Part 1

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THE WITCH DOCTOR AND OTHER RHODESIAN STUDIES.

THE WITCH DOCTOR AND OTHER RHODESIAN STUDIES.

BY

FRANK WORTHINGTON, C.B.E.

(_Lately Secretary for Native Affairs, Northern Rhodesia_).

LONDON: THE FIELD PRESS LTD., Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, E.C.4

To MY WIFE.

CONTENTS.

THE MIND OF THE NATIVE. PAGE The Witch Doctor 3 The Riddle of Life and Death 25 Flattery 28 Lizizi 35 Mironda--a Woman 46

MAN AND BEAST.

Protective Colouring 57 Darwin--a Bird 59 The Lion's Skin 67 The Reverend Mr. Bumpus 74 The Salvation Army Captain 81 The Sport of Kings 86 The Lions of Makululumi 94

WHITE MEN AND BLACK

White Men at Play 105 On the Building of Bridges 115 The Compleat Angler 120 The Song of the Great Occasion 125 The Descent of Man 132 The Railway Contractor 138 The Licensed Victualler 149 The Johnnie-come-Lately 154 The Lost Rubies 160 The Cattle King 170 Partners 177 The Letter Home 194 The Doctor 214

THE MIND OF THE NATIVE.

THE WITCH DOCTOR.

I.

The Native Commissioner's Court had, with a very brief interval for luncheon, sat throughout the day. The weather was very hot and thundery, for the breaking of the rains was imminent. A number of cases had been disposed of, and the last was now drawing to a close. Having listened to the arguments of both sides, the Commissioner summed up, gave judgment, and dismissed the litigants, whereupon the native clerk began to collect the papers and put things away.

The official lighted a cigarette, put on his hat, and walked towards the door. He was met by his head messenger.

"Another case, Morena,"[1] said the messenger, pointing to a middle-aged native squatting in the courtyard softly clapping his hands. The hard-worked white man paused; he had thoughts of tea awaiting him in his bungalow a hundred yards away.

[1] _Morena_ signifies _Chief_.

"Tell the man to come to-morrow," he said, and walked off in the direction of his house.

The head messenger turned to the man sitting in the yard and said: "The Morena won't hear you to-day; you must sleep in the compound for to-night; to-morrow he will listen."

"But my case is a big one," replied the stranger. "The father of his people will surely hear my case."

The messenger pointed to the compound: "All cases are heavy in the hands of those who bring them; the compound is there."

The man was evidently distressed. Raising his voice in the hope that the Commissioner would hear him, he shouted shrilly: "Ma-we! Ma-we! But mine is a big case, it is one of killing--of killing of people; the father of his people must hear me. Oh! Morena, I have a case, a big case, a case of killing."

But the Native Commissioner had reached his house and was out of sight, the native clerk had locked the office door and, heedless of the man's wailing, walked away. If he thought at all, it was that sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof; evil meaning work to him.

"Come, father," said the head messenger, "I go now to the compound, and you with me; to-morrow the Morena will hear your case before any other. I, Mokorongo, will see to it."

But the man was not to be consoled. "No," said he, "my case is a big one, of people killed by witchcraft; I, too, will die to-night. Take me to the Morena, my father; do not refuse and so kill me."

The messenger felt uncomfortable. For some reason, best known to himself, his master disapproved of the killing of people, and also set his face against witchcraft. No witch doctor could practise for long in his district, for was not his medicine stronger than that of any witch doctor? Did not the doctors know it, and had they not all moved to a safer place? Who, then, could have done this killing by witchcraft? Yes, it was a big case, and he would take the man to his master; but he must break in upon the great man's rest with care, or there would be trouble.

Telling the stranger to come with him, he strode towards the house, pulling down his uniform in front and behind and settling his fez smartly on his head--evidence of some nervousness. Arriving at the door, he peered in. The hall was cool and dark, and, coming from the glare, for a moment he could see nothing; the next, he was aware of the Commissioner's eye upon him, and started violently at his master's sharp "Well, Mokorongo, what is it?"

