MYTHS AND LEGENDS
OF
THE BANTU
ALICE WERNER
[1933]

In Memoriam
HARRIETTE EMILY COLENSO
June 2, 1932
AGNES MARY COLENSO
JUIY 26, 1932

Closed the kind eyes; nevermore the clasp of the faithful hand.
But the clamour and wrath of men are still, where they sweetly rest,
And the loved dust is one with the dust of the well-loved land.
Earth has taken the wronged and the wronger both to her breast.
Cetshwayo sleeps in Inkandhla, Rhodes on Matopo height,
Escombe and Osborn alike in the dear Natalian soil.
Do they dream? And what dreams are theirs in the hush of the kindly night?
Never, since time began, has any come back to tell....
O brave, true, loving hearts, at rest from long strife and toil.
Mandiza, Sineke, Mamonga, Kebeni, Magema,
Hail and farewell!

PREFACE
THERE is at the present day a widespread and growing interest in the 
customs, institutions, and folklore of more or less 'primitive' peoples, 
even among persons who are still a little shy of the word 'anthropology.' 
This interest is of comparatively recent growth; but when one looks back 
over the nineteenth century it seems almost incredible that Moffat could 
write) in 1842, that "a description of the manners and customs of the 
Bechuanas would be neither very instructive nor very edifying." Twenty years 
earlier James Campbell, whom one suspects of a secret and shamefaced 
interest in the subject, apologizes for presenting to the notice of his 
readers the "absurd and ridiculous fictions" of the same tribe.

The apology is certainly not needed to-day-witness the collections of folk-
tales pouring in from every quarter of what used to be called the Dark 
Continent, contributed by grave divines, respectable Government officials, 
and all sorts and conditions of observers. In fact, so much new matter has 
appeared since I first took the present work in hand that it has proved 
impossible to keep pace with it. But I have endeavoured to present to the 
notice of the reader fairly typical specimens of myth and legend from as 
many as possible of the various Bantu-speaking tribes, confident that the 
result will not be (if I may again quote Campbell) to "exhibit the puerile 
and degraded state of intellect" among the said tribes.

I have been obliged, however, to my great regret, to omit some very striking 
legends of the Baganda, less known than that of Kintu (familiar from several 
other works, and, moreover, told at length in my own African Mythology). But 
it would have been easy, given sufficient time, to expand this book to twice 
the covenanted length.

A word as to the pronunciation of African names. No attempt has been made to 
render them phonetically, beyond the rough-and-ready rule that vowels are to 
be pronounced as in German or Italian, consonants as in English, every 
syllable as ending in a vowel, and every vowel to be pronounced. Thus it has 
not been considered necessary to put an acute accent over the e in Shire 
(which, by the by, ought to be Chiri) and Pare. Where ng is followed by an 
apostrophe, as in 'Ryang'ombe' (but not in 'Kalungangombe'), it is sounded 
as in 'sing,' not as in 'finger.'

African experts may discover some inconsistency in the rendering of tribal 
names. One ought, I suppose, either to use the vernacular plural in every 
case, as in Basuto, Amandebele, Anyanja, or to discard the prefix and add an 
English plural, as in Zulus (too familiar a form to be dropped); but it did 
not seem possible to attain consistency throughout. At any rate, one has 
avoided the barbarism of 'Basutos,' though sanctioned by no less an 
authority than Sir Godfrey Lagden Moffat, as will have been noticed, was 
guilty of 'Bechuanas,' and I have not ventured to correct his text.

It may not be superfluous to point out that the person-class in the Bantu 
languages has, in the singular, the prefix mu- (sometimes umu- or omu-, and 
sometimes shortened into m-) and, in the plural, ba- (aba-, va-, ova-, a-). 
The prefix ama- or ma-, sometimes found with tribal names, belongs to a 
different class. It is probably a plural of multitude (or 'collective 
plural'), which has displaced the ordinary form.

The titles of works cited in the footnotes have been abbreviated in most 
instances. The full titles of such works, together with other details, will 
be found in the Bibliography.

It is a pleasant task to convey my sincere thanks to those who have kindly 
permitted me to make use of their published work: the Revs. E. W. Smith and 
T. Cullen Young; Mr. Frederick Johnson (Dar-es-Salaam), for his Makonde and 
Iramba tales, published in a form not readily accessible to the general 
reader; Captain R. S. Rattray, who is better known nowadays in connexion 
with the Gold Coast, but once upon a time did very good work in Nyasaland; 
Dr C. M. Doke (University of the Witwatersrand); M. Henri A. Junod; the Rev. 
Father Schmidt, editor of Anthropos, for permission to use P. Arnoux's 
articles on Ruanda; Professor Meinhof, for matter appearing in his 
Zeitschrift für Eingeborenensprachen (Hamburg), and his contributor, the 
Rev. C. Hoffmann (another contributor, the Rev. M. Klamroth, is, 
unfortunately, no longer living); the Rev. J. Raurn (and Dr Mittwoch, editor 
of the series in which his Chaga Grammar appeared), for the story of Murile; 
the Rev. Dr Gutmann, for some delightful Chaga tales; the Rev. D. R. 
Mackenzie and the late Rev. Donald Fraser, for some very interesting 
quotations from their respective works. If any others have been 
inadvertently omitted I can only crave their indulgence.

A. W.

CONTENTS
I. INTRODUCTORY
II. WHERE MAN CAME FROM, AND HOS DEATH CAME
III. LEGENDS OF THE HIGH GODS
IV. THE HEAVEN COUNTRY AND THE HEAVEN PEOPLE
V. MORTALS WHO HAVE ASCENDED TO HEAVEN
VI. THE GHOSTS AND THEGHOST COUNTRY
VII. THE AVENGER OF BLOOD
VIII. HEROES AND DEMI-GODS
IX. THE WAKILINDI SAGA
X. THE STORY OF LIONGO FUOMO
XI. THE TRICKSTERS HLAKANYANA ANDHUVEANE
XII. THE AMAZIMU
XIII. OF WERE-WOLVES,HALF-MEN, GNOMES, GOBLINS, AND OTHER MONSTERS
XIV. THE SWALLOWING MONSTER
XV. LIGHTNING, THUNDER, RAIN, AND THERAINBOW
XVI. DOCTORS, PROPHETS, AND WITCHES
XVII. BRER RABBIT IN AFRICA
XVIII. LEGENDS OF THETORTOISE
XIX STORIES OF SOME OTHERANIMALS
XX. SOME STORIES WHICH HAVE TRAVELLED
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INDEX

 

CHAPTER I: INTRODUCTORY
Who are the Bantu?

BANTU is now the generally accepted name for those natives of South Africa 
(the great majority) who are neither Hottentots nor Bushmen-that is to say, 
mainly, the Zulus, Xosas (Kafirs), Basuto, and Bechuana -to whom may be 
added the Thongas (Shangaans) of the Delagoa Bay region and the people of 
Southern Rhodesia, commonly, though incorrectly, called Mashona.

