The greatest service Matola has hitherto rendered me is the arrangement of a few evening meetings with the women of his village, whom he has at last succeeded in inducing to venture into the lion’s den. Knudsen and I have just finished our frugal evening meal, and Knudsen is as usual chatting with his friend Daudi (David), the native preacher, while I am seated at my table, working up my notes for the day. Daudi belongs to the Universities’ Mission, was educated at Zanzibar, and prefers speaking English to me. There is not much to be got of him from my point of view, as his ideas have been greatly modified by Christianity. To-night the east wind, which on other occasions has threatened, in spite of all precautions, to put out our lamp, is not blowing, for a wonder; and the “Tippelskirch” sheds its rays undisturbed on our novel surroundings. My cigar, also, has an excellent flavour; and everything breathes comfort and satisfaction, when, approaching almost inaudibly over the loose sandy soil on which even our thick European boots make little or no noise, Matola appears and takes his seat on his accustomed box. He is followed by some thirty women and girls, most of them with babies on their backs, the majority of whom are peacefully asleep, though some keep gasping and groaning, within the supporting cloth. The whole company squats down on the floor between us, closely huddled together. I get Knudsen, who speaks Yao fluently though not grammatically, to explain what I want, viz., songs and stories—and then wait to see what will happen. For some time nothing happens—except that a half-grown boy, who has slipped in with the rest, begins to relate a long fable; but he speaks so quickly that it is impossible to follow him. Of course he cannot dictate his story slowly enough for me to take it down. This is a very common experience—the people sing and speak into the phonograph with enviable readiness, but are helplessly perplexed when asked to dictate the words slowly. Indeed this could hardly be expected of them. We decide to reserve the boy for another opportunity and once more there is silence. Then arises, first very shyly, but soon gaining confidence and volume, a woman’s clear voice. Presently the chorus joins in, and alternates with the solo in regular turns for a considerable time:—

Chakalakāle, mwāna jua Kundúngu, mwắnja kwa tāti, “Anānyile litála kwa tati Kunampūye.” Nikwā́ola ku litīmbe, kuwalimāgắ Chenampūye. Newáije ku mūsi kwa atati wao. Nigómbaga uti nekugawíraga musi. Nekutamăgá.^[26]

The meaning of this is:—

“Chakalakale, a child of God, went away to his father. Show me the way to my father’s—to Kunampuye. He went to the river-bed where Chenampuye was hoeing. He came to the village to his father. Then there were guns fired and a village was assigned him to live in. And he lived at home.”

So far all has gone smoothly ... the song has come to an end. Matola, Daudi, Knudsen and I have with no little trouble established the authentic text, and the translation has been satisfactorily accomplished; but unfortunately I have to relinquish the idea of getting a phonographic record of the not unpleasing air. After my last failures at Lindi, due to the heat, which softened the recording cylinders, I tried my luck later on at Masasi, but the results there were with hardly any exceptions quite unsatisfactory. The softness of the cylinder is no disadvantage in recording, on the contrary, it enables the needle to make a deeper impression, but the impossibility of reproduction makes it difficult to check the text when afterwards dictated.

There is not much to remark about the foregoing song. I was at first doubtful of the rendering given of mwana jua kundungu, but Matola and Daudi both insisted on explaining it as “a child of God.” What is understood by that expression here it is impossible to say; perhaps it denotes a rebel, as further north, in Usagara and Ukami, and on the Rufiji, the leaders of the Majimaji have in fact assumed a title of somewhat the same import. The prefix ku in the name Kunampuye is the same as che—both are about equivalent to “Mr.” or “Mrs.”

At last we have finished writing down and translating the text. The mothers have watched us in complete silence—not so the babies, who all seem to suffer from colds, and breathe noisily in consequence. The assertions made in so many works on Africa, as to the happiness of the native in early childhood, do not stand the test of reality. As soon as the mother gets up after her confinement, which she does very soon, the infant is put into the cloth which she ties on her back. There it stays all day long, whether the mother is having her short woolly hair dressed by a friend, enjoying a gossip at the well, hoeing, weeding, or reaping in the burning sun. When she stands for hours together, pounding corn in the mortar, the baby jogs up and down with the rhythmic motion of her arms, and when she is kneeling before the millstone grinding the meal into fine white flour, or squatting by the hearth in the evening, the rosy morsel of humanity never leaves its close and warm, but not altogether hygienic nest. The rosiness does not last long. No provision in the way of napkins being made, the skin soon becomes chapped and deep cracks are formed, especially at the joints, and the terrible African flies lay their eggs on the eyelids of the unfortunate little ones, neither father nor mother ever raising a hand to drive them away—they never dream of making this effort for their own benefit! No wonder that the little eyes, which in the case of our own children we are accustomed to think of as the most wonderful and beautiful thing in organic nature, should be bleared and dim. Fungoid ulcers (the result of “thrush”) are seen protruding in bluish white masses from nose and mouth. The universal colds are the consequence of the great difference of temperature between day and night. The parents can protect themselves by means of the fire and their mats; the child gets wet, is left lying untouched and uncared for, becomes chilled through, and of course catches cold. Hence the general coughing and sniffing in our baraza.^[27]

