and sank in, making a deep hole. Nothing
more is said about the Dorobo; one would not be surprised to
learn that he perished miserably as a punishment for his presumption.
Later on some people came upon the hole and, climbing down, found
"another country." They came back and reported what
they had seen: those to whom they told it would not believe them.
So they went down again, and returned with vessels full of milk,
which convinced the sceptics. But some lions had followed them
down, and the next time any people descended they found no one
there, the inhabitants having emigrated. (It is not actually
stated that the first explorers found any people in the underground
region, but it must be understood that they are implied in the
mention of milk.) They heard the growling of the lions, and made
the best of their way back, as they had come. Since then no one
has ventured down the pit. Frankly, I do not know what to make
of this.
Rainbow Snakes
The people of Luangu hold, if Dennett was
correctly informed, that there are two rainbows, a good and an
evil one. But the rainbow snakes, which seem to be distinct from
these two, are six, and not one. They correspond to the colours
of the rainbow, which are counted as six, not seven-perhaps
[1. Volksbuch, p. 153.]
no distinction is drawn between indigo and
blue. (But this writer's statements about numbers must be received
with caution, because one never knows how much he read into what
he was told by the people themselves.)
In Mayombe, to the east of Luangu, the rainbow
is called Mbumba Luangu. It is, says Père Bittremieux,[1]
an enormous nkisi-snake, which comes out of water and
wriggles up the nearest high tree when it wants to stop the rain.
It is worshipped (if that is the correct word to use in this
connexion) by the secret society of the Bakimba. There is a saying
that you should not stand still in the place where the rainbow
appears to shoot up from the earth, nor stare at the mist whence
it rises. If you do so your eyes will become dim and misty.
So much for the rainbow.
[1. Idioticon, vol. i, p. 387.]
CHAPTER XVI: DOCTORS, PROPHETS, AND WITCHES
THE term 'witch-doctor'
is often loosely used, as if it were synonymous with 'witch'
or 'sorcerer.' This is something like putting the policeman and
the detective in the same category as the criminal. There may
be witchdoctors who are-scoundrels, as there may be unjust magistrates
or corrupt policemen; but, on the whole, the witchdoctor is a
force on the side of law and justice, and one does not see how,
where a belief in witchcraft is firmly rooted in the minds of
the people, he could well be dispensed with. His office is to
detect and prevent crime and bring offenders to justice, and
his methods are on the whole less barbarous than those of Matthew
Hopkins, the witch-finder.
No African would ever confuse these two personages:
the 'doctor' is inyanga (mganga, sing'anga),
the witch mchawi, or mfiti, or umtagati.
But the Zulu word inyanga, like our
'doctor,' covers a variety of meanings; properly it denotes a
person skilled in any art or knowledge: a blacksmith, for instance,
is inyanga yensimbi, "a doctor of iron."
So the inyanga may be either a diviner or a herbalist,
or both at the same time; possibly, also, a seer or prophet.
The Doctor's Training
The diviner and the herbalist learn their
business in the ordinary way, being trained by a professional,
to whom they act as assistants till duly qualified. The rules
of the diviner's art have been carefully studied by M. Junod,
and fully described in his book The Life of a South African
Tribe.[1] The seer is usually a man of a peculiar, nervous
temperament, either known as such from childhood or seeming to
[1. Vol. ii, pp. 493-519. Smith and Dale (The
Ila-speaking Peoples, vol. i, pp. 265-272) enumerate nine
methods of divination, all different from that of the 'divining-bones'
used by the Baronga, Zulus, and others. An interesting point
is the statement of a diviner, apparently made in all good faith,
that the spirits of his father and mother were contained in his
"medicine gourd," and it was they who gave the answers
to the questions put.]
develop special powers after a dangerous illness.
He has to undergo a severe initiation, spending a great deal
of time alone in the wilds. Some say that this condition is brought
about through possession by a spirit. The Lambas[1] think there
are certain goblins (ifinkuwaila, already mentioned in
Chapter XIII) with only half a body who wander about, invisible,
in troops, hopping along on their one leg. Sometimes the fancy
takes one of them to possess a human being, and then he or she
(for they are of both sexes and all ages) hits some passer-by
in the face. It is not clear whether the man feels anything at
the time, but after reaching his home he is taken ill, and begins
to see visions-perhaps a procession of "beings in endless
march across the heavens, going westward, arrayed in feather
headdresses and carrying their sleeping-mats." [2] He has
then to be treated by some person already initiated, and is thenceforward
known as a mowa. He can always see the one-legged goblins,
which are invisible to other people; he becomes peculiarly skilled
in dancing, and acquires the power of composing special songs
and singing them. These people are called in to sing and dance
at funerals and other ceremonies, and, being paid for their services,
make quite a good thing of it.
Prophets
The prophet is able to see what is happening
at a distance, to predict the future, and to receive and deliver
messages from spiritual beings, whether the ghosts of ancestors
or others. The immense influence wielded by such men has been
proved over and over again by such incidents as the "cattle-killing"
of 1856, when Umhlakaza, passing on the messages received in
trance by his niece (some say his daughter) Nongqauze, prophesied
that when the people had slaughtered all their cattle and emptied
their grain-bins, so as to leave themselves no store of food,.
the old dead chiefs would come back, bringing with them huge
herds of splendid beasts, and the white men would leave the country,
never to return. The sun would rise blood-red, and
[1. Doke, The Lambas of Northern Rhodesia,
p. 251.
2. Ibid., p. 253]
the pits would be miraculously filled to overflowing
with food. All this was firmly believed by many people, and the
resulting tragedy is only too well known. About twenty-five thousand
lives are thought to have been lost in the famine.
Umhlakaza had an official standing as a doctor,
and is said to have himself seen visions confirming what his
niece had told him. The girl used to sit by a pool, where she
saw faces of people and other images in the water-in fact, practised
what is known as crystal-gazing, though she seems to have been
subject to trances as well.
Trances
The trance is a familiar phenomenon among
the Bantu tribes. Doctors induce it in themselves, or others,
by means known to themselves, probably chewing certain herbs
or inhaling the smoke of them when burned. The practitioners
of the Wakuluwe [1] prepare a drink known as Lukansi,
which gives the drinker "invulnerability, superhuman strength,
and the power to know and see things withheld from ordinary people."
But trances also occur spontaneously. The
Rev. Donald Fraser [2] heard of a man who had himself seen the
abode of the spirits.
He was supposed to have died, and his body
was tied up in a mat and prepared for burial, but . . . signs
of returning life were seen. On his recovery he told how he had
gone by a narrow road until he came to a great village where
the people lived without marriage. He had spoken to them, but
none would hold conversation with him. They told him to be gone,
for he was not wanted there. He tried to tell his story, but
no one would listen to him. They beat irons together and tried
to drown his words, for he was too uncanny.
This is much the same as the tale of Mpobe
and others like it, where people had similar experiences during
their waking hours. But these are usually related as legends,
not as having happened to people known to the narrators. There
[1. Melland and Cholmeley, Through the
Heart Of, Africa, p. 21.
2. Winning a Primitive People, p. 126.]
is a novel touch here in the behaviour of
the dead people. As a rule they are more civil, and, instead
of silencing their visitor, content themselves with telling him
not to talk about them on his return to the upper world.
Probably what happened to the man whose story
was told by Antonio Lavadeiro [1] might also be described as
a trance. He was either struck by lightning or stunned by a clap
of thunder, and remained unconscious for two or three weeks,
during which, according to his own account, he was caught up
to the sky and very hospitably entertained by Nzambi Mpungu.
Possession
This trance state may be caused, according
to African ideas, either by the person's spirit leaving his body
and travelling off into unknown regions or by 'possession.' A
Lamba man or woman may be possessed, as we have seen, by an ichinkuwaila
goblin, but also by the ghosts of deceased human beings. There
is quite an influential order of .people in this tribe who are
possessed by spirits of Lenje chiefs, never by chiefs of their
own tribe. The first sign of possession is a serious illness,
for which no remedy seems to avail, and which brings on a state
in which he "begins to speak in a weird way, using the most
extravagant language, telling of wonderful things he says he
has seen." [2]
It is the possessing spirits who enable such
persons to prophesy. Sometimes their prophecies are said to have
been fulfilled, as, for instance, that of those who told the
people, long, long ago, "You will all drink out of one well,"
meaning that tribal differences would be disregarded, which was
held to have come true when white men came into the country and
put a stop to inter-tribal warfare.
Possibly some of these people are clairvoyants;
others may have built up a reputation by means of some lucky
guesses; but many, in Lambaland, at any rate, would appear to
be unscrupulous impostors, who travel from place
[1. See ante, P. 228.
2. Doke, The Lambas ofNorthern Rhodesia,
pp. 258-267.]
to place and charge substantial fees for their
services. They deliver oracles from deceased chiefs, whose 'mediums'
they are; they profess to bring rain in time of drought and to
keep the birds from the crops; they practise incantations warranted
to ensure luck in hunting and administer medicine to childless
couples. Dr Doke knew a lazy ne'er-do-well who made quite a comfortable
living in this way.
These wamukamwami are readily distinguished
by their appearance; they never cut their hair, but wear it plaited
in long tails, smeared with oil and red ochre and (in former
times, at any rate) adorned with the white shell-disks which
are the insignia of chieftainship. The 'ecstatic' seer of the
Zulus seems always to, have a more or less unkempt appearance-which
is only in character-but I do not know that he adopts any distinctive
fashion. The getup of the witch-doctor proper is a different
matter; of course, it varies locally, but an essential part of
it is usually the tail of a zebra fitted into a handle and waved
about in performing exorcisms or other operations. Bishop Peel
of Mombasa used to carry a fly-whisk of this kind when on tour,
and it was a favourite joke with his carriers to declare that
he was a mganga.
The Lamba doctors proper, awalaye,
are herbalists and diviners, and provide charms of all sorts,
for protecting the crops and for other purposes. Charms of this
kind are also supplied by the wamukamwami, a fact which
illustrates the overlapping of functions already referred to.
Predictions fulfilled
More than one prophet is said to have foretold
the coming of the Europeans-among others one Mulenga in Ilala
(Northern Rhodesia). He said, "There will arrive people
white and shining, their bodies like those of locusts!"
Whether this description was recognized as fitting the first
white explorers when they made their appearance does not seem
to have been recorded. Ilala is the scene of Living stone's last
journey and death, but the prediction was probably made after
his time, Mulenga also foretold the cattle plague of the early
nineties and the locust invasion of 1894.
Podile, a chief of the Bapedi "in old
times" (but unfortunately there is no clue to his date:
'old times' might mean in the time of the speaker's grandfather),
prophesied the coming of the Boers by saying that "red ants
will come and destroy the land and another wise man, about the
same time, said, I see red ants coming. They have baskets on
their heads [hats]. Their feet are those of zebras [the impression
produced by boots]. Their sticks give out fire [guns]. They travel
with houses; the oxen walk in front. Receive them kindly."
This was supposed to be fulfilled when Trichard's party arrived
in 1837.[1] If the prediction was really made at the time stated
it may be a genuine case of what is known in the Scottish Highlands
as 'second sight.'
Chaminuka
A famous seer in Mashonaland was Chaminuka,
of Chitungwiza, in the Hartley district. He is called a 'wizard'
by Mr Posselt, [2] but he seems really to have been a man of
high character and unusual, perhaps abnormal, gifts. Lobengula
used frequently to consult him, and for many years treated him
with great consideration. He had remarkable power over animals,
not necessarily of an occult nature: he kept tame pythons and
other snakes; antelopes gambolled fearlessly about his hut, and
his celebrated bull, Minduzapasi, would lie down and rise up,
march and halt, at the word of command. He was believed to be
the medium of the spirit called Chaminuka; his real name was
Tsuro. He was credited with the power to bring rain and to control
the movements of game; Frederick Courteney Selous, when hunting
in that part of the country, was told by his followers that they
would never succeed in killing an elephant unless they first
asked Chaminuka's permission. When this was done he gave the
messenger a reed which was supposed "to bring the elephants
back on their tracks
[1. Hoffmann, Afrikanischer Grossvater,
p. 285.
2. Nada (1926), p. 85.]
by first pointing the way they had gone and
then drawing it towards him."[1]
In 1883 a man who believed Chaminuka to have
been responsible for the death of his wife went to Lobengula
with a false accusation of witchcraft against him. The king may
or may not have believed this, but in any case he resolved on
Chaminuka's destruction. He sent him a message, inviting him
to Bulawayo on a friendly visit, but the old man was not deceived.
He said, "I go to the Madzwiti [the Amandebele], but I shall
not return; but, mark you, some eight years hence, behold I the
stranger will enter, and he will build himself white houses."
The prophecy was fulfilled before the eight
years were out, for the Chartered Company's pioneer expedition
entered Mashonaland in 1890.
He set out, accompanied by his wife and two
of his sons, and met Lobengula's war-party near the Shangani
river. Most of the warriors kept out of sight; only a few headmen
came to meet him. His wife, Bavea, who had been a captive of
the Amandebele (she was sent to Chaminuka by Lobengula), said,
"They are going to kill you! I know the Amandebele; I see
blood in their eyes! Run! Run!" He refused, saying he was
too old to run. "If his day has come Chaminuka does not
fear to die; but bid my son, who is young and swift of foot,
creep away in the bushes while there is yet time and carry the
news to my people."
The little party were soon surrounded and
all killed, except Chaminuka himself, Bavea, and his other son,
Kwari, who was wounded in the leg, but got away. The old chief
sat on a rock, calmly playing on his mbira.[2] His assailants
tried to stab him with their spears, but could not even wound
him. Some of them had rifles and fired at him, but the bullets
fell round him like hailstones, without touching
[1. A Hunter's Wanderings, p.331.
2. An elementary kind of piano, with a set
of wooden or iron keys fixed over gourd resonators on a semicircular
hoop, which the player carries suspended round his neck by a
strap.]
him. At last he told them that he could be
killed only by an innocent young boy, and such a one, being fetched,
dispatched him unresisting. The impi, having cut up his
body in order to get the liver and heart, which were held to
be powerful 'medicines,' went on to Chitungwiza, in order to
exterminate Chaminuka's whole clan, as Lobengula had commanded.
But Bute, the son who had been sent away, was fleet of foot,
and reached the village in time, and when the warriors arrived
they found only empty huts and such stores and cattle as the
people had been unable to take with them. Bavea was taken back
to Bulawayo, but escaped, and in 1887 told the story to Selous,[1]
who saw her in Lomagundi's country (North Mashonaland).
The Rev. Arthur Shearly Cripps, who had abundant
opportunities of hearing the stories about Chaminuka on the spot,
has woven them into what might be called a beautiful prose poem,
treating his material very freely, but never, one feels, departing
from the spirit underlying the cruder native tradition. This,
of course, has not been drawn upon here.
Mohlomi of the Basuto
I cannot pass on without a reference to another
seer, Mohlomi, whom the Rev. E. W. Smith has called " the
greatest figure in Basuto history." He died in 1815, long
enough ago for legends to have gathered about his name, as, in
fact, they have done, but not sufficiently so to have obscured
the real facts to any great extent. Though in the royal line
and called to be chief through the incapacity of his elder brother,
he cared nothing for power, and much preferred to travel about
in quest of knowledge, more particularly knowledge of medicinal
herbs. He was renowned both as a physician and a rain-maker.
There is no reason to suppose him an impostor in the latter capacity;
he evidently believed in his powers, and his belief must
[1. Travel and Adventure in South-east
Africa, p. 113. The account in the text is taken partly from
this book and partly from Mr Posselt's article. Selous does not
mention Kwari or the only way in which Chaminuka (whom he calls
Chameluga) could be killed.
2 Chaminuka.]
have been confirmed by the cases in which,
if tradition is to be believed, he was (possibly owing to some
fortunate coincidence) successful. His prophetic career began
at an early age, when) in the course of his puberty initiation
ceremonies,[1] he felt himself, in a dream or trance, carried
up to the sky, and heard a voice saying, "Go, rule by love
and look on thy people as men and brothers." He had a strong
influence over Moshesh, who, like other chiefs, frequently came
to him for advice and, unlike them, often followed it. The mythical
element in his story comes out in the assertion that he was "able
to transport himself from one place to another in a supernatural
way." In his last illness he prophesied a famine and a cattle
plague; and when dying, on coming out of a kind of trance, he
said, "After my death a cloud of red dust will come out
of the east and consume our tribes. The father will eat his children."
This has been taken to refer to the series of wars and migrations
which began shortly afterwards and continued till the middle
of the nineteenth century.
Only One Way of Death
It will have been noticed that, as in the
cases of Liongo, Chikumbu and Chibisa, there was only one way
in which Chaminuka could be killed. The usual account given of
this is that the person in question had charms against every
possible weapon, or other cause of death, but one, which, of
course, had to be kept secret.
At Kolelo, in Nguu, Tanganyika Territory,
there is a cave haunted (almost within living memory, if not
still) by the spirit of a great mganga who in his lifetime
was a chief in Ukami. In time of drought the headmen of the Wadoe
and neighbouring tribes would come there to pray for rain. When
they greeted him on their arrival they would hear a rushing sound,
like that of an approaching rainstorm. Then, in some cases, a
voice would be heard, saying, "There is an evil man among
you," and would go on to describe one member of the party
by his clothes. If such
[1. Ellenberger, History of the Basuto,
p. 90.]
a one was indeed present he was at once driven
away. Then they put up their prayer, and if they heard the rushing
sound a second time they knew that their request was granted,
and went away happy. If there was silence in the cave, it was
a sign that the spirit was angry, and they had to "go back
in the sun," instead of being refreshed by a shower even
before they had reached their homes.
This rain-doctor-his name has not been recorded-was
reckoned invulnerable during his lifetime; none of his enemies
could succeed even in wounding him, with arrow, sword, or 'gunshot.
But unfortunately he happened to quarrel with his wife when a
raiding-party was close at hand, and she got into communication
with the raiders and, like Delilah, though not for the same reason,
betrayed her husband's secret. His tabu (mwiko
or mzio in Swahili) was to be struck with the stalk of
a pumpkin: if this was done he would die immediately.
The enemies at once procured a pumpkin-stalk,
and threw it so as to hit him. It did, in fact, kill him, but
the manner of his death was not seen, for a mighty wind arose
and carried him off to the cave of Kolelo, "where he is
to this day," and no one could tell whither he went. After
some days his clothes and weapons were found in the cave, but
he was never seen again.
The woods near this cave are uncanny: drums
are occasionally heard there, though no drummers are to be seen,
also the trilling cry made by women at weddings. Sometimes the
traveller comes on an open space among the trees, where the ground
is clean white sand, smooth as if just swept for a dance: this
is where the ghosts hold their revels.
Kolelo and the Majimaji Rising
The name Kolelo attained a certain publicity
about 1905, but not in connexion with the haunted cave in Nguu.
This Kolelo was a huge serpent, living in a cave in the mountains
of Uluguru.[1] The Zaramo people tell how, once upon a time,
two women went into the forest to dig up roots.
[1. Klamroth, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen,
p. 139.]