He began well: "Morena, here is a man who has killed another, and wants to tell of the matter before the sun sets, when he, too, will die."

"Let the man come to the door."

For Mokorongo the worst was over. He had with impunity disturbed the great man; the rest would be easy. He fitly marshalled the stranger to the mat just inside the hall door, drew himself up to his full height, and stood by to obey immediately such orders as his master might be pleased to give.

The Commissioner, who was a good linguist, addressed the seated man direct:

"So you have killed a man?"

"No, Morena."

"And you will yourself die to-night?"

"No, Morena."

Mokorongo's uneasiness returned; he shifted slightly and gazed at the ceiling.

"Tell me your story."

"Morena, my case is a big one; it is of killing--the killing of people, of my son--by witchcraft. Yesterday at sunset he died, and I, too, shall die to-night unless the Morena, father of his people, makes a stronger medicine, stronger than that of the witch doctor----" Here the wretched fellow paused.

The Commissioner looked thoughtfully at the man in front of him; it was evident that the native dared not mention the witch doctor's name. Presently he rose, took from a side-table a decanter, poured himself out some whisky, and added soda from a sparklet bottle. Returning to his seat, he drank deeply of the bubbling liquid.

The native was much impressed. Boiling water alone, so far as he knew, bubbled like that; he knew of the ordeal by boiling water, and had, no doubt, seen more than once the test applied. But this white man drank the boiling mixture with evident pleasure. Here, then, was the chief of all witch doctors.

He finished his sentence: "--Chiromo."

"Where does he live?"

He explained in detail.

"Of what do you accuse Chiromo?"

"Of killing my son by witchcraft."

"Go on with your story."

"I have some goats. My son herded them by day and put them in the village at night. My son had a black-and-white dog which followed him to the lands each day. Two days ago the dog stole a skin from Chiromo's bed. Chiromo saw the dog eating the skin, and killed him with his axe. Chiromo is an angry man: he was angry with my son because his dog had eaten his skin. He knew the dog was my son's dog. He went to my son and said: 'I have killed your dog because your dog has eaten my skin.'

"My son was very much afraid and said: 'Yes, sir.'

"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's leg just above the knee, like this, and said: 'Do you feel pain here?' My son said: 'No.'

"Then Chiromo said: 'You will to-morrow.'

"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's other knee and said: 'Do you feel pain here?' My son said 'No.'

"Then Chiromo took hold of my son's arm at the elbow and said: 'Do you feel pain here?' My son said: 'No.'

"Then Chiromo touched his other arm and asked my son if he felt pain there. My son said he did not. He also touched him on the back of the neck, asking him if he felt any pain there. My son said he felt no pain.

"Then Chiromo said: 'In your two legs and your two arms and in your neck you will feel much pain to-morrow.'

"Then Chiromo went back to his own hut and my son, who was very frightened, came and told me what Chiromo had said to him and I also was frightened, for Chiromo is a great doctor. Then I went to my hut to sleep and my son went to his hut.

"In the morning when I rose the goats were still in the village, and I was angry with my son because he had not taken them to the lands. I called to him, but he did not answer. I went to his hut, and found him very stiff. He told me that Chiromo had killed him; that he had much pain in his arms and legs and neck, and that he could not move. I tried to lift him, but he cried out with pain. At sunset he died. Oh, Morena, Chiromo has killed my son. My son who herded my goats. And to-night I myself shall die. Chiromo is indeed a great doctor. My case is a big one. A case of killing people by witchcraft. I, too, will----"

The Native Commissioner interrupted the man. "Enough, now you may go to the compound, where you will sleep to-night; you will not die, because I must talk with you again."

The man clapped his hands, bowed his forehead several times to the floor, patted his chest, rose and withdrew, praising the Native Commissioner as the custom is:

"Great Chief."

"Father of his people."

"The very great doctor."

"Sir, my best thanks."

"The Chief of our country."

"The lion, the great elephant, the Chief."

The head messenger was about to go too, but the Commissioner stopped him.

"Mokorongo, you will have to go out and arrest Chiromo."