The women having noticed that the first number on the programme is finished, the same solo voice as before begins once more, softly and not unmelodiously. “Seletu, seletu, songo katole, tung’ande songo katole.” This song, too, alternates between solo and chorus, like the previous one. I already know enough Yao to translate the two words, songo katole; their meaning, “Bring the songo” (snake) makes me curious as to that of the rest. And rightly so, for how anyone can invite a person to bring up this, the most poisonous reptile in East Africa, whose bite is instantly fatal, is at present a mystery. I restrain my curiosity, however, till I have heard the next song, which might be considered as merely a continuation of the first, as the air is the same, and the only difference is the introduction of another animal—the lion. The words are as follows:—

I have a good ear, but unfortunately have had no musical training whatever, and have never regretted this so much as I do now, here in the interior of Africa, especially now that my phonograph is hors de combat. This would not have mattered so much, had I been able to enter the simple melody at once in my note-book, but, as it is, I shall have to dispense with a record altogether. In both these songs the line sung by the solo performer is repeated by the whole chorus, and this alternation goes on for an indefinite time, till the performers are tired out.

In both cases, the words when translated are simple enough:

(1)

Seletu, seletu, the songo snake, bring it here and let us play, bring it here, the songo snake.

(2)

Seletu, seletu, the lion, bring him here—seletu, seletu, the lion is beautiful.

That is all. I think the admiration here expressed for two creatures very dangerous to the natives is to be explained as a kind of captatio benevolentiæ rather than as the outcome of any feeling for nature or of artistic delight in the bright colours of the serpent or the powerful frame of the lion. Both children and grown-up people are more concerned about the songo than about any other creature; it is said to live among the rocks, to have a comb like a cock and to produce sounds by which it entices its prey.^[28] It darts down like lightning on its victim from a tree overhanging the path, strikes him on the neck, and he falls down dead. The natives have described the whole scene to me over and over again with the most expressive pantomime. It is quite comprehensible that this snake should be feared beyond everything, and, considering similar phenomena in other parts of the world, it seems quite natural that they should try to propitiate this terrible enemy by singing his praises as being eminently fitted to take part in the dance. Precisely the same may be said of the lion.

Now things become more lively. “Chindawi!” cries one, to be rendered approximately by “I’ll tell you something!”^[29] and another answers “Ajise!” (“Let it come.”) The first speaker now says, “Aju, aji,” and passes her right hand in quick, bold curves through the air. I do not know what to make of the whole proceeding, nor the meaning of the answer, “Kyuwilili,” from the other side. The dumb shyness which at first characterized the women has now yielded to a mild hilarity not diminished by my perplexed looks. At last comes the solution, “Aju, aji,” merely means “this and that,”^[30] and the passes of the hand are supposed to be made under a vertical sun when the shadow would pass as swiftly and silently over the ground as the hand itself does through the air. Kyuwilili (the shadow), then, is the answer to this very primitive African riddle.

“Chindawi!”—“Ajise!”—the game goes on afresh, and the question is, this time, “Gojo gojo kakuungwa?” (“What rattles in its house?”) I find the answer to this far less recondite than the first one—“Mbelemende” (the bazi pea), which of course is thought of as still in the pod growing on a shrub resembling our privet. The ripe seeds, in fact, produce a rattling noise in the fresh morning breeze.

But for the third time “Chindawi!”—“Ajise!” rings out, and this time the problem set is “Achiwanangu kulingana.” I am quite helpless, but Matola with his usual vivacity, springs into the circle, stoops down and points with outstretched hands to his knees, while a murmur of applause greets him. “My children are of equal size” is the enigma; its unexpected solution is, “Malungo” (the knees). We Europeans, with our coldly-calculating intellect, have long ago lost the enviable faculty of early childhood, which enabled us to personify a part as if it were the whole. A happy fate allows the African to keep it even in extreme old age.

By this time nothing more surprises me. A fourth woman’s voice chimes in with “Ambuje ajigele utandi” (“My master brings meal”). The whole circle of faces is turned as one on the European, who once more can do nothing but murmur an embarrassed “Sijui” (“I do not know”). The answer, triumphantly shouted at me—“Uuli!” (“White hair!”)—is, in fact, to our way of thinking so far-fetched that I should never have guessed it. Perhaps this riddle may have been suggested by the fact that an old white-headed native does in fact look as if his head had been powdered with flour.^[31]

Now comes the last number of a programme quite full enough even for a blasé inquirer.

