My cinematograph, too, has been several times in requisition during my stay at Chingulungulu, as I have found opportunity to take a whole series of dances of the Wayao and Makua. The latter, it is well known, are the hunting-tribe par excellence of the east—indeed professional hunters of any tribe are generally described as Makua. They are, moreover, typical for all other tribes in their method of hunting, and in all appliances and customs connected therewith. One day, by Matola’s orders, a troop appeared at Chingulungulu to perform, as they said, the makwaru—a dance entirely based on the details of the hunter’s life. I had quickly got my apparatus arranged in a suitable place, not an easy matter here in the loose alluvial soil, as, if one presses too hard on the legs of the tripod, they are apt to sink into the sand up to their whole height. Grown wise by experience, I now take the precaution of driving a wooden wedge obliquely from above under each leg before beginning operations. It is more difficult to remedy the results of a mistaken economy. In order to save the African Fund about twelve shillings and a quarter of a carrier, I did not bring the heavy stand necessary for the Ernemann cinematograph, thinking that I could use my ordinary camera-stand. This, though excellent of its kind, is far too light to stand the continual jerks of the cinematograph, and I have to balance matters by hanging a heavy stone or one of my packing-cases under it. If matters become very serious one of the carriers has to sacrifice himself and do duty as a tripod-holder. Everything being now ready for the makwaru, the same band which figured at Sulila’s and Likoswe’s performances takes its place. It consists of six or seven men and youths, squatting before their long white logs with their drumsticks in hand. Suddenly, a fantastically decorated something flashes into the circle, moving so rapidly that it is impossible to distinguish whether it is a man or a woman. Being compelled to pause for breath it is revealed as a middle-aged man in a kilt of long green leaves resembling a ballet-dancer’s skirt. The man scarcely stirs from the spot, but his skirt flies in the wind, and he works his feet in quick, regular time, while at the same time his arms move in a manner difficult to describe, as there is nothing in European dancing which in the least degree corresponds to it; and both, arms and legs, keep exact time with the band. Whether the rest of the body in its incessant motion backwards and forwards also keeps time it is impossible to decide, as the vibrations are too rapid to let the eye make out the details. This stage lasts so long that I am tempted to regret the waste of my precious film.

At last the hunter changes his tactics. The dancer is, in fact, a hunter, and not only that, but a very successful elephant-hunter; and having just killed a large elephant, he is celebrating this deed of prowess before the assembled inhabitants of his native village, just as he does after his return from the actual hunt. Here, too, the people have collected from far and near to see this celebrity, and to admire his skill in the dance. His performance becomes more and more vivacious—he no longer remains on one spot but trips forward, first in a straight line, then in a zig-zag. At last he revolves in a circle, moving round with short, cautious jumps, and all the time keeping up the movements of his arms and hips without a moment’s intermission. After one more rapid trip round the circle and a frantic vibration of the whole body, the dancer stands still, breathing deeply.

This kind of dance is too peculiar, too divergent from all European standards for us to judge of it critically according to the rules of art. I had expected a pantomimic representation of an elephant-hunt, or at least of the stalking and killing of the game, and I must confess that I can find nothing in the performance which seems to have any such reference, and must confine myself to admiring the incredible dexterity shown by this acrobat in setting all his muscles a-quiver. I have no sooner got a fresh film ready, than a second dancer has appeared on the scene, whose action is still more curious and perplexing. At first one sees nothing but a confused mass of green leaves rolling and writhing on the ground in convulsive motions. After a while, this resolves itself into a man much like the previous one, except that his costume is much more voluminous. He quivers in a masterly manner and shows as much staying power as his predecessor; but his chief strength lies in his legs, whose suppleness and power of assuming the most grotesque attitudes are nothing short of marvellous. When he has exhausted his repertoire and made way for a third performer, we at last get the expected pantomime. Stooping as if for a spring, the hunter creeps up, noiselessly, making use of every bit of cover, to stalk the elephant, whose scent is exceedingly keen. At last the goal is reached—swiftly, but as noiselessly as the hunter, the quarry, represented by another man, has slipped into the arena, and squatted down, and the hunter circles round him in diminishing spirals. We expect the deadly shot, but it does not come off, and the third dancer, quite regardless of the elephant he is supposed to represent, begins to “triumph” in precisely the same way as the two others, practising highly artistic short steps, swaying his hips and flourishing his arms. “Bassi”—(finished,) I exclaim, as the last of my three films whizzes off the reel.