Abantu is the Zulu word for 'people' (in Sesuto batho, and in Herero ovandu) 
which was adopted by Bleek, at the suggestion of Sir George Grey, as the 
name for the great family of languages now known to cover practically the 
whole southern half of Africa. It had already been ascertained, by more than 
one scholar, that there was a remarkable resemblance between the speech of 
these South African peoples and that of the Congo natives on the one hand 
and of the Mozambique natives on the other. It was left for Bleek-who spent 
the last twenty years of his life at the Cape-to study these languages from 
a scientific point of view and systematize what was already known about 
them. His Comparative Grammar of South African Languages, though left 
unfinished when he died, in 1875, is the foundation of all later work done 
in this subject.

The Bantu languages possess a remarkable degree of uniformity. They may 
differ considerably in vocabulary, and to a certain extent in pronunciation, 
but their grammatical structure is, in its main outlines, everywhere the 
same. But to speak of a 'Bantu race' is misleading. The Bantu-speaking 
peoples vary greatly in physical type: some of them hardly differ from some 
of the 'Sudanic'-speaking[1] Negroes of West Africa (who, again, are by no 
means all of one pattern), while others show a type which has been

[1. Most of these languages, which had long seemed to be a hopeless chaos, 
have been found to belong to one family, called by Professor Westermann the 
'Sudanic.' Typical members of this family are Twi (spoken in the Gold Coast 
Colony), Ewe, and Yoruba.]

accounted for by a probable 'Hamitic' invasion from the north.

But on questions connected with 'race' and racial characteristics 
ethnologists themselves are by no means agreed, and in any case we need not 
discuss them in this book.

The Bantu-speaking peoples, then, include such widely separated tribes as 
the Duala, adjoining the Gulf of Cameroons, in the north-west; the Pokomo of 
the Tana valley, in the north-east; the Zulus in the south-east; and the 
Hereros in the south-west. Some are tall and strongly built, like the Zulus; 
some as tall or taller, but more slender, though equally well formed, like 
the Basuto-or even over-tall and too thin for their height, like the 
Hereros; others short and sturdy, like the Pokomo canoe-men, or small, 
active, and wiry, like some of the Anyanja. They vary greatly in colour, 
from a very dark brown (none, I think, are quite black) to different shades 
of bronze or copper. Colour may not be uniform within the same tribe: the 
Zulus themselves, for instance, distinguish between ' black'-that is, dark 
brown-and ' red '-or lighter brown-Zulus.[1]

It does not seem likely, then, that all these various tribes ever formed 
parts of one family, as their languages may be said to do. But it may be 
assumed that a considerable body, speaking the same language, set out 
(perhaps two or three thousand years ago) from somewhere in the region of 
the Great Lakes towards the south and east. Whether they came into Africa 
across the Isthmus of Suez, bringing their language with them, or-as seems 
more likely developed it in that continent need not concern us here. As they 
moved on, separating in different directions (as our Teutonic ancestors did 
when they moved into Europe), their several languages grew up.

[1. The expression 'Red Kafirs,' however, so often heard in South Africa, 
does not refer to skin colour, but to the custom of painting the body with 
red ochre or some similar mineral-a custom not without hygienic 
justification, under the given conditions.]

The Bushmen
They did not find an empty continent awaiting them. The only previous 
inhabitants of whom we have any certain knowledge are the Bushmen, the 
Pygmies of the Congo forests (and some scattered remnants of similar tribes 
in other parts), and perhaps the Hottentots.[1] The present-day Bushmen, 
most of whom are to be found in the Kalahari Desert, are small (often under 
four feet in height), light-complexioned (Miss Bleek says "about putty-
colour"), and in various other respects differ markedly from the Bantu. They 
live by hunting, trapping, and collecting whatever small animals, insects, 
fruits, and roots are regarded as edible. They were driven into the more 
inhospitable regions and partially exterminated, first by the invading Bantu 
and then by Europeans-whose treatment of them is a very black page in our 
history. The Bantu, however, in some cases killed the men only, and married 
the women, which accounts for unusual types met with here and there among 
the South African Bantu.[2] And sometimes (as G. W. Stow thought was the 
case with the earliest Bechuana immigrants) the newcomers may have settled 
down more or less peaceably with the old inhabitants. This I think not 
unlikely to have happened in the district west of the Shire, in Nyasaland, 
where the local Nyanja-speaking population (calling themselves, not quite 
correctly, 'Angoni') are small, dark, and wiry, and seem to have absorbed a 
strong Bushman element. This fact, if true, may explain some of their 
notions about the origin of mankind, as we shall see later on.

The Bantu Languages
The Bantu languages, on the whole, are beautiful and harmonious. None of 
them differ from each other much

[1. I say 'perhaps' because, though we know that the Hottentots were in the 
Cape Peninsula long before the first Bantu reached the Fish river, we do not 
know the relative times of their earlier migrations.

2 Indeed, tradition records that a certain Xosa chief chose a Bushwoman for 
his principal wife, so impressed was he by her skill in preparing a certain 
kind of food to his taste.]

more than French does from Spanish or English from Danish. No two, for 
instance, would be as far apart as English and French, or French and Welsh, 
though all these belong to the same Indo-European family. The words used are 
often quite different (we know that English and American people, both 
speaking English, may use different words for the same thing); but the 
grammar is everywhere, in its main outlines, the same. It is scarcely 
necessary, at this time of day, to say that an unwritten language may have a 
grammar,[1] and even a very complicated one.

It is not often that a speaker of one Bantu language can understand another 
without previously learning it; but most natives pick up each other's speech 
with surprising quickness. An East African who has travelled any 
considerable distance from his home will probably speak three or four 
dialects with ease.

Customs and Beliefs: The Spirit World
Besides this relationship in language, all the Bantu have many customs and 
beliefs in common. All of them have, more or less vaguely, the idea of one 
God, though some of them do not clearly distinguish him from the sky or the 
sun, or even, as we shall see, from the first ancestor of the tribe. They 
believe in survival after death, and think that the ghosts of the dead can 
interfere to almost any extent in the affairs of the living. They do not 
seem to have any idea of immortality as we understand it; in fact, some 
distinctly say that the ghosts go on living only as long as people remember 
them (which is very much what Maeterlinck says in The Blue Bird!). Ordinary 
people have no memory or

[1 This is not the place to give details of Bantu grammar; but it may be 
explained that nouns are divided into classes, distinguished by prefixes, 
which also serve to differentiate the singular and plural. The class which 
consists of nouns denoting persons has, in the singular, the prefix Mu or M, 
in the plural Ba, or some modification of the same; thus Mu-ila is one 
individual of the Ila tribe, Ba-ila more than one. Sometimes the plural 
prefix Ama is used, as in Ama-ndebele. Other prefixes (Ki, Chi, Si, or Se- 
sometimes Lu) are used with the same stem to indicate the language, as Ki-
swahili, Chi-nyanja, Se-suto, Lu-ganda. But it is often more convenient to 
use the stem without the prefix.]

tradition of anyone beyond their great-grandparents, so that, except for 
great chiefs and heroes, there would never be more than three generations of 
ghosts in existence. But, however that may be, the influence of the dead is 
seen in every department of life. A man gets directions from his father's 
spirit before starting on any undertaking-either in a dream, or by 
consulting a diviner, or through all sorts of omens. For instance, a Yao,[1] 
when thinking of going on a journey, would go to his chief, who would then 
take a handful of flour and drop it slowly and carefully on the ground. If 
it fell in the shape of a regular cone the omen would, so far, be good. They 
would then cover up the cone with a pot, and leave it till the next morning. 
If it was found to be quite undisturbed the man could go on his journey with 
an easy mind; but if any of the flour had fallen down he would give it up at 
once. Either the spirits did not, for some reason of their own, wish him to 
go, or they knew that some danger awaited him, and this was their warning.