Suddenly they heard a rumbling underground,
but could see nothing to cause it. One woman ran back to the
village; the other, known as Mlamlali,[1] stayed. Presently a
great snake appeared, took the woman into its cave, and said,
"The High God has sent me. I am to take you to wife so that
you can carry my message to mankind. And you of the Mlali clan
shall be my people and serve me for ever in this cave. I have
two companions, and we are commissioned to restore everything
which has been spoiled or ruined on earth."
Mlamlali was long sought for by her friends,
but no trace of her was found, till suddenly she came home wearing
beautiful ornaments and none the worse for her experience.
The message she brought was mainly concerned
with directions for cultivation; but in 1905 occurred the rising
(known as the "Majimaji Rebellion" [2]) with which
Kolelo's name is chiefly associated. Two prophets appeared, who
foretold that the sun and moon would rise in the west and set
in the east, and other wonders would be seen. They forbade the
people to pay taxes to the Government, and won over the adherence
of a certain chief by showing him, as he was persuaded to believe,
his deceased father in the flesh. It appears that they were able
to produce a person with a striking resemblance to the dead man.
The tribesmen were to arm themselves with millet-stalks, which
would turn to rifles in their hands; they would be supplied with
a certain medicine which would have the effect of turning the
enemy's bullets to water (maji in Swahili). The failure
of the rising did not put an end to the Kolelo cult; but his
oracles from thenceforth seem only to have concerned themselves
with agricultural matters. For instance, his
[1. Women's names are that of their clan,
with the prefix Mla.
2 The rising was known as the "Majimaji
Rebellion" on account of the belief in a certain sacred
water, stated to have been obtained from the Sudan through Uganda,
which was said to confer invulnerability in battle and to protect
the user against every sort of evil. An account of the whole
movement and of the secret society which is supposed to have
originated it was contributed by Mr J. H. Driberg to the Journal
of the Royal Anthropological Institute, vol. lxi, under the
title "Yakañ."]
medium, Kiganga, forbade people to eat the
leaves of the manioc plant (elsewhere a popular vegetable), perhaps
because it is of comparatively recent introduction into Uzaramo.
All Wazaramo know the name of Kiganga, but no one professes to
have seen her. Two men, however, have met Mlamlali, who acts
as caretaker to Kolelo's cave, and would not allow them to enter
it. Another medium in residence at the cave is Mhangalugome,
who interprets Kolelo's oracles, given in the same way as those
of the Nguu spirit, by a rushing noise in the depth of the cavern,
perhaps caused by an underground river. It is true that it appears
to be intermittent, but this might be accounted for by varying
currents of air.
Witches and 'Voodoo'
As to the activities of the witch proper,
which it is the business of the mganga to check, very
strange things are related. Some level-headed missionaries have
witnessed occurrences which they could attribute only to unseen
agencies. Bishop Weston, at Weti, in the island of Pemba) saw
and felt lumps of clay thrown by invisible hands, one falling
through the iron roof of the hut in which he stood, another thrown
upward from outside. Pemba is a well known centre of witchcraft;
anyone curious about such matters can find a detailed account
of the witch-guilds and their horrible sacrifices in Captain
Craster's book Pemba, the Spice Island of Zanzibar.
The doings of the wachawi (or wanga)
there related are not unlike those we hear of in the island of
Hayti-and we may be sure they lose nothing in the hands of romancers
under the names of Obeah and Voodoo (or Vaudoux). The subject
hardly comes within the scope of this book, but one thing may
be pointed out: it is too commonly assumed that these doings
are typical of African mentality in general, and constitute an
essential part of African religion. But it is a very suggestive
fact that the Pemba witch-guilds and those described by Dr Nassau
in West Africa are recruited from the slaves, and the same is
obviously the case in the West Indies. It should be remembered
that many, if not most, of these people had been sold into slavery
for their crimes, perhaps for this very crime of witchcraft.
Dr Nassau says, in fact, that the Benga and neighbouring tribes
credited the slaves as a body with addiction to unlawful arts,
and if a free man died
suspicion almost always located itself on
the slave community, for the reason that it was known that slaves
did practise the Black Art, and partly because it was safer to
make an accusation against a defenceless slave than against a
free man. It resulted, therefore, that, just because they were
defenceless, the slaves actually did practise arts in their supposed
self-defence that gave justification for the charge that they
were witches and wizards.[1]
I have been assured, quite seriously, by more
than one person in the coastal region of Kenya Colony, that certain
sorcerers, whom they called wanga,[2] were in the habit
of coming to your door in the night and calling the occupant
of the house. If you came out and followed them into the forest
it was implied, rather than stated, that it was all up with you.
It also seemed to be implied that once the intended victim had
answered the call he had no choice but to go and, presumably,
be killed and eaten.
The Resuscitated Corpse
Another belief, held strongly in practically
every part of Africa, is that witches hold their revels at the
graves of those recently dead, digging up and reanimating the
corpse, and then killing it again, eating the flesh, and taking
some of the parts as ingredients of the most powerful charms.
But this is not their only reason for resuscitating
corpses. There is a strange and horrible superstition, widely
distributed, with considerable local variations, to the effect
that it is done in order to obtain a familiar, who can be sent
about
[1. In an Elephant Corral, p. 155.
The Benga live near Corisco Bay, in Spanish Guinea.
2. It is not clear what is the exact difference
between wanga and wachawi. W.E. Taylor derived
the former word from anga, 'to float in the air,' and
seems to have believed seriously that these persons have the
power of 'levitation.' But probably the word comes from the same
root as mganga and (Lamba) ubw-anga, 'charm.']
on the warlock's evil errands. The Zulus call
such a creature umkovu; it is supposed to be like a child
in stature and to be unable to speak except in an "inarticulate,
confused" sort of way, expressed by the word ukutshwatshwaza.
This is because the owner has cut off the tip of its tongue,
to prevent its betraying his secrets; he also, for what purpose
is not stated, runs a red-hot needle up the forehead. It is employed,
among other things, to place poison, or what is believed to have
the same effect, in the kraals, and also acts the part of the
Irish banshee, as a death is believed to occur when it has been
seen in a kraal, and should anyone happen to be ill at the time
the relatives would give up all hope of his recovery.[1] Another
account says that they can make the grass trip up a belated traveller
by twining round his legs, and (a touch recalling the wanga
I was warned against at Jomvu) if anyone is foolish enough to
answer when they call his name they cut his throat and, in some
way, force him to become one of them.
The Yaos, and probably some other tribes,
are terrorized by a thing called a ndondocha, of like
origin with the umkovu, but in some ways very different.
According to information kindly supplied by Dr Meredith Sanderson,
on the day of burial, or within three days from that date, a
wizard goes to the grave at night armed with a 'tail' or a horn
containing 'medicine'; with this he strikes the grave, uttering
the words, "Arise; your mother summons you!" The earth
in the grave heaves and 'boils,' and the corpse emerges without
any visible passage having been made. The wizard then carries
it on his back to a cave, or to his house, where he keeps it
in the verandah-room (a compartment partitioned off under the
broad eaves of the hut). Here other medicines are used, and the
legs are amputated at the knee-joint. The corpse is now in a
state of semi-animation; it is fed by the owner, but cannot move
without his orders. If it is not fed it cries unceasingly; its
cry is like the mewing of a cat. It cannot speak. It creeps along
[1. Bryant, Zulu-English Dictionary,
p. 322. See also Colenso, Zulu-English Dictionary, p.
282.]
the ground, propelling itself by means of
the stumps of its legs and on its hands. The possession of a
ndondocha gives supernatural power to its owner. It is
usually employed for killing his enemies, and when people hear
its cry they say, "It is ominous; the banshee has wailed,"
meaning that by morning somebody will have died. Should the owner
die the 'familiar' will rot away for want of the necessary medicines
to keep it alive.
The Tuyewera
Even queerer and more uncanny are the tuyewera
of the Kaonde country, in Northern Rhodesia.[1] These are imps,
having the figure of human beings, about three feet high though
the Lambas say they are like a kind of wild cat-and are made,
for a consideration, by sorcerers, not professedly in order to
kill people, but to get wealth for the purchaser. They do this
by (invisibly) stealing the food of his neighbours and adding
it to his store. After a while they tell him that they are lonely
and want company, and if he does not name some one for them to
kill they will kill him. He names a person, whom they kill by
sucking his breath when he is asleep; he then becomes one of
them. The owner has to keep on supplying them with victims, and
at last is himself killed, either by them or by his neighbours
on discovering that he possesses tuyewera.
The Lambas occasionally procure these imps
from the Kaonde practitioners, but for the purpose of counteracting
witchcraft rather than of increasing their possessions. A man
will come and tell the maker that he has lost. a number of his
relatives in suspicious circumstances, and wants some powerful
ubwanga to put a stop to this. He is supplied with a pair,
takes them home, and makes a sleeping-place for them in the bush,
not far from his hut. The witches are soon got rid of, but the
tuyewera are by no means satisfied. The man has to name
one friend or kinsman after another, and at last his wife. When
he really has no one left to give them he
[1. Melland, In Witch-bound Africa,
p. 204, and Doke, The Lambas of Northern Rhodesia, p.
315]
picks them up and carries them back to the
maker, saying, "Here are your little things. The people
are all finished." But so long as one of his kin remains
they will not go."
The Baila call these creatures by a slightly
different name, tuyobela,[2] and say they are the ghosts
of men and women who have been killed by witches. These are said
to raise up the dead person "as an evil spirit"; but
from the accounts given it is not clear how this process differs
from that of restoring the corpse to life, since the tuyobela
are solidly material enough to bite people. Mr Smith's friend
Mungolo had seen them, and at first took them for children, as
they were only eighteen inches high, but "on looking again
he saw that they had the bodies of full-grown men," and
their faces were turned round the wrong way. Their activities
are much the same as those already described: "they are
sent out to steal, to make people sick, and to kill."
A West African Parallel
The Mayombe, in French Congo, have a belief
in some gruesome beings which recall the above descriptions:
they are small in stature, have legs cut off at the knee, high
shoulders, and one remarkably long finger-nail; their skin is
jet-black, and their hair long and tangled. They are called nkuyu
unana. But, instead of being fabricated by sorcerers for
their own evil purposes, they are the ghosts of witches who rise
from the grave of their own accord. They wander about burial-grounds
and deserted villages, approach people's houses by night in order
to steal chickens; they frighten children, and occasionally attack
grown persons. They speak through the nose, and may be heard
moaning and complaining of the cold. Sometimes they play tricks
on people by imitating children's voices. If a man should succeed
in shooting one of these creatures he ought to burn the body-presumably
to prevent its rising again. If he misses he
[1. Doke, The Lambas of Northern Rhodesia,
p. 315.
2. Smith and Dale, The Ila-speaking Peoples,
vol. ii, p. 132. The name is derived from kuyobela, 'to
twitter,' because they chirp and twitter like birds. Perhaps
the word used in Kaonde is a corruption of this, as I cannot
find an etymology for it in that language.]
should pour poison into the hole by which
it has been in the habit of leaving and re-entering the grave.'
After these the more ordinary witches' familiars
and messengers, such as baboons, hyenas, leopards, wild-cats,
owls, seem quite commonplace.
Spells or Curses
The Swahili and some of the neighbouring coast
tribes have, as might be expected, modified their beliefs to
some extent under Moslem influence. The spirits of the dead are
sometimes called wazuka, but more often spoken of by the
Arabic names jini and shetani, and though the mganga
is still, if I mistake not, a power in the land, the charms he
supplies are apt to be slips of paper with a verse of the Koran
written on them, or a magic square bearing the names of the four
angels (Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Israfil), with other words
of power. Women and children might often have been seen twenty
years ago wearing the "amulet of seven knots," a cord
of black wool over which the wise man, as he tied each knot,
had repeated the Sura Ya Sin (the thirty-sixth chapter
of the Koran).
One way of injuring an enemy is to get a duly
qualified person to "read Hal Badiri" against him-that
is, to intone the incantations contained in an originally harmless
book of prayers offered in the names of those who fought at the
battle of Badr (the Ahl Badri in correct Arabic). Again, the
spiteful or vindictive person may go to the grave of a well-known
saint (such as the site known as Pa Shehe Jundani at Mombasa)
and leave an offering there, burning a little incense while uttering
his or her desire. Not that all prayers put up at Shehe Jundani's
tomb are necessarily malignant; no doubt there are many artless
petitions akin in spirit to those one has seen pencilled on the
walls of Saint Étienne-du-Mont, in Paris-for children,
for success in love, possibly (since the "march of progress"
has not left Mombasa untouched) for success in examinations.
These, of course, could hardly be classed as magic-black or white.
[1. Bittremieux, Idioticon, vol. ii,
p. 510.]
CHAPTER XVII: BRER RABBIT IN AFRICA
THE Uncle Remus stories,
which suddenly became so popular about fifty years ago, not only
delighted both young and old, but attracted the serious attention
of folklore students. It is now generally recognized-though the
point was hotly debated at first-that they originally came from
Africa, brought by the Negro slaves, who, in the southern states,
seem mostly to have belonged to Bantu-speaking tribes.[1] When
it was discovered that the Indians of the Amazon had numbers
of similar tales it was suggested by some that the Negro stories
had been directly or indirectly borrowed from them; by others
that the Indians had borrowed them from the Brazilian Negroes.
Neither suggestion seems to fit the facts. On the one hand, every
story in "Uncle Remus" can be shown to exist in a more
primitive shape in Africa, and among people who cannot be suspected
of having imported it from America or elsewhere. Thus the "Tar-baby"
story is known, in slightly differing forms, to the Duala, the
Sumbwa (a tribe to the south of Lake Victoria), the Mbundu of
Angola, the Makua, the people of the Lower Congo, and several
more.
On the other hand, the more we know of the
folk-tales current in different parts of the world the less likely
it seems that the Amazonian Indians should have borrowed their
stories from the Negroes. In the Malay Peninsula, where the local
equivalent for Brer Rabbit is the little mouse-deer, he figures
in much the same incidents as the African hare and Hlakanyana.
These incidents and the traits of character
[1. Most, as is generally supposed, from the
Congo; but there is evidence that slaves were frequently, during
the first quarter of the nineteenth century, imported from Mozambique
and other ports on the East Coast. "Mombasas," are
mentioned among the Negro slaves in Cuba; and many cargoes of
slaves were smuggled from Havana into the southern states after
the import trade had been declared illegal. This perhaps explains
why the African hare (Kalulu of the Nyanja, Sungura of the Swahili)
should be such a prominent figure in Negro folklore, while his
place is taken on the Congo (where it appears there are no hares)
by the little antelope known as the water chevrotain. The slaves
of the British West Indies were chiefly West Africans (Yorubas,
Ibos, Fantis, etc.), and their 'Nancy' stories are mostly concerned
with the spider (Anansi).]
which they illustrate are common to human
nature all the world over; the animal actors, of course, vary
locally.
The Jackal
In India it is the jackal who plays clever
tricks on the stronger and fiercer animals; in Europe the fox;
in New Guinea and Melanesia yet others. The tortoise, however,
seems a universal favourite, except, perhaps, in North Germany,
where one of his best-known adventures is ascribed to the hedgehog.
The jackal is the hero for the Hottentots,
and also for the Galla and Somali of North-eastern Africa, who
consider the hare a stupid sort of creature, and blame him (at
least the Hottentots do) for-like the chameleon elsewhere taking
away men's hope of reviving after death. The Moon, angry with
him for failing to deliver his message, threw a chunk of wood
at, him, which is why his lip is split to this day.
The Basuto have-apparently through contact
with the Hottentots-confused the characters of the jackal and
the hare, giving to the former the famous story of the Animals
and the Well, which will be related presently, though the hare
comes into his own on several other occasions.
Hare, not Rabbit
It is unfortunate that so many writers, no
doubt influenced by "Uncle Remus," used the word 'rabbit'
in translating African stories. There are, I believe, no rabbits,
properly so called, in Africa, and Sungura, Kalulu, Sulwe,[1]
and Mutlanyana[1] undoubtedly represent what we mean by a hare.
Uncle Remus would naturally speak of the more familiar animal,
just as he makes Brer Wolf and Brer Fox take the place of the
hyena.
Jacottet, in his translation of a Sesuto tale,
speaks of a 'rabbit' victimized by Little Hare. This animal (hlolo)
is, according to Mabille and Dieterlen's dictionary, the red
hare (Lepus crassicaudatus). Whether this is the same
as the 'March Hare' of the Lalas and Lambas-the name literally
[1. The Shona and Sesuto names for the 'little
hare.']
means the "Mad Big Hare"-it would
be interesting to discover; but I have nowhere met with a description
of this latter creature.
Animals which figure in the Tales
The hare, then, we may say, is really the
most prominent figure in the tales we are considering. Next to
him -indeed, in some ways more successful in triumphing over
his enemies, and once, at least, getting the better of the hare
himself-is the tortoise.
The lion, the elephant, and, more frequently,
the hyena are the foils and dupes, whose strength and fierceness
are no match for the nimble wits of the little hare and the slow,
patient wisdom of the tortoise. More inoffensive creatures, sad
to say-the bush-buck, the duiker, and the monitor lizard-occasionally
fall victims.
The crocodile is sometimes introduced, and
not always in an evil aspect: for instance, a Tumbuka tale shows
him helpful to the other animals and treated with gross ingratitude
by the tortoise. The hippopotamus also makes an occasional appearance,
and it would be possible to make a long list of animals and birds
which are mentioned-some of them repeatedly-but play no very
conspicuous parts.
The Animals and the Well
I will begin with the story of the Well, though
I cannot pretend to arrange the hare's adventures (except for
the final and fatal one) in chronological order. Some episodes
are linked together in natural sequence, but such groups could,
as a rule, be placed anywhere in the series without breaking
the connexion.
It was a different matter when some unnamed
Low German poet (or succession of poets) combined into the epic
of Reynard the Fox (Reinke Vos) the scattered beast
fables current in the Middle Ages. I have no doubt that one day
a genius will arise in some Bantu tribe to perform the same service
for Sungura.[1]
[1. It seems desirable to have a proper name
for occasional use, and perhaps it is most convenient to keep
to the Swahili form throughout.]
I am not forgetting that the Mosuto Azariel
Sekese has done something of the kind in his prose story The
Assembly of the Birds. But this is rather a satire than the
kind of epic that I have in mind, though it is a very remarkable
work in its own way.
Now for the story.
Once upon a time there was a terrible drought
over all the country. No rain had fallen for many months, and
the animals were like to die of thirst. All the pools and watercourses
were dried up. So the lion called the beasts together to the
dry bed of a river, and suggested that they should all stamp
on the sand and see whether they could not bring out some water.
The elephant began, and stamped his hardest, but produced no
result, except a choking cloud of dust. Then the rhinoceros tried,
with no better success; then the buffalo; then the rest in turn-still
nothing but dust, dust! At the beginning of the proceedings the
elephant had sent to call the hare, but he said, "I don't
want to come."
Now there was no one left but the tortoise,
whom they all had overlooked on account of his insignificance.
