All Bantu tribes regard the passage from childhood to adult life as a solemn event to be marked by more or less elaborate ceremonies. These vary in different places, and some may have disused them altogether, either through European influence, or because they have been so harassed by enemies and driven from place to place as to have lost many of their old usages. But it is safe to speak of the custom, in one form or another, as universal among them. Indeed, it exists, or has existed, all over the world; and the rejoicings over the ‘coming of age’ of the heir to an estate, or the pleasant little excitement of a girl ‘coming out’ at her first ball, represent it to this day among ourselves. These things, with us, are mainly a matter of sentiment—that is to say, they are not supposed to exercise any mysterious influence on the future life of the boy or girl—to ensure good luck or avert disaster. But among the people whom, for want of a better word, we call ‘savages’—it is an unsatisfactory name for various reasons which I am not concerned to discuss here—they are the outcome of a feeling that life is surrounded by unknown and incalculable forces which must in some way be propitiated and made harmless. Besides this, there is the desire to give their children such instruction as may give them some help through the difficulties that lie before them. In fact, in many tribes, the only systematic teaching of any sort is that given at the ‘mysteries.’

Every year, during the dry season, and before the grass is burnt, if arrangements have been made to hold one of these ceremonies, the Yaos send people out into the bush, to clear a space of ground and build some huts and booths for the unyago. The boys who have reached the age of sixteen or thereabouts go there, carrying their sleeping-mats with them, and stay, under the charge of one or more elderly men, for perhaps two months. They are armed with sticks, to be thrown at any person who may intrude; for no one but the boys and their instructors is permitted to be present. Various dances are said to take place, the opening one lasting three days, and the boys are given advice about the conduct of life, and instructed in the traditions of the tribe. The story of the origin of Lake Nyasa, mentioned in Chapter IV., is one said to be told at the mysteries.

But as no European has ever been present at these celebrations, and as those natives who might be willing to tell Europeans about them have never been initiated themselves, it is very difficult to say anything with certainty on this head. The booths are, as a rule, destroyed when the unyago is over, with all other traces of what has gone on—the clay figure of a lizard seen by Mr. Lindsay in the bush was quite an exceptional case. The sticks above mentioned, with others used in the dances, are burnt or broken up; though some are ‘put together at a cross-road’—doubtless as a charm of some sort. I once saw a short club of dark wood, with a carved head, said to have been used at one of these dances, which was sufficiently remarkable. It was polished with handling, as if it had seen service for many years, and the head at the top had a head-dress very like that on Egyptian mummy-cases, and a curiously long and narrow face with features which I should not like to call un-African, because I have occasionally seen natives with similar ones, but which was rather the type of the Wahima[18] than that of the average Bantu. For a wonder this stick had been offered for sale to the lady who showed it to me, by a boy who brought it to the house and either could not or would not—certainly he did not—give any account of how he came by it. He called it tsanchima, which is the name given to the maskers or mummers taking part in the dance already referred to in Chapter IV.

The principal person at these Yao mysteries is a man called ‘the rattler of the tails’ (tails of wild cats and other animals are a great item in witch-doctors’ outfits, and believed to be possessed of all sorts of occult virtues), who communicates to the initiated all information about the customs of the tribe, and delivers moral lectures, as for instance, on unselfishness. A man who refuses to share his food with another is laughed at as ‘uninitiated’ (mwisichana). Before they go home, all the boys are given new names; and henceforth it is a deadly insult to address one by his childish appellation. When they go home, they are promoted to sleep m’bwalo, with the other unmarried men, and continue to do so till they marry and set up a house or houses of their own.

The girls’ unyago lasts a month. They go out to the bush with their instructresses, the head-woman (who gets a fee in calico for each candidate) being called ‘the cook of the mysteries.’ They are instructed in house-building, making pots, cooking, and other duties of married life, and put through a regular drill in these and other things, such as pounding corn, carrying water, etc., which they have probably done often enough before. They also go (symbolically, of course) through the whole round of agricultural operations, pretending to sow the grain, then hoeing, weeding, and reaping. The old women give them advice as to housekeeping and the duties of married life, and warn them of the penalties which await them if unfaithful to their husbands. They are anointed with oil, mixed with certain ‘medicines,’ their heads are shaved, and they are dressed in bark-cloth, which is now almost disused in everyday life. Towards the close of the ceremony, the roof of a house—or a skeleton model of one—is put over the heads of, say, ten at a time, and they have to carry it about. This is supposed to be symbolical of their position as pillars of the home. They are not allowed to leave the scene of the mysteries till everything is over; and, as in the case of the boys, no one not taking part is permitted to approach; while sticks are laid in a peculiar way on the path leading to the place, to show that it is barred. Some friends of mine once met the band of girls leaving for home, ‘all freshly anointed and dripping with oil,’ and soon came to the deserted encampment, with grass sheds built round three sides of a square, and divided into small compartments in which the girls had been sleeping. In the middle of the square were traces of pots having been made, and ufa pounded.