“Chindawi!”—“Ajise!” is heard for the last time. “Pita kupite akuno tusimane apa!”^[32] The excitement in which everyone gazes at me is if possible greater than before; they are evidently enjoying the feeling of their superiority over the white man, who understands nothing of what is going on. But this time their excess of zeal betrayed them—their gestures showed me clearly what their language concealed, for all went through the movement of clasping a girdle with both hands. “Lupundu” (a girdle) is accordingly the answer to this riddle, which in its very cadence when translated,—“Goes round to the left, goes round to the right, and meets in the middle”—recalls that of similar nursery riddles at home, e.g., the well-known “Long legs, crooked thighs, little head, and no eyes.”

Matola himself came forward with an “extra” by way of winding up the evening. His contribution runs thus:—“Chikalakasa goje kung’anda, kung’anda yekwete umbo,” which is, being interpreted, “Skulls do not play” (or “dance”); “they only play who have hair (on their heads).”

The difficult work of the translator is always in this country accompanied by that of the commentator, so that it does not take long to arrive at the fact that this sentence might be regarded as a free version of “Gather ye roses while ye may,” or “A living dog is better than a dead lion.” I, too, turning to Matola and Daudi, say solemnly, “Chikalakasa goje kung’anda, kung’anda yekwete umbo” and then call out to Moritz, “Bilauri nne za pombe” (“A glass of beer for each of us”).

The drab liquor is already bubbling in our drinking vessels—two glasses and two tin mugs. “Skål, Mr. Knudsen”; “Prosit, Professor”—the two natives silently bow their heads. With heartfelt delight we let the cool fluid run down our thirsty throats. “Kung’anda yekwete umbo” (“They only play who have hair on their heads”).... Silently and almost imperceptibly the dark figures of the women have slipped away, with a “Kwa heri, Bwana!” Matola and Daudi are gone too, and I remain alone with Knudsen.

Our manuals of ethnology give a terrible picture of the lot of woman among primitive peoples. “Beast of burden” and “slave” are the epithets continually applied to her. Happily the state of things is not so bad as we might suppose from this; and, if we were to take the tribes of Eastern Equatorial Africa as a sample of primitive peoples in general, the picture would not, indeed, be reversed, but very considerably modified. The fact is that the women are in no danger of killing themselves with hard work—no one ever saw a native woman walking quickly, and even the indispensable work of the home is done in such a leisurely and easy-going way that many a German housewife might well envy them the time they have to spare. Among the inland tribes, indeed, the women have a somewhat harder time: the luxuries of the coast are not to be had; children are more numerous and give more trouble; and—greatest difference of all—there are no bazaars or shops like those of the Indians, where one can buy everything as easily as in Europe. So there is no help for it; wives and daughters must get to work by sunrise at the mortar, the winnowing-basket, or the grinding-stones.

At six in the morning the European was tossing restlessly in his narrow bed—tossing is perhaps scarcely the right expression, for in a narrow trough like this such freedom of movement is only possible when broad awake and to a person possessing some skill in gymnastics. The night had brought scant refreshment. In the first place a small conflagration took place just as I was going to bed. Kibwana, the stupid, clumsy fellow, has broken off a good half of my last lamp-glass in cleaning it. It will still burn, thanks to the brass screen which protects it from the wind, but it gives out a tremendous heat. It must have been due to this accident that at the moment when I had just slightly lifted the mosquito-net to slip under it like lightning and cheat the unceasing vigilance of the mosquitoes, I suddenly saw a bright light above and behind me. I turned and succeeded in beating out the flames in about three seconds, but this was long enough to burn a hole a foot square in the front of the net. Kibwana will have to sew it up with a piece of sanda, and in the meantime it can be closed with a couple of pins.

Tired out at last I sank on my bed, and dropped into an uneasy slumber. It was perhaps two o’clock when I started up, confused and dazed with a noise which made me wonder if the Indian Ocean had left its bed to flood this plain as of old. The tent shook and the poles threatened to break; all nature was in an uproar, and presently new sounds were heard through the roaring of the storm—a many-voiced bellowing from the back of the tent—shouts, cries and scolding from the direction of the prison, where my soldiers were now awake and stumbling helplessly hither and thither in the pitchy darkness round the baraza. A terrific roar arose close beside my tent-wall. Had the plague of lions followed us here from Masasi? Quick as thought I slipped out from under the curtain and felt in the accustomed place for my match-box. It was not there, nor was it to be found elsewhere in the tent. Giving up the search, I threw myself into my khaki suit, shouting at the same time for the sentinel and thus adding to the noise. But no sentinel appeared. I stepped out and, by the light of the firebrands wielded by the soldiers, saw them engaged in a struggle with a dense mass of great black beasts. These, however, proved to be no lions, but Matola’s peaceful cattle. A calf had been taken away from its mother two days before; she had kept up a most piteous lowing ever since, and finally, during the uproar of the storm, broke out of the kraal, the whole herd following her. The two bulls glared with wildly-rolling eyes at the torches brandished in their faces, while the younger animals bellowed in terror. At last we drove them back, and with infinite trouble shut them once more into the kraal.