He came forward and began to stamp; the onlookers laughed and
jeered. But, behold I before long there appeared a damp spot
in the river-bed. And the rhinoceros, enraged that a. little
thing like that should succeed where he had failed, tossed him
up and dashed him against a rock, so that his shell was broken
into a hundred pieces. While he sat, picking up the fragments
and painfully sticking them together, the rhinoceros went on
stamping, but the damp sand quickly disappeared, and clouds of
dust rose, as before. The others repeated their vain efforts,
till at last the elephant said, Let the tortoise come and try."
Before he had been at work more than a few minutes the water
gushed out and filled the well, which had gradually been excavated
by their combined efforts.
The animals then passed a unanimous resolution
that the hare, who had refused to share in the work, should not
be allowed to take any of the water. Knowing his character, they
assumed that he would try to do so, and agreed to take turns
in keeping watch over the well.
The-hyena took the first watch, and after
an hour or two saw the hare coming along with two calabashes,
one empty and one full of honey. He called out a greeting to
the hyena, was answered, and asked him what he was doing there.
The hyena replied, "I am guarding the well because of you,
that you may not drink water here." "Oh," said
the hare, "I don't want any of your water; it is muddy and
bitter. I have much nicer water here." The hyena, his curiosity
roused, asked to taste the wonderful water, and Sungura handed
him a stalk of grass which he had dipped in the honey. "Oh,
indeed, it is sweet! just let me have some more!" I can't
do that unless you let me tie you up to the tree; this water
is strong enough to knock you over if you are not tied."
The hyena had so great a longing for the sweet drink that he
readily consented; the hare tied him up so tightly that he could
not move, went on to the well, and filled his calabash; then
he jumped in, splashed about to his heart's content, and finally
departed laughing.
In the morning the animals came and found
the hyena tied to the tree. "Why, Hyena, who has done this
to you?" "A great host of strong men came in the middle
of the night, seized me, and tied me up." The lion said,
"No such thing! Of course it was the hare, all by himself."
The lion took his turn at watching that night; but, strange to
say, he fell a victim to the same trick. Unable to resist the
lure of the honey, he was ignominiously tied to the tree.
There they found him next morning, and the
hyena, true to his currish nature, sneered: "So it was many
men who tied you up, Lion? " The lion replied, with quiet
dignity: "You need not talk; he would be too much for any
of us."
The elephant then volunteered to keep watch,
but with no better success; then the rest of the animals, each
in his turn, only to be defeated by one trick or another.
At last the tortoise came forward, saying,
"I am going to catch that one who is in the, habit of binding
people!" The others began to jeer: "Nonsense! Seeing
how he has outwitted us, the elders, what can you do-a little
one like you? " But the elephant took his part, and said
that he should be allowed to try.
The Tortoise is too sharp for the Hare
The tortoise then smeared his shell all over
with bird-lime, plunged into the well, and sat quite still at
the bottom. When the hare came along that night and saw no watcher
he sang out, "Hallo! Hallo! the well! Is there no one here?"
Receiving no answer, he said, "They're afraid of me! I've
beaten them all! Now for the water!" He sat down beside
the well, ate his honey, and filled both his gourds, before starting
to bathe. Then he stepped into the water and found both his feet
caught. He cried out, "Who are you? I don't want your water;
mine is sweet. Let me go, and you can try it." But there
was no answer. He struggled; he put down one hand[1] to free
himself; he put down the other; he was caught fast. There was
no help for it: there he had to stay till the animals came in
the morning.[2] And when they saw him they said, "Now, indeed,
the hare has been shown up!" So they carried him to the
bwalo for judgment, and the lion said, "Why did you
first disobey and afterwards steal the water?" The hare
made no attempt to plead his cause, but said, "just tie
me up, and I shall die!" The lion ordered him to be bound,
but the hare made one more suggestion. "Don't tie me with
coconut-rope, but with green banana-fibre; then if you throw
me out in the sun I shall die very quickly."
They did so, and after a while, when they
heard the banana-bast cracking as it dried up in the heat, they
began to get suspicious, and some one said to the lion that the
hare
[1. It is quite common for Africans to speak
of the forefeet of a quadruped as 'hands.' But, in any case,
animals in the stories are often spoken of as if they had human
form. We find the same thing again and again in "Uncle Remus."
2. In the Ila version he is killed on the
spot; but I refuse to accept this. Even the tortoise, though
more than once too much for the hare, could not bring him to
his death; that had to come in the end from a quite unexpected
quarter.]
would surely break his bonds. The hare heard
him and groaned out, as though at his last gasp, "Let me
alone. I'm just going to die!" So he lay still for another
hour, and then suddenly stretched himself; the banana-fibre gave
way, and he was off before they could recover from their astonishment.
They started in pursuit, but he outran them all, and they were
nearly giving up despair when they saw him on the top of a distant
ant-hill, apparently waiting for them to come up. When they got
within earshot he called out, "I'm off! You're fools, all
of you!" and disappeared into a hole in the side of the
ant-hill. The animals hastened up and formed a circle round the
hill, while the elephant came forward and thrust his trunk into
the hole. After groping about for a while he seized the hare
by the ear, and the hare cried, "That's a leaf you've got
hold of. You've not caught me!" The elephant let go and
tried again, this time seizing the hare's leg. "O-o-o-o-o!
He's got hold of a root."[1] Again the elephant let go,
and Sungura slipped out of his reach into the depths of the burrow.
The animals grew tired of waiting, and, leaving
the elephant to watch the ant-hill, went to fetch hoes, so that
they might dig out the hare. While they were gone the hare, disguising
his voice, called out to the elephant, "You who are watching
the burrow open your eyes wide and keep them fixed on this hole,
so that the hare may not get past without your seeing him!"
The elephant unsuspectingly obeyed, and Sungura, sitting just
inside the entrance, kicked up a cloud of sand into his eyes
and dashed out past him. The elephant, blinded and in pain, was
quite unaware of his escape, and kept on watching the hole till
the other animals came back. They asked if Sungura was still
there. "He may be, but he has thrown sand into my eyes."
They fell to digging, and, of course, found nothing.
[1. Compare again Brer Tarrypin when caught
by Brer Fox: "Tu'n loose dat stump-root an' ketch hold o'
me!" This incident occurs in various connexions; it comes
in quite appropriately here.]
The Hare's Disguises
Meanwhile the hare had gone away into the
bush, plaited his hair in the latest fashion, plastered it with
wax[1] taken from a wild bees' nest, and whitened his face with
clay, so that he was quite unrecognizable. Then he strolled casually
past the place where the animals were at work, asked what they
were doing, and offered to help. He was given a hoe, which he
used with such vigour that it soon came off the handle. He asked
the giraffe for the loan of his leg, used it as the handle of
his hoe, and speedily broke it, whereupon he shouted, "I'm
the hare!" and, fled, taking refuge in another ant-hill,
which had more than one entrance. They started to dig; he escaped
through the second hole, which they had not noticed, disguised
himself afresh, and came back as before. This time, when his
hoe came off the handle, he asked the elephant to let him hammer
it in on his head; and he did it with such good-will that he
soon killed him. He ran away once more, shouting insults as he
went, and the animals, having lost their two principal leaders,
returned home, weary and discouraged.
The Hare nurses the Lioness's Cubs
The hare then went on his way quite happily,
till, some time later, he met a lioness, who seized him and was
about to kill him. But he pleaded so eloquently for his life,
assuring her that he could make himself very useful if she would
let him be her servant, that at last she relented and took him
home to her den. Next day, when she went out to hunt, she left
him in charge of her ten cubs.[2] While she
[1. Various disguises are mentioned as being
used by the hare. At Delagoa Bay he makes himself a head-ring
(like those worn by Zulu and Thonga men); elsewhere he plasters
himself all over with mud, or shaves his head, or even takes
off his skin (but I think this stratagem more properly belongs
to another and clumsier character), or covers himself all over
with leaves. In "Uncle Remus" Brer Rabbit, after spilling
some honey over himself, rolls in the fallen leaves and becomes
quite unrecognizable.
2 The number of cubs varies in different versions
of the story, but several agree in making them ten. The Basuto
make the jackal the hero (if so he can be called), and the Akamba
the hyena, perhaps thinking a carnivorous bare too great a strain
on the probabilities; but probabilities, as we have seen, count
for nothing with the Bantu tale-teller.]
was gone Sungura took the cubs down to the
stream to play, and suggested that they should wrestle. He wrestled
with one of them, threw it, and twisted its neck as they lay
on the ground. Returning to the cave with the others, he skinned
and ate the dead one at the first convenient opportunity. In
the evening the mother came home and, staying outside the cave,
told the hare to bring the children out for her to nurse. He
brought one, and when she told him to bring the rest he objected,
saying it was better to bring them out one by one. Having suckled
the first, she handed it back, and he brought her the remaining
eight, taking the last twice over.
Next day he did the same, bringing out the
last cub three times, and so deceived the mother into thinking
she had suckled the whole ten. This went on until he had eaten
all but one, which he brought out ten times; when it came to
the tenth time the lioness noticed that the cub refused to suck.
The hare explained that it had not been well all day, and the
lioness was satisfied, and only told him to take good care of
it.
The Hare and the Baboons
As soon as she was gone next day he killed,
skinned, and ate the last cub, and, taking the other skins from
the place where he had hidden them, set out on his travels. Towards
evening he came to the village of the baboons, and found the
'men' playing with teetotums [1] in the 'forum.' He went and
sat down in the usual place for strangers, and when some of them
came to greet him said, "I have brought beautiful skins
to sell. Does anyone want to buy them?" The baboons crowded
round, admiring the skins, and all ten were soon disposed of.
They then returned to their game, and the hare sat watching them.
Presently he said, "You are not playing right. Shall I show
you how?" They handed him a teetotum, and he began to spin
it, singing all the time:
[1. Called in Nyasaland nsika, but
found in many other parts of Africa; made of a piece of gourd-shell,
with a splinter of wood (the size of a match) stuck through it.]
They listened attentively, and then said,
"Let us learn this song"; so he taught them the words,
and they practised for the rest of the evening. After which he
shared their meal, and was given a hut to sleep in.
In the morning he was off before it was light,
and made .his way back to the lions' den, where he found the
lioness distractedly searching for her missing cubs. On the way
he had been careful to roll in the mud and get himself well scratched
by the thorny bushes, so that he presented a most disorderly
appearance. On seeing her he set up a dismal wail. "Oh!
Oh! Some wild beasts came yesterday and carried off your children.
They were too much for me; I could do nothing. See how they knocked
me about and wounded me! But I followed them, and I can show
you where they live. If you come with me you will be able to
kill them all. But you had better let me tie you up in a bundle
of grass and put some beans just inside, and I will carry you
and tell them that I have brought a load of beans. They have
the skins of your children, whom I saw them eating." The
lioness agreed, and, having tied her up, the hare started with
his load. Arriving at the village, he laid it down in the place
for strangers. The baboons were so intent on their game that
they hardly noticed him at first, and the lioness could hear
them singing with all their might:
After a while they came up and greeted Sungura,
and he said that he had brought them a load of beans in return
for their hospitality of the day before. He loosened one end
of the bundle, to show them the beans, and then eagerly accepted
their invitation to join in the game. By the time it was once
more in full swing the lioness had worked herself free, and sprang
on the nearest baboon, bearing him to the ground. The others
tried to escape, but the hare had run round to the gate of the
enclosure, closed it, and fastened the bar. Then began "a
murder grim and great"; not one of the baboons was left
alive, and when the hare had brought out the skins of the poor
cubs and laid them before the lioness she knew for a certainty
that she had but done justice, and was duly grateful to the hare.
He, however, thought it just as well not to remain in her neighbourhood,
so took his leave and resumed his wanderings.
The Hare and the Hyena
We may pass over two or three more of the
exploits commonly attributed to him: how he treated an unoffending
antelope as Hlakanyana treated the ogre's mother; how, again
like Hlakanyana, he got a lion to help him thatch a hut and fastened
his tall into the thatch; and how he killed another lion by getting
him to swallow a red-hot stone wrapped in a quantity of fat.
The Galla and, I think, the Hottentots attribute this exploit
to the jackal.
Some of the most popular incidents arise out
of his friendship with the hyena. How this friendship originated
and why he should have chosen to ally himself with this most
unattractive beast is not clear: the stories are apt to begin
baldly with the statement that "the hare and the hyena (or
the tortoise and the monitor, or various other pairs, as the
case may be) made friendship with each other" (anapalana
ubwenzi, in Nyanja), no explanation being offered. It will
be seen that for any tricks played on the hyena the hare had
ample provocation, and the final injury he suffered could by
no means be condoned.
One very popular story tells how, being in
want of food, they went to the chief of a certain village and
offered to cultivate his garden. He agreed, and gave them a pot
of beans as their food-supply for the day. When they reached
the garden they made a fire and put the beans on to boil. By
the time they knocked off for the midday rest the beans were
done, and the hyena, saying that he wanted to wash before eating,
went to the stream and left the hare to watch the pot. No sooner
was he out of sight than he stripped off his skin and ran back.
The hare, thinking this was some strange and terrible beast,
lost his head and ran away; the hyena sat down by the fire, finished
the whole pot full of beans, returned to the stream, resumed
his skin, and came back at his leisure. The hare, as all seemed
quiet, ventured back, found the pot empty and the hyena clamorously
demanding his food. The hare explained that he had been frightened
away by an unknown monster, which had evidently eaten up the
beans. The hyena refused to accept this excuse, and accused the
hare of having eaten the beans himself. The unfortunate hare
had to go hungry; but, finding denial useless, contented himself
with remarking that if that beast came again he meant to shoot
it; so he set to work making a bow. The hyena watched him till
the bow was finished, and then said. "You have not made
it right. Give it here!" And, taking it from him, he pretended
to trim it into shape, but all the while he was cutting away
the wood so as to weaken it in one spot. The hare so far suspected
nothing, and kept his bow handy against the lunch-hour on the
following day. When the 'wild beast' appeared he fitted an arrow
to the string and bent the bow, but it broke in his hand, and
once more he fled.
By this time his suspicions were awakened,
and when he had made himself a new bow he hid it in the grass
when the hyena was not looking. On the next occasion when the
hyena appeared he shot at him and wounded him, but not seriously,
so that he ran back to get into his skin and returned to find
the hare calmly eating beans.
In one Nyasaland version of this tale it was
not the hyena but the elephant or the dzimwe (zimwi,
izimu), a kind of bogy of whom it was difficult to get a
clear account, who tricked the hare and was shot dead by him
in the end; but the hyena fits in better (the poor, good elephant
is more usually the dupe). And, according to some accounts, his
end was to come otherwise.
The Roasted Guinea-fowl
Another time the hare and the hyena went into
the bush together after game. They found a guinea-fowl's nest
full of eggs,[1] and soon after trapped a guinea-fowl. They carried
their spoils home, and the hare said to his friend, "You
roast the fowl and the eggs. I'm tired; I want to go to sleep."
The hyena made up the fire, spitted the bird on a stick, and
put the eggs into the hot ashes. When the savoury steam filled
the hut his mouth began to water, and when he had made sure that
the guinea-fowl was done he ate it up, all but the legs, which
he put into the fire. He then ate the eggs, carefully cleaned
the shell of one and put it aside, together with one quill, threw
the rest of the feathers into the fire, and lay down to sleep.
The smell of the burning feathers awakened
Sungura, who started up, called the hyena, and then noticed that
the guinea-fowl was missing. When asked where it was the hyena
said he had fallen asleep while it was roasting, and it had got
burned. The hare suspected the truth, but said nothing at the
time. A little later he suggested that they should go to their
respective relations and get some food; so they separated. The
hyena went a little way, and as soon as he was out of sight lay
down in the grass and slept. The hare, too, did not go far, but
hid himself and waited awhile; then he gathered some banana-leaves
and stealthily followed his partner. He tied him up and gave
him a good beating, which effectually wakened him, so that he
cried for mercy, though he could not see who was attacking him.
The hare then went away, and a little later pretended to come
upon his victim unexpectedly, kicked the supposedly unknown object
in his path, and said, "What's this?"
"I'm here, your friend!"
"What's the matter?"
"Some man came along and tied me up and
beat me."
"Do you know who it was?
"No, I don't."
The hare condoled with the hyena, and they
remained quiet for a few days, when the hyena heard that there
was
[1. The Central and Southern Africans, as
a rule, do not eat eggs (with some tribes they are tabu
to young people only). If they ever do they do not seem to care
whether, or how long, they have been sat on.]
to be a dance at his village, and invited
the hare to go with him. The hare accepted, but said he wanted
to go home first: he would come in the afternoon.
The hyena went and had a bath, got himself
up in his best clothes, complete with beads, for the dance, and,
as a finishing-touch, put the egg-shell on his head and stuck
the feather into it. When the hare arrived he welcomed him warmly,
asked him to sit down, and thereupon took his zomari (a
kind of clarinet) and played:
These are supposed to be ' riddling words,'
maneno ya fumbo. They are explained to mean: "I've
eaten up the guinea-fowl and all, though I pretended it had got
burned!" The hare understood them well enough; he sprang
up, seized a big drum, and fell to beating it and singing:
Then ensued a free fight, which, strange to
say, did not dissolve the partnership.[2]
The Hyena kills the Hare's Mother
There is a story, very variously told, of
a visit paid by the two to the hyena's wife's relations, in which
the hare defeats the hyena's tricks and finally turns the tables
on him, but I hasten on to the final break.
In a time of famine, having exhausted every
possible food-supply, the hyena proposed that he should kill
and eat his mother, and the hare should do the same. The hare
agreed, but kept his reflections to himself. The hyena went away,
killed his mother, and ate her; the hare went, ostensibly for
the same purpose, but hid his mother in a cave which could be
reached only by climbing up the face of the
[1. In the original: Kanga pia, singizia
moto, ti! ti! ti! As it is impossible to play a wind instrument
and sing at the same time, it is perhaps implied that the notes
conveyed the words, after the manner of the Ashanti drums.
2. One Swahili version (Blittner, Anthologie,
p. 95), which has in the main been followed here, as giving more
detail, makes the greedy beast the mungoose (cheche),
but the hyena, whom we find elsewhere, is the more probable.]
cliff, and left with her a supply of wild
herbs and roots, having first agreed on a signal to make his
presence known. Next day, when the hyena had departed on his
own business, the hare went to the cave and uttered the password.
On hearing his mother's answer he called out to her to let down
a rope, by which he climbed up into the cave. She had cooked
sufficient food for herself and him, and after a hearty meal
he returned to the place where he had left his friend. And this
he did day by day.
The hyena, in the meantime, had finished his
meat by the second day, and could not make out why the hare never
seemed in want of food. So one day he followed him, and, hiding
in the bushes, heard him give the password and the mother answer,
and saw him drawn up into the cave. Next day he watched his opportunity,
went to the cave, and called out the word, but there was no answer,
the hare having warned his mother to take no notice should anyone
else come. He saw that the hare had deceived him, and went away
nursing his grievance, but at a loss what to do about it. He
decided to consult the leopard, but got no help from him, only
the suggestion that he had better go to the ant-eater.