Quite in contrast to these are the typical unyago dances of the Wayao. There seems to be a great variety of these; but so far I have only seen two at Chingulungulu, a masewe, so called from the rattles worn, as already mentioned, on the legs and feet, and a luwanja. Both are essentially the same in character. The primitive xylophone of the Makua hunting-dance is here replaced by a complete band of drums, of the most various shapes and sizes. A certain musical faculty inherent in the race is evidenced by the fact that the musicians take care to tune up before the dance begins. Each beats his own drum, listening carefully to hear whether it is in tune with the rest, and if not, hurries away to the nearest hut and comes back with a brand from the hearth and a large bundle of dry grass. The grass is heaped on the ground and set on fire, and then every drum is held with the open end over it, for a longer or shorter time—some for a few seconds only, some for half a minute or more—the pitch being tested by striking from time to time. At last all the skins are sufficiently tense and the drumming begins.

At the same moment a dense cloud of dust is seen approaching with lightning speed, and discloses a seemingly endless procession of men, youths and boys, all decked in bundles of masewe at the ankle and above the knee, and a kilt of leaves and strips of skin round the waist. They take their places in the arena in front of the band, and immediately fall into position and trot along in Indian file, till the line closes up into a circle and moves round to the left, then round to the right, and so on. It is astonishing how uniformly and accurately the movements are executed by every individual performer, even the youngest boys. There is nothing very exciting about this dance; in fact, I find all native dances monotonous, perhaps owing to the prevailing character of the continent, which is very uninteresting, except in a few favoured spots. Perhaps a native critic, however, might object that there is no great variety in our waltzes or polkas. Just as these reflections were passing through my mind, the scene changed, somewhat to its advantage, and the circle broke up into groups which vied with each other in the most remarkable leg-movements. These, in fact, seem to be the strong point of all these dancers. One group floated along on tip-toe, another imitated the dignified gait of some kind of wading-bird, yet another swayed merrily in and out between the rest, and a fourth stalked along with legs held perfectly stiff. Long after my last film was finished the company were still disporting themselves, unable to leave off, but at last this “turn,” too, came to an end; the band produced only horrible discords; I was tired out with standing; Knudsen complained of the first symptoms of fever, and the function was over.

The performance of dances like the one just described, which is connected with the circumcision rite, have naturally increased my interest in this tribal festival, and my desire to see and study it as closely as possible.

My curiosity was increased by the two following incidents. One afternoon I was strolling through the bush in the neighbourhood of Chingulungulu; we had already obtained some interesting photographs of graves, had studied the exterior and interior of some outlying homesteads, and were about to take some views of the pori showing the character of the vegetation. After straggling in Indian file through the high grass and the underwood, which was here exceptionally dense, we came to a little circular clearing, perhaps from fifteen to twenty yards in diameter, and studded with a few scattered bushes. The unique feature of the place was two concentric circles of stumps having another stump in the centre. These stumps were about a foot high, cut off with a perfectly smooth horizontal surface, and excellently well adapted for seats. I took a photograph of this remarkable object without loss of time, and, on my return to camp, made inquiries of Matola and others as to its meaning. I found that the stumps were seats for the wari, as the boys under initiation are called after a certain point in the ceremony, and the seat in the middle was that reserved for the instructor who has charge of the boys during the months which they have to spend in a hut built for the purpose in the bush. My informants added that the hut had stood close to the circle, but was no longer in existence, as the unyago for which it had been built had taken place some years ago.

Some days later, Knudsen and I were sitting under our baraza in the early part of the afternoon, pressing our hands to our temples. It was no wonder that every day about this time we both suffered from excruciating headaches, for the temperature had been steadily rising during the last few weeks, and on this particular afternoon the thermometer stood at 93·36°F. We had given vent to our disgust at the Dark Continent in the strongest of language, and I was just about to soothe our ruffled feelings with a cigar apiece, when we saw two black figures approaching. These proved to be Akundonde, the wise old Yao chief, and his councillor, Akumapanje. We had sent to ask Akundonde to find us some men capable of giving accurate information, and now he came himself, though far from well. He was suffering from the usual neglected ulcer on the leg, and could only limp along painfully with the help of his staff, so that his taking a four hours’ walk to oblige us shows a degree of goodwill deserving the amplest recognition.

Akundonde being established in Knudsen’s long chair, while his companion took a seat on a packing-case, I made an effort to divert the conversation from the trifles which at first threatened to engross it to the subjects which chiefly interest me, and succeeded, more by luck than good guidance. As usually happens, we were soon discussing the most recondite matters, such as the attitude of the natives towards eclipses, the fall of meteorites, and the moon. Meteorites are considered by the Yaos as of evil omen. When they are heard to explode, people say, “Either a great chief will die this year, or a great multitude of the people will perish.” An eclipse of the moon is thought, as among all primitive people, to be a personal encounter between two foes. The enemy of the moon is, of course, the sun; they seize each other fiercely and wrestle together. As both are equally matched, the battle remains undecided, which forces mankind to interfere. The Wayao run in haste to fetch hoes and axes, and strike them against each other, looking up at the scene of strife and calling out:—

“Mlekangane, mlekangane, mwesi na lyuwa, mkamulene, Mlekangane, mlekangane sambano.”