The white man in the tent has fallen asleep once more, and is dreaming. The nocturnal skirmish with the cattle has suggested another sort of fight with powder and shot against Songea’s hostile Wangoni. The shots ring out on both sides at strangely regular intervals; suddenly they cease. What does this mean? Is the enemy planning a flanking movement to circumvent my small force? or is he creeping up noiselessly through the high grass? I give the word of command, and spring forward, running my nose against tin box No. 3, which serves as my war chest and therefore has its abode inside the tent opposite my bed. My leap has unconsciously delivered me from all imaginary dangers and brought me back to reality. The platoon fire begins again—bang! bang! bang!—and in spite of the confused state in which the events of the night have left my head, I am forced to laugh aloud. The regular rifle-fire is the rhythmic pounding of the pestles wielded by two Yao women in Matola’s compound, who are preparing the daily supply of maize and millet meal for the chief’s household.

I have often seen women and girls at this work, but to-day I feel as if I ought to give special attention to these particular nymphs, having already established a psychical rapport with them. It does not take long to dress, nor, when that is finished, to drink a huge cup of cocoa and eat the usual omelette with bananas, and then, without loss of time I make for the group of women, followed by my immediate bodyguard carrying the camera and the cinematograph.

I find there are four women—two of them imperturbably pounding away with the long, heavy pestle, which, however, no longer resembles cannon or rifle fire, but makes more of a clapping sound. Matola explains that there is now maize in the mortars, while in the early morning they had been pounding mtama and making the thundering noise which disturbed my repose. This grain is husked dry, then winnowed, afterwards washed and finally placed in a flat basket to dry in the sun for an hour and a half. Not till this has been done can it be ground on the stone into flour. Maize, on the other hand, is first husked by pounding in a wet mortar, and then left to soak in water for three days. It is then washed and pounded. The flour will keep if dried.

After a while the pounding ceases, the women draw long breaths and wipe the perspiration from their faces and chests. It has been hard work, and, performed as it is day by day, it brings about the disproportionate development of the upper arm muscles which is so striking in the otherwise slight figures of the native women. With a quick turn of the hand, the third woman has now taken the pounded mass out of the mortar and put it into a flat basket about two feet across. Then comes the winnowing; stroke on stroke at intervals of ten and twenty seconds, the hand with the basket describes a semicircle, open below—not with a uniform motion, but in a series of jerks. Now one sees the husks separating themselves from the grain, the purpose served by the mortar becomes manifest, and I find that it has nothing to do with the production of flour, but serves merely to get off the husk.

The winnowing is quickly done, and with a vigorous jerk the shining grain flies into another basket. This is now seized by the fourth woman, a plump young thing who has so far been squatting idly beside the primitive mill of all mankind, the flat stone on which the first handful of the grain is now laid. Now some life comes into her—the upper stone passes crunching over the grains—the mass becomes whiter and finer with each push, but the worker becomes visibly warm. After a time the first instalment is ready, and glides slowly down, pushed in front of the “runner” into the shallow bowl placed beneath the edge of the lower stone. The woman draws breath, takes up a fresh handful and goes to work again.

This preparation of flour is, as it was everywhere in ancient times, and still is among the maize-eating Indians of America, the principal occupation of the women. It is, on account of the primitive character of the implements, certainly no easy task, but is not nearly so hard on them as the field-work which, with us, falls to the lot of every day-labourer’s wife, every country maid-servant, and the wives and daughters of small farmers. I should like to see the African woman who would do the work of one German harvest to the end without protesting and running away.

The care of the household is not unduly onerous. The poor man’s wife in our own country cannot indeed command a great variety of dishes, but her housekeeping is magnificence itself compared with the eternal monotony of native cooking—millet-porridge to-day, maize-porridge to-morrow, and manioc-porridge the day after, and then da capo. It may be admitted that the preparation of this article of diet is perhaps not so simple as it seems. I might suggest a comparison with the Thuringen dumpling, which takes the inspiration of genius to prepare faultlessly—but surely the most stupid negress must some time or other arrive at the secret of making ugali properly. Knudsen, in his enthusiasm for everything genuinely African, eats the stuff with intense relish—to me it always tastes like a piece of linen just out of the suds. The operation is simple enough in principle—you bring a large pot of water to the boil and gradually drop in the necessary meal, stirring all the time. The right consistency is reached when the whole contents of the pot have thickened to a glassy, translucent mass. If a European dish is wanted for comparison, we need only recall the polenta of Northern Italy, which is prepared in a similar way, and tastes very much the same.