If anyone is ill it is supposed that some ancestral ghost is offended and 
has sent the sickness, or else that some human enemy has bewitched the 
patient. In either case the diviner has to consult the spirits to find out 
who is responsible and what is the remedy. Drought, floods, a plague of 
locusts, or any other natural calamity may be due to the anger of the 
spirits.

In short, one may say that this belief in the power and influence of the 
dead is the basic fact in Bantu religion. We hear, rather doubtfully, of 
other spirits, some of which may be personified nature powers, but many of 
these (such as the Mwenembago, 'Lord of the Forest,' of the Wazaramo, in 
Tanganyika Territory) seem to have been human ghosts to begin with.

The dead are supposed to go on living for an indefinite time underground, 
very much as they have done on the upper earth. There are many stories 
describing the

[1 The home of the Yao tribe is in the Lujenda valley, in Portuguese East 
Africa, whence they have spread into Tanganyika Territory and Nyasaland.]

adventures of people who have accidentally reached this country (called by 
the Swahili kuzimu[1]), usually through following a porcupine, or some other 
burrowing animal, into its hole. This happened, in Uganda, to Mpobe the 
hunter, to the Zulu Uncama, and to an unnamed man of the Wairamba (in 
Eastern Unyamwezi). The story is found in so many different places that the 
idea seems to be held wherever a Bantu language is spoken.

One does not hear very much of ghosts appearing to survivors "in their habit 
as they lived"; though it -is a common occurrence (as I suppose it is 
everywhere) for people to see and talk with their dead friends in dreams. 
But they often come back in other shapes-mostly as snakes, and very often as 
birds-sometimes in the form of that uncanny insect the mantis, which some 
people call "the spirits' fowl." Later on we shall find some very striking 
tales, in which the ghost of a murdered man or woman haunts the murderer in 
the shape of a bird and calls on the kinsmen to avenge the slain.

The High God
The High God, when thought of as having a definite dwelling-place at all-for 
usually they are rather vague about him-is supposed to live above the sky, 
which, of course, is believed to be a solid roof, meeting the earth at the 
point which no one can travel far enough to reach. People have got into this 
country by climbing trees, or, in some unexplained way, by a rope thrown up 
or let down; and, like Jack after climbing the beanstalk, find a country not 
so very different from the one they have left. In a Yao tale a poor woman, 
who had been tricked into drowning her

[1. The Swahili are a Bantu-speaking people, descended partly from Arab 
traders and colonists, and partly from the different African tribes with 
whom these Arabs intermarried. Their home is the strip of coast from 
Warsheikh to Cape Delgado, but they have travelled far and wide as traders, 
carriers, and Europeans' servants, and spread their language over a great 
part of the continent. The root -zimu, with different prefixes, is found in 
many Bantu languages, and sometimes means a mere ghost. sometimes a kind of 
monster or cannibal ogre.]

baby, climbed a tree into the Heaven country and appealed to Mulungu,[1] who 
gave her child back to her.

The High God is not always-perhaps not often-connected with creation. The 
earth is usually taken for granted, as having existed before all things. 
Human beings and animals are sometimes spoken of as made by him, but 
elsewhere as if they had originated quite independently. The Yaos say, " In 
the beginning man was not, only Mulungu and the beasts." But they do not say 
that God made the beasts, though they speak of them as " his people." The 
curious thing is that they think Mulungu in the beginning lived on earth, 
but went up into the sky because men[2] had taken to setting the bush on 
fire and killing "his people." The same or a similar idea (that God ceased 
to dwell on earth because of men's misconduct) is found to be held by other 
Bantu-speaking tribes, and also by the Ashanti people in West Africa and the 
'Hamitic' Masai in the east. It may be connected with the older and cruder 
notion (still to be traced here and there) that the sky and the earth, which 
between them produced all living things, were once in contact, and only 
became separated later.

Whatever may once have been the case, prayers and sacrifices are addressed 
to the ancestral spirits far more frequently than to Mulungu or Leza. The 
High God is not, as a rule, thought of as interfering directly with the 
course of this world; but this must not be taken too absolutely. Mr C. W. 
Hobley, among the Akamba, and the Rev. D. R. Mackenzie, among the people of 
North Nyasaland,

[1. This word, which in some languages means 'the sky,' is used for 'God' by 
the Yaos, the Anyanja, the Swahili (who shorten it into Muungu), the 
Giryama, and some others. Other names are Chiuta, Leza, Kalunga (in Angola), 
Nzambe (on the Congo; American Negroes have made this into jumbi, mostly 
used in the plural, meaning ghosts or bogies of some sort), Katonda (in 
Uganda), and Unkulunku (among the Zulus). This last (which-is not, as some 
have thought, the same word as Mulungu) has sometimes been taken to mean the 
High God, sometimes the first ancestor of the tribe, who lived so long ago 
that no one can trace his descent from him.]

2 For whom Mulungu was in no way responsible. The first human pair were 
found by the chameleon (a prominent character in African mythology) in his 
fish-trap! See Duff Macdonald, Africana, Vol i, p. 295.]

have recorded instances of direct prayer to the High God in times of 
distress or difficulty.

The Origin of Mankind

As to the way in which mankind came into being, there are different 
accounts. The Zulus and the Thongas (Delagoa Bay people) used to believe 
that the, first man came out of a reed; some say a reed-bed, but the more 
unlikely sounding alternative is probably the true one, as some native 
authorities distinctly mention the exploding of the reed to let him out. 
Besides, it is a custom of the Basuto to stick a reed in the ground beside 
the door of a hut in which a baby has been born. The Hereros think their 
ancestors came out of a certain tree called Omumborombonga. This identical 
tree (I understand that ordinary members of the species are not uncommon) is 
believed to exist somewhere in the Kaoko veld, north of the Ugab river, in 
the South western Territory. The Hereros, who are great stock breeders (or 
were till the tribe fell on evil days), said that their cattle came out of 
Omumborombonga along with them, but the small stock, sheep and goats 
(kleinvee in Dutch), came out of a hole in the ground, along with the 
Bushmen and, presumably, the game on which the Bushmen lived. The mention of 
sheep and goats in this connexion is curious, as the Bushmen never kept any 
domestic animals, except dogs. The Bechuana did not attempt to account for 
the origin of the Bushmen: they had been in the country, along with the 
game, from time immemorial, before the Bechuana came into it.

The hole in the ground is interesting, because the Anyanja of Nyasaland used 
to say that the first people came out of a hole or cave somewhere to the 
west of Lake Nyasa: the place, which is called Kapirimtiya, has even been 
pointed out to Europeans. The footprints of the first man and of the animals 
which came out with him are said to be impressed on a rock in this place.

