CHAPTER XIV

FURTHER RESEARCHES

Last week, we had a few days of such cool, bright, windless weather, that it seemed as if a St. Luke’s summer had set in. Now, however, the icy gales from the east are once more blowing round the _boma_ of Newala, and we had rain on Michaelmas Day, which was somewhat early. This must have been a signal universally understood by young and old; for I am no longer besieged by the hitherto inevitable boys, and my old men, too, have ceased their visits. Fortunately, I have been able to pump the old gentlemen so effectually in the course of the last few weeks that I could leave at once, quite happy in the possession of an enormous stock of notes, were I not detained by the linguistic inquiries which I am now set on making. It is quite impossible to give here even the merest indication of the knowledge so far gained as to all these more or less strange customs and usages. The details will have a place in official and other documents to the preparation of which the leisure of many coming terms will have to be sacrificed; here I can only indicate such prominent points as are calculated to interest every civilized person.

Personal names among the natives offer an unlimited field for research. Where Islam has already gained a footing, Arab names are prevalent. The Makonde _askari_ Saidi bin Musa keeps step with his comrade Ali bin Pinga from Nyasa, and Hasani from Mkhutu marches behind the Yao porter Hamisi. Among the interior tribes the division into clans predominates as a principle of social classification, and therefore, even in the case of converts to Christianity, the baptismal name is followed by the clan name. Daudi (David) Machina is the name of the native pastor at Chingulungulu, and the presumptive successor to Matola I and Matola II calls himself Claudio Matola. We shall have something more to say about these clan names later on.

The meaning of the names is often equally interesting. My carriers alone have already provided me with a good deal of amusement in this respect, the appellations they go by being in most cases exceedingly absurd. Pesa mbili (“Mr. Twopence”) is as familiar to us as his friend Kofia tule, the tall man with the little flat cap, Kazi Ulaya, the man who works for the European and Mambo sasa—“Affairs of to-day.” Besides these, the following gentlemen are running about among the two dozen who compose my faithful retinue:—Mr. Blanket (Kinyamwezi _bulangeti_, corrupted from the English word), Mr. Cigarette (no commentary needed), Kamba Ulaya (European rope, _i.e._ hemp rope as distinguished from native cordage of cocoa-nut fibre or palm-leaf twist), Mr. Mountain (Kilima) and Messrs. Kompania and Kapella (Company and Band—from the German _Kapelle_). The names Mashua (boat) and Meli (steamer, from the English “mail”) have a nautical suggestion and Sita (Six) an arithmetical one—and, to wind up with, we have Mpenda kula—(“He who loves eating”).

The names used by the interior tribes are free from the noticeable European touch found in these designations of the carriers, but here, too, we come across amusing specimens. I notice at the same time that these names are certainly not the first to grace their bearers. As is so often the case with primitive peoples, and with the Japanese at the present day, we find that every individual on being formally admitted to the duties and responsibilities of adult life assumes a new name. The natives hereabouts do not know or have forgotten the original significance of this change, but we are not likely to be wrong in supposing that the new name also means a new person, who stands in quite a different relation to his kinsmen and his tribe from his former one. Officially, every adult Yao, Makua, Makonde or Matambwe has the right to offer himself as godfather, but I have the impression that the majority of names one hears are really nicknames, casually given by acquaintances.[53] It is well known that the native has a very acute sense of the weak points and absurdities of others.

Che Likoswe (“Mr. Rat”) will be remembered by his war-songs at Chingulungulu, and with him may be classed Che Chipembere (“Mr. Rhinoceros”). The latter is liable to fits of sudden rage, like the pachyderm, hence his name. The name of the old beer-drinker, Akundonde, is a reminiscence of his original kinship with the Wandonde tribe. Che Kamenya is he who is victorious in fight; there was joy at the birth of Machina; Makwenya gathers everything to himself, but Che Mduulaga, on the other hand, thinks nothing of himself,—he is modesty in person. In the same way, Mkotima is a quiet man, Siliwindi is named after a song-bird so-called; and, finally, Mkokora is he who carries away dirt in his hands.

These are some Yao men’s names. I will only mention the following women’s names for this tribe:—Che Malaga means “She is left alone”—all her relations have died. Che Chelayero, “She who has a hard time.” Che Tulaye, “She who fares poorly,” and Che Waope, “She is yours.”

The personal names of the other tribes have on the whole the same character—Kunanyupu is an old Makua, who, according to his own statement, has killed many gnus (_nyupu_) in his youth. Nantiaka is the Don Juan who flits from one attraction to another. A similar train of thought has suggested the name of Ntindinganya, the joker, who contrives to saddle others with the blame of his own tricks. Linyongonyo is the weakling; Nyopa the ambitious man who strives to make himself feared by others; Madriga is the sad, melancholy man; Dambwala the lazy one.

Among the women Alwenenge is “the one who knows her own worth,”—her lord and master has, it is true, taken another wife, but he will not remain with her, but return penitently to Alwenenge, as she very well knows. Much less fortunate is Nantupuli; she wanders about the world and finds nothing at all, neither a husband nor anything else. Other unfortunates are Atupimiri and Achinaga—the former has a husband who is always on his travels and only comes home from time to time to “measure” (_pima_) his wife, _i.e._, to see how she is behaving. Achinaga’s husband, on the other hand, is ill and cannot work, so that she has to do everything by herself. There is also a Pesa mbili among the Makonde women. The name implies that she formerly stood high in the estimation of men, but now she has grown old and is only worth two pice. Beauty has its market value even with the negro.

A field of inquiry, extremely difficult to work, but which will everywhere well repay cultivation, is that of the customs accompanying the life of the individual from his cradle to his grave.

The native infant—which is not black, but at first as pink as our own new-born babies—has come into the world in its mother’s hut. The father is far from the spot, the women having sent him out of the way in good time. The baby is carefully washed, and wrapped in a piece of new bark-cloth. At the same time its ears are anointed with oil, that it may hear well, and the ligature under the tongue loosened with a razor, to ensure its learning to speak. Boys are everywhere welcomed; but with regard to girls, the feeling varies in different tribes, and, just as is the case among ourselves, in different families. It is often stated in ethnographical works that primitive peoples rejoice on purely interested grounds at the birth of girls, on account of the price they will bring when married. Up to a certain point such considerations may have weight here, too, but in general people are glad of daughters if only because they can soon begin to help their mother in her numerous outdoor and indoor tasks. Their marriage, moreover, brings an additional faithful and unpaid worker into the household. For this is the land of exogamy, where the young wife does not go to her husband’s home, or enter his family, but, on the contrary, the man leaves his father and mother and either moves directly into the house of his wife’s parents, or builds his own close beside it. In any case for some years, until his own family circumstances necessitate a different arrangement, he devotes all his powers to keeping up his mother-in-law’s establishment. He sees to the planting of the crops and their ingathering, he breaks up new ground, in short he renders every possible service, and anticipates her every wish. I have often been ashamed when the conversation turned on this and other features of native life, to remember the tenor of those venerable jests of which our comic papers never weary. Of course, a mere passing traveller like myself is no judge of the more intimate side of family life, but Knudsen, who has lived in the country long enough to become thoroughly familiar with the people’s ways of thinking and acting, confirms the impression I had arrived at, that, not only is the relation between mother and son-in-law nothing short of ideal, but that the behaviour of young people to their elders in general deserves to be called exemplary. We who belong to the highest stage of culture, or, according to the view held by most of us, _the_ stage of culture, spend half our lives in educational establishments of various kinds and grades, and the final result is shown by statistics in the diminishing percentage of illiterates in our population. But let all who have eyes to see and ears to hear observe how little ethical sense and how much downright brutality make up the daily life of these very representatives of culture. I am far from wishing to say anything against our system of education and our schools—I am a kind of schoolmaster myself—but it gives food for serious reflection to see how worm-eaten, in spite of all the care bestowed on it, is much of the fruit they produce, and how ethically sound is the life we meet with among these barbarians. And this is the outcome of a training extending over three or four months and received from teachers who have passed through no school or college.