I am glad to say that my own cook’s performances go far beyond those of the local housewives, though his ability—and still more, unfortunately, his willingness—leave much to be desired. Omari’s very appearance is unique—a pair of tiny, short legs, ending in a kind of ducks’ feet, support a disproportionately long torso, with a head which seems as if it would never end at all; the man, if we may speak hyperbolically, is all occiput. He is a Bondei from the north of the colony, but of course calls himself a Swahili; all the back-country Washenzi do, once they have come in contact with the Coast civilization which is so dazzling in their eyes. Omari is the only married man among my three servants; he says that he has four children, and speaks of his wife with evident awe. She did not, indeed, let him go till he had provided liberally for her support, i.e., induced me to open an account of seven rupees a month for her with the firm who do my business at Dar es Salam.

I have put my three blackamoors into uniform khaki suits, whereupon all three have appointed themselves corporals of the Field Force, by persuading the tailor to sew a chevron in black, white and red on their left sleeve. They are inexpressibly proud of this distinction, but their virtues, unfortunately, have not kept pace with their advancement. At Masasi I had to begin by applying a few tremendous cuffs to stimulate Omari’s energy. This corrective has proved inefficient in the case of the other two, as they will move for nothing short of the kiboko. If each of the three had to be characterised by a single trait, I should say that Omari is superstition personified; Moritz, crystallized cunning; and Kibwana, a prodigy of stupidity; while a mania (which has not yet entirely disappeared) for coming to me at every spare moment to demand an advance, is common to all three. All three, of course, make their exit in the same hurried manner. If in forming my ethnographical collections I had to deal entirely with people like my cook, I should not secure a single specimen. The fellow displays an amulet on his left arm—a thin cord, with, apparently, a verse from the Koran sewn into it. I remarked to him, in an off-hand way, “Just sell me that thing!” He protested loudly that he could not and would not do so, for he would infallibly die the moment it left his arm. Since then I have been in the habit of amusing myself by now and then making him an offer for his talisman; on each successive occasion he raises the same outcry. And as for his drawing! At Lindi, he once brought me the map of his native country, charted by himself on a piece of greasy paper. No one could make head or tail of it, except perhaps the devil whose presentment he brought me the following day, drawn on the reverse of the same piece of paper. Omari’s Prince of Darkness has no less than four heads, but only two arms and one leg—at least such is the verbal description he gives me; his drawing, like his map, is an inextricable chaos of crooked lines. My carriers are artists of quite another stamp. What spirit, for instance, is shown in a drawing by Juma, usually the most phlegmatic of mortals, intended to represent a troop of monkeys attacking a plantation—his own shamba in point of fact. But we shall have to come back later on to the draughtsmanship of the natives.

One provoking trick played me by my cook was connected with my supply of coffee. I had brought two large tins with me from Dar es Salam, each holding from six to eight pounds of the best Usambara quality, one roasted, the other unroasted. According to all human calculations, one tin should have lasted, even allowing the maximum strength to my midday cup, at least several months, so that I was quite taken aback when my chef came to me in the middle of the fourth week with the laconic announcement, “Kahawa imekwisha” (“The coffee is finished”). A strict investigation followed. Omari insisted that he had used two spoonfuls a day for me. I told Moritz to open the second tin and measure out with the same spoon the quantity which, on his own showing, he should in the worst case have consumed. This was done without appreciably diminishing the quantity in the huge canister. Upon this I told him to his face that he had used part of the coffee himself, and sold part of it to his friends the soldiers. “Hapana” was his only answer. The only way to escape this systematic robbery is by daily measuring out the necessary quantity with one’s own hands, but this takes up far too much of the time so urgently required for work. This necessity for ceaseless supervision was proved to me, moreover, by another incident. Kibwana and Moritz usually take it in turns to be on the sick list, and sometimes, in fact, frequently, both are incapacitated at the same time, usually by fever. Moritz, a few days ago, declared himself about to die—but not here at Chingulungulu: dying is so much easier at Lindi. Nils Knudsen, with his soft Viking heart, compassionated the poor boy to such a degree that I was at last morally compelled to make use, although it was not regulation time, of my clinical thermometer: my model medicine chest, I may remark, only contains one of these useful instruments. The patient—at the point of death—registered normal. Moritz, this time, recovered with astonishing rapidity.

On another occasion, however, he was really ill, and I allowed him to make himself a large jug of my cocoa in the morning. Full of forebodings, I went across to the kitchen, at his breakfast-time, and not only found him revelling in comfort, but also the whole of my party being regaled by the cook in the most generous way with the contents of one out of my eight tins. Can one be expected to refrain from using the kiboko?