The Bantu never seem to have regarded death as an inevitable process of 
nature. Everywhere we find stories explaining how it began, and usually 
blaming the chameleon. I shall tell some of these in a later chapter. People 
who do not accept the chameleon story sometimes speak of Death as a person, 
and call him Walumbe, or Lirufu, or Kalunga-ngombe.

We hear now and then about people who live in the sky, though it is not very 
clear who they are. In the legends of the Baganda Heaven (Gulu), his sons, 
and his daughter Nambi are very much like an ordinary human family; but 
Heaven is less personal in the thought of the Bathonga, who call it Tilo, 
and speak of its sending rain, lightning, locusts, and-twins! M. Junod says 
it "is sometimes looked on as a real being, sometimes as an impersonal 
power"; and the 'rain-doctor' when facing the approaching thunderstorm, 
shouts, You, Heaven, go further! I have nothing against you! I do not fight 
against you!"-addressing it as a person. Besides Tilo himself, the sky is 
inhabited by little people called Balungwana, who have sometimes been seen 
to fall from the clouds when some disaster was about to befall the country. 
Twins, too, are called the "children of Heaven." [1] Elsewhere the Heaven-
dwellers are, strangely enough, described as having tails; but it is 
difficult to learn much about them.

There is in the legends of some South African tribes a mysterious being 
called Hobyana (Huveane) or Khudjana, sometimes said to be " the creator of 
heaven and earth and the first ancestor of the race, and sometimes the son 
of the creator (Rivimbi, Luvimbi, or Levivi, by others vaguely identified 
with a famous rain-maker of old times). But at the same time he is 
represented as a tricksy being, some of whose exploits recall those of the 
European Till Eulenspiegel. He does not seem to be known beyond the Zambezi-
indeed, I doubt whether his legend reaches as far as that; but parts of it 
coincide with incidents in the life of some very different heroes-Kachirambe 
and the boy who saved his people from the Swallowing Monster, as we shall 
see later on.

[1. Twins are in some parts of Africa considered very lucky, in others very 
unlucky-so much so that it has sometimes been the custom to kill one or 
both.]

As a rule one does not go to fairy-tales for high moral teaching; they are 
the playground of irresponsible fancy, and we do not look too closely into 
the ethics of Jack the Giant-killer or Rumpelstilzchen. Legends, of a more 
or less religious character, are a different matter, and this story of the 
Swallowing Monster may be taken as coming under that description. There is 
another type of story embodying a deep feeling of right and wrong, in which 
the spirit of a murdered person haunts the slayer in the form of a bird, and 
at last brings him to justice, as in the stories of "Nyengebule" and "Masilo 
and Masilonyane."

Ogres (Amazimu)
The monster just mentioned links on to a class of beings variously described 
in English as 'cannibals,' 'ogres,' or merely 'monsters'-in Zulu amazimu; in 
other languages madimo, madimu, or zimwi. It is a little misleading to call 
them cannibals, as they are never merely human beings, though sometimes 
taking (temporarily, at least) human shape. Zulu folklore is full of them, 
but one meets them more or less everywhere, and one favourite story, about 
the girl who, in some versions, was swallowed, in others carried about in a 
bag, crops up in all sorts of unexpected places. The irimu of the Chaga 
people (on Kilimanjaro mountain) is sometimes spoken of as a leopard; but he 
is clearly not an ordinary leopard, and in a Nyanja story, which will be 
told in full later on, we shall find a hyena who can turn himself into a man 
when he pleases. It is everywhere thought possible for animals to change 
into human beings, or human beings into animals; there are even at the 
present day people who say they have known it to happen: it is a favourite 
trick of the most wicked kind of witch. Besides turning themselves into 
animals, witches and wizards have the power of sending particular creatures 
out on their horrid errands-the baboon, the hyena, the owl; sometimes the 
leopard and the wild cat. This is why Zulus do not (or did not till lately) 
like you to use the words ingwe (leopard) and impaka (wild cat; the domestic 
cat, ikati, does not matter); you must call them by some other name. Another 
kind of familiar is the resuscitated and mutilated corpse (Zulu umkovu, Yao 
ndondocha), of which some account will be given in Chapter XVI.

Animal Stories
Many of the stories which I shall have to tell are entirely concerned with 
animals, who are shown speaking and acting just as if they were human 
beings. We all remember the "Uncle Remus" stories, which originally came 
from Africa, though naturally somewhat changed through being adapted to 
American surroundings: Uncle Remus felt called upon to explain that "de 
beastesses," were once upon a time like people; the original story-teller 
would not have thought it necessary, since, to his mind, there was no great 
difference. We do not hear animals talk, but that may be because we cannot 
understand their language-and why should we suppose that their minds work 
otherwise than ours?

It seems quite likely that our Æsop's Fables originated in Africa. Luqman, 
the Arab fabulist spoken of with approval by Muhammad, in the thirty-first 
chapter of the Koran, is said to have been an 'Ethiopian'-that is, a Negro-
slave. His stories were passed on to Greece, where he was known as Aithiops, 
and this was taken to be his name and turned into Æsop.

The favourite animal in the Bantu stories is the Hare: there are no rabbits 
in Africa south of the Sahara, and it would seem that Europeans, warned by 
the calamities of Australia, have refrained from introducing them. Uncle 
Remus, knowing more about rabbits than hares, has turned him into Brer 
Rabbit, just as the hyena (who cheats and ill-treats the hare, and is 
finally 'bested' by him) has become Brer Wolf or Brer Fox. If Uncle Remus 
nearly always gives animals a title-'Brer Rabbit,' 'Mis' Cow,' and so on-
this must be because his African forefathers did the same; we generally find 
them distinguished in some way when figuring in tales; sometimes, indeed, 
they are called by quite a different name. But the Bantu do not go as far as 
the Bushmen, who use different forms of words (with extra clicks) for the 
speeches of animals in the stories, and have a different tone of voice for 
each animal when reciting these speeches.

In some parts, as in the Congo forest country, where there are no hares, the 
same tales are told of a little antelope, the water chevrotain 
(Dorcatherium), called by the Congo natives nseshi. The reason why these two 
creatures, so small and weak, are made the principal heroes of African 
folklore seems to be a deep-seated, inarticulate feeling that the strong 
cannot always have things their own way and the under-dog must some time or 
other come into his own. The lion and the elephant stand for stupid, brutal 
force, though the hyena, on the whole, gets the worst character; the 
tortoise overcomes every one else in the end (even the hare) by quiet, 
dogged determination; but he sometimes (not always) shows a very unamiable 
side to his disposition.

These are the principal figures in the animal stories, though a good many 
others make their appearance incidentally.

The Zulu stories which have been collected (there must still be many others 
not published or even written down) are more or less like our own fairy-
tales: about chiefs' sons and beautiful maidens, lost children, ogres, 
witches, enchanters, and so forth; but they also have their hare stories.