The treatment of twins is different among the various tribes in this part of the country. The Wayao welcome them with unmixed joy, while the Makonde look on their birth as a terrible event, to be averted if possible by all sorts of charms. But even here the parents are not so cruel as to kill them if they do come into the world; they are allowed to live and treated in the same way as by the Wayao, _i.e._, their clothing (such as it is) is always alike. If this were not done, it is believed that one of them would certainly die.

For the first year the African infant remains in close contact with its mother. When it is only a few days old, she takes it out for the first time, to be shown to the admiring neighbours. Like a little lump of misery it squats in the large coloured cloth enfolding the upper part of its mother’s person. It usually hangs on the mother’s back, but she very often swings it round to one hip. When the time comes for feeding the baby, it and the bag containing it are brought round to the front. Nothing so impresses me with the idea of poverty and squalor as this treatment of infants: no change of clothing for mother or child—for there is no supply of extra garments—no drying, no powdering, no napkins, no regular bath after the first few days, no care of the mouth. On the contrary, every child has sore places where the skin has been chafed, especially at the joints, and in folds and depressions of the body; half-healed scabs, where nature is getting the upper hand in spite of neglect; eyes nearly always bleared and running in consequence of the perpetual attacks of flies, and, finally, individual cases, here and there, of thrush-ulcers on such a scale that fungoid growths actually protrude from mouth and nostrils. It would be well if the Government and the Missions could unite to put an end to this frightful state of things, not so much by medical work, which is naturally limited to certain localities, as by training the mothers, as extensively as possible, in the simplest rules of hygiene and cleanliness.

I have been half-an-hour in a native village. The men and boys were all assembled within two minutes of my arrival; the women are gathering more slowly; the little girls, curiously enough, are altogether absent. Just as with us, the women have at once gathered into a closely-packed group. A shy silence reigns at first, but no sooner have they had time to get used to the sight of the white man, than there is an outburst of talk in every key, in spite of the hugest of _peleles_. At least half these women are carrying babies, but this term is tolerably comprehensive. Great boys and girls of two, or even three years old, are sprawling on the slight backs of delicate-looking mothers, or making violent attacks on the maternal fount of nourishment. My camera apparently affords the pretext for this last manœuvre; for, as if at a given signal, the whole little black band is propelled forward into position at the very moment when I press the bulb.

The later stages of childhood among the natives are passed in a way not materially differing from our own youthful recollections. The little boys band themselves together in troops and carry on their games in the village and the bush; while the little girls begin at an early age to help their mothers indoors and out. Wherever I have been able to carry on my activity as a collector, I have been particularly assiduous in getting together all toys and games in use in the country. There is one point deserving of special notice in connection with children’s games, and this is that almost from the first day of its existence the child is present wherever anything is going on. When the mother joins in the dance, the baby on her back goes through every movement with her, and thus learns dancing, so to speak, instinctively. By the time it can stand on its own little feet, it joins in with the same certainty as that with which the partridge chick just out of the egg goes to pick up its food. Whether native children have outside these dances anything that can be called concerted games, I cannot say, but so far I have seen nothing of the sort,[54] unless we might count the great skill shown in clapping the hands in unison, in which, with its pleasing rhythm and (one might almost say) variety of tune, they are as much at home as their elders. Otherwise every child seems to be dependent on itself, at least as far as toys are concerned. For boys, bow and arrows are the _sine qua non_ in the first place. If I had been willing to buy all the toy bows offered me, I should have had enough to load a small ship. Here in Africa the weapon is as much of a survival as in most other countries. The fact of its being confined to children shows that, as in Europe, it is no longer seriously used in war, but only in play, or at most, in the chase. We find, as might be expected, that the grown men are no better archers than the boys, and _vice versa_. Where firearms have once been introduced, more primitive weapons are no longer valued.

It is not easy to form an ethnographical collection in this country. It is only in consequence of my very resolute attitude—which is far more effectual than my bags of copper coin—that the people make up their minds to bring anything at all, and then it is chiefly rubbish. In order to obtain the more valuable class of articles, such as the more important household implements, or the carved masks and other works of art, I am frequently compelled to resort to a mild display of force, by making the headman of the village morally responsible for the production of the specimens. And yet every article is liberally paid for. How peculiarly difficult it is to obtain toys, of all things, people at home have no notion. I would suggest the following explanation for this fact. If a Japanese ethnographer, for instance, were to visit Germany in the autumn he would find it easy enough to make a large collection of kites, but tops—to take one of our most typical children’s toys—he would only be enabled to see and procure if he definitely inquired for them. It is just the same here; everything has its season, and toys above all. Having once grasped this truth, I always made short work of the business, by delivering to the assembled villagers a lecture on all the playthings of mankind, winding up with, “If you have so and so—or so and so—be quick and bring it here.” In many cases neither my own linguistic acquirements nor the interpreter are sufficient, and gestures have to supply the lack of words. I was quite startled at my success, one day at Chingulungulu, when, on having gone through the vigorous movement of slinging a stone, I saw Salim Matola, the all-accomplished, return in a short time with two remarkable objects, which, on his demonstration of the way in which they were used, proved to be a veritable throwing-stick and a sling—an _amentum_. I have rarely had such a feeling of complete success as at this moment. Who would have thought to find the throwing-stick and the sling in Eastern Africa, a region hitherto considered so barren as regards ethnography? The former is an implement intended to serve no other purpose than the lengthening of the lower arm in order to throw a spear or a stone; it represents, therefore, in terms of physics, the lengthened arm of a lever. Its principal region of distribution is Australia; it also exists in some parts of the Western Pacific, among the Hyperboreans, and in isolated parts of America. Hitherto it has been assumed that the African had not arrived at this invention. The sling in the same way serves to lengthen a lever, but the spear or stone is in this case not thrown by means of a catch on the stick or board, but by a string fastened to the root of the forefinger, while the free end is coiled round the missile. If the warrior throws his arm forward, the weapon leaves the hand by centrifugal force, uncoils itself from the string and flies away with great initial velocity.

Where such antiquities as these occur—I reflected at the time—surely there are more discoveries to be made. This expectation was in fact fulfilled, though I had first to fight my way through a superfluity of another species of toy. One day, in the course of the lecture already referred to, I happened to make the gesture of whipping something over the ground, and it was at once correctly understood, for from that time forward the young people simply overwhelmed me with tops. No less than four kinds are in use here. One exactly corresponds to our European peg-top,[55] and is, like it, driven with a whip, a second has a round or square piece of gourd fixed on a short, stout wooden peg as axis of rotation;[56] a third is similar to the last, but has a second disc under the first (which is about the size of a five-shilling piece), in order to place the centre of gravity higher up. Finally, we have a very complicated mechanism whose action resembles that of our humming-top. The second and third require no whip, but are spun with the thumb and middle finger. The fourth, on the other hand, needs a “frame” to spin it. This is represented by a piece of maize-cob perforated lengthwise, through which the string wound round the top is quickly pulled back. Like many other things, the art of spinning tops is not made easy for native boys, the soft, sandy ground being ill-suited to this game; yet the little fellows show great skill in it.