The ant-eater, on hearing his story, said
that there was no hope for him unless he could imitate the hare's
voice so skilfully as to deceive his mother; and to make this
possible he advised him to go to a nest of soldier-ants and put
his tongue in among them; if he got it well stung his voice would
be softened.[1] He did this, but was unable to endure the pain
for more than a short time. He returned to the ant-eater, who
desired him to try his voice, and found that it was not much
improved. The ant-eater said, "My friend, you're a coward.
If you want to cat the hare's mother you will have to go back
and let the ants bite your tongue till it is half its present
size!"
The hyena's greed and resentment were stronger
than his
[1. The ogre in the story of Tselane (and
similar ones) softens his voice by swallowing red-hot iron. He
does this on the advice of the witch-doctor. Brer Wolf, in like
case, goes to the blacksmith.]
dread of pain, so he went back and let the
ants work their will on him till the desired result was obtained.
In fact, when he went back to the cave the hare's mother was
completely taken in and let down the rope at once-to her undoing.
The Hare's Revenge
When the hare went as usual on the following
day he got no answer to his call, and, looking round, saw traces
of blood on the grass. Then he guessed what had happened, and
thought how he might be revenged. When he met the hyena again
he said nothing, but went away and made his preparations.
He came forth in the evening most splendidly
adorned the details, of course, vary locally, from a wealth of
brass and copper chains, pendants, rings, and ear-ornaments to
the white shirt, embroidered coat, silver-mounted sword, and
jewelled dagger of the coast men. Having thoroughly excited the
hyena's admiration and envy, he showed him a mark on the top
of his head, and told him that he had had a red-hot nail driven
in there, and that if he, the hyena, would submit to the same
operation he might be similarly adorned. The foolish beast was
quite willing-the hare had the red-hot iron ready-and that, of
course, was the end of Hyena.
In Nights with Uncle Remus this story
is told (under the curious title "Cutta Cord-La") by
an old man who, unlike Remus himself, had been brought from Africa
in his youth. The hyena has become Brer Wolf, and Brer Rabbit
hides his grandmother "in da top one big coconut-tree"-an
African touch which puzzles the child listener. Brer Wolf has
a red-hot poker thrust down his throat by the blacksmith, to
soften his voice, or "mekky him talk easy."
The story is found in many different parts
of Africa, though the actors in it are not always the same. This
is also the case with the "Tar-baby" story, which is
so well known that I need do no more than refer to it.
In spite of Sungura's pranks (some of them
cruel enough, especially when played on the elephant, who, somewhat
surprisingly, is not credited with much sense), he is always
regarded with a certain affection. And it is only fair to recall
one or two incidents which show him in a more amiable light than
those hitherto given.
The Hare overcomes both Rhino and Hippo
The famous'tug-of-war' story sometimes (as
in "Uncle Remus") belongs to the tortoise, but quite
as often the hero is the hare. So it is told by the Anyanja,
the Baila, the Wawemba, the Ansenga (Northern Rhodesia), and
probably many others.
The hare challenged the hippopotamus and the
rhinoceros to a trial of strength,[1] going to each in turn and
saying, "Take hold of this rope, and let us pull against
each other. I am going to the bank yonder." He then disappeared
into the bushes, carrying what purported to be his end of the
rope, and calling out as he went, "Wait till you feel me
pull at my end, and then begin." He had stationed the two
on opposite sides of a bush-covered island, and when he reached
a point midway between them he pulled the rope in both directions.
Rhino and hippo both pulled with all their might; their strength
being about equal, neither gave way to any extent, though the
former, after a while, was dragged forward a little, and when
he recovered himself went back with such a rush that he dragged
the hippo out on to the bank, whereat they both ejaculated, "Stupendous!"
and Hippo called, "Hare! Hare!" but without receiving
any answer. They went on pulling till they were both exhausted,
and the rhino said, I will go and see that man who is pulling
me," and just then the hippo put his head out of the water,
and said, "Who is that pulling me?" And Chipembele
(the rhino) said, "Why, Shinakambeza (one of Hippo's 'praise-names'),
is it you pulling me?" "It is I. Why, who was he that
brought you the rope, Chipembele?" "It was the hare.
Was it he who gave it to you, Hippo?" "Yes, it was
he."
[1. The Ila version has in the main been followed.
See Smith and Dale, The Ila speaking Peoples, vol. ii,
p. 377.]
It seems that these two had previously been
at enmity, and the rhino had vowed never to set foot in the river.
But the fact that both had equally been made fools of disposed
them more favourably towards each other.
Thus they became reconciled, and that is why
Rhinoceros drinks water to-day. Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus,
when they do not see each other in the flesh, Rhinoceros will
drink water in the river where Hippo lives, and Hippopotamus
comes out to go grazing where Rhinoceros has his home.
This is the conclusion given by the Baila
to the story; other people end it differently: either the rope
breaks and both competitors fall backward, or the hare (or the
tortoise) cuts it asunder in the middle, with the same result.
In a Nyanja version it is the elephant who pulls against the
hippopotamus; both are tired out, and the hare goes to each in
turn and claims a forfeit, which he gets.
It is obvious that after the story had reached
America the characters had to be changed. Brer Tarrypin challenged
the bear, and, as no other animal of equal size was available,
he fastened the other end of the rope to a tree.
The Hare decides a Case[1]
There is a very popular tale in which the
hare shows himself both wise and helpful. There was a man who
lived by hunting. One day, just as he was about to take a pig
and an antelope out of his traps, a lion sprang upon him, and
threatened to kill him unless he gave him a share of the meat.
In fear of his life, he agreed, and allowed the lion to take
out the hearts, livers, and such other titbits as he chose, while
he himself carried the rest home. This happened every day, and
the man's wife was consumed with curiosity, when she found that
there was neither heart nor liver in any of the animals he brought
home. She insisted, in spite of his denial, that he had given
these to
[1. One version of this is to be found in
Mr Posselt's Fables of the Veld (p. 51); another, which I have
chiefly followed, I took down, in Pokomo, on the Tana river,
in 1912. There is a similar story (Yao) in Duff Macdonald's Africana
(vol. ii, p. 346), where the hare decides between a man and a
crocodile.]
some other woman, and so, one day, started
early to look at his traps, and was herself caught in one of
them. Presently the man and the lion arrived on the scene, and
the latter demanded his share of the game. The man refused to
kill his wife; the lion insisted on holding him to his bargain.
The wretched man, driven to desperation, was about to give in,
and the woman would have paid dearly for her suspicions, had
the hare not happened to pass by. The husband saw him, and called
on him to help; Mwakatsoo[1] said at first that it was no business
of his, but, yielding at last to the man's entreaties, he stopped,
and heard both sides of the story. He then ordered the man to
release his wife, and set the trap again. This having been done,
he asked the lion to show him how the woman had got into it.
The lion fell into the trap, both figuratively and literally,
"and got caught by the hand and foot."So, this is the
way it caught her. Now let me go I" But Mwakatsoo turned
to the man and said, "You were a great fool to make such
a promise. Now be off, you and your wife!" They did not
wait to be told so twice, but hastened, home, while the lion
called on Mwakatsoo to release him, and received for answer:
"I shall do no such thing. You are the enemy!" [2]
A Giryama story-teller remarks (but this was
on a different occasion, when the hare had been supplying the
lion with meat):
"So the Little Hare was on good terms
with his neighbours and was a nice person in the Lion's opinion,
and in the opinion of his neighbours also was he a nice person!"
[3]
[1. So the hare is familiarly called by the
Wapokomo.
2. The Rhodesian hare was more ingenious.
First he said he could not hear what they were saying for the
wind, and they had better all come into a cave, the woman being
released for the purpose. Then be called out that the cave was
about to fall in, and they must hold up the roof. All four being
so engaged, he sent off the man and his wife to get logs for
propping it: he and the lion would hold it up till their return.
The couple, of course, took the hint and made their escape. The
hare ran away, and the lion, in terror lest the rock should fall,
went on supporting it till he was tired, and then made a desperate
leap to the mouth of the cave, hit his head against a rock, and
crawled away half stunned. "Since that day lions. have hunted
their own game."
3 Taylor, Giryama Vocabulary, p. 127]
The Hare's End
And now for Sungura's sad end, which was due
not to force or fraud of an enemy, but to a friend's misplaced
sense of humour.
He went one day to call on his friend the
cock, and found him asleep, with his head under his wing. The
hare had never seen him in this position before, and never thought
of doubting the hens' word when they informed him (as previously
instructed) that their husband was in the habit of taking off
his head and giving it to the herd-boys to carry with them to
the pasture. "Since you were born have you ever seen a man
have his head cut off and for it to go to pasture, while the
man himself stayed at home in the village?" And the hare
said, "Never! But when those herd-boys come, will he get
up again?" And those women said, "Just wait and see!"
At last, when the herd-boys arrived, their mother said, "Just
rouse your father there where he is sleeping." The cock,
when aroused, welcomed his guest, and they sat talking till dinner
was ready, and still conversed during the meal. The hare was
anxious to know "how it was done," and the cock told
him it was quite easy-"if you think you would like to do
it." The hare confidently accepted the explanation, and
they parted, having agreed that the cock should return the visit
next day.
He was so greatly excited that he began to
talk of his wonderful experience as soon as he reached his home.
"That person the fowl is a clever fellow; he has just shown
me his clever device of cutting off the head till, on your being
hit, you see, you become alive again. Well, to-morrow I intend
to show you all this device!"
Next morning he told his boys what to do.
They hesitated, but he insisted, and when they were ready to
go out with the cattle they cut off his head, bored the ears,
and put a string through them, to carry it more conveniently.
The women picked up the body and laid it on the bed, trusting,
in spite of appearances, to his assurance that he was not dead.
By and by his friend arrived, and, not seeing
him, inquired for him; the women showed him the body lying on
the bed. He was struck with consternation, and, let us hope,
with remorse. "But my friend is a simpleton indeed!"
They said, "Is not this device derived from you? "
but he turned a deaf ear to this hint, and only insisted that
the hare was a simpleton. He thought, however, he would wait
and see whether, after all, he did get up. The boys came home
when the sun declined; they struck their father, as he had told
them, "but he did not get up. And the children burst out
crying. And the mothers of the family cried. And folks sat a-mourning.
And all the people that heard of it were amazed at his death:
'Such a clever man! And for him to have met with his death through
such a trifling thing!'"[1]
That was 'Harey's' epitaph.
[1. Taylor, Giryama Vocabulary, p.
133.]
CHAPTER XVIII: LEGENDS OF THE TORTOISE
NEXT to the hare the
tortoise is the most conspicuous figure in Bantu folklore. In
some parts, indeed, he is more so: of the sixty-one stories collected
by Dr Nassau in the Corisco Bay district twenty have the tortoise
as the principal character. There seem to be no hares in this
part of the country; the animal who most frequently measures
his strength and his wits against the tortoise is the leopard,
and he is invariably defeated, though on one occasion his son
avenges his death by killing the tortoise.
The African tortoise in the tales is usually
of the land variety, though in one of the Benga stories [1] he
is represented as taking to the water with his family, to escape
the vengeance of the leopard. In Angola [2] they tell of a man
who found a turtle (mbashi) and tried to drown him, as
Brer Fox did "ole man Tarrypin," with the same result.
The American terrapin is distinctly a water-tortoise, or turtle:
there are various kinds of these in the African rivers and swamps,
but, as might be expected from the immense extent of desert and
forest country, the land ones are the commoner.
Uncle Remus's "Brer Tarrypin"
"Brer Tarrypin " figures in six
of the earlier " Uncle Remus stories; [3] one of these has
already been mentioned of the others the best are the "Tug
of War" (the 'hare' version of which was given in the last
chapter) and the famous race with Brer Rabbit) which he won,
not (as in the later, moralized fable) through his own perseverance
and the other's careless self-confidence, but by planting out
his relatives at intervals all along the track.
In the later collection [4] we have him tricking
the buzzard
[1. Nassau, Where Animals Talk, p.
158: "The Deceptions of Tortoise."
2. Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola,
p. 153.
3. The stories referred to are Nos. X, XII,
XIV, XVIII, XXVI, and XXX.
4. Nights with Uncle Remus, Nos. XIV,
XV, and XLVI.]
into getting burned to death, and then making
the quills of his wing-feathers into a musical instrument, which
is stolen from him by Brer Fox and recovered with difficulty.
This recalls Hlakanyana killing a hare (not the hare!)
and making a whistle out of one of his bones, which the 'iguana'
subsequently steals from him, and the Ronga hare, with his pipes
made from the little horns of the gazelle he has treacherously
done to death. Out of seventy stories in this book eleven introduce
Brer Tarrypin; the only one that need be noticed just now is
where he rescues Brer Rabbit from the ungrateful wolf. Mr Wolf
had got pinned under a falling rock; Brer Rabbit, passing by,
raised up the rock enough to release him, whereupon he found
himself caught, and was about to be eaten when he suggests that
they might "leave the whole case with Brer Tarrypin."
His decision is the same as that of the hare against the crocodile
in the Yao story, and Brer Rabbit escapes.
Character of the Tortoise
This, like some African examples one has met
with, shows the tortoise in a kindly light; but in general he
appears to be less lovable than, with all his wicked tricks,
we cannot help feeling the hare to be. The tortoise is slow,
patient, vindictive, and, sometimes, cruel in his revenge; but
he never shows the inveterate and occasionally motiveless malignancy
of the West African spider, the hero of the Anansi tales.
It is easy to see why the tortoise should
get a reputation for uncanny wisdom. There is something mysterious
about him. As Major Leonard says: [1]
Absolutely harmless and inoffensive in himself,
the tortoise does not prey on even the smallest of insects, but
subsists entirely on the fallen fruits of the forest. In the
gloomy forests of the Niger Delta there are only two enemies
capable of doing him any serious harm. The one is man, who is
able to lift him up and carry him bodily away, which, however,
he does not do, unless the creature is required in connection
with certain religious
[1. The Lower Niger and its Tribes,
pp. 314 and 315 (here somewhat condensed).]
ceremonies. His other and most dangerous enemy
is the python, who, having first crushed him, swallows him alive,
shell and all. But pythons large enough to do this, unless the
tortoise happens to be young and small, are very scarce. Thus
the tortoise has been practically immune from attack-a fact that
in a great measure explains his longevity. [His reputation has
been enhanced by] the fact that he can exist longer without food
than perhaps any other animal. . . . In process of time, the
word which stood for 'tortoise' became a synonym for cunning
and craft, and a man of exceptional intelligence was in this
way known among the Ibo as Mbai and among the Ibani as Ekake,[l]
meaning a tortoise. Although slow, he was sure, and this sureness,
in the native mind, implied doggedness and a fixed determination,
while silence and secrecy implied mystery and a veiled purpose,
behind which it is impossible to get.
The Race won by the Tortoise
The 'Race' story is known in Africa to the
Kamba, Konde, [2] Lamba, Ila, Duala, Bakwiri,[3] and, I believe,
to many others. I have come across only two in which the one
challenged is the hare, and one of these (the Ila) is curiously
mixed up with the story of the Animals and the Well. The race
is run by all the animals to the river, to get water in time
of drought, and the youngest tortoise, who has been buried close
to the bank, brings them a supply as they lie exhausted. In most
cases it is an antelope who runs and loses-the duiker, the harnessed
antelope, or some other kind-but the Kamba make the tortoise
and the fish-eagle the competitors, and the Bondei the tortoise
and the falcon; this last tortoise, strangely enough, turns into
a fine young man.[4] And, finally, in Kondeland
[1. Cf. Mpongwe ekaga, 'tortoise.'
2. Better, Ngonde, but their proper name appears
to be Nyakyusa; they inhabit the northern end of Lake Nyasa,
on its western side.
3 Between the Wuri and Sanaga rivers, in the
Cameroons. Their nearest neighbours are the Duala and the Isubu.
4. See Woodward, "Bondei Folk-tales,"
p. 182. Here and in the Kamba story referred to the two are contending
for the hand of the chief's daughter; but in general there is
no inducement to the contest beyond the trial of strength, This
Kamba story is given in Mr Hobley's book (The Akamba),
but Dr Lindblom has another version; in which the tortoise races
a young man.]
the match is between the tortoise and the
elephant.[1] This is as follows:
The tortoise one day met the elephant, and
said, "Do you think you are the greatest of all the beasts?"
The conversation continued:
"Haven't you seen me, then?"
"Did you ever see your own head?"
"What of that?"
"Why, if I were to jump I could jump
over it!"
"What, you?"
"Yes, I!"
"Well, try it, then!"
"Not to-day. I'm tired. I have come a
long way."
The elephant thought this was a mere excuse,
and told the tortoise he was a liar; but it was agreed that the
trial should take place next day. The tortoise hastened away,
fetched his wife, and hid her in the bushes close to the spot
they had fixed on.
With daybreak the elephant arrived, and found
the tortoise already there. He got the elephant to stand in the
middle of a clear space, and then took up his position on one
side of him, opposite to the point where his wife was hidden
in the grass. The elephant said, "Jump away, Tortoise!"
The tortoise cried, "Hi-i!" took off for the
high jump, and crept into the grass, while his wife, on the other
side, cried "Ehe!" The elephant looked and found
the tortoise (as he thought) on the farther side, though he had
not seen the actual leap. "Joko!" [2] Try it
again, for I couldn't see you doing it! This time the wife cried,
"Hi-i!" and the tortoise "Ehe!"
and the elephant suspected nothing, thinking that the leap had
been too swift for his eye to catch, and acknowledged himself
beaten, but was sure that he would be the better in a foot-race.
The tortoise was willing to try, "but not to-day, for my
legs are tired with the jumping. But could you come to-morrow?"
The elephant agreed, and the same place was fixed for
[1. Schumann, Grundriss einer Grammatik
der Kondesprache, p. 82.
2. An exclamation expressive of surprise.]
the starting-point of the course-the race
to begin at sunrise.
The tortoise went home, called his children
together, and spent the night in collecting the rest of the clan,
stationing them at convenient intervals along the course and
instructing them what to do.
The elephant appeared punctually in the morning,
and after greetings started off at a trot-ndi! ndi! ndi!
[1] When he had been running for some time he called out, "Tortoise!"
thinking he must have left him far behind, but, to his consternation,
he heard a voice in front of him: "Yuba! Why, I'm
here!" This happened again and again, till he reached the
goal and found the original tortoise awaiting him there. "And
so it befell that the elephant was defeated." (The original
expresses this in three words.) The Benga wind up the story by
saying, "So the council decided that, of all the tribes
of animals Tortoise was to be held as greatest; for that it had
outrun Antelope. And the animals gave Tortoise the power to rule."
The Baboon invites the Tortoise to dine
Another favourite story is that of the friendship
between the tortoise and the baboon, which ended (as in the case
of Æsop's fox and crane) in consequence of their mutual
invitations to dinner. The baboon, having brewed his millet-beer
(moa, pombe, or utshwala), placed the pots
up in a tree, and the tortoise, being, of course, unable to climb
up, while his host offered no other accommodation, had to return
home hungry and thirsty. The tortoise paid his friend out by
inviting him at the end of the dry season (the time of the grass-fires)
and preparing his feast on a spot which could be reached only
by crossing a patch of burnt ground. When the baboon arrived
he was politely requested to wash his hands. As he had to cross
the burnt grass again to reach the stream in order to do so he
came back with them as black as ever .[2]
[1. This is one of the famous 'descriptive
adverbs,' or 'onomatopceias,' which abound in the Bantu languages.