Much the same may be said of the Basuto, only they give some of the hare's 
most famous adventures to the jackal. This trait is probably borrowed from 
the Hottentots, who, like the Galla in North-eastern Africa (where the 
Hottentots came from, no one knows how long ago), have no opinion of the 
hare's intelligence, and tell you that it is the jackal who is the clever 
one. And some of the same incidents are told by the Zulus of a queer little 
being called Hlakanyana, a sort of Tom Thumb, apparently human, but by some 
people identified not with the hare, but with a kind of weasel.

The circumstances of his birth are peculiar, which is also the case with 
some very different personages: Kachirambe of the Nyanja, Galinkalanganye of 
the Hehe, and usually the boy-hero who slays the Swallowing Monster. 
Ryang'ombe, the hero of the Lake Regions, distinguished himself by eating a 
whole ox when only a few hours old-a feat in which he even surpassed 
Hlakanyana.

The Baganda and Banyaruanda have many tales or legends of a type similar to 
those mentioned above, while other Bantu tribes seem to have more animal 
stories and less of the other kind; but they probably exist side by side 
everywhere. In attempting, as I have done, to present the most attractive 
specimens of both I have sometimes found it necessary to combine two or more 
versions so as to get a more complete and coherent whole.

CHAPTER II: WHERE MAN CAME FROM, AND HOW DEATH CAME
No one seems to know when the South African Bantu first came into the 
country now occupied by them. It is certain that the Bushmen, and in some 
places the Hottentots, were there before them. One proof of this is found in 
the names of places, and especially of rivers, which in the Cape Province 
often contain clicks (the Iqora, called by Europeans Bushman's River; the 
Inxuba, which is the Fish river; and many others); while in Natal and 
Zululand most of the river-names have a decided Bantu sound-Umgeni, Tugela, 
and so on. The Bantu came from the north-east, and reached the Kei river 
about the end of the seventeenth century, when they first came in contact 
with the Dutch colonists. But they must have been in Natal and the regions 
to the north-east long before that, for in 1498, when Vasco da Gama's fleet 
touched somewhere near the mouth of the Limpopo, one of his crew, Martin 
Affonso, found he could understand the talk of the natives, because it was 
very much like what he had picked up on the West Coast, probably in Angola 
or on the Congo. It is also known that the Makaranga, who are still living 
in Southern Rhodesia, were there in 1505, when the Portuguese first heard of 
them, and they must have settled there long before, as they had something 
like an organized kingdom, under a paramount chief, whom the Portuguese 
called Monomotapa.

Zulu Clan Tradition
These Makaranga are by some thought to be the ancestors of the Amalala, the 
first of the Bantu to take up their abode in the countries we know as Natal 
and Zululand. One of their tribes has a quaint story of the way in which 
their first ancestor brought his family to their new home. This was 
Malandela, son of Gumede, who came into the Umhlatuze valley, Father Bryant 
thinks, about 1670. It is said that when they had marched, day after day, 
for many weary miles, and the old man found his strength failing, he made 
his wives and children get into an isilulu-" one of the huge globular 
baskets still used for storing grain."[1] He then, with one last effort, 
launched the basket on its way with one mighty kick, and fell back dead. It 
rolled on "over hill and dale, river and forest, till at last it stopped and 
steadied; and when those within ventured to look out they found themselves 
in this country where we now live," so some of their descendants, "who are 
still nicknamed 'those belonging to the basket,'" told Miss Colenso.[2] But 
Father Bryant, who has made very careful inquiries into Zulu traditions, has 
unkindly spoilt this story. He says that the real meaning of "those 
belonging to the basket" is that Malandela's family, when driven by famine 
from their old homes, brought with them these grain-baskets, which were then 
a novelty to the people among whom they settled.

However that may be, Malandela was the father of Ntombela, the father of 
Zulu, and so the ancestor of the great Zulu kings. Solomon, son of Dinuzulu, 
who has recently died, was the twelfth in descent from him. The graves of 
these kings, from Malandela to Senzangakona, father of Tshaka, are pointed 
out near Babanango, in the valley of the White Imfolozi river. Dinuzulu too 
is buried near them, but his father lies in the Inkandhla forest, in 
Zululand, and his grandfather, Mpande, at Nodwengu.

Tribal Migrations
Zulus and Xosas alike trace their descent from a tribe called Nguni 
(Abenguni, a name still preserved by the Angoni of Nyasaland), who, after 
coming from the north, as well as the Basuto, Bechuana, and Hereros, settled 
somewhere in the Upper Limpopo valley. Father Bryant thinks that they must 
have made a long circuit to the west,

[1. Alas, the degenerate izilulu (plural) of the present day are not more 
than three or four feet across!

2 Josiah Gumede, who came to England in 1919 to petition the Imperial 
Government for justice to the Zulus, claims to be a descendant of this 
family.]

crossing the Zambezi near its source, or even going round its head-waters, 
as it would have been impassable to them "by any eastern or even central 
crossing."[1] Be that as it may, while some of the Nguni remained in the 
Limpopo valley part of the tribe set off about the year 1300 to the 
eastward, and these, again, two hundred years later, broke up into two 
sections, one of which continued its southward march, and ultimately gave 
rise to the Xosa and Tembu tribes. Zulu and Xosa may now be considered as 
dialects of the same language: they do not differ much more, if at all, than 
Lowland Scots and standard English, and originally, of course, they were 
one.

As centuries progressed, old words and forms fell out here and new came in 
there, each section developing its speech along different lines, till to-day 
Ntungwa and Xosa are separated by a quite considerable extent of dialectical 
difference in speech. The Xosa language, it may be noted, has preserved for 
us the old-time term ebu Nguni (Nguniland-there whence they came) as 
signifying " in the West." [2]

The differences in vocabulary are considerable, just as we find that in 
different English counties the same things are not always called by the same 
names; the grammar is almost identical; but the Xosa intonation, rather than 
the pronunciation of individual sounds, is decidedly strange to an ear 
accustomed to Zulu. This being so, it is only to be expected that both 
sections of the South-eastern Bantu should have many tales and legends in 
common, and I shall not always try to distinguish between them.

The Reed and the Reed-bed
The Bantu, as a rule, do not try to account for the origin of the human race 
as a whole, or, rather, their legends seem to assume that the particular 
tribe in question is the human race; though, as we have seen, there are some 
who con-

[1. Yet we know that Zwangendaba's host crossed in 1835 near Zumbo in the 
height of the dry season, when the river was very low.

2 Bryant, Olden Times, p. 9.]

descend to recognize the Bushmen. They also frequently fail to distinguish 
between a non-human creator and the first human ancestor, which has led to a 
good deal of discussion as to the real meaning of the Zulu Unkulunkulu, who 
'broke off' mankind from Uhlanga. Uhlanga means a reed, and there seems no 
reason to doubt that this at first was intended quite literally, for, as one 
native told Dr Callaway, " it was said that two people came out of a reed. 
There came out a man and a woman." Some have refused to believe that this 
was really meant, and take Callaway's view that uhlanga is a metaphorical 
expression for "a source of being." It certainly has come to be used in this 
sense, but I should be inclined to look on this as a later development and 
the reed as the original idea. The Baronga of Delagoa Bay[1] told M. Junod 
that "one man and one woman suddenly came out from a reed, which exploded, 
and there they were!" Some native authorities say that the first pair came 
out of a reed-bed (umhlanga), but one is inclined to think that the cruder 
version is the more primitive, and is reminded of the Hereros and their 
Omumborombonga tree.