"To-morrow?"

"To-night."

"His village is far and the sun is setting."

"You will get there before morning and will bring Chiromo back with you."

"How many go with me?"

"You go alone."

The messenger was very much afraid. He licked his lips, which had become dry, he shuffled with his feet, his gaze wandered from ceiling to floor and round the hall in which the Commissioner sat.

"Mokorongo."

"Morena."

"You are afraid."

"I am afraid, Morena."

"Very much afraid."

"Morena."

"Why?"

"Is not Chiromo a doctor?"

"What of that?"

"I am but a man, your servant."

"Yes, my servant. Why, then, are you afraid?"

"Morena."

Again the wretched man's eyes looked in any direction but in that of his master.

"Mokorongo."

"Morena."

"Are you ready to start? It is getting late."

"Yes, it is late, for the sun sets."

"Are you ready?"

Mokorongo made no reply: he was now quite frightened. In the ordinary way this simple native was full of courage, he would follow his master anywhere; they had been in a tight corner together more than once and he had shown up splendidly. But then his master, in whom he had implicit faith, had been there. To go alone to arrest a witch doctor was quite another matter. Had not the doctor killed the boy in a strange way? No, it was too much to ask a man to do alone, and at night.

The Commissioner walked to his writing table and took from it a heavy paperweight, which he handed to Mokorongo.

"Take this with you, it will protect you against Chiromo, for it is mine."

The messenger was satisfied; he put the weight inside his tunic and turned to go.

"Stop," said the Commissioner, "what are your plans?"

Mokorongo had a quick mind: he unfolded his plan without hesitation.

"I will talk awhile with the stranger, who will tell me of Chiromo; whether he has a beard or has no beard; whether he is very old or not so old; if he is fat or thin; what his loin cloth is like, or if he wears a skin."

"Good, and then?"

"I will travel to the village, which I shall reach before morning. In the bush I will hide my uniform. Near the village I will lie in wait. In the morning Chiromo will come out of his hut. All day I will watch and when the people have eaten and sleep I will arrest Chiromo."

"How?"

"I will go to his hut and call to him, saying that I am a traveller from Sijoba on my way to Katora. That the sun has set and I ask for shelter. I shall tell him that I have some meat of a buck which I found dead near the path. Then Chiromo will open the door of his hut and I shall tie him. And he will come with me because of my uniform and the people will not hinder me because of my uniform."

"Good, take the handcuffs. But there is one thing you have forgotten. You must bring in a basket all Chiromo's medicine."

"I will bring the medicine," replied the messenger, clutching at the paperweight which bulged under his tunic.

"Go safely," said the master.

"Rest in peace," replied the man.

The Commissioner watched the retreating figure. The swinging stride showed self-confidence and courage. Mokorongo would do successfully what was required of him.

II.

The dawn was breaking. It had rained all night and the ground was very wet. When the first rain falls the earth is slow in absorbing it. Little puddles form everywhere and little streams, increasing in volume as they join others, make small lakes or rushing torrents, according to the lie of the land.

Mokorongo was not comfortable. He had travelled far in the night and had stumbled many times in the darkness. Moreover, he was drenched to the skin and very cold. The paperweight consoled him, as it had kept up his courage throughout his long journey. He remembered now the cry of a hyena close to the path at midnight, which had sent his hand clutching at the paperweight. Then some large, dark object stirred beside him and bounded away, crashing through the bush. Mokorongo's heart had thumped in time to the heavy hoof-beats.

However, the dawn had come and his talisman had proved itself a sure shield and protection.

The messenger took off his sodden tunic and drew it over his shoulders as a cloak against the wind which always heralds the coming day. He replaced the paperweight inside his shirt, and buckling on his belt again sat down on his heels to watch the village.

Presently smoke arose from the yard of one of the huts, then from another. A man came out of a low doorway, stretched and yawned. A dog barked, the cattle began to low and fowls to cluck--the day had come.