With one exception, children have no musical instruments peculiar to themselves. Whether they fiddle on the _sese_, the one-stringed violin, or maltreat the _ulimba_, that instrument on which all Africans strum—the box with wooden or iron keys fixed to its surface, and struck with the finger-tips—or strike the _mgoromondo_, that antediluvian xylophone in which the keys rest on a layer of straw, or play on the _lugombo_, the musical bow with calabash resonator, which is so widely distributed over East and South Africa—in every case the instruments are only clumsy imitations of those used by grown-up people. The only one whose use is confined to the young is the _natura_—a friction-drum, made from a bottle-gourd or the fruit of the baobab, cut across and covered in, like a drum, with the skin of some small animal. A blade of grass passes through the middle of the diaphragm, and thence down through the bottom of the shell. By rubbing a wetted thumb and forefinger down the stalk, as the little wretches are perpetually doing, a noise is produced so excruciating that even my carriers—who are not precisely sufferers from nerves—take to flight when they hear it. But young people are not only capable of preserving ancient survivals in culture through thousands of years, but also have the advantage of a greater receptivity for novelties. I have in my collection two charming specimens of an African telephone, consisting of two miniature drums, beautifully carved and covered with the delicate skin of some small animal, perforated in the middle to allow the passage of a thin string, which is kept from slipping through by a knot on the inside of the skin. I never thought, at first, of taking this thing seriously, but one day, having a spare quarter of an hour, I put one of the drums into Knudsen’s hand, and told him to walk away till the string—about a hundred yards in length—was stretched tight. I held the membrane to my ear, and heard quite clearly, “Good-day, Professor. Can you hear me?” So the thing really acts, and all that remains for us to do is to develop it and boldly link ourselves up with the coast and that centre of civilization, Lindi![57] There can be no question of independent invention in this case; the telephone is undoubtedly borrowed—but the fact of the borrowing, and the way it is applied by children are not without interest.

Such an important epoch in native life as that represented by the _unyago_, with all its joys and woes, its games and dances, cannot be without influence on the habits of the young people, even before it arrives. Thus I have some _ipivi_ flutes obtained from little fellows far too young to be admitted to the mysteries. Anyone who wishes to excel in an art must begin his training early, and the flute players of the _ndagala_ practise their instrument for years beforehand. Moreover, boys, who had evidently not yet passed through the _unyago_, have more than once brought me specimens of the _kakale_, the long sticks, painted black and white in alternate rings with a little trophy at the top, consisting of the shell of some fruit with a plume of feathers stuck in it. These two insignia of maturity, therefore, are also found in the capacity of toys. There is nothing surprising in this so far as the boys are concerned, for the native has no secrets from them. At the ceremonies I witnessed at Achikomu, as well as at Niuchi and Mangupa, there was always a whole troop of little fellows, covered with dirt and ashes, running about. Strangely enough, there were never any half-grown girls to be seen on these occasions; everything relating to the mysteries seems to be carefully kept secret from them. It was only during my long residence at Newala, with its possibilities of free intercourse between me and the different tribes, as well as among natives of different ages, that I could see and photograph any of these young things. They seem to be brought up much more within the walls of the hut and its compound than we are accustomed to suppose; and even in the hundreds of visits I have paid to native homes, I have seldom been able to see the young daughters of the house face to face. As a rule, I only caught sight of a slender little figure retreating swiftly through the back door of the hut.

Under these circumstances, of course, I cannot say how the little native girl actually grows up, and whether she enjoys anything even faintly resembling the happy childhood of our own loved ones—but nothing leads us to suppose that she does; though there is no question that the native shares in the universal instinct which inspires all parents with affection for their offspring; he feeds his children and protects them when they need protection; he rejoices when they thrive and mourns over their illness and death. I can still see Matola, as he came to me one day—his usual expression of gentle melancholy heightened to one of deep grief and anxiety—carrying a little girl of some five or six years. She was not even his own child, but a relative, for whom he entreated my help. To my sincere regret, it was impossible for me to do anything—the poor little thing was suffering from a malignant gangrene, which had eaten away the whole front of one thigh, so that the tendons were laid bare and the bones were beginning to bend. I spoke very seriously to Matola, asking whether he were as much of a _mshenzi_ as his people, who were perishing through their own stupidity and apathy. He, the headman, and a clever man at that, knew very well, so I told him, that there were German doctors at Lindi, who could cure even such cases as this, if the patients were brought to them. He ought therefore, to send the child down at once, unless he wished her to die, as all her elder brothers and sisters had done.

Matola gazed at me for some time, evidently wavering between hope and doubt; but in the end he followed my advice; and I have since heard that the child is well on the way to recovery. But it is astonishing and perplexing that such an enlightened man as the chief of Chingulungulu should have allowed the disease to go on so long before taking any serious steps to obtain assistance. What then could be expected of a man from the bush, who consulted me immediately after my arrival, asking me for medicine for his sick child?

“What is the matter with your child?”

“A wound on her foot.”

“But, my good man,” I said, “I can’t give you medicine to take home,—you would not know how to put it on. You must bring your child here. Where do you live?”

“_Mbali_—a long way off—Bwana,” he answers, lengthening the vowel to signify inexpressible distance.

“How far?”

“Well—about two hours.”

“Oh! you call that far, do you? you _mshenzi!_ if you were going to a beer-drink, twenty hours would be _karibu sana_. Off with you now, and come back at eight to-morrow morning.” But neither at eight nor at any later hour was there any sign of the noble father from the Makonde bush. It was not till the fifteenth day after the preliminary consultation that he appeared, bringing with him a little girl of five or six. I did not at first remember him, but at once recalled his previous visit when the child, overcoming her natural shyness, held out her foot. Nothing was to be seen but a horrible mass of dirt and sand cemented together with blood. I started at once on the cleansing process, with the help of Stamburi, my trusty hospital orderly; and when at last the foot was laid bare, we found that the whole ball was eaten away to the bone—whether owing to jiggers, or through the cumulative effect of various other circumstances, my medical knowledge is insufficient to decide. When at last I glanced at the father, I saw him staring like one hypnotized at a leg of antelope intended for the next day’s dinner, which Knudsen had hung up just over my table. Having recalled him to reality, I bade Moritz give him the softest part from the skin of a recently killed wild pig, and told him to make a shoe, or at least a sandal such as are certainly not unknown in this country, as he must see for himself that the child could not walk through the dirty sand with her freshly-bandaged foot. He had his knife with him—let him get to work without delay! We two practitioners devoted ourselves once more to the treatment of the wound, which was in truth a terrible one; and in a little while the bandage was put on as correctly as we knew how. A second look at the father showed that he was still staring at the raw joint, as intently as if he had really eaten his way into it. It is a good thing, after all, in such cases, to have the _kiboko_ within reach. In another quarter of an hour the well-wrapped foot was protected by a very serviceable pigskin slipper. But that is the last I ever saw or heard of the gentleman, and he never so much as thanked me either for the treatment or for the thrashing.