“Go asunder, go asunder, sun and moon, you have seized one another. Go asunder, go asunder now.”

The same custom is observed in eclipses of the sun, as is only logical.

The full moon with her pale light exercises the same magical influence on the native mind as on the feelings of every other mortal, except that our black brother is not like us filled with emotional enthusiasm, but, quite in conformity with his views on other matters, makes use of this favourable opportunity for heightening the virtue of his medicines and charms. When the moon is at the full, the native goes to the nearest cross-roads, or to a place where two paths meet, carrying with him a sufficient quantity of a certain gum called ubani. In perfect silence he then kindles a fire by means of the primitive appliance of the drill (to be described later on). The dust produced by boring catches fire, but the glimmer is at first so faint that it is scarcely perceptible even to the keen eyesight of the savage. Very carefully he blows on the tiny spark—it grows, catches the bunch of dry grass and then the sticks, and when the flame leaps up, he drops his powder into it. The flame now burns dimly, a thick smoke rises, and the man takes the amulets he is accustomed to wear round his neck, arms and waist, and holding them in the smoke, says: “You moon, a little while ago you were not there, and the sky was dark. Now you are there and shine down brightly. All beasts and plants are glad and have new strength, so let my medicine also have new strength.” Then he prays thus: “Let the medicine protect my body against lions and serpents, against witchcraft and everything that may hurt me, and let my body have new strength.” Once more he swings his charms through the smoke, as it becomes thinner and more transparent; the fire dies down, and as noiselessly as he came the man creeps back to his hut.

Being now on the subject of magic, the three ethnographic specialists, Knudsen, Akundonde and Akumapanje, keep to it, and speak of the tying of knots. Akundonde relates how a man in this country, if he has designs on any particular girl, takes a strip of bark, makes a knot in it, without drawing it tight, and says to it, “You tree, your name is sangalasa (joy)—you are to fetch me that girl, and as a sign that it shall come to pass, I shut my words up in you.” He then holds the open knot in front of his mouth, puts his tongue through it and draws it tight. He afterwards wears the knotted piece of bark-string tied round his wrist. This proceeding, though simple enough, is connected with a long and important chapter in racial psychology. The tying of a knot in fact, in many strata of mankind, has an occult meaning; the binding power of the knot is supposed to be transferred to certain persons, and, so long as the knot itself cannot be untied, those persons are indissolubly attached to him or her who has tied it according to certain rules and with the proper ceremonies.

Interesting as these matters were, and glad as I should have been to know more of them, I was just now still more eager to hear about the much-discussed unyago. I brought up the subject, but both natives cleverly evaded it. After a while, I noticed the old chief’s eye roaming wistfully about our study, saw that he was tired and thirsty, and remembered that Daudi, the native clergyman, had sent us a large pot of pombe whose quality precluded our drinking it ourselves. “I suppose it will be quite good enough for these two old sinners,” I remarked to Knudsen, who must have been revolving similar cogitations; for he at once seized the import of my words, fetched a huge tin mug from his tent, filled it with the yellow, fermenting liquor, and handed it to Akundonde. The latter took it, but did not drink, handing it to his companion instead. “There’s a polite chief for you!” I thought to myself—but, seeing how very cautiously Akumapanje touched the beer with his lips, it became clear to me that I was witnessing an ancient traditional custom, arising from the innate suspiciousness of the negro, who scents—not indeed poison, but certainly witchcraft—everywhere, and dreads it accordingly. The precaution is intended to divert the risk from the superior to the subordinate.

Akumapanje, after tasting, handed the cup back to Akundonde, who thereupon emptied it at a draught. A few seconds later it was again at the lips of the prime minister, who faithfully copied his master. Drink and counter-drink succeeded each other at the same rapid rate, and we Europeans looked on with mixed feelings of envy and admiration. This did not prevent me from remembering our ethnographical purpose, and I found that what had previously seemed impossible was now child’s play. The two old men, by turns completing each other’s statements, gave a fluent description of the general features of the boys’ unyago: the arrangement for holding the festival at different villages every year (which was not new to me); the introductory ceremony, held in an open square surrounded by the huts erected for the candidates; and the operation itself, which takes place in a special hut in the depths of the forest. I had heard something of all this from Knudsen, who, in the course of his many years’ residence among the Wayao, has acquired a wonderful knowledge of their life and customs, and whom I have been pumping at every spare minute with such persistency that the good fellow has no doubt often wished one of us elsewhere.