The whole proceeding is called ‘being danced.’ The Yaos ‘dance’ girls very young—mere children of seven or eight sometimes—and, from what I have seen, I should say, personally, that they were not improved by the process. But the Yao practice cannot be regarded as typical, as there is reason to believe that it has been modified by the influence of the coast people.

The Anyanja do not ‘dance’ boys at all, and the ceremonies for the girls only last, in some parts, for one day, and the candidates are all of full age. The old women who are their teachers go outside the village with them into the grass which has been left unburnt, and there they remain all day, coming back after dark to the zinyao dances in the bwalo, which have already been referred to. Figures of animals are drawn on the smooth ground with ashes or flour, and the people dance round them.[19] The men also go out into the bush to disguise themselves, as already described, in grotesque masks of wood and cloth, with grass, horns and skins of wild beasts, and, returning, lead the girls out one by one and dance with them in the centre of the ring. When it is over, the women carefully see the girls home. They too have their names changed, and their former ones are not supposed to be pronounced, unless they fall into disgrace. There is, too, a strange belief that when witches are at their cannibal orgies, they call the dead out of the grave by his or her childish name, and this call cannot be ignored.

On the Lake the course of instruction lasts for several days; and the girls wear caps made of beads, with other ornaments of the same. There is also a preliminary course for children, who wear ornaments made of reeds cut into strips and strung together. A curious feature in this course is a procession round the village, out at one gate in the stockade and in at the other, headed by a woman carrying a basket (mnkungwa), which contains ‘certain mysteries.’

Marriage is the next step in life, at least for the girls—though even in their case it does not always follow immediately. Young men may have to wait for some years, owing to lack of means or for other reasons. In the country under the Angoni chiefs they are called on, as we have seen, to ‘serve their time,’ herding the chief’s cattle, and later, perhaps, going to war.

This is something like the Zulu system, and probably a relic of it. I have not been able to discover anything similar in the case of the Yaos or the Anyanja, perhaps because their government is less centralised, and all chiefs and head-men would have their work done by their own slaves, who are always on the spot. But the young men without, as yet, any family ties of their own, may join some caravan going to the coast, or (in the times when elephants were more abundant and there was no European administration to interfere) put in the time hunting or slave-raiding, or go to work for the white men, or, finally, stay about the villages, and have a good time at beer-drinkings and dances for a year or two.

There are several different forms of marriage, and there is no theoretical limit to the number of wives any man may have; but there is a difference between the status of free and slave wives. The rules as to who may or may not marry each other will be considered in another chapter.

Neither Yaos nor Anyanja, in the Shiré Highlands, at least, buy their wives (unless, of course, in the case of a slave woman); but this term, by the bye, is a very misleading one. The price paid by the Zulus (under the name of lobola) and others cannot properly be called purchase, being rather in the nature of a settlement or a guarantee that the suitor is able to support a wife; it is held by her family in trust for her and her children.

It is very common for girls to be betrothed in infancy, or even (conditionally) before birth—the suitor (or his parents) giving a present which has to be returned if she refuses to ratify the engagement when of age; he also clothes her during the period of waiting—which, as may be supposed, does not involve any ruinous outlay. The acceptance of a calico waistcloth, and the girl’s wearing it, make the transaction a binding one. She is sent to him after the unyago, or, sometimes, even before, in which case she has a special charm given her on that occasion.

I remember hearing of a case where such an arrangement had a tragic end. A Yao girl, promised by her parents in the way above described to an elderly man, refused to marry him when the time came, as she preferred a young man named Tambala, a teacher in the Blantyre school. Whether the proper steps for dissolving the engagement had been taken or not, I do not know; in any case the old man refused to give up his claim; and, a day or two before the marriage was fixed to take place, Tambala was found dead in the gardens near his village—shot by the disappointed suitor. But the Anyanja, at any rate, seem to regard the question as quite an open one, which may be settled by arrangement. A native statement on the subject is as follows: ‘If the girl, when she is grown up, refuses, her father takes money (i.e. cloth or beads) and gives it to that man, because, he says, you have clothed my child.’ Nyanja girls, too, are very often not betrothed in this way. It should also be remembered that the marriages thus agreed on beforehand by parents are often between boys and girls of suitable ages, and turn out quite happily.