Cf. kuputu kuputu, of a horse galloping, etc.
2 Baboons, of course, do not as a rule walk
upright.]
This went on so long-for the tortoise would
not let him sit down till his hands were clean-that he was tired
out, and went home in disgust.
The Tortoise and the Monitor
Still more spitefully vindictive is the character
given to the tortoise in the Nyanja story which associates him
with the ng'anzi, a large lizard, probably a species of
Varanus (monitor). It opens, like many other tales of
this kind, with the statement that these two "made friendship,"
by which we are to understand that they went through the ceremonies
of the blood-covenant, binding themselves to help each other
whenever called upon. One day the tortoise was in need of salt-well
known to be a very precious commodity in certain parts of Africa-and
set out to beg some from his friend. Having reached the ng'anzi's
abode and got his salt, he next asked to have it tied up with
string in a piece of bark-cloth. (Such bundles, each a man's
load, used to be brought in to Blantyre by people who had been
making salt on the shores of Lake Chilwa.) He passed the string
over his shoulder, so that the parcel hung under his other arm,
and started for home, dragging the salt after him-gubudugubudu![1]
The ng'anzi came up behind him and seized the salt; the
tortoise, pulled up short, njutu njutu! turned back to
see what had caught his load. He found that the ng'anzi
had seized the bundle of salt in the middle, and said to him,
"Don't seize my salt. I have just brought it from my friend's
house." The ng'anzi replied, "I've just picked
it up in the path." "But you can see the string passing
round my neck as we tied it. I, the tortoise, am the owner."
But the ng'anzi insisted that he had found the parcel,
and, as the tortoise would not give in, said, "Let us go
to the smithy [this being the local gossip-shop or men's club
of the village], that the elders may decide our case." The
tortoise agreed, and they went to the smithy, where
[1. Intended to express the bumping of the
parcel along the path as the tortoise makes his slow progress.
When he is pulled up, njutu njutu! expresses the sudden
stop which almost jerks him off his feet.]
they found eight old men. The ng'anzi
opened the case in proper form: "I have a suit against the
tortoise." The elders said, "What is your suit with
which you have come hither to us?" He stated his case, and
they asked, "How did you pick up the tortoise's salt?"
The tortoise replied, "Because I am short as to the legs
I tied the salt round my neck, and it went bumping along, and
then the ng'anzi took hold of it, and I turned back to
see what had caught it, and there was my friend the ng'anzi,
and he said, 'Let us go to the smithy,' and therefore we have
come here." The elders suggested that they should compromise
the case by cutting the bag of salt in two. The tortoise consented,
though unwillingly, seeing that he had no chance, since the judges
were all relatives of the ng'anzi, as he perceived too
late. "Perhaps I have been wrong in taking to the road alone,"
was his reflection on finding that he had fallen among thieves.
The bag was cut, and, of course, a great deal of salt fell out
on the ground. The tortoise gathered up what he could, but it
was only a little, "because his fingers were so short,"
and he failed to tie it up satisfactorily in the piece of bark-cloth
left to him. The ng'anzi, on the contrary, had his full
half, and the elders scraped up what had been spilt, earth and
all. So the tortoise went away, crying, "because my salt
is spoilt," and reached his home with one or two tiny screws
done up in leaves. His wife asked him what had become of the
salt, and he told her the whole story, adding that he would go
again to his friend and get a fresh supply. He rested four days,
and then started once more.
On reaching the ng'anzi's burrow he
found that the owner had entered it and was enjoying a meal of
lumwe (the winged males of the termites, which are about
an inch long and accounted a great delicacy). The tortoise came
walking very softly, nyang'anyang'a, looked carefully
about him, spied the ng'anzi, crept up to him without
being seen, and seized him by the middle of his body. Thereupon
he cried out, "Who has seized me by the waist? As for me,
I am just eating white ants." The tortoise replied, "I
have picked up. Yes, I have picked up. The other day you picked
up my salt, and to-day I have picked you up! Well, let us go
to the smithy, as we did the other day." The ng'anzi
said, " Do you insist? " The tortoise answered, "Yes."
So they came out of the burrow and went to the smithy, where
they found nine old men. Having heard the case stated, these
elders said, "You should do what you did the other day:
you cut the salt in two." The tortoise cried in triumph,
"Ha! ha! ha! ha!-it is good so," and rejoiced with
his whole heart; but the ng'anzi said, "Are you absolutely
resolved on killing me?" "You formerly destroyed my
salt, and I, for my part, am going to do the same to you!"
"Ha! This is the end of me! To want to cut me in half! .
. . Well, do what you want to do. It's all over with me, the
ng'anzi!" The tortoise leapt up, tu! I and
took a knife and cut the ng'anzi through the middle, and
he cried, "Mother! Mother! I am dead to-day through picking
up!" and. died.
The tortoise took the tail and two legs and
went on his way, and when he came to his wife's house he said,
"We have settled the score: the ng'anzi ate that
salt of mine, and to-day I have paid him back in his own coin,
and he is dead."[1]
Perhaps he deserved it; but the tortoise reminds
one of Shylock in his determination to get his pound of flesh.
This story may seem to have been related at
unnecessary length (though in the original the speeches are repeated
verbatim, over and over again); but it makes such a quaint picture
of African life as it is, or was not so very long ago in Nyasaland,
that the temptation to paraphrase it was irresistible: the journey
for the salt, the covenant of friendship (in this instance basely
betrayed), the old men talking over the case at the village blacksmith's
forge.
The Name of the Tree
There is a very curious story, found in places
as far apart as Corisco Bay in the north and Transvaal in the
south, in which the tortoise, as a rule, plays the principal
part, though this is sometimes given to the hare. It may have
a mythological
[1. From a manuscript taken down by me at
Blantyre in 1893]
background now partly or completely forgotten:
this is suggested by the fact that God (Leza, Maweza) is introduced
in some versions as the owner of the mysterious tree.
On occasions it opens with the statement that
there was a famine in the land. The animals, searching for food
(or sometimes accidentally, while hunting), come across a tree
previously unknown to them, full of ripe and tempting fruit.
They send messenger after messenger to the tree's owner, in order
to ask its name, or sometimes, simply, "what sort of a tree
it is, that we may know whether the fruit can be eaten or not."
But the exact name is so often insisted on that it would seem
to have some magical significance. The "owner of the tree"
is in two cases (Sublya, Bena Kanioka [1]) said to be 'God';
the Bapedi and Baila speak of "an old woman"; the Basuto
say, "The owner of the tree is called Koko." As this
word means 'grandmother,' it would seem as if the old woman were
the tribal ancestress. Other versions do not specify the owner
more particularly, or call him, or her, simply "the chief."
The messengers (in some instances a whole
series is enumerated in others, after the first, only "all
the rest of the animals" are mentioned) invariably forget
the name on the way back. At last an insignificant and despised
member of the community-usually the tortoise, but sometimes the
hare, and in one case the gazelle-is successful. Here the story
should end, and does so in, I think, the best versions, with
the triumph of the tortoise. But in some the animals turn on
their benefactor and refuse him a share in the fruit. The Bapedi
make him revenge himself by a trick which properly belongs to
the hare, and several subsequent incidents are identical with
those in a Ronga hare story, in which that of the tree follows
on one of an entirely different character. This, like the Suto
and Pedi versions of our tortoise story, makes it an essential
point that the fruit on the topmost branch is not to be touched,
but left for the chief. The Ronga hare gets at the fruit and
eats it out of
[1. On the Upper Sankuru, in the Belgian Congo.]
mere mischief (afterwards putting the blame
on the elephant); the tortoise to revenge himself for ill-usage.
Here follows the Lamba tale:[1]
In a time of famine all the animals gathered
near a tree full of wonderful fruit, which could not be gathered
unless the right name of the tree was mentioned, and built their
huts there. When the fruit ripened W'akalulu ("Mr Little
Hare") went to the chief of the tree and asked him its name.
The chief answered, "When you arrive just stand still and
say Uwungelema." The hare started on his way back,
but when he had reached the outskirts of his village he tripped,[2]
and the name went out of his head. Trying to recover it, he kept
saying to himself, "Uwungelenyense, Uwuntuluntumba,
Uwu-what?"
When he arrived the animals asked, "What
is the name, Little Hare, of these things?" But he could
only stammer the wrong words, and not a fruit fell. Next morning
two buffaloes arose and tried their luck-it seems to have been
considered safer to send two-but on their return both tripped
and forgot the word. In answer to their eager questioners they
said, "He said, Uwumbilakanwa, Uwuntuluntumba,
or what? "-which, of course, could not help matters.
Then two elands were sent, with the same result.
Then the lion went, and, though he took care
to repeat the word over and over again on the way home, he too
tripped against the obstacle and forgot it. "Then all the
animals, the roans and the sables, and the mungooses,[3] all
came to an end going there. They all just returned in vain."
[1. Doke, Lamba Folklore, p. 61.
2 Some versions have it that the messengers,
one after another, stumbled against an ant-hill in the path.
The Benga makes them go to the chief's place by sea, and forget
the name when the canoe is upset. (Also the successful one is
warned not to eat or drink while on the water, and is careful
to observe this.) In the Luba story they forget the name if they
look back; and with the Bena Kanioka Maweza gives the tortoise
a little bell, which reminds him of the name by ringing.
3 It may be worth noting that the two kinds
of antelope mentioned have in the original the honorific prefix
Wa. The mungooses (mapulu) are presumably considered
too insignificant.]
Then the tortoise went to the chief and asked
for the name. He had it repeated more than once, to make sure,
and then set out on his slow and cautious journey.
He travelled a great distance and then said,
"Uwungelema." Again he reached the outskirts
of the village, again he said, "Uwungelema."
Then he arrived in the village and reached his house and had
a smoke. When he had finished smoking, the people arrived and
said, " What is it, Tortoise? " Mr Tortoise went out
and said, "Uwungelema!" The fruit pelted down.
The people just covered the place, all the animals picking up.
They sat down again: in the morning they said, " Go to Mr
Tortoise." And Mr Tortoise came out and said, "Uwungelema!"
Again numberless fruits pelted down. Then they began praising
Mr Tortoise, saying, " Mr Tortoise is chief, because he
knows the name of these fruits."
This happened again and again, till the fruit
came to an end, and the animals dispersed, to seek subsistence
elsewhere.
So in the Benga country the grateful beasts
proclaimed Kudu, the tortoise, as their second chief, the python,
Mbama, having been their sole ruler hitherto. "We shall
have two kings, Kudu and Mbama, each at his end of the country.
For the one, with his wisdom, told what was fit to be eaten,
and the other, with his skill, brought the news."
The Luba Version'
This has an entirely different opening. The
animals, discussing who was to be their chief, decided to settle
the point by seeing who could throw a lump of earth across the
river. One after another tried, but their missiles all fell short,
till it came to the turn of the little 'gazelle' (kabuluku),
who was thereupon unanimously elected.[2]
Some time after this the animals, wearied
out with hunting,
[1. De Clercq, "Vingt-deux Contes,"
No. 9.
2 Sir Harry Johnston said that there are no
true gazelles in the Congo region, unless in the far north. I
do not know the proper designation of the kabuluku, translated
'gazelle' by P. De Clercq; it may possibly be the water chevrotain,
Dorcatherium. The Luba country is on the upper reaches
of the Kasai.]
came across a tree bearing large fruits, of
which they did not know the name. They sent the elephant to Mvidi
Mukulu, the High God, who told him it was Mpumpunyamampumpu,
but he must never look behind him on the way back or he would
be sure to forget it. He did look behind him, and had to confess
his failure, at which the animals were greatly annoyed, and told
him he was no good. (In the original udi chintuntu, which
P. De Clercq translates "Tu es un homme méprisable!")
Then the buffalo was sent, but did no better;
then all the other animals, except the gazelle, and they also
failed.
The gazelle kept her instructions in mind,
never looked back, and returned successfully with the name. The
ovation with which they received her is described by saying that
"they all stood up, and the gazelle skipped about on their
backs"-one supposes that they carried her in triumph.
Some Further Variations
The Bena Kanioka version, while beginning
in much the same way, ends very differently. After the various
animals have failed in their quest the tortoise comes to Maweza,
who tells him the name of the tree and gives him a little bell,
saying, " If you forget the name the bell will put you in
mind of it." (It is not said why none of the other animals
had been thus favoured.) The tortoise did, in fact, forget the
name on the way, but the bell, ringing in his car, recalled it
to him. He reached the tree in safety, and told the name to the
animals, who joyfully climbed the tree and ate the fruit, but
refused to give him a share of it. When they had eaten their
fill they killed him. But the little ants took his body away,
and sang:
It is not explained who this person is or
how he appeared, but the ants handed over the dead tortoise to
him, and he rcstored him to life. The animals killed him again,
smashing his shell to pieces;[1] the ants put the pieces together,
and he again revived. As soon as he had regained his strength
he uprooted the tree, with all the animals in its branches, and
they perished in its fall.
The Pedi version, which is, I think, mixed
with a hare story, contains one or two points not found elsewhere:
the old woman, when telling the name (which, by the by, has not
been asked for: they only say, "May we eat of this tree?"),
adds, "You may eat, but leave the great branch of the chief's
kraal alone!" (Elsewhere one gathers that this is the topmost
branch of the tree.) The tortoise, deprived of his share in the
fruit and shut up in a hut (a variant says buried by order of
the chief), gets out during the night and eats all the fruit
off the forbidden bough. Before returning to his prison he disposes
the kernels about the body of the sleeping elephant. This and
the sequel, with which we need not concern ourselves, do not,
as already pointed out, belong to the tortoise.
Another incidental touch is that the tortoise-no
doubt as an aid to memory-kept playing on his umqangala
while crooning over his message to himself-strangely enough,
if he is correctly reported, not the old woman's words, but the
following song:
The nature of the obstacle is not specified,
but what appears to be the same story (told to Jacottet by a
girl at Morija [2]) mentions an ant-hill. In this story the lion
is said to be the chief of the animals who sends the messengers
to Koko, and then goes himself. Angered that so insignificant
a creature as the tortoise should have succeeded where he failed
he has a pit dug, and orders the tortoise to be
[1. A point of contact with numerous stories
which profess to explain the formation of the tortoise's shell.
See, e.g., ante, p. 255.
2 Contes populaires, p. 42. Probably
from North Transvaal. None of the Basuto seemed to be acquainted
with it. Jacottet obtained another version from a Transvaal native,
but this appears to be very imperfect.]
buried in it. The tortoise burrows his way
out in the night, eats the fruit on the top branch, and returns
to the hole. The animals, of course, when questioned, deny all
knowledge of the theft. The tortoise is then dug up, and asks,
"How could I have eaten the fruit when you had buried me
so well?"
This ends the story.
The name of the fruit is in every case different;
usually it seems to be a nonsense-word (or perhaps an old forgotten
one), of which no one knows the meaning. But in Pedi it is Matlatladiane,
which the aged guardian of the tree explains to mean: "He
will come presently." It is not stated who will come-perhaps
the successful messenger.
In some stories in which children escape from
an ogre it is the tortoise who saves them by swallowing and afterwards
producing them uninjured. The Ronga version[1] of this tale,
however, makes the deliverer a frog.
How the Leopard got his Spots
Another incident showing the tortoise in a
kindly aspect comes from the Tumbuka, [2] in Northern Nyasaland.
The hyena, for no apparent reason beyond ingrained ill-nature,
put the tortoise up into the fork of a tree, where he could not
get down. A leopard passed by and saw him: "Do you also
climb trees, Tortoise?" "The hyena is the person who
put me there, and now I can't get down if I try." The leopard
remarked, "Hyena is a bad lot," and took the tortoise
out of the tree.
We are not told what the leopard looked like
at this time, but he would seem to have been 'self-coloured,'
for the tortoise, offering out of gratitude for his rescue to
"make him beautiful, did so by painting him with spots,
saying, as he worked, Where your neighbour is all right, be you
also all right [makora]." The leopard, when he went
off, met a zebra, who admired him so much that he wanted to know
"who had made him beautiful, and himself went to
[1. "L'Homme-au -Grand-Coutelas ";
see ante, p. 221.
2. Cullen Young, Tumbuka-Kamanga Peoples,
p. 229.]
the tortoise. In this way he got his stripes.
This "Just-so" story accounts not only for the markings
of the leopard and the zebra, but for their being creatures of
the wild, for when the people, hoeing their gardens, saw them
they exclaimed, "Oh! the big beauty! Catch it and let us
domesticate it!" or words to that effect, so both of them
fled into the bush, where they have remained ever since. The
hyena too met with his deserts, as follows.
"The zebra met a hyena, who asked, 'Who
beautified you?' He said, 'It was the tortoise.' So the hyena
said, 'Let him beautify me too,' and went away to the tortoise
with the words, 'Make me beautiful!' 'Come,' said the tortoise,
and began [the work], saying, 'Where your neighbour is a bad
lot [uhene], be you too a bad lot!' and then said, 'Go
to the place where the people are hoeing.' But at the sight 'That's
an evil thing!' said they. 'Kill! kill! kill!' And the hyena
turned tail and fled, dashing into the bushes, kweche!
and saying, 'I will smash him to-day where I find the little
beast 1 Previously I only stuck him up in a tree-fork.' And he
burst out upon the spot, but found no sign of the tortoise, who
had gone down a hole."
The old man who told the story added this
moral for the benefit of the young: "So nowadays they laugh
at a hyena in the villages. You see that one evil follows upon
another."
The Great Tortoise of the Zulus
The Zulus have a rather vague tradition about
a Great Tortoise (Ufudu olukulu), who has nothing to do
with our friend of the adventures related above, but seems to
be a mythical being, possibly akin to the kraken, who may not,
after all, be entirely mythical. Perhaps it is not out of place,
when mentioning the kraken, to relate, in passing, the experience-whether
we take it as fact or as folklore of an East African native who
had served as a fireman on British ships in many waters. Somewhere
between Australia and New Zealand the steamer's anchor-chain
was seized by a giant octopus (pweza: "The pweza
is an evil person,"[1] say the Swahili). The body of the
creature was out of sight, but the tentacle which held the chain
was-so Ali declared-the width of the table at which we were seated-say,
three to four feet. The ship's company stabbed the tentacle with
a boathook till it let go, and the pweza sank and was
seen no more. Otherwise, one was given to understand, the vessel
would have gone down with all on board.
As to the Great Tortoise, Umpondo Kambule
told Bishop Callaway [2] that it had taken his grandmother as
she, with her three daughters, was crossing the river Umtshezi.
It was "as big as the skin of an ox"-not merely "as
an ox," being equal to the diameter of the spread-out skin.
At any rate, it was big enough to dam up the current: "the
river filled, because it had obstructed the water." The
three younger women crossed in safety: the grandmother lost her
footing, was seized by the tortoise, and dragged into deep water.
Her children-the rest of them hastened, to the spot on the alarm
being given-just caught sight of her as she was raised for a
moment above the surface; then she sank, and was never seen again.