Boys and girls, as a rule, reach the age of eight or nine, perhaps ten, before any event of importance interrupts the even tenor of their lives. Then the assembly of the men, which when the harvest is over, meets daily in the _baraza_, decides where the _unyago_ is to be celebrated in the current year. Since all the adjacent districts have now taken their turn in bearing the expense of the ceremony, it is a point of honour that our village should invite them this time. The resolution is soon carried into effect; the moon is already on the wane, and the celebration must take place before the new moon. The _unyago_ presents exactly the same features in all the tribes of this region. The men erect a circle—larger or smaller as circumstances may require—of simple grass huts in an open space near the village. In this space the opening and closing ceremonies are performed; the huts are intended for the candidates to live and sleep in. Such an arena, with all its appurtenances in excellent preservation, was the circle of something over fifty yards’ diameter which I was enabled to photograph when visiting the _echiputu_ at Akuchikomu. The charred remains of a similar _lisakasa_, as the system of huts is called in Yao, were to be seen near the road on this side of Akundonde’s—the relics of a former festival.

It is inherent in the nature of the whole institution that both boys and girls should be passive throughout. They sit silent, inactive and motionless in their huts while, on the first night of the festival, the grown-ups feast and drink and enjoy themselves in the wild _masewe_ dance. Next day the boys, each one in charge of his instructor, are conducted to the bush by the chief director. There they sleep one night without any shelter whatever. For a short time, on the following day, they may do as they please, but during the remainder they have to set to work with their _anamungwi_ (teachers) and build the _ndagala_. As soon as this airy construction is finished, one after another of the boys is laid on a very primitive couch of millet-straw, and the _jua michila_ performs the operation. For weeks the little patients lie there in a row, unable to do anything to accelerate the slow process of healing. Not till this is complete and the subsequent moral and other instruction has begun do the _wari_, as the boys are now called, acquire the right to take part in public life. In the high spirits engendered by the pride of their new position, they indulge in many a mad freak. Woe to the unhappy woman or girl who, ignorant of the situation of the _ndagala_, strays into this region of the bush. Like a troop of mischievous imps, the boys rush on her, tease her, perhaps even tie her up and ill-use her. According to tribal custom, they are quite within their rights in so doing, for their abode in the bush is supposed to be utterly unknown to women. When he goes out into the _pori_ the boy is dead to his mother,—when he returns, he will be a different person with a new name, and nothing to connect him with his former relationship.

I have already tried to describe the course taken by the instruction imparted in the _ndagala_. Old Akundonde and his councillor, in the candour induced by their libations, were certainly trustworthy informants in this respect. It is an irreparable misfortune that the liquor supply coming to an end when it did (in such a surprisingly short time) deprived me of the conclusion of the address to the _wari_, but the fragment already given is quite sufficient to indicate the character of the teaching.

The _lupanda_ reaches its culminating point only with the closing ceremony. The preparations on both sides are extensive: in the bush the _wari_ are being restored by their mentors by means of head-shaving, baths, anointing with oil, and a supply of new cloth, to a condition worthy of human beings. In the village, meanwhile, the mothers, long before the time fixed, have been brewing large quantities of beer and preparing still larger piles of food for the festivity. When the great day at last arrives, the boys come back in procession, in their clean new garments, with their faces, necks, and freshly-shorn scalps all shining with oil, and carrying in their right hands the _kakale_, the sticks headed with rattles which have already been described. Men and women line the road in joyful expectation. Ever louder and more piercingly, the “lu-lu-lu” of the women vibrates across the arena, and yonder the drums strike up with their inspiriting rhythm, while the hoarse throats of the men utter the first notes of a _ng’oma_ song. In short, everything is going on in the most satisfactory and genuinely African way.

The Africans, being human, like ourselves, it is only to be expected that all their works and ways are subject to as many changes and inconsistencies as our own. I have devoted a disproportionate part of the time (over a month) spent at Newala to the task of fixing the typical course of all these ceremonies. This has been a most severe labour, for if, in my wish to obtain unimpeachably accurate results, I arranged to let my informants of each tribe come separately, I might be sure that the two or three old men who made their appearance would say little or nothing. The native intellect seems not to become active till awakened and stimulated by sharp retort and rejoinder in a numerous circle of men. I have thus been compelled to go back again and again to my original method of assembling the whole senate of “those who know,” some fifteen aged Yaos, Makua and Makonde in a heterogeneous crowd round my feet. This was so far successful as to produce a lively discussion every time, but it becomes very difficult to distinguish between the elements belonging to different tribes. Yet I venture to think that, with a great deal of luck, and some little skill, I have succeeded so far as to get a general outline of these matters. I feel quite easy in my mind at leaving to my successors the task of filling up the gaps and correcting the inaccuracies which no doubt exist.

Further, it must be remembered that my notes on the initiation ceremonies of these three tribes would, if given in full, take up far too much space to allow of their reproduction here. Two other points must be borne in mind. What I saw with my own eyes of the _unyago_, I have here related in full, with that local colouring of which actual experience alone enables a writer to render the effect. But those scenes at Achikomu, Niuchi and Mangupa are only tiny fractions of the very extensive _fasti_ represented by the girls’ _unyago_ in reality; while, as to the remainder, I can only repeat what I have heard from my informants. Quotations, however, always produce an impression of dryness and tedium, which is what I would seek to avoid at any price. I therefore think it better to refer those interested in the details of such things to the larger work in which it will be my duty, according to agreement, to report to the Colonial Office on my doings in Africa and their scientific results.

The last point belongs to another department. The negro is not in the least sophisticated as regards the relation between the sexes. Everything pertaining to it seems to him something quite natural, about which his people are accustomed to speak quite freely among themselves,—only in extreme cases showing a certain reticence before members of the alien white race. Now the part played by sex in the life of the African is very great, incomparably greater than with us. It would be too much to say that all his thoughts and desires revolve round this point, but a very large proportion thereof is undoubtedly concerned with it. This is shown in the clearest way, not only in the _unyago_ itself, but in the representation which I subsequently witnessed. In the present state of opinion resulting from the popular system of education, such delicate matters can only be treated in the most strictly scientific publications, being debarred from reproduction in a book of any other character. This is necessary—I must once more emphasize the fact,—not on account of the subject itself, but out of consideration for the misguided feelings of the public. It may be regrettable, but it is true.

Of all the tribes in the South of German East Africa, the Yaos seem to be, not only the most progressive, but the most prosaic and unimaginative, and in fact their initiation ceremonies are very simple, compared with those of the Makonde and Makua. Those of the latter have to a certain extent a dramatic character. The Makua choose a branch of a particular shape, and forked several times, which they plant in the midst of the open space where the festival is held. This is fetched from the bush by the men, who, singing a certain song, carry it in procession into the arena, where the director of the mysteries stands, in the attitude of a sacrificing priest. He now kills a fowl, the blood of which is caught in a bowl, while some charcoal is pounded to powder in a second vessel, and some red clay crushed in a third—the branch is then encircled with a triple band of the three substances—red, black, and red. Meanwhile some men have been digging a hole, in which is laid a charm made out of pieces of bark tied together. The hole is then filled up and the earth heaped over it in a mound on which the forked branch, called _lupanda_, is planted. A second mound is then made, which, as well as the first, was still clearly recognizable in the ring of huts at Akundonde’s. This second mound is the seat for the _unyago_ boy who is considered of highest rank, the others being grouped around him, on stumps, which, if the director of the proceedings has the slightest sense of beauty, are arranged in two regular, concentric circles similar to those which I saw in the bush near Chingulungulu. “The cromlech of the tropics!” was the idea which occurred to me at the time, and even now I cannot resist the impression that this arrangement of tree-stumps resembles our prehistoric stone circles, not only in form but perhaps also in the object for which it is designed. If our Neolithic megaliths were, really used by assemblies for ritual purposes, there seems no reason why these venerable stones should not have served as seats for our ancestors. The negro, too, would no doubt dispense with wooden seats, if stone ones had been obtainable in his country.