When a man takes a fancy to a girl whom he finds to be disengaged, he first of all comes to an understanding with her, then goes to her village and tells her family—all the relations, including the grandparents, the elder brother, and, above all, the maternal uncle, are consulted, as well as the parents—and, if they have no objection, he then goes to his own people. Having obtained their consent, ‘he returns to build the house, and when it is nearly completed he calls his own people to meet his bride’s people on a certain day. The bride’s people cook native porridge, which is eaten with a fowl, and the marriage is finally ratified. Unless this porridge and fowl are eaten by the parents of both parties to the marriage, it is neither legal nor binding, hence this meal may be regarded as their ceremony of marriage.’ This is stated to be ‘the normal and legal form of marriage among both Yaos and Anyasa.’ Though not mentioned in this account, it appears that a present is usually, if not always, made to the girl’s uncle.

In the Western Upper Shiré district, they have some sort of a dance at the wedding; but my only authority is a girl who did not give a very detailed account—only saying that the bride and bridegroom stand by, while ‘the people dance before them.’ The Wankonde marriage ceremonies show distinct traces of marriage by capture. It sometimes happens that women are actually ‘stolen’ and carried off as wives; but this is an illegal act, not a recognised form of marriage.

Other authorities represent the young man as going first to his own ‘surety’ (who may be his father, his uncle, or his elder brother), and getting his consent before approaching the girl’s relations. It will be noticed that he goes and builds a house at the bride’s home. This is the universal custom, where the marriage of free women is concerned, with both Anyanja and Yaos. It is connected with the fact (to which we shall return later on) that children belong to the mother’s kin, not the father’s. One of the new husband’s first duties is to hoe a garden for his mother-in-law, though he is bound by the rules of propriety to avoid her to a certain extent. He must not eat in her presence nor see her eat, and there are various other restrictions, all of which come to an end when he has brought her the first grandchild, with a present. The same rules apply also to the father-in-law, and to the maternal uncles of both; while the wife has to observe them with regard to her husband’s parents, and their uncles. The important position which the mother’s brother holds in the family will be referred to again later.

In practice, the number of wives varies from one to, in the case of a chief, perhaps twenty. The Makololo and Angoni chiefs used to delight in showing their consequence by huge harems of over a hundred women, and the latter, at least, were in the habit of demanding additional wives, from time to time, from their Anyanja subjects, making them send up a selection of their daughters, as they sent their sons to herd the chief’s cattle. But this custom was not followed by the indigenous tribes. Mr. Macdonald says that, ordinarily, it is a man’s ambition to have five—one free wife, and three or four slaves, who might at that time (some thirty years ago) be bought for two buckskins apiece in the Angoni country. A number of the Anyanja I knew on the other side of the Shiré had two, some, I think, only one. If a man has more than one free wife, he spends his time between their different villages, since each of them will remain at her home. His slave wives are brought to his village, or rather to that of his chief wife, where he settled on his marriage. They are supposed to be under her orders and do most of the work; she is sometimes a stern and even cruel taskmistress, but often they get on very amicably together. She usually calls them her ‘younger sisters.’

If a man has a second free wife, it is, as a rule, because he has inherited her from his elder brother according to Bantu custom. He also inherits the wives of his maternal uncle, if the latter has no younger brother living at the time of his death.

Wives may be captured in a raid, in which case there are no particular formalities about the marriage. Some of my Anyanja friends at Ntumbi had Yao wives who must have been obtained in this way, but appeared to have settled down quite happily.

‘Another way’—to complete the enumeration—is when a young man’s master or guardian (for he may, even if free, be under the tutelage of a real or nominal elder brother) provides him with a wife.

We have spoken of the ‘sureties’ or ‘sponsors,’ who take part in arranging a marriage. They, especially the wife’s, are of great importance in married life. They are usually the maternal uncles or elder brothers of the parties, and the woman’s represents her in all transactions of any moment.

The feast (if it can be so-called) mentioned above as constituting the marriage ceremony is sometimes (or used to be) celebrated in a more elaborate form. In this case, it was the entering the house, as soon as it was finished, which was held to constitute the act of marriage. The woman would bring with her pots, baskets, a sleeping-mat, and some flour to cook the first meal with. The man would contribute an axe and a hoe to the common outfit. One of his wife’s first duties is to plaster the house he has built, though this will not always be needed. The meeting at which what we may call the marriage-contract is drawn up, takes place some time later; perhaps not till the first produce of their new garden is ready. The wife’s surety is said to ‘come to settle her’ in her home.

She prepares two pots of beer for her husband’s surety or sureties and two for her own. The former contribute a cock to the banquet, the latter a laying hen. Both then lay down certain rules for the behaviour of the young couple, warning the wife against unfaithfulness, and binding both to resort to the diviner in case of illness or other trouble.

The division of labour between husband and wife varies a good deal according to local circumstances. Where the husband goes away with trading caravans, or on hunting expeditions, or works on a plantation, or as a tenga-tenga man (carrier), or where he is liable to be summoned away for weeks at a time (as he was under the Angoni and Makololo) to work for the chief, the field-work, of course, falls on the wife.