At last, however, our two visitors, becoming more loquacious as the pombe diminished, reached a part of the subject of which Knudsen knows very little, but which attracts me most of all. This is the instruction given to the boys during the months spent in the bush by their teachers (anamungwi). These instructors, of whom every boy has one from the time of his initiation into manhood, are indisputably one of the most sympathetic features in the life of the people. They watch over their pupils through the painful weeks of the unyago, teach them what is fitting and unfitting, and remain responsible for their welfare even after they have left their boyhood far behind. I was anxious, above all, to ascertain the gist of the moral teaching given in the bush hut, and, though I only partly succeeded in doing this, it is a great satisfaction to have taken down verbatim a fragment of a speech delivered on such an occasion.

Some extra well-filled cups having removed the last scruples of our two jovial informants, Akundonde, with a little more encouragement from Knudsen, began in a didactic tone:—

“Mwe mari, sambano mumbēle. Atati na achikuluwēno mnyōgopĕ́. Nyumba mkasayinjila tinyisimana chimtumbánăgá. Wakongwe mkasayogopa; mkagononawo, mesi akayasináwo. Imālagắ akamtikĭté; imālagắ akamila muchisiḗ; masakam. Munyitikisie: marhaba. Mkuona mwesi sumyógopé, ngakawa kuulala. Kusimana timchiŭá; Miasi jili kogoya. Chilwele winyi.”^[34]

The translation is as follows:—“You, my pupil, now you are initiated. Your father and your mother, fear (respect) them. See that you do not enter the house (unannounced), lest you should find them embracing. Do not be afraid of women, but sleep with them, bathe with them, when you have finished let her rub (knead) you; when you have finished she should salute you (saying) ‘Masakam,’ and you must answer, ‘Marhaba.’ You must be afraid (= take care) when you see the (new) moon, you might get hurt. Beware of women during their courses, this is dangerous, (it causes) many diseases.”

My notes were scarcely as complete and connected as the above when first written down. The native is incapable even when sober of taking his sentences to pieces, as it were, and dictating them bit by bit; but taking down the words of these two jovial old sinners was a difficult task, which, however, we accomplished successfully up to the point when the inevitable catastrophe set in.

The two had invariably paused for refreshment at the end of every sentence till they reached the point above indicated, when they suddenly found the pombe jar empty. They had drunk at least five gallons at a sitting, but with the strange logic of the intoxicated, they considered themselves entitled to a further supply, and, when none proved to be forthcoming, they indignantly broke off their lecture and left in a huff. This is the reward of being hospitable overmuch.

The address here reproduced, which I have translated with the help of Knudsen, Daudi, Matola and some others, is said to be the same, both as to matter and form, at all unyago ceremonies. No doubt this is correct, for I know nothing which could more exactly express the feelings of the native than just these precepts. They are a strange mixture of hygienic rules and moral instruction, and at the same time contain a good deal of primitive tradition which still forms part of daily life. I mean by this the fact that the youth, once recognised as a member of the adult community, is forbidden to enter his mother’s house unannounced. Here, in East Africa, we are still in the matriarchal stage, where the husband is nothing, so to speak, but a connection by marriage. He is his children’s father, but is not related to them, in fact he belongs to a different clan. This clan, as so often happens among primitive peoples, is exogamous—that is to say that there is no impediment to a young man marrying a girl of any clan but his own. This prohibition goes so far that the young Yao has, as far as possible, to avoid his nearest female relations who, of course, are his mother and sisters, and hence the injunction at least to give warning of his approach when entering his mother’s house.

The stress here as elsewhere laid on the reverence to be shown to father and mother must strike all right-thinking Europeans as a very pleasing trait. Respect for parents and for grown-up people in general is, as I have been told over and over again, the principal and fundamental feature in native education, and Knudsen testifies that the young people in general observe it in a marked degree in their intercourse with their elders. We Europeans might well learn from the natives in this respect, thinks Nils, who is no doubt, well qualified to form an opinion.

But, in spite of all pleasant impressions as to native educational maxims, I have lost the end of the unyago address—a misfortune for which the good Daudi’s big pombe-jar is to blame. If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, Muhammad will have to go to the mountain. In other words, Akundonde having declared that he must go home to put fresh dawa on his leg and cannot possibly come again, we shall have to look up the old gentleman at his own residence.