The monster seemingly came out sometimes to
sun itself, and on one occasion was seen by some herd-boys, who
took it for a rock and played about on it, not heeding the warning
of a little brother, who declared that "this rock has eyes."
Nothing happened that time, but on another day the tortoise turned
over with the boys who were on it and drowned them.
The Fatal Magic of the Waters
In another aspect this Great Tortoise recalls
the European nixies, who entice people into the depths of rivers
and pools. This is explained by Umpengula Mbanda as follows:
[1. Mtu (muntu) properly speaking
means a human being, but one often hears animals referred to
as watu. "There are bad people in the sea,"
said Muhamadi Kijuma of Lamu, meaning, no doubt, sharks and such.
2. Nursery Tales, p. 339]
man no longer wishes to turn back, but has
a great wish to enter the pool; it seems to him that there is
not death in the water; it is as if he were going to real happiness[1]
where there is no harm; and he dies through being eaten by the
beast, which was not seen at first, but is seen when it catches
hold of him. . . . And people are forbidden to lean over and
look into a dark pool, it being feared that their shadow should
be taken away.[2]
This is given by way of comment on a story
told by the bishop's other informant, about a boy who threw a
stone into a pool (it is not said that he looked at his reflection,
but this must surely be understood), and, on going home, refused
his food and could not be kept from returning to the place. His
father followed him, but was only in time to see the boy's head
in the middle of the pool, though he did not actually sink till
after sunset. just as he disappeared he cried out, "I am
held by the foot." His father, who had been forcibly restrained
from throwing himself into the pool, had offered a reward to
anyone who should save his son; but it seems to have been accepted
as a fact that nothing could be done: "the child is already
dead." And after he had sunk they said, "He has been
devoured by the tortoise."
The rivers of Africa, not to mention lakes
and pools, merit a chapter to themselves, which cannot here be
given. The subject has scarcely been touched: we have only a
few scattered hints from Zulu and Xosa sources. There is Tikoloshe,[3]
or Hili, the water-sprite, who comes out to make unlawful love
to women, and Isitshakamana, who scares fishermen to death, and
when on land 'hirsels ' about in a sitting position (though provided
with legs), like Kitunusi of the Pokomo.
Some of the stories (eg., that of Tangalimlibo,
included
[1. Du stiegst hinunterwie du bist, Und
würdest erst gesund!-GORTHE, Der Fischer
2. Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 342.
3. Or Tokolotshe. I have never heard what
this being looks like, beyond the fact that a Natal Zulu, on
my showing him the picture of a chimpanzee in Lydekker's Natural
History, exclaimed, unexpectedly, "Tokolotshe!"]
in several collections) describe cattle being
driven into a river in the hope of saving the drowning, by inducing
the water-spirits to accept life for life.[1] And it is said
that the Umsunduzi (which rises in the Natal Table Mountain Umkambati-near
Pietermaritzburg) claims a human life every year-like the Tweed
(the Till takes three and the Lancashire Ribble one every seventh
year)-unless some other living creature is sacrificed. But this
is to digress too far from our subject.
[1. See Theal, People of Africa, p.
192.]
CHAPTER XIX: STORIES OF SOME OTHER ANIMALS
THE stories about the
more important animals, the lion, the elephant, the antelopes,
and the hyena, usually introduce the hare as the principal character;
the rhinoceros, the hippopotamus, the python, and the zebra are
less often found in conjunction with him. This chapter will contain
a few in which he does not figure.
The first is that of "The Horned Animals
and the Hyena." A great beer-drinking was arranged, to which
no animals were admitted but those having horns. Every kind of
horned beast assembled at the meeting-place in the forest, and
the feast went on for many days. The hyena heard of it, and wished
to take part, but knew, of course, that he was disqualified.
He did not, however, lose heart, but wandered about till he came
across a dead buck of some kind. He detached its horns, and then
searched for a deserted bees' nest, where he found a sufficient
quantity of wax to stick the horns on his head. Thereupon he
made his way to the meeting-place, and joined the revellers without
exciting remark.
The feast had gone on all night, and the hyena
arrived in the early morning, so for a time all went well. But
as the sun grew hot the wax began to melt. As he felt the horns
getting loose he held them on with his hands, calling on all
the other animals to do the same: "Quickly! Quickly! because
some of us have horns which come off! The stupid hyena seems
to have thought that some of the others might be in like case
with himself, and that he might escape detection along with them.
But the animals were not to be taken in; they saw through the
trick (which, indeed, soon became impossible to carry on): they
cried, "He is cheating us, and drove him away in disgrace."[1]
Curiously enough, in at least three variants
(Ila, Lamba, and Nsenga) this exploit is credited to the hare;
but it seems to me to fit the hyena much better. The Ila story,
[1. Told in Swahili by C. Velten, Märchen
und Erzeihlungen, p. 2.]
however, has one or two additional touches
which it is a to lose. The hare was accompanied by the ground
hornbill (any sort of horn was allowed to count), who sat near
the door (this beer-drinking took place under cover), while the
hare imprudently (and quite out of character) chose a place near
the fire. When the wax began to melt the hornbill indiscreetly
(or maliciously?) announced the fact, but the guests could not
hear what he said, and asked the hare, who answered "Hornbill
is asking for the sediment of the beer." But he could not
keep up the deception when the hot wax ran down his face, and
the story ends as above.
A story from Tete [1] containing a similar
incident is not a parallel: the invitation is issued to "all
creatures wearing fur or feathers," and the hare assumes
a pair of horns only as a disguise, the host being his deadly
enemy, the lion.
Brother Wolf and the Horned Cattle
Uncle Remus,[2] I am sure, is much nearer
the true tradition, though, to be precise, the story in question
is not related by him, but by Aunt Tempy. It is too delicious
to be paraphrased in its entirety: some of it, at any rate, must
be given in her own words.
"Hit come 'bout one time dat all de creeturs
what got hawns tuck a notion dat dey got ter meet terge'er an
have a confab ter see how dey gwine take keer deyself, kaze dem
t'er creeturs what got tush an claw, dey wuz des a-snatchin'
um furn roun' every corrider."
Accordingly, they held a meeting in the woods.
"Ole Brer Wolf, he tuck'n year 'bout
de muster, an he sech a smarty dat nothin' aint gwine do but
he mus' go an see what dey doin'. . . . He went out in de timber
an cut 'im two crooked sticks an tie urn on his head an start
off ter whar de hawn creeturs meet at."
When challenged by Mr Bull he announced himself
as
[1. Tete is on the Zambezi; the language spoken
there is a form of Nyanja.
2 Nights, No. LXII. This is followed by the
incident of the wolf feigning death and being exposed by Brer
Rabbit.]
little sucking calf," and, though Bull
was somewhat suspicious, -he got in. After a while, forgetting
himself, he snapped at a horse-fly, and Brer Rabbit, hiding in
the bushes, burst out laughing.
"Brer Bull, he tuck'n holler out, he
did:
"'Who dat laughin' an showin' der manners?'
"Nobody aint make no answer, an terreckerly
Brer Rabbit holler out:
The assembled animals did not know what to
make of this voice from -the unseen, and presently another slip
on the part of Mr Wolf caused Brer Rabbit to exclaim:
He gave the unfortunate intruder no rest,
and when at last he burst out with
Brer Wolf turned to flee, and none too soon,
for Mr Bull charged him, and would have "natally tore him
in two" if he had not "des scooted away from dar."
The Wart-hog's Wife comes to the Rescue
A lion story, in which the hare does not figure,
is based on the same general idea as that of the man whose wife
was caught in his trap and claimed as his share by the lion.
In this story the case is decided by a different animal, and
the details are so divergent that it seems quite worth while
to reproduce it here.[1]
A lion, while hunting, got caught by the leg
in the noose of a spring-trap.[2] The more he struggled the more
tightly,
[1. Doke, Lamba Folklore, p. 99. The
wart-hog is ngidi in Lamba, njiri in Nyanja.
2. In the original mwando, which means
'a rope'; the particular kind of trap meant appears to be called
ichinsala. A rope, with a noose at the end, is laid along
the path and carefully covered up; this is connected with a strong,
flexible pole, of which one end is planted firmly in the ground
and the other bent over. An animal stepping on the noose releases
the pole, and the jerk tightens the cord round its foot.]
of course, he was held, and so he remained
for some days, till quite famished and like to die. Then, as
it befell, there passed by a wart-hog-that strangely ugly beast,
so grotesque in his ugliness that he might well be called "jist
bonnie wi' ill-fauredness." He was accompanied by his wife
and his numerous family, the children trotting behind him in
single file along the path. As they were searching for food they
came upon the trap, and saw the lion fast in it, a mere bag of
bones. He called out, "My dear Mr Wart-hog [Mwe wame
Wangidij], loose me, your friend! I'm in trouble! I'm dying!"
The good-natured wart-hog loosened the rope and freed the lion,
saying, "All right. Let us be off!" As they were going
away the lion happened to turn round, and, catching sight of
the procession of little pigs, said, " Friend Wart-hog,
what a crowd of children are yours! Do give me one of your children
to eat! See how thin I have got with hunger!" The wart-hog
answered, "Would you eat a child of mine? And it was I who
loosed you to save you!" The lion still insisted, but now
the wart-hog's wife interposed, saying-while at the same time
conveying some private hint to her husband-"Listen, husband.
We have loosed a wild beast on us, and he is demanding one of
our children. There is nothing for it but to give way."
So they ostensibly gave way (literally, "were weak towards
him"), and promised that he should have one when they arrived
"where we are going." But "first let us return
to that thing that caught you and see what it is like."
The lion agreed, and they went back to the trap. They asked,
"How did it catch you? Where was it?" and the lion
answered, "It was like this. just take hold of it and bend
it down." The couple did so, and, holding the end of the
pole close to the ground, asked, "But how did it catch you
in this way, sir?" The lion, as always, absurdly confiding,
put his foot in, the wart-hogs let go, and he was caught once
more. The family scattered in all directions, the lion piteously
calling after them, "O my dear Wart-hog, are you going?
Won't you undo me?" The parents hardened their hearts, and
called back, "No! We, your friends, loosed you, and then
you begged a child of us! You are a beast: stay where you are,
and free yourself as best you can!"
So he had to stay there in torment till he
died. And consequently there is enmity between lions and wart-hogs
to this day. "If they meet," says the narrator, "Mr
Lion at once eats Mr Wart-hog." Yet one fancies in such
a case the latter would be quite able to give a good account
of himself.
The Wart-hog and the Elephant
The Baila make out a relationship between
the wart-hog and the elephant, grounding it on the fact that
both have tusks which are white (though differing in size) and
"hair which is alike"-a less obvious resemblance. But
originally, it would seem, the wart-hog had the large tusks and
the elephant the small ones. The two were supposed to be uncle
and nephew, and at one time had a serious quarrel, because, as
the wart-hog said to his relative, "One day you said you
would destroy things for me"-to supply him with food, no
doubt-"but you broke your word." However, they made
it up, the elephant's real motive being his desire to get hold
of the wart-hog's tusks. He began by admiring them, and then
proposed that they should exchange for a short time, so that
he could show himself creditably turned out at a dance.[1] He
promised to return them on a certain day; but that day came and
passed, and the wart-hog waited in vain. At last he went to look
for the elephant, and demanded his tusks, only to be told that
the exchange was a permanent one, and not a temporary loan. Finding
his expostulations all in vain, he said, "From to-day I
am going to sleep in a burrow; as for you, you shall travel about
the whole day and go far; we shall not be friends again, because
you have deceived me so." He then went to consult the ant-bear,
feeling so unclothed and disreputable without his great tusks
that there was nothing for it but to take refuge underground.
The ant-bear
[1. This is not expressly stated in the text
(Smith and Dale, The Ila-speaking Peoples, vol. ii, p.
365), but must be assumed as the reason for 'dressing up.']
received him hospitably, and therefore, to
this day, "Ant-bear's custom is to dig burrows, and Wart-hog
enters one and sleeps. When he has had enough of one he looks
out for another. On his arrival he enters the burrow dug by Ant-bear."
The exchange of tusks in this "Just-so"
story recalls one told by the Swahili to account for the fact
that the snake has no legs and the millepede (popularly supposed
to be blind) an excessive number. The snake borrowed the millepede's
eyes, so that he could look on at a wedding dance, and lent his
legs in return; but he afterwards refused to restore the eyes
to their owner, and has kept them ever since.
The Varanus in the Tree
The monitor lizard[1] has already been met
with in a tortoise story, but also occurs in other connexions-for
instance, in the story of Hlakanyana, whose whistle is borrowed-and
kept-by an uxamu,[2] and also in a good many tales from
Nyasaland.
One of these is very curious, and seems to
be widely distributed. I follow, in the main, a Swahili version,
contributed by Mateo Vundala bin Tendwa to Mambo Leo [3]
for January1927. I have seen at least two others in manuscript
(Nyanja), and Mr Cullen Young gives a Tumbuka one in the work
from which I have already quoted.[4]
Once upon a time there was a man who had a
beautiful daughter and looked after her very carefully. One day
there arrived a young man who wanted to marry her; her father
did not refuse, but told him to wait five days and come back
on the sixth. When he returned at the appointed time he was told:
"Go away and come again to-morrow."
[1. Nyanja ng'anzi, Tumbuka kawawa,
Swahili kenge, Zulu uxama. I am not certain whether
the Nyanja gondwa is the same or another species.
2 See ante, p. x64-
3 The Swahili monthly, published at Dar-es-Salaam.
It is unfortunate that the writer gives no indication as to the
part of Tanganyika Territory where the story was obtained. It
is entitled "The Story of a Man and a Youth and a Kenge."
4 Tumbuka-Kamanga People, p. 217]
Next morning the girl went to the well [1]
with her water-jar as usual, and when she got there saw a kenge
drinking. As soon as it saw her it darted off and ran up a tree.
She stood gazing at it for some time, never having seen such
a creature before, and then filled her jar and hastened home,
calling out to her father on arriving, "Father, I've seen
a beast with a long tail which ran away up a tree!" He answered,
"Let us go, so that I can look at it." They went together,
and he recognized it at once, but it had gone up to the topmost
branches, where no human climber could reach it. The father reflected
for a while, and then made up his mind that when the young wooer
came back he would say to him, "If you want to marry my
daughter you must go and catch that kenge on the top of
the tree."
It is not stated why he wanted it caught,
but it seems, from other sources, that it is considered good
eating-at any rate, by some people. The chief in the Tumbuka
version of the story "was extremely fond of eating the flesh
of the monitor lizard in preference to all other meats."
The young man was somewhat startled by this
declaration, but only asked to be shown the tree. When he had
looked at it he was filled with despair, and went away sorrowful.
When he reached the village the girl's father
asked him,
Well, have you brought the kenge? He
answered, "I am beaten as to climbing that tree!" The
father said to him, "Well, then, you cannot marry my daughter."
So the young man started for his own village "full of grief."
When he arrived he found some men sitting
in the baraza, and one ancient asked him, "Is it
all settled about your wedding?" The young man answered,
"Much trouble over there! Much trouble over there!"
"What sort of trouble is there yonder?" asked the old
man. The youth told his story, and the old man called him aside
and gave him this advice: "Go and get hold of a goat; also
[1. does not necessarily mean a well in the
sense of a deep pit into which buckets have to Kisima
be lowered, but may be a water-hole or reservoir where animals
can drink at the edge.]
catch a dog; then take a bowl of porridge
and a bundle of grass and go back. When you get to the foot of
the tree tie up the goat on one side and the dog on the other;
then give the porridge to the goat and the grass to the dog and
sit down, and you will see the kenge come down at once."
He did as the old man had told him, and went
back to the tree. Having tied up the goat and the dog as directed,
he sought out the girl's father and told him that he was going
to try again. The man said, "You were beaten the first time;
the second time you will succeed, so go on and try again!"
The young man went once more to the tree,
and held out the porridge to the goat and the grass to the dog.
No sooner had he done so than he heard a laugh up in the tree,
and the lizard spoke with a human voice, "Young man, you
have no sense! How is it you are giving porridge to the goat
and grass to the, dog?" The young man answered, "Come
down and show me the right way! Please do come down and show
me the right way!" Then the kenge came down, and
the young man at once seized it and ran off to the village, and
the people, when they caught sight of him, even before he arrived,
raised cries of rejoicing. And the girl's father hurried out
to meet him and carried off his kenge in triumph. The
wedding took place on the same day, and, of course, " they
lived happy ever after."
It may be of interest to give, in Mr Cullen
Young's translation, the conclusion of the Tumbuka story. In
this after the lizard had called out to the young man he paid
no heed, but did the same as before. Then:
The monitor said, "Oh! what a fool that
so-called human is! Goodness me! Take the porridge and give it
to the dog, and take the grass and give it to the goat. Listen,
can't you? and keep your ears open!" But still porridge
to the goat and grass to the dog. Down came the lizard. "I
tell you, take the porridge and give it to the dog take the grass
and give it to the goat, and you'll see they'll eat Stand back
and watch me!" Then, while the lizard was stretching out
its arm to take the porridge-basket, the young fellow snatched
his axe and hit the lizard on the head twice and killed it. When
he had killed it, he went with it into the presence of the chief,
where . . . he marvelled, saying, " You are a lad of parts,
young fellow! That beast defeated a lot of people with their
plans." And then he began to summon all his people and said,
" It is he who is second in the chiefship; anyone making
light of him as good as makes light of me."
Mateo Vundala does not say what was done with
the kenge which the young man brought in alive. I have
never heard of their being kept as pets.
The incident of "porridge for the groat
and grass for the dog" is found in a Lamba story (Doke,
Lamba Folklore, p. 151: "The Chief and his Councillors"),
the opening of which is nearly identical with that of the Tumbuka
"The Children and their Parents" (Cullen Young, The
Tumbuka Kamanga Peoples, p. 243). All the young men of a
certain tribe were ordered by the chief to kill their parents,
but one disobeyed and hid his father and mother in a cave. The
land was ravaged by an ogre who swallowed people and then retreated
to an inaccessible chasm. When this had gone on for some time
the chief called the young men together and, as no one had anything
helpful to suggest, said, "Friends, who has his father here,
that he may give me advice?" They answered, "No, sir,
we have none, because you said, 'All of you bring your fathers
and let us kill them.'" But at last the youth who had saved
his parents brought forward his father; and the old man enticed
the ogre out of his lair in the way already described. The monster
was immediately killed by the people, who then, following the
directions of the Kawandami lizard, got out of him those already
swallowed. In the Tumbuka story the rescued parents help the
chief in another kind of difficulty.
It is somewhat remarkable that the same number
of Mambo Leo in which Mateo's story appears contains a
report of what purports to be an actual occurrence, sent in by
a correspondent from the Kilwa district. This man states that
on October 23, 1926, he went to wash some clothes in the river,
and was warned by two boys whom he met "to be careful in
spreading out washing there, because there is a large lizard
which carries off people's clothes." He did not believe
them, and, having finished his work and spread the things out
to dry, went to bathe, when he heard a rustling in the grass,
and was startled to see a kenge making off with one of
the sheets just washed. His shouts brought some men to his help,
and by throwing stones at the reptile they induced it to drop
the sheet.