This we shall describe more fully when treating of Agriculture. She also has to go to the bush to cut firewood, and to the stream or well for water; to plaster the floor and walls of the house with mud (which looks like grey stucco when dry); to fetch in supplies of food from the gardens, to pound and husk the grain, and to do the cooking. I have only once seen a man pounding at a mortar; this was a Ngoni who lived temporarily in one of the Blantyre villages, while working on a plantation, and, no doubt, he was lending a hand with the pounding by way of payment for his board.

When the husband is at home, he helps in the gardens, cuts grass for thatching, executes repairs generally on huts and fences, makes the grain mortar (cut with an adze out of a tree-trunk), spins and weaves (where this is still done), sews his wife’s calico, and makes mats and baskets. On the Lake and River many are engaged all day in fishing, and some in making canoes; the fishing by hand-nets or traps is also done by women. Sometimes he accompanies his wife to the Bush for firewood, and has been much reprobated for carrying nothing but his weapons while she is heavily loaded. But this leaves out of account the ever-present possibility of attack by raiders or wild animals—of course now rapidly becoming a matter of tradition. Still, no longer ago than 1894, I saw men patrolling the gardens with spear and shield, while their wives gathered the millet—in very real danger of being carried off by the Machinga.

The wife, as time goes on, is helped by the junior wives, and in due course by her daughters, sometimes also by slaves, men and women. The pounding of the grain is about the heaviest work; the maize is first husked, then the grain is stripped off the cobs with the fingers, and put into the mortar for the first rough pounding. It is then taken out and winnowed by being shaken in a flat basket, and after being separated from the bran (which is given to goats, fowls, and pigeons, or used to make coarse porridge in time of scarcity), pounded over again, sifting out the coarser particles after each pounding, till at last it is fine and white like flour. Millet is usually, when brought in from the garden, spread out on mats to dry in the sun, and then beaten with thin sticks to separate it from the husk. It is pounded with a little water, the bran sifted out, the meal washed and partly dried, and finally ground fine between two stones.

Porridge is made by stirring the maize or millet flour (usually the former) into boiling water, and is ready in a few minutes, once the water has been brought to the boil, which, with a large jar and a small fire, is apt to be a work of time. The pot is supported over the fire on three stones. Maize porridge (nsima) is, if well made of good flour, about the colour of a suet dumpling; if inferior, it is more or less greyish. It is very stodgy, trying to a European digestion, and exceedingly sticky to the touch. Natives will eat surprising quantities of it; but they feel it a privation to be obliged to take it without salt, or some kind of ‘relish’ (ndiwo). This may be beans, or ground-nuts, or green vegetables of some sort, such as the leaves of the manioc; or, more rarely, a fowl, or a bit of goat’s flesh. Whatever it is, it is put on to boil in a small pot beside the large one, after the latter has been on for some time. Occasionally roasted rats, such as the boys bring in from the fields, are eaten as ndiwo, or winged white ants—a great delicacy—or dried locusts. Some tribes consider dried (and very high) fish a choice kind of ndiwo—others will not touch fish in any shape.

In the spring and early summer, when the old maize is finished and the new is not yet ripe, pumpkins, gourds, and cucumbers of various kinds are a great stand-by, and are eaten boiled. Sweet potatoes are most frequently roasted in the ashes, and manioc-root is eaten either boiled or raw.

In the planting and weeding seasons, people set out for the gardens before daylight, and return before noon, resting during the hottest hours of the day. There are only two formal meals in the day—one about noon or somewhat earlier, the other about sunset. Mothers put away some of the cold porridge overnight, to give the children in the morning, and boys are always roasting sweet potatoes in the ashes at odd times. Any one who feels hungry between meals can usually find something to nibble at; perhaps a roasted maize-cob, or a piece of raw chinangwa (manioc-root). Men on a journey often make ‘pop-corn’ over an improvised fire, roasting the grains (nowadays) on a shovel usually made by fixing the lid of a tin box into a cleft stick. Beer (moa) is made of maize or millet—more frequently of the latter. The process is as follows:—