If I were at all given to imaginative speculations, I could easily prove that the Makonde are fire-worshippers. As soon as the men have built the _likumbi_, _i.e._, a hut of the kind we saw at Mangupa, all scatter to look for medicine in the bush. In the evening of the same day, they give the roots they have collected to an old woman who pounds them in a mortar. The resulting paste is dabbed in spots on the arms of some five or six men by the high priest or doctor. When this is done all sit inactive till midnight, when the _munchira_ (doctor) begins to beat his drum. As the deep sound of this instrument thunders out through the dark tropical night, all the people, adults and children, stream out of the huts, and dancing and gun-firing are kept up till the following afternoon, when they distribute presents to each other and to the boys’ instructor. Thereupon the _munchira_ delivers an address. The six men above referred to are, he says, sacred; if they should take it into their heads to steal, or commit violent assaults, or interfere with their neighbours’ wives, no one must do anything to them, their persons are inviolable. The six, for their part, are now informed by him that it is their duty to beat the drum at midnight for the next three months.

When the three months are ended, the village is all stir and bustle. Men go into the bush to collect dead wood, and in the evening carry it in perfect silence to the open space near the _likumbi_ hut. The women, meanwhile, have been preparing enormous quantities of beer, which also finds its way to the _likumbi_. In this hut stands a small round covered basket (_chihero_), containing medicines, into which (and on the medicines) every one of the wood-gatherers spits out a little of the specially prepared beer. Beside the _chihero_ stands the old woman who pounded the medicines in the mortar, who then puts the basket on her head, seizes in one hand the end of a whole piece of calico, specially bought for the ceremony, and leaves the hut with a slow and solemn step, dragging the cloth behind her. The first of the wood-gatherers quickly takes hold of it, so as not to let it touch the ground; as it unrolls from the bale a second takes it, then a third, and a fourth, till at last it passes along a little above the ground, like a train borne by pages. The _munchira_ walks in front next to the woman, and they circumambulate the _likumbi_, after which the _munchira_ takes the end of the calico and wraps it round the _chihero_. This he then holds to his right ear; after a short pause, he places it on his shoulder, again keeping it there for a few moments; then it is lowered to the hip, the knee, and finally to the outside of the ankle. At the close of the ceremony the venerable man takes both cloth and _chihero_ as his well-earned fee.

Again it is night—the outline of the great wood-pile is just recognizable in the faint light. About an hour after midnight, a tall, gaunt figure rises from the circle of prostrate figures wrapped in their sleeping-mats. Silently it glides up to the pile, a little flame flashes up, to disappear again; but soon there is a fresh crackling; the flame, in the draught produced by the rhythmic pulsations of a fan, grows and strengthens. Now we recognize the figure—it is that of the _munchira_. In a few minutes the whole large pile is a sheet of flame, its flickering, quivering lights dancing on the shining faces of the men standing round in a circle. The fire having now burnt up brightly, the _munchira_ walks quickly round it, and, his face turned to the pile, utters the following words:—“Let the wounds of the boys heal soon and painlessly, and let the chief who is keeping the _likumbi_ this year find the boys do him credit in after life.” At the same time he ties a white rag to a pole, and fans the fire with powerful strokes. The men remain standing round it, watching it as it dies down, till broad daylight.

Fire, as the central point in a ceremony which cuts so deeply into social life as do the celebrations of puberty among these tribes, is so far as I know quite an isolated phenomenon among the peoples of Africa. Have we here a case of genuine fire-worship, or are the walk round the fire and the address to it only the last unconscious survivals of a cult prevalent in ancient times? I do not know, and, to speak frankly, cannot even say where the answer to this question may be looked for. We must not _a priori_ assume it to be impossible that the Makonde should once have been fire-worshippers; we know far too little as yet of their social evolution. The abundant results of my inquiries up to this point are the best proof that unexpected discoveries are yet in store for us.

In the male sex the transition from childhood to the status of fully-qualified maturity is a single, definite process, though extending over a long period. The memory of rejoicings and sufferings experienced in common is preserved henceforth among the men by means of a free, voluntary association known as the “age-class.” All those who have passed through the _unyago_ in the same year stand by each other till death severs the connection. This connection, however, must be thought of in terms of African conditions; there is no society or club, or the like, and the sole obligation incurred by the old friends is that every one of them is bound to offer hospitality to any of the others who may come to his village. Secret societies no longer consciously influence the character of the age-classes here in the East, though the reverse is the case in West Africa where the two things go hand in hand, acting and reacting on each other as cause and effect, and both finding their common outward expression in great festivals with masked dances and other mysterious accessories calculated to terrify the women and the uninitiated men. Here on the Makonde plateau, the three phenomena—the age-classes, the festivals and the masked dances—are at the present day not very closely connected together; yet everything leads to the conclusion that the masked dance now in use among the Makonde was originally the outcome of a long-forgotten system of secret societies, similar to the quite analogous institutions of Kamerun, Upper Guinea, and Loango. There is many a knotty problem yet to be solved in this department of African ethnography.

The girls’ _unyago_ is a graduated series of courses of instruction. I have purposely emphasized the word instruction, as there is nothing here in the nature of a surgical operation, with a single exception in the case of the Makua. In all the tribes each girl is given for the whole period of the _unyago_ into the charge of a special teacher, who remains her friend through life. Under the guidance of these older women, the novices in the first place go through a curriculum very much resembling that of the boys. The children are unreservedly enlightened as to all sexual relations, and have to learn everything connected with married life. They are also taught all the rules which govern intercourse between members of the same tribe, and above all of the same family.

There is an opening and a closing ceremony for this first course of the girls’ initiation. I was able personally to observe the revels which take place on such occasions, at all three of the places where I had the opportunity of making the _chiputu_ (or _echiputu_) illustrious by my presence. The phenomenal thirst shown is quite explained by the amount of dancing gone through.

After the mysteries, both boys and girls in due course become marriageable, but I have not succeeded in ascertaining, even approximately, the age at which this is the case. Individuals are always out of measure astonished when asked their age, and their relatives are profoundly indifferent on the subject. In general, marriage takes place very early, as is proved by the very young mothers who may be seen in any large assemblage of people, and who are mostly no further developed than German girls at their confirmation. Matola tells me that the form of marriage known as _masange_ was formerly very prevalent, in which young children of from five to seven were united, huts being built for them to live in. This custom is said still to be practised occasionally.[58] The same informant states that it is very common for one woman, who has just had a child to say to a neighbour expecting a like event, “I have a son—if you have a daughter, let him marry her”; and this, in due course, is done.