Whether this be taken as fact or as fiction,
it is at any rate sufficiently curious.
Frogs and Snakes
Frogs of various kinds abound in Africa, from
the large bullfrog, whose voice is so often heard in the land,
to the little shinana,[1] which figures conspicuously
in the folklore of the Baronga. It rivals the hare in astuteness;
in fact, some of its exploits are those elsewhere attributed
to him, and in one Ronga version of the well story it is the
shinana, and not the tortoise, who traps the hare at last.
Wonderful to relate, it is this same little frog who rescues
the girls enticed by the honey-guide into the ogre's hut, in
the story already alluded to.[2]
In a Lamba tale the great water-snake (funkwe)
is said to have changed himself into a man and married a woman
from a certain village. In accordance with the usual custom he
settled there and worked in the gardens, but he would never eat
porridge. He would go to the river in the early morning, and
there, unseen by the people, assume his proper form and feed
on fish. After some time he told his wife that he wished to go
home, and they set out, accompanied by her brother. On the second
day they reached an enclosure which he said was his home. The
wife was surprised to see no people about, and asked where were
his relations. Though he had previously said that they were
[1. Breeviceps mossambicus, called haswentne
at Blantyre. It is not much larger than a shilling, but can blow
itself out to twice the size.
2. See ante, pp. 221 and 286.]
farther on, he now merely remarked, "No,
I am left alone." He departed, saying he would go to the
river and fetch water, and when out of sight changed into a water-snake
and ate fish and frogs as usual, returning at night. This happened
every day, and at last the brother grew suspicious, followed
him to the river, and found out the truth. He came back and told
his sister, and she said, "At night you kill him!"
which he did by heating a knife red-hot in the fire and cutting
off the snake-man's head.
Then they saw multitudes of snakes, and the
snakes said, "Let us kill these people." Mr Black-mamba
refused, saying, "No, first let the chief come." All
the time many snakes kept coming.
During this interval a frog arrived, and asked
the man and woman, "If I save you, what will you give me?"
They answered, "We are your slaves!"
Then he swallowed them, and immediately after took a great drink
of water. The snakes did not see him do it, but presently missed
the people and asked where they were. The frog said, "They
have gone to drink water," and set off for their village.
On the way he met many snakes, who noticed that he seemed unusually
corpulent, and asked, "What are you filled with?" He
said, "Water that I have just drunk." They were suspicious,
however, and would not be satisfied till he had brought up some
water to prove the truth of his words. This happened more than
once, but he reached his destination in safety, and the people
exclaimed, "What a huge frog!" He said, "I am
not a frog; I am a man.[1] Did not some people leave here?"
Explanations followed, and the woman's mother began to cry. The
frog said, "If I bring your children, what will you give
me?" She offered him slaves, but he said he did not want
them. "What do you want, then?" "I want beans."
So they gave him two granaries full. And,
[1. This is not a usual touch. More commonly
animals are simply taken for granted as being what they appear
to be. But the man transformed by witchcraft into the shape of
a beast (usually a snake) appears in several Zulu stories, and
is disenchanted (like Tamlane) by fearless true love.]
making a great effort, he produced the brother
and sister safe and sound.[1]
The Frog and his Wife
Another story about a frog, heard in Nyasaland,
was at first extremely puzzling; but with the help of parallel
versions it becomes quite coherent.
A frog who had some difficulty in finding
a wife at last carved the trunk of a tree into the shape of a
woman, and fixed a mpande shell [2] in the place where
her heart should be. This, we are to understand, brought her
to life; he then married her. Her name was Njali, and she was
very beautiful. They lived happily enough in his hut in the depths
of the forest, till one day in his absence some of the chief's
men happened to pass by and saw her sitting outside. They asked
for fire and water, which she gave them, and on their return
told the chief about her. He shortly afterwards sent the men
back to the same place, and they, finding the husband again absent,
carried her off. She cried out, "Mother! I am being taken
away!" but there was none to hear, and when the husband
came back he found her gone.
Here the tale, as I took it down, becomes
difficult to follow, and there is evidently a gap, but the variants
(in some ways hard to reconcile with this and with each other)
suggest that he made ineffectual efforts to get her back. When
these had failed he sent a pigeon, and told her to bring back
the mpande shell, but she could not get it. He sent the
pigeon again, and this time she brought it back; but as soon
as it was taken out the wife died and was
[1. Doke, Lamba Folklore, P. 247. The
Mpongwe tortoise (Nasdau, Where Animals Talk, P. 33) swallows.
his wife and servants to save them from the leopard, and eats
some mushrooms after them.
2. A disk cut from the base of a particular
kind of white spiral shell. It is highly valued by many tribes,
and in some is the emblem of chieftainship, or (as among the
Pokomo) the badge worn by the highest order of elders: Father
Torrend, who gives the Mukuni (Lenje) version of this story,
says "he put a cowry on the head of his block of wood,"
but the word in his original text is mpande. See a note
by Major Orde-Browne in the Journal of the African Society
for April 1930, P. 285.]
changed back to a block of wood. In Father
Torrend's version[1] the husband takes the shell off her head,
and
she is already transformed into a simple block
of wood, no, she has become but a bush standing at the door.
. . . Then the little husband comes home humming his own tune,
while the king and those who had seized the woman remain there
with their shame.
Late Developments of this Story
Both this and a Swahili version recorded by
Velten [2] make the husband a human being-indeed, the Swahili
title is "The Carpenter and the Amulet." Father Torrend
comments in a note: " Another version, in which the hero
is a hare, has been published by Jacottet in 'Textes Louyi,'
pp. 8-11. The substitution of a hare for a man seems hardly to
improve the story." But it appears to me that the learned
writer has entirely missed the point in supposing that the hare
has been substituted for the man. Surely both hare and frog belong
to the more primitive form.
The Luyi variant is interesting, but, as we
have already had sufficient hare stories, I have preferred the
frog for this chapter. The Lenje and Swahili ones, not being
in any sense animal stories, are hardly in place here; but it
may be noted that the Lenje husband, instead of sending the pigeon,
carves himself some drums and goes about beating them and singing,
till he finds the place where his wife is detained. Both here
and in the Nyanja version it seems to be implied that in the
end (though at first carried off against her will) she was unwilling
to come back to him.
The Bird Messengers
Among birds introduced into folk-tales the
cock, the fish-eagle, the guinea-fowl, and doves or pigeons are
perhaps the most frequently mentioned, apart from the unnamed
birds which reveal the secret of a murder. A favourite incident
is the sending of birds with messages, as the pigeon was sent
by the frog in the story just given. It will be remembered that
Murile, when about to return home from
[1 Bantu Folklore, p. 44.
2. Märchen und Erzälungen,
p. 149.]
the Moon country, sent the mocking-bird to
announce his coming, after questioning several other birds and
finding their replies unsatisfactory.[1]
Gutmann [2] gives the same story with less
detail, mentioning of birds only the eagle (whose cry of Kurui!
Kurui! is nearly the same as that attributed in Raum's version
to the raven), the raven (who here says Na! Na!), and
the mocking-bird, though "all the birds" are said to
have been called upon. The mocking-bird's note is rendered as
Chiri! Chiri! which she amplifies into a song of ten or
twelve lines.
So, too, Mlilua, in the Iramba [3] story,
called the birds. "Crow, if I send you to my mother's, what
will you say? " "Gwe! Gwe!" The crow was
rejected. None of the birds he called up pleased him, till at
last came one known as the shunta. "If I send you
home, what will you go and say?" "We shall say, Chetu!
Chetu! I have seen Mlilua and his cattle."
La Sagesse des Petits
It will have been noticed how important is
the part assigned in these stories to small and insignificant
creatures, such as the hare, the tortoise, the frog, the chameleon,[4]
mice, and others. I do not think this fact is fully accounted
for by McCall Theal,[5] who writes:
There was nothing that led to elevation of
thought in any of these stories, though one idea, that might
easily be mistaken on a first view for a good one, pervaded many
of them: the superiority of brain power to physical force. But
on looking deeper the brain power was always interpreted as low
cunning: it was wiliness, not greatness of mind, that won in
the strife against the stupid strong.
To my mind, it is nearer the mark to say that
much of African folklore is inspired by sympathy with the underdog,
[1. Ante, p. 74.
2 Volksbuch, p. 155.
3 Johnson, Kiniramba, P. 343.
4 The chameleon, quite apart from the legend
related in Chapter II, often plays a part resembling that of
the hare. The Pokomo, for instance, tell how he beat the dog
in a race, by holding on to his tail and getting carried to the
goal.
5. People of Africa, p. 275.]
arising from a true, if crude and confused,
feeling that "the weak things of the world" have been
chosen "to confound the things which are mighty."
M. Junod expresses much the same thought:[1]
It is also brought out very fully in the chapter
of his earlier work which is entitled "La Sagesse des Petits."
The Shrew-mouse helps the Man
The idea is well illustrated by a little story
from the northern part of Nyasaland,[2] which may fitly conclude
this chapter. Incidentally, it shows a curious coincidence of
thought between primitive Africa and rural England, in the belief
that a shrew must die if it crosses a road.
A Namwanga man one day went hunting with his
dogs, and came upon a shrew (umulumba) by the roadside.
It said to him, "Master, help me across this swollen stream"
(i.e., the path, which for him was just as impassable). He refused,
and was going on, but the little creature entreated him again:
"Do help me across this swollen stream, and I will help
you across yours." The man turned back, picked it up, and
carried it across, "very reluctantly." (Why? Is there
a feeling against touching a shrew, as Africans certainly shrink
from touching a chameleon or some kinds of lizards?) It then
disappeared from his sight, and he went on with his dogs and
killed some guinea-fowl. Then, as it came on to rain, he took
refuge in one of the little watch-huts put up in the gardens
for those whose business it is to drive away monkeys by day and
wild pigs by night. The shrew, which had followed him unseen,
was hidden in the thatch. Presently a lion came along, and thus
addressed the
[1. Life of a South African Tribe,
vol. ii, p. 223; Chants et contes, p. 143.
2. Chinamwanga Stories, p. 19.]
hunter: "Give your guinea-fowl to the
dogs, let them eat them, you eat the dogs, and then I'll eat
you!"
The man was terrified, and could neither speak
nor move. The lion roared out the same words a second time. Then
came a little voice out of the thatch.
"Just so. Give the guinea-fowl to the
dogs, let them eat them, you eat the dogs, the lion will eat
you, and I'll eat the lion."
The lion ran away without looking behind him.
The Lamba have a somewhat similar story, in
which the hunter is saved from two ogres by a lizard in the wall
of the house and the white ants. They seem to have acted out
of pure good-nature, as there is no hint of his having rendered
them a service.[1]
[1. Doke, Lamba Folklore, p. 143: "
The Story of the Man, the Lizard, and the Termites." Compare,
outside the Bantu area, the story of the caterpillar who frightened
away all the animals except the frog, who in the end "called
his bluff" (Hollis, The Masai, p. 184).]
CHAPTER XX.- SOME STORIES WHICH HAVE TRAVELLED
I HAVE, more than once, in previous chapters
expressed my inability to accept in its entirety what is known
as the Diffusionist hypothesis. I see no reason to suppose that
the stories about the hare, for instance, were imported from
India, even though some of them are almost exactly the same as
those told of Mahdeo and the jackal, or that the tribes of the
Amazon valley borrowed their tales of the Jabuti tortoise and
his wiles from the imported Negroes.
But this is not to say that there are no stories
which can be traced as having been introduced from outside, and
we may conclude with a few of the most interesting specimens.
Those chosen for the purpose must have come in long ago, so long
as to have taken on a distinctly African colouring, even more
thoroughly than Uncle Remus's stories have become American. I
am leaving out of account such recent introductions as Æsop's
fables, which circulate extensively in vernacular translations,
or stories manifestly taken from Grimm or similar European collections.
In a manuscript collection written by a Nyanja native I found
not long ago, among a great deal of genuine local folklore, "The
Story of the King's Daughter and the Frog," which the writer
must have read or heard, probably in English. Again, in Kibaraka
we find "The Story of Siyalela and her Sisters," which
the compiler either failed to recognize as Cinderella, or thought
sufficiently naturalized to pass muster with the rest. Contributors
to Mambo Leo have even begun translating "Uncle Remus"
into Swahili, and, though he is, in a way, only coming back to
the country of his origin, there may be a danger of confusing
these tales with the genuine local growth. In any case, considering
the spread of reading and the circulation of extraneous matter,
it behoves all interested in folklore to rescue the aboriginal
stories as far as possible before it is too late.
From Assam to Nyasaland
In Captain Rattray's little book [1] "The
Blind Man and the Hunchback" at once strikes one as having
a distinctive character of its own; in fact, when I first read
it I could recall no African parallel. Since then I find in Mr
Posselt's Fables of the Feld (p. 6) a version-to my mind
not nearly so good-entitled "The Man and his Blind Brother."
And, more recently, it is included in the manuscript collection
of Walters Saukila.
Many years after the publication of Captain
Rattray's book I was surprised by coming across the identical
story in volume xxxi of Folk-Lore (1920), with, of course,
considerable differences of local colouring. It was told to J.
D. Anderson by a Kachari in Assam. This is such a far cry from
Central Angoniland, where the people were, at the beginning of
this century, comparatively untouched by European influence,
that there might seem to be difficulties in the way of supposing
this to be a case of transference. But, though I have so far
been unable to hear of an Indian or Persian analogue, it may
be orally current among those populations of Indiawhose folklore
is as yet but imperfectly recorded. Indian traders have frequented
the East African coast from very early times,[2] and a tale like
this, told to the coast-dwellers and speedily becoming popular,
would be passed on from tribe to tribe along with the trade-goods
which in this way reached the far interior. The differences between
the Kachari and the Nyanja versions are sufficient to show that
it must have been a long time on the way.
The Nyanja version begins by saying that a
certain village was plagued by a pair of man-eating lions (this
passage is entirely wanting in the other), and the chief, by
the advice of his people, opened negotiations with them: "Why
are you seizing people every day?" The lions answered, "We
say, if you give us your two daughters whom you love we will
not come again to seize people." So the chief took his two
daughters and built a grass hut for them on the hill where the
lions were wont to show themselves.
[1. Chinyanja Folklore, p. 149.
2 See Ingrams, Zanzibar, p. 33]
Now, in another country there were two men,
one was blind and the other humpbacked, and they set out for
this chief s village. On the way the hunchback saw a tortoise
on the path, and told the blind man, who said, "Pick it
up." He refused, but his companion said, "just pick
it up for me," and he did so, and the blind man put it into
his bag. A little farther on they came to a dead porcupine, and
the blind man asked his friend to pick up one quill, which, again,
he did, after refusing at first. Some time later they came upon
a dead elephant, and the man who had shot it was also lying dead,
with his gun beside him. The blind man, again with some difficulty,
persuaded the other to pick up the gun and one tusk, and they
went on their way.
When it was growing dark they climbed a hill,
and the hunchback saw smoke rising from a hut on the top. They
went up to it, and, finding two girls there, said that, as they
had been overtaken by night, they wanted a place to sleep in.
The girls said, "You cannot sleep here; our father has built
this house for us, so that the lions may come and eat us."
But they would not listen, and said, "This is where we are
going to sleep." While they were still speaking the lions
arrived; they heard them roaring, and one of the lions asked,
"Who is talking in the house? Whoever you are, we are going
to eat you along with the rest."
The blind man said, "You can't eat us;
we are only strangers seeking shelter for the night." The
lion said, "I am going to throw one of my lice at you, and
see if that won't frighten you!" The girls and the hunchback
fainted with terror, but the blind man kept his head, and when
the lion threw his louse he groped about till he caught it, and
said, "That tiny little thing! Look at that now! I'm going
to throw it into the fire!" And he did so, and it burst
with a loud crack. Then he said, "Now I'm going to throw
my louse," and he threw the tortoise. The lion picked it
up and looked at it in astonishment, but, not to be beaten, he
said, "I am not afraid of you. I shall throw you one of
my hairs," and he pulled one from his mane and threw it.
The blind man retaliated by throwing the porcupine's quill. Then
the lion threw one of his teeth, and the blind man answered with
the elephant's tusk, whereat the lion was so startled that he
jumped and said, "Ha! Truly this person has a terrible tooth!"
But he was not prepared to give in. "Now I am going to let
you hear my voice," and he gave a tremendous roar. And the
blind man, who had been loading his gun and getting it into position,
said, "Let another of you roar, that I may hear his voice
also." The other lion having done so, he said, "I have
heard you. Now come close that you may hear mine." When
they had done so: "Where are you?" "We are here."
"Stick your heads close together." And he fired and
killed them both. When the echo had died away he asked, "Have
you heard my voice?" but all was silence, and he set to
work to revive his companions. They would not believe his news,
but he persuaded them to open the door, and they went out and
found the lion and lioness both dead.
When morning dawned the grateful girls picked
up their two deliverers and carried them on their backs to their
father's village. When he saw them he was very angry with them
for deserting their post and, as he supposed, endangering the
whole village; but they soon placated him: "These men have
killed those wild beasts." He was incredulous, but they
swore most solemnly that it was true, and he sent some young
men to see. These soon found the lions and cut off their tails.
When they came back with the trophies the chief asked the people,
"Now, as to these men who have killed the lions, what shall
we do for them?" They replied that he ought to give them
his daughters in marriage, which he did on the spot, and showed
them where to build their village. He also gave them six mpande
shells, to be divided equally between them. But the hunchback
tried to cheat his friend, saying they had received only five,
and giving him two. In the resulting quarrel the hunchback hit
the blind man over the eyes, and the blind man struck him with
a stick. And, behold I the one recovered his sight and the other
was able to stand up straight. So they were reconciled.
In the Kachari story the men pass the night
in a granary, used by a gang of robbers as a storehouse for their
plunder; and, instead of the lions, a "terrible, man-eating
demon" comes after them, and is scared away much after the
manner described. Mr Posselt's version omits the girls, the brothers
take shelter in a cave which is the lions' den, and the quarrel
takes place over the sale of the lions' skins.
The Washerman's Donkey and the Pardoner's Tale
The Buddhist Jâtakas, which,
I understand, are really folk-tales fitted into a religious framework
by being represented as the adventures of the Buddha in his various
incarnations, might appear to be quite remote from our theme;
but some of them, in one form or another, have certainly reached
the African coast. One of the best known among these is "The
Washerman's Donkey," [1] which is really the Sumsumara
Jâtaka, and is also found in the Sanskrit collection
of stories called Panchatantra, under the title of "The
Monkey and the Porpoise." The Swahili title is only indirectly
applicable to the story, or, rather, belongs to a story within
the story, told by the monkey to the shark; "The Monkey
who left his Heart in a Tree" describes it much better.
Another Jâtaka (the Vedabbha)
has had the strangest fortunes, finally coming down to us in
the shape of Chaucer's "Pardoner's Tale." It was probably
brought back from the East by some returned pilgrim or crusading
soldier, and embodied in that queer compilation the Gesta
Romanorum. The Swahili version, entitled "The Heaps
of Gold," [2] would seem to have come through Persia, perhaps
subjected to Christian influence on the way. This, however, is
doubtful, as Moslem literature abounds in elements taken from
the Apocryphal Gospels or the floating traditions which furnished
the materials for these.