First a gruel is made by stirring flour with cold water and then pouring boiling water into it. This is allowed to stand till evening and then malt is added. This has been previously prepared by leaving some grain in water till it sprouts, letting it dry in the sun and then pounding it. The mixture is left to stand overnight and then is a sweet, non-intoxicating beverage called nyombe or mtibi. This is often drunk without further preparation; but if it is desired to make real beer, it is kept another day and then boiled for two hours, then poured off and left standing for two or three days more. It is now called mlusu, is highly intoxicating, and is not drunk unless in very small quantities. More malt is added, and on the next day more gruel is made, as at the beginning—perhaps twenty, thirty or more pots—according to the number of guests expected, and the mlusu stirred into it, till all the pots are of the same strength. The beer is ready for use on the following day, after being strained. There are two kinds of strainers; one shaped like a bag, is made of palm-fibre; the other a flat basket of split bamboo. These large brewings are undertaken for funeral-feasts, hoeing-matches, or ‘bees,’ and on various other occasions; beer is also made for dances, or to celebrate the return of travellers, and sometimes, on the conclusion of a lawsuit, the loser pays the other party in beer. A Yao folk-tale relates how, after hearing both sides in a certain case, the judges decided, ‘You must just pay each other’—and the resulting conviviality must have lasted for at least a week. Moa does not, as a rule, keep more than three or four days; but the one family would begin their brewing three days after the other. On the last day of a ‘beer-drinking,’ porridge and perhaps fowls are cooked; but such solid food is not expected on the other days.

In a small village, the men and boys all eat together, in the Bwalo. The women of the several families take it in turns to prepare the food. The porridge, when not eaten out of the pot, is ladled out into a wooden platter or a flat basket, which is set down on the mat on which the men are sitting, with the ndiwo in a pot or bowl beside it; and they squat round and eat from the dish with their fingers, which they are careful to wash before and after. The women and little girls eat by themselves either in a different place or later; the mother, or hostess, helps every one else, putting their portions by hand into their plates, which may be small flat baskets, or shallow bowls of wood or earthenware. A mouthful is scraped off with the forefinger, rolled into the palm and eaten; being first, if the ndiwo is boiled fowl or the like, dipped in the gravy. No spoons are used except the large wooden ladles, often neatly carved, which serve to remove the porridge from the pot. On the Lake, shells are sometimes used for the same purpose. Salt is put into the food when cooking, if it is to be had at all; it is greatly valued because rather scarce, especially in the western part of the Upper Shiré district, where men, women, and children suffered from an insufficiently nutritious diet and consequent poorness of blood. One result of this was a great craving for salt; they gladly accepted a few spoonfuls as payment for work or provisions brought for sale; another was the formation of a virulent ulcer every time a person stubbed a toe or barked a shin. The need for salt is not the same among people who, like the Zulus, have plenty of fresh meat and milk. Language affords a curious corroboration of this: there is no native Zulu word for salt—they call it usaoti, from the Dutch zout. There are genuine Bantu words for it in Yao, Nyanja, and all the neighbouring languages. The method of making salt will be described in treating of Industries.

I do not know of any other condiment, strictly so called, used by natives, except Chile peppers, which are common on the River and near the Portuguese settlements, but rare up-country. They are called sabola, which is the Portuguese cebola, ‘an onion.’ The word is used in its proper sense as well, and probably, to the native mind, conveys the idea of ‘flavouring’ simply.

The only sort of bread known to the natives of this part of Africa is a kind of roll called mkate, made of maize-flour, bananas, and honey. I have neither seen nor eaten it, but it appears to be either baked by being put on the fire, in a pot without water, or rolled in leaves and dried in the sun.

Food, cooked or uncooked, is stored within the hut in baskets or bags of various kinds, but maize, and also millet, beans and ground-nuts, are kept in the nkokwe already described. It can only be the unhusked millet that is so kept; I have never, myself, seen anything but maize come out of a nkokwe. Some of the Middle Zambezi people tie up grain in bundles of grass, plaster them over with clay, and keep them on low sand islands in the river. The Badema, near Kebrabasa Falls, who in Livingstone’s day were much harassed by their enemies, used to make cylindrical bins out of the bitter bark of a certain tree, which mice and monkeys will not touch, to put their grain in, and bury them in the ground. The Anyanja have large narrow-necked baskets, which they hang up to the rafters of the hut, and use for storing grain, beans half-cooked, manioc-leaves, and other things, and beans are also put into bags. The seed corn is left in the ear, and hung up, or laid on the stage over the fireplace, where the smoke keeps the insects from it, or sometimes sealed up with clay in earthen jars.

In building a house, the first thing is to drive in the posts, which are, so to speak, its skeleton. They are set in a circle about a yard apart, and forked at the top to support a circle of split bamboo which forms the top of the wall; then the interstices are filled with grass and bound with circles of bamboo perhaps a foot apart. A space is left for the doorway, and sometimes small shuttered loopholes,[20] about four feet from the ground—more for the purpose of letting the inmates see what is going on outside than of admitting light. Most huts have only one door, but at times and in places where raiding is habitual, they are constructed with two—to facilitate escape from enemies.

A strong central pole is planted to support the roof, which is made separately, like a huge basket, and afterwards hoisted into position. A number of sharpened bamboos are stuck, at an angle of about 45, into a bunch of grass, which is to form the point of the roof, and is sometimes plaited into fanciful shapes, or covered with an inverted pot, to finish up the construction and prevent the rain from running into the ends of the straws. The radiating spokes are united by concentric hoops made of twisted grass placed at regular intervals, and tied at the crossings with bark soaked in water, which of course tightens as it dries.