The Chameleon
Most) if not all, of the Bantu have the legend of the chameleon-everywhere 
much the same, though differing in some not unimportant details-explaining 
how death came into the world, or, rather, how it was not prevented from 
coming. I will give it first as it was told to Dr Callaway by Fulatela 
Sitole, and afterwards mention some of the variations.

It is said he (Unkulunkulu) sent a chameleon; he said to it, "Go, chameleon 
(lunwaba), go and say, 'Let not men die!'" The chameleon set out; it went 
slowly, it loitered in the way; and as it went it ate of the fruit of a bush 
which is called

[1. The Baronga are a branch of the great Thonga nation (Amatonga). Father 
Bryant says that "the relationship between the Nguni (Zulu-Xosa), Sutu 
(Basuto), and Thonga Bantu families may be likened to that existing in 
Europe between the English, Germans, and Scandinavians of the Nordic race."]

Ubukwebezane. At length Uhkulunkulu sent a lizard [intulo, the blue-headed 
gecko] after the chameleon, when it had already set out for some time. The 
lizard went; it ran and made great haste, for Unkulunkulu had said, "Lizard, 
when you have arrived say, 'Let men die!'" So the lizard went, and said, "I 
tell you, it is said, 'Let men die!'" The lizard came back again to 
Unkulunkulu before the chameleon had reached his destination, the chameleon, 
which was sent first-which was sent and told to go and say, "Let not men 
die!" At length it arrived and shouted, saying, "It is said, 'Let not men 
die!'" But men answered, "Oh, we have accepted the word of the lizard; it 
has told us the word, 'It is said "Let men die!'" We cannot hear your word. 
Through the word of the lizard men will die." [1]

Here no reason is given for Unkulunkulu's sending the second messenger. I do 
not think any genuine native version suggests that he changed his mind on 
account of men's wickedness. Where this is said one suspects it to be a 
moralizing afterthought, due perhaps to European influence.

The Luyi Legend
Some other versions assume that the creator had not made up his mind, and 
decided to let the issue depend on which messenger arrived first. The Luyi 
tribe of the Zambezi call the creator Nyambe, and give him a wife, 
Nasilele.[2] She wanted men to die for ever, but Nyambe wished them to live 
again. Nyambe had a dog of whom he was very fond. The dog died, and Nyambe 
wished to restore him to life, but Nasilele objected. " He is a thief, and I 
do not like him." Some time after this Nasilele's mother died. (Nyambe and 
his wife are stated to have been the first human couple; but the student of 
mythology must learn not to be surprised at contradictions of this sort.) 
She asked Nyambe to revive her mother, but he refused, because she had 
wanted his dog to stay dead. Some versions add that he gave in after a time, 
and set to work,

[1. Callaway, Amazulu, p. 3.

2. Told in full by Jacottet, "Textes Louyi," No. XLV.]

but when the process was nearly complete Nasilele ruined everything by her 
curiosity. Then came the question whether mankind in general should die for 
ever or live again, and they agreed to settle it by sending the chameleon 
andnot the lizard, but the hare, who, as might be expected, arrived first.

Elsewhere the lizard overhears the message, and, out of mere spiteful 
mischief, hastens to get in first with the (alleged) counter-order. It is 
not surprising that both these creatures should be held unlucky. No 
unsophisticated African will touch a chameleon if he can help it, or likes 
to see a European handling one; while for an intulo to enter a Zulu hut is 
the worst of evil omens. In some parts, indeed, the herd-boys, whenever they 
find a chameleon, will poison it by squirting tobacco-juice or sprinkling 
snuff into its open mouth.

The chameleon is the creature usually associated with this legend among 
Bantu-speaking peoples; the Hottentots, in a similar story, make the 
messenger the hare, who is sent out by the Moon to tell people, "As I die 
and, dying, live, so shall ye die and, dying, live." In some versions he 
reverses the message out of forgetfulness or stupidity; in one he does it 
wilfully, having taken the place of the insect who was to have carried the 
message.' It is to be noticed that the idea throughout is not that man 
should be exempt from death, but that he should return to life after it.

Legends current in Uganda
The Bantu must have brought this legend with them when they came from the 
north, for it is also known to the people of Uganda, as well as to others in 
between. But the Baganda have another story telling how Death came-Death, 
who, in this tale, is thought of as a person, and called Walumbe. This one 
belongs to the Bahima (or Batusi) cowherds, who came in from the north with 
their long-horned cattle, and made themselves chiefs in Uganda and Unyoro

[1. Bleek, Reynard the Fox in South in South Africa, pp. 69-73; Schulte, 
Namaland und Kalahari, p. 448.]

and Ankole.[1] But it is the peasants, the original Bantu living in the 
country before the Bahima came, who have the chameleon story. The tale of 
Kintu, the first man, who married the daughter of Heaven (Gulu), has been 
told so often that it need not be repeated here. It may be read in Dr 
Roscoe's The Baganda, and in a charming little book by Mrs Baskerville, The 
King of the Snakes. There, too, can be found the story of Mpobe, the hunter, 
who wandered into the presence of Death, but was allowed to depart with a 
warning never to speak of what he had seen. He was able to resist all 
persuasion to do so, till at last his mother overcame his reluctance, and 
Death immediately came to claim him.

Such personifications of Death do not seem to be very common in Bantu 
mythology; but the Basumbwa of North-western Unyamwezi, in a somewhat 
similar legend, call him Lirufu, and one occasionally hears of a "chief of 
the ghosts," who may be identical with him.

Kalunga of the Ambundu
The Ambundu of Angola speak of Kalunga, a word which may mean either Death, 
the King of the Netherworld (usually called, why I do not know, Kalunga-
ngombe, "Kalunga of the cattle"), or the sea. This is not strange when one 
remembers that, though living, many of them, on the coast, they are a 
seagoing people, and to the sense of dread and mystery with which the ocean 
would naturally affect them would be added the memory of the thousands 
carried away on slave-ships, never to return. The Ndonga and Kwanyama, to 
the south of Angola, use this name for their High God, whom the Hereros too 
call Njambi Karunga.

Some Mbundu stories give us a glimpse of Kalunga and his kingdom. Here are 
two of them.[2]

[1. They are no longer a separate people in Uganda itself, as they are in 
Ankole and Ruanda, since even their kings and great chiefs married women of 
the country.

2 Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola, pp. 223 and 249.]