The African native is a peasant, not only in his avocation, but in the way in which he sets about his courting. In no other department is his mental kinship with our own rustics so startlingly shown. To express it briefly: the native youth in love is too shy to venture a bold stroke for his happiness in person; he requires a go-between quite in the style of our own rural candidates for matrimony. This office is usually undertaken by his own father, who, under some pretext or other, calls on the parents of the bride-elect, and in the course of conversation touches on his son’s projects. If the other side are willing to entertain the proposition, the negotiations are soon brought to a satisfactory conclusion—that is to say, if the maid, too, is willing. Girls are not in reality so passive in the matter as we are apt to assume, but most certainly expect to have their wishes consulted; and many a carefully-planned match has come to nothing merely because the girl loved another man. In this respect there is not the slightest difference between white and black. Of course, not every native girl is a heroine of constancy and steadfastness; here and there one lets herself be persuaded to accept, instead of the young man she loves in secret, an elderly wooer who is indifferent to her, but in that case she runs the risk of incurring—as happens elsewhere—the ridicule of her companions. The old bridegroom, moreover, may be pretty certain that he will not enjoy a monopoly of his young wife’s society.

Marriage is a matter of business, thinks the African, quite consistently with his general character, and the contract is only looked upon as concluded when the two fathers have come to an agreement as to the amount of the present to be paid by the bridegroom. The people here in the south are poor—they have neither large herds of horned cattle, nor abundance of sheep and goats; the whole purchase—were it correct, which it is not, to call the transaction by that name—is effected by handing over a moderate quantity of calico.

Much more interesting from an ethnographic point of view than the Yao wooing just sketched, are the customs of the Makua and Makonde. In their case, too, negotiations are opened by the fathers; but this is, in reality, only a skirmish of outposts,—the main action is afterwards fought by the mothers, each supported by her eldest brother, or perhaps by all her brothers. The fact that the _matriarchate_ is still flourishing here explains the part they take in the matter.

Nils Knudsen, by the way, can tell a pretty story—of which he is himself the hero—illustrating the constancy of native girls. During the years of his lonely life at Luisenfelde, he so completely adapted himself to native ways as to take a wife from among the Wayao. Even now, after the lapse of years, he never grew tired of praising the virtues of this _chipini_ wearer;—she was pretty, and domestic, and a first-rate cook—she could make excellent _ugali_, and had all the other good qualities which go to make up a good housewife in the bush. One day he went off to the Rovuma on a hunting expedition; he was only absent a few days, but on his return she had disappeared. On the table lay a knotted piece of bark-string. He counted the knots and found that there were seventy; the meaning of the token, according to the explanation given by the wise men of the tribe being this:—“My kinsfolk have taken me away; they do not like me to live with the white man, and want me to marry a black man who lives far away on the other side of the Rovuma. But even if I should live as many years as there are knots on this string, I will not take him, but remain faithful to you, the white man.” This was Knudsen’s story, and he added, with emotion not untouched by the pride of a man who feels himself to be greatly sought after, the further statement that the girl was in fact keeping her vow. She was living far away, in the heart of the Portuguese territory, and near the man for whom she was destined, but even the strongest pressure brought to bear by her family could not make her give way. After all, there is such a thing as faithfulness in love.

The native wedding is a very tame affair—one might almost say that there is no such thing. Betrothal and marriage, if we may say so, coincide in point of time. When once the wooer has obtained the approval of the rightful authorities, there is no further hindrance to the union of the couple than the delay necessary for erecting a new hut for them. When this is done and they have taken up their abode in it, the young husband begins to work for his mother-in-law, in the manner aforesaid, which appears so strange to our European ideas, though we cannot deny that there is room for improvement in our manners in this respect.

Now, however, we have to consider the question of who may marry whom, or, in other words, the table of forbidden degrees. This question has its importance even in Europe—how much more among people so much nearer the primitive conditions of society. If it is for the wise men of an Australian tribe one of the highest problems of social science to determine with absolute correctness which girl among the surrounding families the young man A may marry, and who is eligible for the young man B, so neither are the matrimonially disposed in the Rovuma valley free to indulge their inclination in any direction they may choose.

It is late in the afternoon. In the baraza at Newala fifteen natives of respectable age are squatting, as they have done for some weeks past, on the big mat. From time to time one of these seniors rises, and leaves the building to stretch his cramped legs, but always returns after a short time. The place is hot, a fetid vapour hangs over the assembly, so that the European in khaki, writing so assiduously at his folding table, presses his hands again and again to his aching forehead. The company are obviously tired, but they have to-day been occupied with a very exhausting subject. Hour after hour, I—for I am the man with the headache—have been trying, in the first place, to make clear to Nils Knudsen the principles of human marriage customs, of the various tribal divisions, of totemism, of father-right and mother-right—in short, a whole series of points in sociology, but with no very satisfactory result, as is clearly shown by every question I put. Now the task before me is to elicit from the fifteen wise elders, with his help and that of the usually acute Sefu, everything they know on these subjects. All my small failures have made me quite savage, besides wearying me to the point of exhaustion; and it costs me an appreciable effort to fling a question into the midst of the learned assembly.

“Well, old Dambwala, lazy one, you have a son, have you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, Nantiaka, you have a daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Now, Dambwala, can your son marry Nantiaka’s daughter?”

“No.”

“And why not?” I must have been very tired, indeed, for even the surprise audible in this decided negative raised no particular expectations in my mind. I only began to listen more attentively when, among the reasons for the negative then alleged, my ear caught the word _litawa_. “_Nini litawa?_ What is a _litawa_?” I ask, now quite fresh and lively. Well, it appears, a _litawa_ is a _litawa_. Then comes a long _shauri_, in which the wits of the natives, who, like us have been half asleep, awaken to full activity, and all three languages—Makonde, Yao, and Makua—are heard at once with a clatter of tongues like that conventionally attributed to a woman’s tea-party. At last the definition is found. Translated into technical language _litawa_ means the matriarchal exogamic kin, including all descended from one common ancestress. A man’s inheritance does not descend to his son, but to the son of his sister, and a young Makonde takes his wife, not from his own _litawa_, but in one of the numerous matawa outside his own. The Makua have exactly the same arrangement, but the word they use instead of _litawa_ is _nihimu_.

The evening of this day—the twenty-first of September—was cheered by the feeling that it had been among the most successful of my whole journey. In order to celebrate it in a worthy fashion, Knudsen and I, instead of the one bottle of beer which we had been in the habit of sharing between us, shared two.

The reader, especially after my declaration in Chapter II, will wonder how we suddenly became possessed of this beverage. It is true that, in the heat of the plains the mere thought of it was intolerable, but, up here, close to the clouds, especially when the east wind blows cold of an evening, a glass of German beer is very welcome. A few weeks ago I had occasion to send a dozen cases of specimens down to Lindi. The twelve carriers left early one morning, and were expected back in a fortnight. On all previous occasions of this sort, their absence had left me cold; this time, to be honest, we two white men counted the days of that fortnight, and, when, on a Sunday morning, the unmistakable sound of Wanyamwezi porters approaching their journey’s end was heard far out in the bush, we hurried to meet the great case containing many long-forgotten comforts—not only the heavy German stout from the Dar es Salam brewery, but above all, the milk we had so greatly missed, and which in our present state of emaciation was an absolute necessity.

On that memorable afternoon, however, the close of which I have thus been anticipating, I had no leisure to think of such material delights as these.