The roof is always made to project at least three feet beyond the walls, and its edges are supported by posts. The space under the eaves makes quite a small verandah, and is banked up with clay to the height of a foot so as to form a step or low platform running round the house. The walls are not more than four feet high, perhaps less; the centre of the hut may be twelve feet. Small huts have a diameter equal to their height, or even less, and require no support inside; larger ones are wider than they are high, and the roof is supported by a strong central post, and extra ones, if necessary, in proportion to the increased diameter. The walls are plastered with clay at the beginning of the cold (and dry) season; this plaster (at any rate in the lower-lying districts) is either removed during the summer, or not renewed when it drops away of itself. It is always done by the women, who also do the floor of the hut in the same way as the verandah, and mould it into a circular ridge about two feet in diameter for the central fireplace. Sometimes one or more oblong platforms are made for sleeping-places; but many people simply spread their mats on the floor, and some make regular bedsteads (or, as it has been described, a ‘family sleeping-shelf’) by fixing stout sticks in the ground and spreading a mat on top of them. Whatever the sleeping arrangements, people lie with their feet to the fire, which is fed at night with one or more logs laid end on to the fireplace, and kindled at the inner end, so that whoever happens to wake in the night can, without any trouble, put on fuel by merely pushing the outer. The fire is not much used for cooking except in wet or windy weather; and in fact the hut is mainly a place for sleeping and storing things in. The fireplace is generally surrounded by four posts supporting a stage or shelf (nsanja), which serves all the purposes of a storeroom and larder. Strips of meat and fish are hung on it to dry; provisions, cooked and uncooked, are placed there in pots and baskets, and the seed corn is kept there in the smoke, where the weevils and other insects will not attack it.

Other things—spears, bows and arrows, the spindle and weaving-stick, bags of beans, the gourds for drawing water, etc.—are hung from the rafters or stuck in the thatch. Cloth and beads are stored away in baskets. Besides the articles already mentioned, a few cooking-pots, a carved wooden pillow or two, a few skins, perhaps one or two small logs to sit on, or even a stool made out of the root of a tree, and a jar of water with a gourd dipper to drink it from, will about complete the inventory of the furniture.

Some of the people on Mlanje ornament the plastering of their houses with figures of animals in black, white, and red, but I have not seen any of these. A hut I saw at Ntumbi had the walls plaited in a neat sort of basket-pattern and daubed inside with black mud in a way that suggested an attempt at ornamentation; one of the circular rafters, too, was neatly decorated with small white feathers, stuck on at regular intervals.

The smoke is left to find its way out through the thatch; consequently the inside of the roof, with the nsanja and everything on it, is black and shiny, and any article which has come out of a native hut may be known at once by a peculiar smell, compounded of wood-smoke and castor-oil.

Square houses, which are often built not only by people at missions but by Yaos who brought the notion from the coast, are much less typical, and from a practical point of view less satisfactory; they are always stuffy and frowsy, in a way the round huts are not. The latter seem to ventilate fairly well through the thatch, and the smoke, which might be expected to make the atmosphere quite impossible, is avoided if you do as the natives do and sit on the floor. The square house, too, has corners in which rubbish can accumulate, and though it has something by way of windows, they neither admit air enough to sweeten, nor light enough to see, the interior. Besides, a new and well-made hut has an artistic completeness of its own, and pleases the eye, as a lop-sided, straggling nyumba ya gome can never do.

Each wife has her own hut, where her children sleep with her—the boys till they are old enough to go to the gowero, or dormitory, the girls till they leave for homes of their own. The father of the family has sometimes his own separate hut, sometimes he lives in the others, turn about, or in the head-wife’s house (kuka), which is the proper centre of the home. Frequently, however, his mother is the real head of the family and occupies the kuka, though she may also have a house of her own apart.

In a large village, the bwalo or ‘forum’ may be the space round which all the huts are grouped; in other cases it is a place by itself outside all the enclosures. The sacred fig-tree which marks it is often apparently a very old one; so that, no doubt, the site is a more or less permanent one, round which the shifting kraals group themselves in various rearrangements. I have a sketch of the great fig-tree at Chona’s which stood between the village and the maize-gardens. Various articles were hanging on this tree—gourd-dippers and a mouse-trap—but whether as votive offerings, or as a mere matter of convenience, I never made out.