The first is called "King Kitamba kia Shiba." Kitamba was a chief who lived 
at Kasanji. He lost his head-wife, Queen Muhongo, and mourned for her many 
days. Not only did he mourn himself, but he insisted on his people sharing 
his grief. "My village, too, no man shall do anything therein. The young 
people shall not shout; the women shall not pound; no one shall speak in the 
village." His headmen remonstrated with him, but Kitamba was obdurate, and 
declared that he would neither speak nor eat nor allow anyone else to do so 
till his queen was restored to him. The headmen consulted together, and 
called in a 'doctor' (kimbanda). Having received his fee (first a gun, and 
then a cow) and heard their statement of the case, he said, "All right," and 
set off to gather herbs. These he pounded in a 'medicine-mortar,' and, 
having prepared some sort of decoction, ordered the king and all the people 
to wash themselves with it. He next directed some men to "dig a grave in my 
guest-hut at the fireplace," which they did, and he entered it with his 
little boy, giving two last instructions to his wife: to leave off her 
girdle (i.e., to dress negligently, as if in mourning) and to pour water 
every day on the fireplace. Then the men filled in the grave. The doctor saw 
a road open before him; he walked along it with his boy till he came to a 
village, where he found Queen Muhongo sitting, sewing a basket, She saw him 
approaching, and asked, "Whence comest thou? " He answered, in the usual 
form demanded by native politeness, "Thou thyself, I have sought thee. Since 
thou art dead King Kitamba will not eat, will not drink, will not speak. In 
the village they pound not; they speak not; he says, 'If I shall talk, if I 
eat, go ye and fetch my head-wife.' That is what brought me here. I have 
spoken." [1]

The queen then pointed out a man seated a little way off, and asked the 
doctor who he was. As he could not say, she told him, "He is Lord Kalunga-
ngombe; he is always consuming us, us all." Directing his attention to 
another man", who was chained, she asked if he knew him, and he

[1. Chatelain's literal translation of his speech.]

answered, "He looks like King Kitamba, whom I left where I came from." It 
was indeed Kitamba, and the queen further informed the messenger that her 
husband had not many years to live,[1] and also that "Here in Kalunga never 
comes one here to return again. She gave him the armlet which had been 
buried with her, to show to Kitamba as a proof that he had really visited 
the abode of the dead, but enjoined on him not to tell the king that he had 
seen him there. And he must not eat anything. in Kalunga; otherwise he would 
never be permitted to return to earth.

One is reminded of Persephone and the pomegranate seed, but the idea is one 
which frequently recurs in Bantu legends of the Underworld, there is no 
reason to suppose that it was borrowed, directly or indirectly, from the 
Greeks. It seems quite natural to think that the food of the dead would be 
fatal to the living.

Meanwhile the doctor's wife had kept pouring water on the grave. One day she 
saw the earth beginning to crack; the cracks opened wider, and, finally, her 
husband's head appeared. He gradually made his way out, and pulled his 
small-son up after him. The child fainted when he came out into the 
sunlight, but his father washed him with some 'herb-medicine,' and soon 
brought him to.

Next day the doctor went to the headmen, presented his report, was repaid 
with two slaves,[3] and returned to his home. The headmen told Kitamba what 
he had said, and produced the token. The only comment he is recorded to have 
made, on looking at the armlet, is "Truth, it is the same." We do not hear 
whether he countermanded the official mourning, but it is to be presumed he 
did so, for he made no further difficulty about eating or drinking. Then, 
after a few years, he died, and the story concludes, "They wailed the 
funeral; they scattered."

[1. This seems to be shown by the appearance of his wraith in the 
Underworld, but the point is not further explained.

2. Kalunga therefore denotes the place, as well as its ruler.

3. Chatelain's informants in the eighteen-eighties treat this sort of thing 
quite as a matter of course.]

How Ngunza defied Death
The other story is about two brothers. Ngunza Kilundu was away from home 
when a dream warned- him that his younger brother Maka was dead. On his 
return he asked his mother, "What death was it that killed Maka?" She could 
only say that it was Lord Kalunga-ngombe who had killed him. "Then," said 
Ngunza, "I will go out and fight Kalunga-ngombe." He went at once to a 
blacksmith and ordered a strong iron trap. When it was ready he took it out 
into the bush and set it, hiding near by with his gun. Soon he heard a cry, 
as of some creature in distress, and, listening, made out words of human 
speech: "I am dying, dying." It was Kalunga-ngombe who was caught in the 
trap, and Ngunza took his gun and prepared to shoot. The voice cried out, 
"Do not shoot me! Come to free me! Ngunza asked, "Who are you, that I should 
set you free?" The answer came: "I am Kalunga-ngombe." "Oh, you are Kalunga-
ngombe, who killed my younger brother Maka!" Kalunga-ngombe understood the 
threat which was left unspoken, and went on to explain himself. "You accuse 
me of killing people. I do not do it wantonly, or for my own satisfaction; 
people are brought to me by their fellow-men, or through their own fault. 
You shall see this for yourself. Go away now and wait four days: on the 
fifth you may go and fetch your brother in my country."

Ngunza did as he was told, and went to Kalunga. It is not said how he got 
there-probably by some such means as the doctor in the other story. There he 
was received by Kalunga-ngombe, who invited him to take his place beside 
him. The new arrivals began to come in. Kalunga-ngombe asked the first man, 
"What killed you?" The man answered that on earth he had been very rich; his 
neighbours were envious and bewitched him, so that he died.[1] The next to 
arrive was a woman, who admitted that 'vanity' had been the cause of her 
death-that is, she had been

[1. A more likely occurrence-and one that has been known to take place-would 
have been that an accusation of witchcraft was trumped up, which led to his 
execution.]

greedy of finery and admiration, had coquetted with men, and had in the end 
been killed by a jealous husband. So it went on: one after another came with 
more or less the same story, and at last Kalunga-Ngombe said, "You see how 
it is-I do not kill people; they are brought to me for one cause or another. 
It is very unfair to blame me. Now you may go to Milunga " and fetch your 
brother Maka."

Ngunza went as directed, and was overjoyed at finding Maka just as he had 
left him at their home, and, apparently, leading much the same sort of life 
as he had on earth. They greeted each other warmly, and then Ngunza said, 
"Now let us be off, for I have come to fetch you home." But, to his 
surprise, Maka did not want to go. "I won't go back; I am much better off 
here than I ever was while I lived. If I come with you, shall I have as good 
a time?" Ngunza did not know how to answer this, and, very unwillingly, had 
to leave his brother where he was. He turned away sadly, and went to take 
leave of Kalunga, who gave him, as a parting present, the seeds of all the 
useful plants now cultivated in Angola, and ended by saying, "In eight I 
days I shall come to visit you at your home."

This part of the story grows very puzzling, as no reason is given for the 
visit, and it would almost seem, from what follows, as if some condition had 
been imposed which Ngunza did not keep.[2] Kalunga came to Ngunza's home on 
the eighth day, and found that he had fled eastward that is, inland. He 
pursued him from place to place, and finally came up with him. Ngunza asked 
why Kalunga should have followed him, adding, "You cannot kill me, for I 
have done you no wrong. You have been insisting that you do not kill anyone-
that people are brought to you through some fault of theirs." Kalunga, for 
all answer, threw his hatchet at Ngunza, and Ngunza "turned into a kituta 
spirit." This is not further explained, but we

[1. It is not clear what this place was. Chatelain could not even make out 
the word in the original manuscript.

2 Chatelain seems to have had some difficulty in getting a connected 
narrative out of the "poorly written notes" left by a native helper who 
died.]

find elsewhere that a kituta (or kianda) is "a spirit or demon . . . who 
rules over the water and is fond of great trees and of hill-tops." Such 
river-spirits figure in several other stories from Angola.