“So your son, friend Dambwala, cannot marry Nantiaka’s daughter, because both belong to the same _litawa_—what is the name of your _litawa_?”

“Waniuchi.”

“And where do you live?”

“In and around Niuchi.”

“And you, Kumidachi,” I went on, turning to another old man, in a new embroidered fez, which marked him as a headman, “to what _litawa_ do you belong?”

“Nanyanga,” was the prompt reply. Instantly the name is written down, and my eye rests questioningly on the next wise man. He, one of the quickest, already knows what is wanted, and does not wait to be asked, but calls out, “Wamhwidia.”

But I cannot go on in this way—I must find out, not only the names but their meanings. I have already discovered, in my study of personal names, how fond the natives are of discussing etymologies, and here, too, only a slight hint is needed to get the meaning of the clan-name as well as the name itself. I had translated _Waniuchi_ as “the people of Niuchi;” but this interpretation did not satisfy these black philologists,—_niuchi_ was “a bee,” they said, and the _Waniuchi_ were people who sought honey in hollow trees. The Nanyanga were flute players in time of war, _nanyanga_ being the name of the Makonde flute. The Wamhidia, they said, had their name derived from the verb _muhidia_, “to strike down,” from their warlike ancestors, who were continually fighting, and had beaten down everything before them.

That afternoon, the old men, in spite of their weariness, had to keep on much longer than usual: I had tasted blood and pumped them, till, about sunset, their poor brains, unaccustomed to such continued exertion, could do no more. They, however, received an extra tip, in return for their self-sacrificing help in this difficult subject. Even Moritz, the finance-minister, had to-day quite lost his usual hang-dog expression, and grinned all over his brown face when he came, after we had struck work, to hand my assistants their bright new silver pieces. Since then I have devoted all my efforts to the study of the clan system, and do not know what most excites my astonishment, the social differentiation of the tribes, their subdivision into innumerable _matawa_ and _dihimu_ (plural of _nihimu_), or the fact that, as I am forced to assume, none of my predecessors in this field of study has had his attention called to this arrangement. However, when I come to think it over, I have no reason to be surprised, for in the first place, I had been travelling about the country for months without suspecting the existence of the clan system, and in the second, it was a mere accident that, in the discussion just described, the answer happened to take just the form it did. Men are to a certain extent at the mercy of the unforeseen—the scientific traveller most of all.

Needless to say, immediately after this momentous discovery, I came back to the problem of the Yaos. After my Makua and Makonde men had for some time been dictating name after name with the most interesting explanations into my note-book, Nils Knudsen suddenly said, “The Yaos have something of that sort, too.” Ten minutes later, swift messengers were already on the way to fetch up from the plain any men of that tribe who had the slightest pretensions to intelligence. They all came up—Zuza, and Daudi, and Masanyara and the rest. Even now the examination was no easy task, either for me or for the subjects, but after honestly doing my best, I got enough out of them to be able to say, “Nils Knudsen is right, the Yaos, too, have something of the sort.” Not only so, but in their case I ascertained without much difficulty that there is a second division into large groups, quite independent of the system of matriarchal, exogamous clans.

Of the great groups of the Yao tribe, which is now spread over an extraordinarily large region of East Africa, since it extends from Lake Chilwa in the south almost to the gates of Lindi in the north, the following are known to us,—the Amakale, near the sources of the Rovuma, the Achinamataka or Wamwembe at Mataka’s, between the Rovuma and the Lujende; the Amasaninga, originally at the south end of Lake Nyasa; the Achinamakanjira, or Amachinga, on the Upper Lujende; the Mangoche in the neighbourhood of Blantyre. The indication of the residences of these great groups, as here given, has now merely a historic value. Through the gradual migrations already alluded to, the old limits of the groups are now quite effaced, and can no longer be definitely laid down on the map. The clans, too (here called _ngosyo_, plural of _lukosyo_), cannot possibly have any definite position assigned them on the map; and this is also true of the other tribes. Some clans, indeed, may have a recognizable centre of distribution, but in general, the same confusion prevails here as in the case of the larger divisions.

It was not merely curiosity which made me so persistent in inquiring into the meaning of clan names, but the desire to ascertain whether they convey any indications of totemism. It may not be superfluous to say that the word totem comes from North America, and was originally applied to the drawings of animals appended by the Iroquois chiefs to their treaties with the white man by way of signature, the animal represented being that from which the clan of the signatory traced its descent. Totemism was first studied among these North American Indians, but was afterwards discovered to exist in Australia, apparently, also, in Melanesia, and in a very marked form among the older populations of India, as well as in various other parts of the world. In most cases, the clans trace their descent from some animal, which is reckoned sacred and invulnerable and must not be hunted or eaten. In some isolated instances it is even considered the height of good fortune for a man to be eaten by his totem animal. Small and harmless creatures, as well as plants, are also chosen as totems—otherwise it would scarcely be possible to find enough; as, for example, in Southern India, where the totems are innumerable. I cannot here give the whole long series of clan names collected by me for all three tribes, but must refer the reader for this part of my results to the official publication. But it was interesting to find that though totemism no longer consciously exists among the natives, many a small trait witnesses to its former prevalence. To point out these traits in detail will be the task of later inquirers, I will here give only a few specimens of the clan names.

Matola and his cousin, our common friend, Daudi, belong to the _lukosyo_ of the Achemtinga, but at the same time to the group of the Amachinga.[59] The prefix _Che_, as already stated, is an honorific title for both men and women:—Chemtinga, according to Daudi, was once a great chief in the region of the upper Lujende. The Masimbo lived in Zuza’s district. These take their name from the pitfalls (_lisimbo_, plural _masimbo_) in which their forefathers used to catch game. The Amiraji, who lived near Mwiti, derive their name from the character of the country where they formerly lived, which abounded in bamboo (_mlasi_).[60] Another Yao clan are the Achingala, who take their name from the _ngala_, a kind of mussel, found in the Rovuma and its tributaries, the shells of which are still used as spoons; the reason for the name is said to be that their ancestors chiefly lived on this mollusc.

In the same category as these last we may place the Makua clan of the Wamhole, whose forefathers fed on the wild manioc (_mhole_), a root still eaten in time of famine. The Makonde clan of the Wambunga derive their name from the tradition that their ancestors ate the _nambunga_, or fruit of the bamboo. The Wantanda formerly had the custom of cutting the flesh of the game they killed into long strips (_nantanda_). The Wamunga[61] are rice-planters, the ancestors of the Alamande lived on a small locust of that name, and the Wutende are people famous throughout the country on account of a quality for which we are little disposed to give the natives credit—they are always working (_kutenda_).

Even in the cool climate of Europe it is not altogether easy for the mind to grasp the marriage laws of these clans. Here in tropical Africa, with its perpetual alternations of heat and cold, I find it almost impossible to follow the expositions of old Mponda, my principal lecturer on Civil Law. Moreover, it is very much of a shock to our customary ways of thinking, to hear, for example, the following:—After the Makonde boy has been circumcised he does not return to his parents’ house, but remains in that of his maternal uncle. There he has nothing further to do but grow up and wait till his girl cousins are grown up likewise. If the uncle has no daughters, the nephew first waits till one is born, and, after this event has taken place, he has again to wait. It must be understood that the young man is not supposed to get his board for nothing all this time; he is expected to work pretty hard, like Jacob serving seven years for Rachel. When at last the goal is reached and the cousin is marriageable, the suitor, meanwhile arrived at years of discretion, goes away somewhere where he can earn a rupee’s worth of calico, hands this to his uncle, and takes home his wife. He is not, however, free to live where he likes, but remains at his uncle’s village, and works for him like a bondsman, as before. If, in due course, he has a son, this son, according to Mponda, must again marry a cousin—the daughter of his father’s sister. In the old man’s own concise words: “If I have a sister and she has a daughter, and I have a son, my son can marry that girl. But if I have a brother and he has a daughter, my son cannot marry his daughter, because she is _numbuwe_—his sister.”