The blacksmith’s forge stood on one side of this bwalo, and very often mats were spread at the foot of the tree for men to sit in the shade. Here one sees the rows of holes for the mchombwa game scooped in the ground; here, too, dances are held, whether ceremonial or merely for amusement, and cases are tried, or in native idiom ‘the mlandu talked.’ The ground is swept every day by a man whose business it is to look after it, and who is called ‘the master of the bwalo.’ He also receives strangers (the etiquette is for them to go and sit down in the bwalo as soon as they arrive), and informs the village chief that they have come. He used to receive as his perquisite the heads of all goats killed in the village. Sometimes there is a shed in the middle of the bwalo, known as the ‘strangers’ house,’ where they eat and sleep during their stay; the villages west of Lake Nyasa have structures exactly like band-stands for this purpose.

Natives are sometimes thought not to have much family affection, because they are not as a rule very demonstrative in words, but this is a mistake. I remember the touching distress of an old man who thought his wife had been carried off by the Machinga and would have to drudge at pounding corn for strangers in her old age. Fortunately she turned up safe and sound, along with some other women who had been hiding in the bush. A woman who lived about twelve miles from Blantyre, hearing that her son, a boarder at the Mission, was ill, walked in and carried him home on her back—a big lad of thirteen or fourteen. ‘The boy is the light of the mother’s eye. When he goes off on a journey she awaits his return anxiously; sometimes, it may be, making a vow not to shave her head till he returns; on his return she goes through a wild dance of joy, often casting white ash or flour over herself and making a shrill noise, lululuta. She clasps her child round the body, sometimes round the neck, herself kneeling; she sees nothing of onlookers ... then she must be poor indeed if she cannot cook porridge enough for him and a friend or two.’ The elasticity which makes those carried into slavery—especially young people—forget their troubles is sometimes thought to be a proof of callousness; but the eagerness with which they will seize any chance of returning home after years of separation, or follow up any clue to a lost relation, is sufficient disproof. There is a pathetic belief in some parts that slaves going to the coast find a plant in the hills, which they eat ‘to make them forget the friends of their youth,’ lest their grief should be too great. It loses its efficacy as soon as anything happens to remind them of home, or they get a chance of returning. The often-made assertion that parents will sell their children into slavery has very little foundation, as far as Anyanja and Yaos are concerned. This only happens in very exceptional cases: in the extremity of famine (and even then it is condemned by public opinion), or to redeem an important member of the clan, as in the following instance: ‘An old fellow at Msumba was seized by the Angoni together with his younger brother, and the joy of the little community was taken away; they had no one to speak for them “in the gate.” Better a few go into captivity than the head of the clan be disgraced.’ A woman and a boy were sent up as ransom, and, it appears, went willingly. ‘Another time a son by a slave woman was paid for the ransom of his father; it was managed by the clan, and the father was not asked.’

One sometimes hears that, though mothers are very fond of their children, the fathers care little about them, and indeed cannot be expected to, because they have so many. This, again, is untrue, and the alleged reason will not hold, as—except chiefs like Mombera and Ramakukane—few men have more than they can easily keep count of. The impression has gained ground partly because, as already remarked, the native parent is not particularly demonstrative, and partly because it is not easy for travellers, even if observant and sympathetic persons, to arrive at the details of intimate family matters like this. Nearly every one who writes on the subject comes across some unmistakable instance of affection, and immediately records it as a remarkable exception. The fathers of my acquaintance were certainly not indifferent to their children.

The position of women, too, has been greatly misconceived. I cannot do better than quote the words of a competent observer at a time when native manners could have been very slightly, if at all, modified by European influence. The Rev. H. Rowley, whose experience was gained in 1861, says: ‘The position of the woman with the Manganja and Ajawa was in no way inferior to that of the man.... Men and women worked together in the fields, and the special occupations of the women were thought to be no more degrading than the specialities of our women are to our own women at home. The men seemed to have much kindly affection for the women; such a thing as ill-usage on the part of a man to his wife I did not once hear of. Frequently the position of the woman seemed superior to that of the man; in their religious observances, for instance, the principal performer was generally a woman.’

Some of the native folk-tales give interesting glimpses of everyday experience, and especially of the relations between man and wife. They show the native husband, not as a savage monster, but a very ordinary human being, sometimes selfish, sometimes greedy, very sensitive to ridicule, so that he will make any concessions to his wife rather than be laughed at by the neighbours; and yet again solving the difficulties of domestic life with shrewd good sense. A Nyanja story of ‘A Man and his Wives’ brings out this last characteristic:—

‘Once upon a time a man married two wives. And he hoed two rice-patches, and made a boundary between them, and assigned one to each. Both women sowed rice, and when it was time to keep off the birds, one of the women took her water-jar and placed it on the boundary as a drinking-place (for the use of those watching the crops?). And her companion planted some pumpkin-seeds near the other woman’s water-jar. And a shoot of the pumpkin plant grew over the rim of the jar, and so a pumpkin got inside the jar and grew big, and they could not get it out again, for the jar was too narrow at the mouth. So one day the woman who owned the water-jar said to the owner of the pumpkin, “I say, I want my jar to take to the village. Go and take out your pumpkin.” The other woman went and tried to break it up inside the jar, saying, “Let me get it out in bits.” But the owner forbade her, saying, “Don’t do that.” So she said, “Well, shall I cook it inside the jar?” But she refused. “No, no, I won’t have you making my jar all grimy!” So the other said, “Well, take the pumpkin and the jar too.” But she refused again. “Not I! do you think I am hungry and want your pumpkin?” So there was a quarrel about it between these two women.