He had chosen his observation post well. In front of him lay the village in a hollow. Behind him, a patch of thick bush. To his left ran the path to the cultivated lands and to the next village. On his right was a stretch of rough country, good only for baboons and other beasts: it was unlikely that he would be disturbed from that or any other quarter.

The village soon showed signs of full life. When the sun came out Mokorongo stripped and spread out his tunic, shirt and loin cloth to dry, placing the paperweight and handcuffs on a little tuft of short grass which was comparatively dry.

As the sun crept up the sky, Mokorongo's back was warmed and he felt more comfortable. He watched the coming and going of men, women and children until midday. He had easily recognised Chiromo. The father of the dead boy had described the witch doctor minutely, but even without that description he would have picked him out. He was fat and looked prosperous; some half-dozen inflated gall bladders of small mammals were tied to tufts of his hair. He wore chillies in the lobes of his ears, a sure sign that he had killed a lion--or a man.

His hut, too, was larger than the rest and stood slightly apart. Yes, this surely was Chiromo; did he not wear, suspended from a string round his waist, the skin of a black tsipa cat? And had not the case-bearer of yesterday said: "Chiromo has the skin of a black tsipa?"

Yes, Mokorongo was sure of his man, and as the sun was now hot he gathered together his belongings and carried them into the shade of the thicket, where he settled himself for a sleep.

At sunset he awoke. He felt hungry and thirsty, but as there were no means of satisfying either he turned his mind to the work immediately ahead.

He crept back to his original post. The cattle were being kraaled; the goats were already settled for the night; women were preparing the evening meal.

Mokorongo slipped on his tunic shirt and loin cloth and buckled his belt. He put on his fez and tucked the paperweight inside his tunic. He then made sure that the handcuffs snapped as they should and that no amount of tugging would open them; having reset them he put the key in the small pouch attached to his belt.

There is little twilight in Africa. Soon after the sun sets it is dark. He could see Chiromo's fire and, in the glow of it, Chiromo sitting on a low stool.

Presently the night sounds began. Someone was beating a drum at a distant village. A jackal barked far down the valley. Something rustled in a bush near by. The frogs set up their shrill chorus. A dog in the village began to howl, but stopped with a yelp as some woman threw a stick at it.

After a while the fires burnt down; there was silence, and Mokorongo judged that the time for action had arrived.

He came down from the high ground and skirted the village until he came to the path from Sijoba. Then he turned and walked boldly towards the cluster of huts. The dogs began to bark loudly but it didn't matter now: was he not a stranger travelling from Sijoba to Katora?

He made his way to Chiromo's hut. The door was closed. Mokorongo knocked.

"Who is it?"

"A stranger travelling from Sijoba to Katora."

"It is late, what do you want?"

"Yes, it is late. I ask for shelter for the night. I am in luck, for I have found meat and I ask shelter of a friend."

There was a stir in the hut and the word meat was repeated several times.

Mokorongo stood ready with the open handcuffs. Would the man never come out? Meanwhile the occupants of adjacent huts were also astir and doors were being opened. There would be many witnesses to the arrest of Chiromo.

At length the door of the hut slid aside, a hand grasped either door post and a woolly head appeared. Quick as lightning Mokorongo seized Chiromo's right wrist and snapped the lock of the handcuff. Grasping the black head, he pulled the startled Chiromo out of the doorway, and before the witch doctor had recovered from his surprise, also secured his left hand.

Mokorongo stepped back and surveyed his captive.

Chiromo said nothing, but the look in his eye made Mokorongo's hand fly to the paperweight. The village was astir, and men came running, but, seeing the uniform of authority, stood still.

Mokorongo was himself again. "What is this?" demanded Chiromo.

"The Morena calls you."

"What for?"

"How should I know the Morena's thoughts?"

"Loose my hands or ill-luck will come to you."

Mokorongo said nothing.

"Listen," said Chiromo.

Mokorongo listened and heard the laugh of a hyena.

"That," said Chiromo, "is a spirit."

Mokorongo clutched his paperweight: "It is a beast, and my master's medicine is strong."

Chiromo looked round at the circle of fellow villagers; he could not see their eyes, but felt that no help might be expected from them; they would not come between him and a Government man.