The story opens by saying that Christ (here
called Isa, as always by Moslems) while on a journey was joined
by a
[1. Steere, Swahili Tales, p. 1.
2 Kibaraka, p. 89.]
man, who, though not encouraged to do so,
insisted on accompanying him.[1] When they were approaching a
town Isa gave the man some money and told him to buy three loaves,
"one for thee, one for me, and the third we will keep in
reserve." He did so, and they sat down to rest. When they
had eaten, each his loaf, they went on, the man carrying the
third loaf. When they had gone some distance, thinking himself
unobserved, he ate it. Next day they came to a spring and sat
down there. When asked to produce the loaf the man said it had
been stolen. Isa said nothing at the time, and they went on.
They walked till they were both weary, and sat down to rest in
a place where there was much sand. Isa made three heaps of sand,
and at his prayer they were changed into gold. Then he said,
"Friend, take one of these heaps to thyself, one is for
me, and the third is for him who stole the loaf." The man,
forgetting all else in his greed, exclaimed, "It was I who
stole the loaf-I who am here!" The Master told him to take
them all, and left him there.
The wretched man could neither carry the gold
nor bring himself to leave it, so remained on the spot till three
horsemen came by, who, seeing the treasure, stopped and murdered
him. Two of them stayed to guard it, while the third rode on
to the town to buy provisions. On the way it occurred to him
that he might have the gold all to himself, so he poisoned the
wine which he meant to give the other two. This part of the story
is so well known that it is scarcely necessary to add that the
two killed him on his return, and shortly died of the poison.
"So all these four men died, because of that sand which
had been changed into gold."
Not long afterwards Christ passed that way
with his disciples, and they marvelled at seeing the heaps of
gold and the four dead men. Then he told them the story, and
said, "This is not gold, but sand," and at their request
he prayed to God, and what had been gold then became sand once
more.
[1. This opening does not come into the "Pardoner's
Tale."]
The Ingratitude of Man
Another story in the Gesta Romanorum,
which must originally have come from India, is extant in at least
three Swahili versions, all of which have the same moral, equivalent
to the Latin of the Gesta: Quod omnium viventium in mundo
de beneficiis acceptis est ingratissimus homo: "Of all
things living in the world man is the most ungrateful for benefits
received."
This story should be well known to all students
of Swahili, as it is contained in the elementary reader generally
used (a selection reprinted from Kibaraka). This version,
though much shorter than that given by Dr Velten,[1] contains
several important points omitted by the latter. The following
is an attempt to combine the two.
A king's son who wished to see the world set
out alone on his travels. In course of time he found himself
in a vast desert, in the midst of which he spied one solitary
tree, to which, when he had reached it, he tied his horse, leaving
his weapons on the ground beside it. Not far off was a well,
and, being very thirsty, he hastened to let down the bucket which
he found there. On drawing it up he saw that, instead of being
filled with water, it contained a snake. He was about to kill
it, but it said, "Don't kill me; some day I may be able
to help you." So he spared it, and let down the bucket again,
drawing it up with difficulty, as it was very heavy. When he
got it to the top he found in it a lion, who addressed him in
the same way as the snake, and both added this warning: "Never
do good to any child of Adam: the son of Adam, if you do good
to him, will only repay you evil." Then they thanked him
and took themselves off.
The youth let down the bucket a third time,
and brought up a man, who, so far from behaving like the snake
and the lion, knocked him down, tied him up with the well-rope,
took his weapons, and rode off on his horse. The lion, however,
who had not gone far, came back and released him. He took him
along to his den, and provided him
[1. Märchen und Erzälungen,
p. 144.]
with food by lying up near the path to a village
and, when he saw a man passing with a load of rice or beans,
frightening him, so that he dropped it.
One day the lion ventured as far as the town,
and, seeing the sultan's daughter walking in the garden attended
by her slaves, sprang over the fence and seized her. The slave-girls
scattered in terror, and the lion brought the princess back to
the young man, saying, "Take her jewels, but give me the
girl, that I may eat her." He answered, " f you want
to give me anything give me the girl as well." So he took
her for his wife, and built a hut for her in the forest, and
they lived there happily for a time. One day the snake appeared,
and handed the young man two of his teeth, saying, "If ever
you get into trouble take a stone and beat these teeth with it,
and I will come to you at once."
Now the man who had been rescued from the
well had come to this very town and, by making himself very agreeable,
had so got into favour with the sultan that, in the end, he became
his vizier. And it happened on a day that, going out with a hunting-party,
he was separated from the rest of the company, and, wandering
by himself in the forest, came to the little hut, where he saw
the sultan's daughter. At once he hastened back to the town to
give the alarm; soldiers were sent out, and the couple were speedily
brought before the sultan. Then the vizier came forward, accused
the young man, not only of carrying off the princess, but of
turning himself into a lion in order to do so, and advised his
being shut up in a dungeon without food or room to lie down,
so that he might be induced to disclose his secret arts.
This was done, but he did not quite starve,
for a compassionate slave-woman fed him secretly with scraps
of bread. And then he suddenly remembered the snake's teeth,
and beat them with a stone. The snake appeared at once, and told
him, "To-day when the sultan goes to bathe I shall bite
him, and nothing can cure him except these teeth of mine."
So he went and coiled himself on the ledge of the tank in the
palace bathroom, and when the sultan took up the ladle to pour
the water over his head struck him on the lip, and he fell down.
All possible remedies were tried, but to no purpose, till at
last an old woman came forward who said she had heard that the
only man who knew of a cure was the one chained in the prison.
He was sent for, and ground the snake's teeth to powder, which
was applied to the snake-bite and soon effected a cure. The sultan
made inquiries, heard the whole story, and ordered the treacherous
vizier to be sewn up in a sack and cast into the sea. His daughter's
wedding was celebrated in proper fashion, and the pair lived
happily to the end of their days.
This clearly belongs to the "Grateful
Beasts" class of stories, of which numerous examples, variations
on this and other themes, are well known in Europe. The third
Swahili version must be derived from the same original as the
other two, but varies so considerably that this is not at first
sight obvious. An ape is introduced as well as the lion and the
snake, and a poor youth finds them, not in a well, but in the
traps which he has set to catch game. There are other important
differences, which, however, need not detain us.
Part of this-the providing of the only effectual
remedy by a despised stranger-is to be found in a Persian story:
"The Colt Qéytas," [1] but this is much nearer
to "Kibaraka," the tale which gives its title to the
collection already mentioned more than once.
The Composite Tale of Kibaraka
This is made up of various elements. The opening
I have not so far traced. The sultan's son and the vizier's son,
born on the same day, go for a walk together, and the former
treacherously forsakes his companion, who loses his way and wanders
about till he comes to a house inhabited by a zimwi. This
being receives him kindly, to all appearance, but soon departs
to call his friends to a cannibal feast. Here comes in the well-known
motif of the Forbidden
[1. D.L.R. and E.O. Lorimer, Persian Tales,
pp. 38-42.]
Chamber.[1] The zimwi tells him he
may go into every room but one. In the fifth, which is the forbidden
one, he finds a gigantic horse, who speaks and tells him the
true character of his host. The horse himself is being kept only
till fat enough; then he and every other living thing in the
house will be eaten by the ogre and his friends, who are due
to arrive in two days' time. He directs the youth to let out
all the animals shut up in the various apartments (a lion, a
leopard, a donkey, and an ox) and to take out of a great chest
seven bottles-containing the obstacles of the well-known "Magic
Flight." The horse then swallows all the animals and a quantity
of the ogre's treasure, directs the youth to saddle and mount
him, and they escape in the usual way, throwing down the seven
bottles, one after another, to produce thorns, fire, sea, and
so on. This part comes into far too many stories to be repeated
here; the flight, with much the same obstacles, is found, for
instance, in the Persian "Orange and Citron Princess."
[2]
They then build a house in the forest (one
must understand that the horse produces it by magical means,
but this is not stated in the Swahili), and Kibaraka ("Little
Blessing" -this appears to be a name assumed for the occasion,
though it has not hitherto been mentioned) strolls into the town,
by the horse's advice, in the guise of a beggar. Here, one day,
proclamation is made that the sultan is going to arrange the
weddings of his seven daughters. All the people are ordered to
assemble, and each girl is to throw a lime at the man of her
choice. The eldest manages to hit the Grand Vizier's son, to
the general satisfaction. Then the rest make their choice among
the young nobles, up to the sixth; but the youngest aims her
lime at the beggar-lad and hits him. This incident and similar
ones are found in Persian and other stories-for instance, in
" The Colt
[1. See The Folk-lore Journal, vol. iii (1885),
pp. 193-242. The incident is found in several Swahili stories,
in very different settings: e.g., "Hasseebu Kareem ed Din"
and "The Spirit and the Sultan's Son," in Steere (Swahili
Tales, pp. 353 and 379), and "Sultani Zuwera,"
in Kibaraka, p. 5.
2. D.L.R. and E.O. Lorimer, Persian Tales,
p. 135]
Qéytas," of which the beginning
is quite different. The conclusion of this is much the same as
the end of "Kibaraka," with minor variations: the sultan
is ill, and can only be cured, in one case by the flesh of a
certain bird, in the other by leopard's milk. The six sons-in-law
try in vain to procure the remedy: the seventh, who has been
despised and kept at a distance, succeeds. For a time he allows
the others to take the credit, on condition of letting him brand
them as his slaves. But Kibaraka has previously, in disguise
(or, rather, in his own proper form and riding on the magic horse),
distinguished himself in battle and routed the sultan's enemies.
This does not appear in the Persian tale, though it does elsewhere.
Whatever the origin of this story, the hero's words when he finally
reveals himself show whence it passed to the Swahili coast: "I
am not Kibaraka: I am Hamed, the son of the Wazir in the land
of Basra"-the last thirteen words being Arabic.
Parts of this story seem to have spread wherever
the Arabs have carried their language and their traditions. The
lime-throwing incident occurs both in Somali and in Fulfulde
(the language of the Fulani, in West Africa). The Somali story
of "Lame Habiyu" begins like "The Colt Qéytas,"
and goes on very much as "Kibaraka."
The Merry jests of Abu Nuwls
There was, in the reign of Harun-er-Rashid
(765-809), a certain poet at Bagdad, named Abu Nuwis, whose work
is highly praised by the best judges (it has been translated
into German, if not into English), and whose name, twisted in
various ways, is known up and down the Swahili coast but not
for his poems. Whether or not any of the stories told of him
are true, his legend has attracted to itself all the jests and
practical jokes current before or during his time, or invented
since. He has got mixed up with the hare, one of whose names
in Swahili is Kibanawasi, which might be punningly turned into
Kibwana wasi, "Little Master of Shifts." He is always
being set impossible tasks by the caliph (sometimes Harun is
mentioned by name), and always cleverly turns the tables on him.
When told to build a house in the air he sends up a kite hung
with little bells ("Don't you hear the carpenters at work?"),
and then calls on the caliph to send up stones and lime, which,
of course, he is unable to do. Some of his exploits have reached
Delagoa Bay, where M. Junod, misled by the local colouring they
had acquired by that time, concluded that "Bonawasi"
was a corruption of the Portuguese Bonifacio. One of the most
popular, here as elsewhere (it has been heard from Egyptian story-tellers),
is the order to the whole population to produce eggs, by which
it is hoped to entrap Abu Nuwâs. The charming illustration
on p. 298 of Chants et contes des Baronga shows the Governor
of Mozambique presiding at the performance in full uniform.
The Portuguese, who at one time made their
name so much dreaded on the coast (even now "Proud as a
Portuguese" and "Violent as a Portuguese" are
current sayings in Pate), are represented as being pitiably duped
by Abu Nuwâs. He burned his house down, loaded a ship with
sacks full of the ashes, and put to sea. Meeting seven Portuguese
vessels loaded with silver, he pretended that he was taking a
cargo of treasure as a present to his sultan, and was so ostentatiously
reluctant to part with it that they determined to buy it, and
finally did so for a shipload of silver. Abu Nuwâs returned
with this, and went to the sultan, asking him for some men, to
unload his cargo of silver. This, of course, led to inquiries,
which caused the sultan to burn down the whole town and load
a fleet with the ashes. Result: a collision with the Portuguese
at sea, in which ships were sunk and many of the sultan's men
killed. Abu Nuwâs was sought for, but escaped as usual,
and played further pranks in a fresh place.
The Three Words
There seem to be endless variations of the
story in which a man received three pieces of advice from his
father, or spent all the money left him by his father on three
pieces of advice from a wise man. These are, in one case: "If
you see a thing do not speak of it; if you speak of it something
[unpleasant] will happen to you." [1] Secondly, "If
the sun sets while you are on the road stay where you are till
you can see where you are going." Thirdly, "If a friendly
person hails you in passing never refuse to stop." Or, as
sometimes found, if called three times you must turn aside, having
returned a civil answer to the first and second summons. Other
pieces of advice are: "Never tell a secret to a woman";
"A man does not betray one who trusts him"; "What
is in your purse is your possession; what is in the field or
in the box is no use to you." Some of these, in shortened
form, are current as well-known proverbs and are frequently quoted.
The second of those enumerated above enables
the hero to escape from robbers, while his companions, who insist
on pressing on after dark, are attacked and murdered. The third
saves him from a treacherous plot: he is sent by an enemy with
a message intended to ensure his murder, but delays on the road
when asked to stop-in one case by an old friend of his father's.
This incident, or one very like it, is found in the Gesta
Romanorum, as well as in some old French fabliaux,
and was made use of by Schiller for his ballad Der Gang nach
dem Eisenhammer. It also occurs, out of its proper setting,
in a Swahili story called "The judge and the Boy,"
[2] where it is combined with parts of several other stories,
imperfectly told.
There is a Persian story,[3] "The Man
who bought Three Pieces of Advice", where the "three
words" are of a somewhat different character, and the hero-or,
rather, his wife-comes to grief through disregarding the third,
though they are enabled to escape from their troubles by following
the second. These counsels are:
"Don't go out when there are clouds in
the sky in winter-time."
[1. This is much neater in the original, owing
to the fact that neno means both .word' and 'something,'
'anything.' Literally, "If you see something don't say anything;
if you say anything something will get you."
2 Kibaraka, p. 35: "Kadhi na Mtoto."
3 D.L.R. and E.O. Lorimer, Persian Tales,
p. 269.]
"Whenever you see a pigeon, a hound,
and a cat for sale, buy them, whatever the price, and keep them
with you and take good care of them."
"Never tell to anyone the advice you
have got, and never let an outside woman enter your house."
In the old Cornish folk-tale "John of
Chyanorth" [1] the three pieces of advice (or, in the original,
"points of wit") are: "Take care that thou dost
not leave the old road for the new road"; "Take care
that thou dost not lodge in a house where may be an old man married
to a young woman"; "Be thou struck twice ere strike
once"-or, as it stands in another part of the text, "Be
advised twice ere strike once."
The Magic Mirror, the Magic Carpet, and the Elixir of Life
Another story imported from the East-whether
from Arabia, Persia, or India I am unable to say-is that published
by M. Junod [2] under the title of "Les Trois Vaisseaux,"
It is found in the most unexpected places, even on the Congo
and the Ivory Coast, though some of these Western versions may
be of independent origin. Three brothers go on a trading expedition,
and acquire a magic mirror, a magic carpet (usually described
as a mat or basket), and a medicine for restoring the dead to
life. These enable them to see the young woman with whom all
three are in love dying, if not already dead, to reach her before
she is buried, and to administer the medicine. The question now
arises: who has done the most towards saving her and shall consequently
marry her? It is variously decided. Sometimes, as in the Congo
version,[3] the narrator stops short at this point, and leaves
the decision to the audience.
Portuguese Influence
Some of the stories in Chatelain's Folk-tales
of Angola must certainly have come from Portugal, while others
are
[1. See J. Morton Nance, Cornish for All
(Lanham, St Ives, n.d.), PP. 38-48 - I am indebted to Mr Henry
Jenner, of Bospowes, Hayle, for directing my attention to this
book.
2. Chants et contes, p. 304.
3. Dennett, Folk-Lore of the Fjort, No. III.]
unmistakably of African growth, the latter
being by far the more numerous. An interesting case of importation
is the story of Fenda Madia:[1]-one of the "False Bride"
class. She sets out to disenchant Fele Milanda (Felix Miranda)
by weeping twelve jugs full of tears, but is cheated when just
in sight of success by a slave-girl, who takes her place and
marries him. Here, too, a part is played by a magic mirror-a
distinctly non-African element. The story is current both in
Portugal and in Italy, but in all probability originated farther
east. Parts of it resemble the latter portion of the Persian
"Orange and Citron Princess." [2]
A magic mirror-which might as well be a ring
or any other object, since its function is not to reveal what
is happening at a distance, but to procure for the possessor
whatever he wishes-figures in a story collected by Father Torrend
at Quilimane.[3] Here the African and European elements are curiously
mixed. A childless couple are told by a diviner to eat a pair
of small fish; in due course they have a son, who, when grown,
goes to cut wood in the forest. He befriends a python in difficulties,
and is rewarded by the gift of a mirror which gives him everything
he wants, and enables him to marry the governor's daughter.
M. Junod[4] describes "La Fille du Roi"
as a Portuguese story. It was told him by a Ronga woman, who
had heard it from some young persons of her own tribe employed
by Europeans in the town of Lourenço Marques. The first part is much the same as Grimm's
"The Shoes that were danced to Pieces," except that
there is only one princess, instead of twelve, and the place
where she goes to dance is called "Satan's house."
The rest of the story is quite unlike anything in Grimm, neither
is it distinctively African. I have, so far, been unable to trace
this part.
In conclusion I may mention, in passing, the
curious fact that a story substantially the same as that of The
Merchant of Venice was written out for me in Swahili by a native
[1. Folk-tales of Angola, pp. 29 and
43.
2. See ante, p. 316.
3 Seidel, in Zeitschrift für afrikanische
und ozeanische Sprachen, vol. i, p. 247.
4 Chants et contes, p. 317.]
teacher at Ngao, who said he had heard it
from an Indian at Kipini. The Indian, he supposed, "had
got it out of some book of his." He may, of course, have
read Shakespeare's play, or seen it acted, but it is quite possible
that he had derived it from his own country. The story is found
in the Gesta Romanorum, and can therefore, in all probability,
be traced to an Oriental source.
It is sometimes said that "all the stories
have been told"-also that there are only about a dozen plots
in the whole world. But the old stories are perpetually fresh
to the new generations who have not yet heard them, and the dozen
plots-if that is the number-are susceptible of such infinite
variation that neither the novelist nor the collector of folk-tales
need be unduly discouraged.
The more fully the subject is studied the
more clearly will it appear that the folklore of Bantu-speaking
Africans is not inferior in variety and interest to that of Asia,
Polynesia, or America-if differing from them in character.
There is much that still remains to be known,
and of what has already been recorded I have been forced to leave
a large amount untouched. I trust the specimens here given will
be sufficient to show that the notion of Africa as a continent
without history, poetry, or mythology worthy of the name is wholly
erroneous.
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