‘Now, what was the husband to do to make peace between his wives? He wanted to break the jar and throw away the pumpkin. But the wife who owned the jar said, “If you want to break my jar, let me go too. I shall go home and stay there and have nothing to do with you.” The husband said, “Woman, you are a bad lot.” She answered, “Am I really a bad lot? Yet I am only vexed about my jar, and want nothing else beside.”

‘Now, just see the husband’s clever trick. He feigned sickness, and in the evening pretended he was very ill indeed. Both his wives slept in the same house that night because their husband was seriously ill. And they tried to cook dainty dishes. “Let us see if we can cook for a sick man.” But he would not eat at all, enduring his hunger till the morning.

‘In the morning his mother arrived, and began to cry bitterly because her son was sick; and she asked, “My son, would you like us to cook you some food?” He said, “I want no other sort of food, but if there is a pumpkin I do want you to get it and buy salt and cook it, and I think I may eat it to-day.” Those two women were there on the spot, and one of them, the owner of the jar, took the head of the man and laid it in her lap, and the owner of the pumpkin took his feet and laid them in her lap. And the first, when she heard that the man wanted a pumpkin, said to the other woman, “Go at once and break the jar, and bring the pumpkin, and let us cook it, so that our husband may eat.” She ran and got the pumpkin, and cooked it, and gave it him to eat, and he got well of his sickness. And so the trouble ended.’

A Yao story tells how a man and his wife contrived, each in the absence of the other, to secure for themselves, in order to eat it alone (a flagrant breach of good manners), a leg of the partridge that was being cooked for the family. Both having retired to eat the morsel into the dark interior of the hut, they came into violent collision and broke their plates. ‘She said, “Eating a relish alone! I was only tasting it!” He said, “And I was tasting it too!” The man took goods and gave the woman, saying, “Do not bring disgrace on me!” The woman brewed beer and gave the man, and the matter ended.’

Something like this is the tale of ‘The Man with the Bran-Porridge.’ A man who had told his wife that he never ate bran-porridge went to the coast with a caravan, sold his ivory to advantage and had a red fez given him into the bargain. The party reached their home and were met with the usual rejoicings; and the man, wearing his new fez, sat down to wait while his wife prepared him a meal. This was, as usual, a long business; the woman first pounded the maize, then put the bran on a plate, and took the grain down to the stream to wash it before the second pounding. The husband, growing more and more hungry as he waited, forgot his scruples or his fastidiousness, took the bran, poured it into his fez, poured some water on it, stirred it up and began to eat it. While he was doing so he saw his wife coming, and put the fez half full of bran and water on his head to hide what he had been doing. His wife, however, was too quick for him and asked, ‘What is that on your head that you are hiding?’ He said, ‘Medicine that I prepared for the journey.’

Whether she believed this or not is not recorded, but in any case, the fib availed him little, for very soon the bran-porridge began to trickle down his face. He said, ‘Oh! my wife, hunger, hunger! Some hunger eats weeds of the field, some hunger eats what is bad. My wife, do not tell people that I was seen with bran-porridge on my head, and I will pay you with goods.’ So he paid her with goods. But she must have been provided with a dangerous weapon in the event of future quarrels.

The first of these stories makes mention of a separation. This, in fact, sometimes takes place—perhaps for some quite trivial cause. An unfaithful wife is divorced (or, if a slave, sold), and goes back to her uncle or other guardian. If a Yao woman’s children all die, her husband may leave her; among the Wankonde, public opinion is said to decree that it is best in such a case to kill himself. Sometimes a wife demands a divorce because her husband does not sew her calico properly (which may mean that she is going to be neglected for a younger rival), or the husband because the wife is lazy about hoeing.

‘When they separate, the wife takes away the few domestic utensils which she brought with her, none of which are used by the man.’ She does not return the cloth given her from time to time, because she is considered to have rendered an equivalent service by cooking his porridge. ‘In all separations, except for serious causes, the one party gives the other a token, which may be cloth, arrow-heads, beads, or such current money. The one that begins the strife and is the cause of the separation, pays the other.’ On the Lake, the ceremony of divorce is accomplished by the man breaking a reed before witnesses on both sides and declaring that he renounces his wife. The woman is not free till this is done.