The local amusements not being carried on at my expense are decidedly more enjoyable than the above. The beer-drinkings here take place, not, as at Masasi, in the morning, but in the afternoon. Moritz must have a flair for festivities of this sort, since, whenever he acts as guide in my afternoon strolls in search of knowledge, we are sure to come upon a mighty company of tippling men, women, and children. The love for strong drink seems thus to be pretty strongly developed, though there is this year no special occasion to serve as an excuse for drinking at Matola’s. The most prominent of such occasions here in the south is the unyago, the ceremony of initiation into manhood and womanhood, of which I have heard again and again, from men as well as from youths, though so far I have not set eyes on the least trace of such an arrangement. At present I do not even see the possibility of personally witnessing the proceedings, which, by all one hears, seem to be extremely complicated. I am determined, however, that it shall somehow come to pass.

The reason why there is no unyago this year at Chingulungulu lies in the arrangement by which each village keeps the festival in turn—probably on account of the expense, which is no trifle. Besides the enormous quantity of pombe drunk at the many dances, huge supplies of provisions are required for the visitors who come far and near to attend the celebration; and finally, calico has to be bought at the Coast, both for the new garments in which the initiated are to appear after the ceremony, and for the fees to their instructors, male and female. I have no greater wish than to get a thorough insight into this custom of all others, since, so far as I am acquainted with the literature relating to Africa, this part of the sociological field is still almost if not entirely untilled.

Meanwhile, the men amuse themselves and me in other ways. Even before I left Masasi, I saw the people running together with the cry, “Sulila amekuja!” (“Sulila has come!”), and a great crowd collected round a man who was evidently a stranger. This man is, to begin with, remarkable for the fact that, though stone blind, he wanders all over the southern part of East Africa in perfect safety. It is true that he had a companion, but this man, so far from being his guide, walked behind him, carrying the bard’s professional paraphernalia. Sulila, who belongs to the Yao tribe, is, in fact, a professional singer. He offered of his own accord to give a performance for my benefit and had completed his preparations in a twinkling. The implements of his craft are simple enough. He has his band formed afresh on the spot when wanted: six or eight men come forward, squat down in a square, each lays down before him a log stripped of the bark and about as thick as one’s arm, takes a stick in each hand and awaits the signal to begin. The master in the meantime has adorned himself with the utmost splendour, attaching to his knees and ankles sets of rattles which consist of hard-shelled fruits as large as moderate-sized apples, strung on leather thongs. Round his waist he wears a kilt composed of whole skins and strips of skins of various wild animals—wild cats, monkeys, leopards—and, finally, his head is decorated and his face shaded by the mane of a zebra or some large kind of antelope, looking like a barbaric crown.

Sulila has taken his place in the centre of his band, holding his stringed instrument in his left hand, and its bow in his right. This instrument is a monochord with a cylindrical resonator cut out of a solid block of wood, the string, twisted out of some hair from the tail of one of the great indigenous mammals, is fastened to a round piece of wood. Instead of rosin, he passes his tongue over the string of his bow, which he then lifts and applies to the string, bringing out a plaintive note, immediately followed by a terrible bellow from Sulila himself and an ear-splitting noise from the “xylophones” of the band. Strictly speaking, I am inclined to regret having come out on a scientific mission: there is an inexpressible delight in seeing this strange artist at work, and every diversion caused by the working of the apparatus means a loss of enjoyment. Sulila is really working hard—without intermission he coaxes out of his primitive instrument the few notes of which it is capable, and which are low, and quite pleasing. Equally incessant is his singing, which, however, is less pleasing, at least for Europeans. His native audience seem to accept it as music par excellence, for they are simply beside themselves with enthusiasm. Sulila’s voice is harsh, but powerful; it is possible that its strength to some extent depends on his blindness, as, like a deaf man, he is unable to estimate the extent of the sound-waves he produces. He takes his words at such a frantic pace that, though my ear is now somewhat accustomed to the Yao language, I can scarcely distinguish one here and there.

But the most charming of all Sulila’s accomplishments is the third, for he not only plays and sings, but dances also. His dance begins with a rhythmic swaying of the knees, keeping time to the notes of his fiddle, while, with the characteristic uncertainty of the blind his face turns from side to side. After a time the swaying becomes deeper and quicker, the dancer begins to turn, slowly at first, and then more rapidly, at last he revolves at a tearing speed on his axis. His bow tears along likewise, his voice sets the neighbouring bush vibrating, the band hammer away like madmen on their logs—it is a veritable pandemonium, and the public is in raptures.

As already stated, I could not help secretly regretting the impossibility of giving myself up unreservedly to the impression of these performances, but the duty of research must always be the predominant consideration. The hours spent over the camera, cinematograph, and phonograph, involve more hard work than amusement. This cannot be helped, but, if some of the results turn out satisfactorily, as has fortunately happened in my case, all difficulties and discomfort are abundantly compensated.