Chiromo tried again.

"In my hut I have much white man's money and a gun--all are yours if you will untie my hands; moreover, the iron hurts me and the Morena's orders are that no man be hurt."

The mention of the money and the gun reminded Mokorongo of the medicine.

"Go in," he said, pushing Chiromo before him.

It is well that Mokorongo had the paperweight to support his courage.

III.

A fire smouldered in a circular hearth in the middle of the floor, but the light from it was so dim that nothing more was visible. Mokorongo, kneeling deftly, drew together the unburnt sticks and blew upon the pile; the suddenness with which it burst into flame startled him. Then he rose and looked round the hut.

Chiromo had walked over to his bed; he now sat watching.

The blackened walls were profusely decorated with rude drawings, done in light clay, of men and beasts, with here and there a pattern such as one sees on primitive earthenware vessels. From the roof, suspended by a length of plaited bark, dangled the skull of a human being. Mokorongo had seen many human skulls in his time, but, in such a place, this ghastly human relic unnerved him a little. The skull spun slightly with the air current which entered the open door, and ghostly eyes seemed to peer from the empty sockets, first at one man, then at the other, as if the lifeless thing were taking a lively interest in the situation.

Mokorongo pretended to scratch himself; what he really did was to shift the paperweight until it rested under his left arm. In that position he could press it to him without being noticed. The relief it brought was great and lasting.

From a peg in the wall hung a mummified mass of what looked suspiciously like entrails; whether human or not the messenger did not pause to consider. The fleshless forearm and hand of a child protruded from the thatch; the fingers were spread out as in the act of grasping. A pile of mouldering skins lay on the floor, and beside it a little heap of dead chameleons; one, more lately killed than the rest, contributed generously to the evil smell which pervaded the hut. Just above this carrion was a cluster of black and red weevils as large as mice; they hung from a porcupine quill, each tied to it by a thin strand of twisted sinew. The aimless movements of legs showed that some of the insects were still alive. Here and there, propped against the wall, were gourds and pots filled, no doubt, with strange nauseous mixtures brewed by the witch doctor for his evil purposes.

Well-worn clothing and filthy rags hung from pegs thrust into the thatch where the roof of the hut rested on the mud wall. The bleeding head and slimy skin of a freshly killed goat lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. Just beyond it was a large basket covered loosely with a leopard skin; Mokorongo made a mental note of this.

If Chiromo expected his guard to show any sign of fear, he was disappointed. Mokorongo drew a small stool towards him, and sat down; with the exception of the bed, it was the only furniture in the hut.

The witch doctor was the first to speak:

"The gun is yours, father, and the money, when you untie my hands so that I may get them for you."

"I have two guns in my village," replied the messenger, "and I also have much money, for as I am a servant of the Government, I pay no tax."

"Can a man have too much money or too many guns?"

"I cannot say; but, as for me, I have enough."

"How many wives have you?" asked Chiromo.

The messenger did not answer. Such talk did not trouble him. He was a simple African, whose one desire was to please his master; he was proof against bribery in any form.

Chiromo tried other tactics.

"Yesterday, they say, I killed a man by charms. It is said also that many men have died by poison. People fall sick, some say, when I think of them in anger. It well may be that your master has fallen sick, for my anger is strong towards him, and is rising against his servant, who has tied me."

Mokorongo hugged the talisman, but did not reply. He glanced at the skull which at that moment swung towards him, then at the hand which, in the flicker of the firelight, seemed to reach out to grasp at him. He looked at the chameleons, and spat on the floor as he became aware of the stench arising from them; next, the aimless waving of the weevils' legs attracted his attention, and then his glance rested on the basket covered with the leopard skin.

Chiromo was about to speak again, but Mokorongo, springing to his feet, interrupted him. His master had said: "Bring Chiromo back with you, and bring his medicines." The basket must hold those medicines; moreover, the prospect of listening to Chiromo until the morning, seated in the midst of his evil properties, was unthinkable. He would feel more at his ease walking through the night, although it was so dark and cold.