We took our leave of the young girl at the moment when, after passing through the months of the _chiputu_ with their formalities and festivities, she has taken her place among the initiated. According to some of my informants the child’s marriage takes place very soon after this epoch—certainly before the period which we in Europe consider as the beginning of maturity, viz., the first menstruation.

I have no means of checking these statements, so cannot say whether this is so or not; in any case we are just now more interested in the treatment of girls on the occasion alluded to—the more so that this treatment is analogous to that practised in a whole series of other regions. As on the Lower Guinea coast, (in Loango,[62] on the Gabun, and on the Ogowe) and in various parts of Melanesia, the girl is lodged in a separate hut, where she remains entirely alone; her friends come and dance, uttering the shrill cry of the _ntungululu_ outside the hut, but otherwise keep at a distance. Her mother, her instructress during the _unyago_, and the other wise women, however, impart to her the rules of conduct and hygiene:—she must keep at a distance from every one; she must be particular as to cleanliness, must wash herself and bathe, but above all, must have intercourse with no one. This is repeated over and over again, while at the same time eating, singing and dancing go on incessantly.

At the first pregnancy of a young wife, also, various ceremonies take place. At bottom, however, these are only a pleasant setting for a number of rules and prohibitions inculcated on this occasion by the older women. In the fifth month the young woman has her head shaved, and a month later the women make a feast for themselves, and roast some maize for her. Some more maize is then soaked in water and pounded and the resulting paste smeared on her head. Then the husband goes to the bush, accompanied by a near relation of his wife’s, the woman wearing nothing but a small waist-cloth. The man cuts down a suitable tree and prepares a piece of bark-cloth in the way already described, while the girl sings in time to the strokes of his mallet “_Nalishanira wozewa neakutende._” The fabric when finished is ornamented with beads, and the instructress hangs it round her protegée’s neck as a charm. This is called _mare ndembo_, and the same name is henceforth applied to the expectant mother. Next morning all the people are again assembled for the dance—the inevitable _ntungululu_ inseparable from all joyful feelings or festive occasions, mingling, of course, with the singing and hand-clapping. All, however, do not take part in these rejoicings; the wise women and the instructress stand apart from the crowd, in a group round the young wife. “You must not sit on other people’s mats,” says one toothless old woman, “it would injure both you and the child—you would be prematurely confined.”

“You must not talk to your friends, men or women,” says another woman, whose utterance is impeded by an enormous _pelele_, “that, too, would be bad for the child.”

“You must not go out much after this,” says a third. “If possible let no one see you but your husband, or the baby might resemble someone else. But if you do go out, you must get out of people’s way, for even the smell of them might hurt the child.”

There is, after all, something in these rules and warnings. We in Europe are quite familiar with the idea that a pregnant woman must not see anything unpleasant or terrifying, and ought not, if she can possibly help it, to let herself be impressed by any other face than that of her husband. The other prescriptions belong to the region of sympathetic magic, or action by analogy—the mere possibility of coming within the atmosphere of people who have recently had sexual intercourse with one another may endanger the coming life.

But this is not all,—the most important points are yet to come.

“You must not eat eggs, or your child will have no hair.”

“You must not eat the flesh of monkeys, or the child will have no more sense than a monkey.”

“You must not eat what is left over in the cooking-pot from the day before, or the baby will be ill.”

“If you go to the garden or the well, and anyone salutes you, you must not thank him or answer him in any way, for then the birth of the child will be long delayed.”

The conclusion of the whole lecture which, in contrast to the system pursued in our Universities, is simultaneously delivered by many teachers to one unhappy student, is the very urgent and serious warning to have nothing to do with any other man than her husband, or she will infallibly die. On the other hand, if her husband were to forget himself and go after another woman, she would have a miscarriage, resulting in her death. She must, therefore, be very good to him and cook his porridge as he likes it.

This is the last word. With the peculiar gait of the native woman, which has an inimitable twist in it, not to be described in words, the dispensers of wise counsel hasten, as fast as their dignity will allow, across the open space and join the rest of the throng, “_Lu-lu-lu-lu-lu-lu_,”—the shrill vibrations again agitate the air, the drums, beaten by the men’s strong hands, strike up afresh, a mighty cloud of dust rises and veils the whole scene, everything is in motion and full of genuine African mirth, all unconscious of life’s daily miseries. One alone sits by in silence, the young woman herself who, according to the instructions just received, is entirely interdicted from taking any part in the festivity. Her brown eyes—which would deserve to be called beautiful were their effect not marred by the white being interspersed with yellowish-brown specks—are fixed musingly on one point. Is she thinking of the dark hour she will have to encounter in a few months’ time? The Scripture, “In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children,” is true for the black race also. But, personally, I do not think that the young thing is looking so far ahead; it is not in any case natural for youth to do so, and African youth, in particular, sees no occasion to be anxious about the future. The race is truly happy, in the enviable facility with which it lives for to-day, leaving to-morrow’s cares entire and untouched for to-morrow.

NOTE.—The system of kinship among the Yaos and neighbouring tribes has not been so entirely overlooked by inquirers as Dr. Weule supposes. The subject has been investigated by Archdeacon Johnson, the late Bishop Maples, and the Rev. H. B. Barnes among others, though, unfortunately, many of their notes are buried in little-known periodicals. Some valuable information is also to be found in Mr. R. Sutherland Rattray’s _Some Folk-lore, Songs and Stories in Chinyanja_. We think Dr. Weule is mistaken in distinguishing the “larger groups” of the Yao tribe from the _ngosyo_: they are probably identical with the latter in origin: _e.g._, the Machinga would be the descendants of a single (female) ancestor, who in the course of generations became numerous and powerful, and perhaps increased their consequence by incorporating weaker clans who placed themselves under their protection and adopted their name. But there is a second system of descent, which may be what Dr. Weule is referring to. This is called by the Anyanja _chilawa_, and descends through the father; marriage within it is prohibited. “A man may not marry any woman who is of his _kamu_ (Yao, _lukosyo_) or of his _chilawa_. Thus the daughters of his mother’s sisters are excluded because they are of the same _kamu_, and daughters of his father’s brothers are excluded because they are of the same _chilawa_; but the daughters of his mother’s brothers or of his father’s sisters are eligible, because they are neither of the same _kamu_ nor of the same _chilawa_” (Rev. H. B. Barnes). This tallies with the information given to Dr. Weule about the Makonde marriage laws (p. 314). Mr. Barnes doubts whether the clan names explained to Dr. Weule are really connected with totems, and thinks the customs they refer to are “perhaps more likely to be traceable to individual peculiarities of some ancestor than to any religious totemistic restriction,” and that the _chilawa_ names, whose significance appears to be lost, are the real totem names. But the subject is too wide to be discussed in a note. [TR.]