It is not easy to get phonographic records of the voice, even from natives who can see. You place the singer in front of the apparatus, and explain how he has to hold his head, and that he must sing right into the centre of the funnel. “Do you understand?” you ask him on the conclusion of the lecture. “Ndio” (“Yes”), he answers, as a matter of course. Cautious, as one has to be, once for all, in Africa, you make a trial by letting him sing without winding up the apparatus. The man is still shy and sings too low, and has to be encouraged with a “Kwimba sana!” (“Sing louder!”). After a second trial—sometimes a third and fourth—the right pitch is found. I set the apparatus, give the signal agreed on, and singer and machine start off together. For a time all goes well—the man stands like a column. Then something disturbs his balance. He turns his head uneasily from side to side, and there is just time to disconnect the apparatus and begin instructions again from the beginning. This is what usually happens; in many cases undoubtedly it was vanity which induced the singer coquettishly to turn his head to right and left, saying as plainly as words could have done, “See what a fine fellow I am!”

With Sulila the case is much worse. He is so in the habit of moving his head about that he cannot stop it when standing before the phonograph, and the first records made of his voice are terribly metallic. With the swift impulsiveness which distinguishes me, and which, though I have often found cause to regret it, has repeatedly done me good service in this country, I now make a practice of seizing the blind minstrel by the scruff of the neck the moment he lifts up his leonine voice, and holding his woolly head fast as in a vice, regardless of all his struggles; till he has roared out his rhapsody to the end. Most of the songs I have hitherto heard from Yao performers are of a martial character. Here is one which Sulila sang into the phonograph at Masasi on July 24:—

Tulīmbe, achakulungwa! Wausyaga ngondo, nichichi? Watigi: Kunsulila(1) kanapagwe. Jaiche ja Masito; u ti toakukwimi. Wa gwasite(?) Nambo Wandachi pajaiche, kogopa kuona: msitu watiniche; mbamba syatiniche; mbusi syatiniche; nguku syatiniche; kumala wandu putepute; nokodi papopu; kupeleka mbia syakalume. Gakuūnda(?) Mtima wasupwiche: Ngawile pesipo Luja. Kunsulila ngomba sim yaule kwa Bwana mkubwa: Nam(u)no anduwedye atayeye mapesa gao. Sambano yo nonembesile.^[32a]

The meaning of this is:—

“Let us be brave, we elders. They asked: What is a war? They say: ‘Mr. Sulila is not yet born.’ Then comes (the war) of the Mazitu; guns are fired; then they ran away. But the Germans came; it was dangerous to see; the bush was burnt, the ants were burnt, the goats were burnt, the fowls were burnt—the people were finished up altogether; the tax came up (they had) to bring a hundred jars (of rupees). They were not satisfied. (Their) heart was frightened. Mr. Sulila telegraphed to the District Commissioner: ‘He may skin me to make a bag for his money.’ Now I am tired.”

The tribes in the south-eastern part of our colony are very backward as regards music; they have nothing that can be called tune, and their execution never gets beyond a rapid recitative. In both respects, all of them, Yaos, Makua and Wanyasa alike, are far behind my Wanyamwezi, who excel in both. Only in one point the advantage rests with the southern tribes—the words of their songs have some connected meaning, and even occasional touches of dramatic force. This is remarkably illustrated by Sulila’s song.

The Mazitu have made one of their usual raids on the unsuspecting inhabitants of the Central Rovuma district. Which of the many sanguinary raids on record is meant cannot be gathered from the words of the song, it may be one of those which took place in the eighties and nineties, or the recent rising—probably the latter, since, so far as I am aware, there was never any question of taxes in the previous disturbances. In this case, moreover, it is not so much a war-tax that is referred to, as the payment of the hut-tax introduced some years ago, which has during the last few months been paid in at Lindi with surprising willingness by people who had been more or less openly disaffected. This may be looked on as a direct consequence of the prompt and vigorous action taken by the authorities.

The interference of the Germans marks a turning point in the fighting of the natives among themselves. The feeling that more serious evils are coming upon them is expressed in terms of their thought by speaking of the destruction of all property. First the bush is burnt, and all the ants in it destroyed, then comes the turn of the goats, which here in the south are not very numerous, though the fowls, which are the next to perish, are. Finally, many people are killed—Sulila in his ecstasy says all. Now come the conditions of peace imposed by the victorious Germans: a heavy tax in rupees, which must be paid whether they like it or not. In the eyes of those immediately affected the sum assumes gigantic proportions, they become uneasy and contemplate the step which, here in the south may be said to be always in the air—that of escaping the consequences of the war by an emigration en masse. Then appears the hero and deliverer—no other than Sulila himself. In the consciousness of his high calling, he, the poor blind man, proudly calls himself “Mr. Sulila”^[33] He sees his country already traversed by one of the most wonderful inventions of the white strangers—the telegraph wire. He telegraphs at once to the Bwana mkubwa, that his countrymen are ready to submit unconditionally,—they have no thought of resistance, but they have no money. And they are so terrified that the Bwana might if he chose skin them to make a bag for the rupees—they would not think of resisting. This is the end of the song proper—the last sentence, “Now I am tired,” is a personal utterance on the part of the performer himself, fatigued by the unwonted mental effort of dictation.

Here at Chingulungulu there are several such minstrels. The most famous of them is Che Likoswe, “Mr. Rat,” who, at every appearance is greeted with a universal murmur of applause. Salanga has a still more powerful voice, but is so stupid that he has not yet succeeded in dictating the words of one song. If I could venture to reproduce my records I could at once obtain an accurate text, with the help of the more intelligent among the audience; but I dare not attempt this at the present temperature, usually about 88°. I will, however, at least, give two songs of Che Likoswe’s. One of them is short and instructive, and remains well within the sphere of African thought, that is to say, it only contains one idea, repeated ad infinitum by solo and chorus alternately.

Solo:—“Ulendo u Che Kandangu imasile. Imanga kukaranga” (“Mr. Kandangu’s journey is ended. The maize is roasted”).

Chorus: “... Ulendo u Che Kandangu....”

Che Likoswe’s “get-up” and delivery are very much the same as Sulila’s, except that, in conformity with his name, he sings, fiddles and dances still more vivaciously than his blind colleague, who is also an older man. He is, moreover, extremely versatile—it is all one to him whether he mimes on the ground, or on tall stilts—a sight which struck me with astonishment the first time I beheld it. The song itself, of course, refers to a journey in which he himself took part. The most important incident from the native point of view is, that all the maize taken with them by the travellers was roasted—i.e., consumed, before the goal was reached. Mr. Rat’s other song is much more interesting; it has an unmistakable affinity with Sulila’s war-song, and gains in actuality for me personally, because it is concerned with Mr. Linder, the excellent agricultural inspector of the Lindi municipality, to whom I owe many valuable suggestions, and who, on account of his thorough acquaintance with this very district, had originally been selected as my companion. Linder rendered splendid service in suppressing the rebellion: while any action on the part of the Field Force was still entirely out of the question, he had already, with a small detachment of police, repulsed numerous attacks of the rebels, and ultimately sustained a serious wound. But while decorations have been simply raining down on the Navy and the Schutztruppe, Bwana Linda still walks among mortals without a single order. He is, however, a philosopher as well as a hero.

The song runs as follows:—

Ulendo wa Linda (er); pa kwenda ku Masasi na gumiri chikuo: mkasálile mbwana mkubwa ngondo jaiche nand autwiche lunga yangadye. Mkasálile akida Matora: ngondo jaiche na gombel(r)e lilōmbe. Tukujir(l)a Masasi; Mwera kupita mchikasa mpaka pe Lindi. Ne wapere rukhsa. Yendeye ku mangwenu; mkapānde mapemba.

The translation is as follows:—

“The journey of Linder, when he went to Masasi, and I shouted with a shouting.—‘Tell the Bwana Mkubwa, war has come, and I ran away without looking back. Tell the akida Matora, (that) the war has come, and I have beaten the great-drum.’ Then we went to Masasi, the Wamwera are beaten and go as far as Lindi, and they get permission. ‘Go to your homes, and plant Mapemba (sorghum).’”

This is delivered in very quick recitative, and relates in a few words the history of the whole campaign, of course making the singer the central point. Mr. Linder comes to Masasi in the course of one of his official tours, his principal duty being to ascertain whether the local headmen have cultivated the various crops prescribed by government. There the loyal Likoswe of course hastens to him and warns him of impending hostilities on the part of the Wamwera. Linder in his turn sends word to the District Commissioner at Lindi, and at the same time despatches Likoswe with an urgent message to Matola’s. Likoswe, on arriving, beats the war-drum (lilombe), Matola’s warriors immediately hasten to the spot, six hundred men with guns and many more with spears, bows and arrows, and the chief marches on Masasi, to take the Wamwera in the rear. It is related as a fact that Seliman Mamba and his subordinates had each, at the beginning of the rising when their hopes were highest and they already saw the Germans driven into the sea, fixed on a house at Lindi with all its contents as his own share of the spoil. Possibly, the line about the enemy’s going back to Lindi refers to these unrealised plans. Matola, I believe, lost about forty men in fighting the rebels, but certainly did not drive them back to Lindi. The last sentence relates to the conclusion of peace:—the vanquished are pardoned, and directed to go home quietly and plant their gardens once more.