In the story from Uganda already referred to Mpobe had to die because he 
had, in spite of the warning received, spoken about his visit to the kingdom 
of the dead. Something of the sort may have been said in the correct version 
of the Mbundu story. Then, again, Ngunza is not said to have been killed, 
but to have become a kituta-one does not see why. In the ordinary course of 
things, one gathers, those who depart this life go on living for an 
indefinite time in Kalunga; but after that they die again, and this time 
cease, to exist. We shall have to consider this point more fully, when 
speaking of the ancestral spirits.

It seems quite clear from all these legends that the African does not, when 
he thinks about the matter at all, look upon death as an essential fact in 
nature. It appears to be accepted that, but for some unforeseen accident, or 
perhaps some piece of carelessness or wilful disobedience, people need never 
have died at all. To the same set of ideas belongs the prevalent belief that 
any death whose cause is not understood (and the number of such deaths is 
now steadily decreasing) must be due to witchcraft. Kalunga, if we are to 
think of him as the High God, is exceptional for living underground. Leza, 
Mulungu, Iruwa, and so on, if they have a local habitation at all, are 
placed in the sky, as we shall see in the next chapter.

CHAPTER III: LEGENDS OF THE HIGH GODS
THE Leza and Nyambe of the Upper and Middle Zambezi tribes exhibit the same 
confusion between the High God and the first man which we noticed in the 
case of the Zulu Unkulunkulu; and, further, they appear to be more or less 
identified with the sky and the rain. The Basubiya say that Leza once lived 
on earth. He was a very strong man, a great chief; when he was seated in his 
khotla (place of the chief's council) "it was as though the sun were sitting 
there." It was he who sent out the chameleon with the message that men 
should live again after death. Leza is said to send rain; the Baila use such 
expressions as "Leza will fall much water, Leza throws down water."

The Rev. E. W. Smith obtained from these people a curious story,[1] the 
conclusion of which recalls the only comfort Gautama Buddha could give to 
the bereaved mother. It also indicates the belief that Leza causes death-at 
any rate, premature death.

The Woman's Search for God
An old woman, whose parents had died when she was a child, lost all her sons 
and daughters, one after another, and was left with no one belonging to her. 
When she was very old and weary she thought she must be about to follow 
them; but instead of that she found herself growing younger, and was seized 
with a strong desire to find Leza and ask him the meaning of it all. 
Thinking that he had his abode in the sky, she began to cut down trees and 
make a scaffolding by which she could climb up. A similar device is said to 
have been tried by the Baluyi, by the Wasu of Pare (East Africa), and by the 
ancestors of the Ashanti.

But when she had built it up to a considerable height the lower poles rotted 
away, and the whole fell down, she falling with it. She was not hurt, and 
tried again, but with no better success. At last she gave up in despair, and 
set out

[1 Smith and Dale, The Ila-speaking Peoples, vol. ii, p. 197.]

to reach the place where, as she believed, the sky joins the earth. So she 
wandered through one country after another, and when the people asked her 
what she wanted she said, "I am seeking Leza." "What do you want of him?" 
"My brothers, you ask me? Here in the nations is there one who has suffered 
as I have suffered? . . . I am alone. As you see me, a solitary old woman, 
that is how I am!"

The people answered, "Yes, we see! That is how you are! Bereaved of friends 
and kindred? In what do you differ from others? Shikakunamo[1] sits on the 
back of every one of us, and we cannot shake him off!"

Prayer to the High God
It is often stated that Africans in general neither pray to the High God nor 
offer sacrifices to him, nor, in fact, notice him at all, beyond recognizing 
his existence. This is certainly not true in the case of the Baila, and we 
have evidence to the same effect from various quarters. The Bapedi (a branch 
of the Basuto living in the Transvaal) say that their High God (Modimo o 
mogolo) is called Huveane, and they pray to him for rain.[2] He made the sky 
and the earth, and when he had finished them he climbed up into the sky 
(conceived, of course, as a solid vault) by driving in pegs on which he set 
his feet, taking out each one as soon as he had stepped on the next, so that 
people should not be able to follow him. And in the sky he has lived ever 
since. This seems to be the original form of the incident, which, when the 
myth had degenerated into a comic folk-tale, appears as a trick played by 
the graceless Huveane on his father.

Mr Hobley distinctly states that the Akamba tribe, in Kenya Colony, pray to 
the God whom they call Engai,

[1. Shikakunamo is one of the names sometimes used by the Baila for Leza; it 
means 'the besetting one,' the one who will never let you alone-in this case 
sending one affliction after another. But in general he is described as 
compassionate and merciful, despite the unreasonableness of mankind, who beg 
him for, boons, and then complain of what they get.

2. We shall meet with a different Huveane-or with a very different 
conception of the same being-in a later chapter.]

especially in seasons of distress. When sickness is rife among the people 
the headman prays first to Engai and then to the spirit (imu) supposed to 
have caused the sickness." They first pray to Engai, because they believe 
the spirit has gone to Engai."

Gutmann speaks of sacrifices offered to God (Iruwa) by the Wachaga, which 
are clearly distinguished from offerings made to the ancestral spirits, and 
quotes old forms of prayer used on such occasions. The Ngonde (Konde) 
people, at the north end of Lake Nyasa, pray to Kyala (also known as 
Ndorombwike), and other instances might be cited. Thus the High God cannot 
in all cases be described as 'otiose, dwelling apart and not concerning 
himself with mankind or his affairs.

Chungu's Prayer
The Ngonde, just mentioned, say as a rule that they do not pray directly to 
Kyala, but ask the spirits of their forefathers to intercede for them with 
him. Yet sometimes they pray directly: "Be gracious to us, O God, and hear 
the prayers of those whom we have named"-i.e., the ancestral spirits. Mr 
Mackenzie tells of a chief called Chungu, known to his people as "the man 
who speaks with God," and relates a remarkable story[1] of this Chungu 
having been called in when the Domira steamer had run aground (near 
Karonga's, on Lake Nyasa) and could not be got off. Chungu came down to the 
shore and prayed, after sacrificing a white cock, and immediately the vessel 
floated. It is a pity that this incident does not seem to have been reported 
by any of the Europeans who must have been on board.

Legend of Ngeketo
These same Ngonde people have a strange legend about one Ngeketo, once a god 
of theirs, but now, as they say, worshipped only by the white men. He was 
the youngest of three, the others being Lyambilo (still worshipped by the 
Wakinga) and Mbasi, by some writers called 'the Devil,'

[1. The Spirit-ridden Konde, p. 23.]

though that notion is wholly foreign to Bantu thought. These two became 
jealous of Ngeketo, because he was the first to plant maize in the country-
the old home of the Ngonde, near what is now Mahenge. Together with "the 
elders of the people" (who usually, on principle, dislike innovations), they 
conspired to kill Ngeketo; but after three days he came back to life in the 
form of a serpent. Thereupon they cut him in pieces, but the pieces joined 
together, and he revived once more. Again they killed him, and again he 
arose. Some people saw him, but he disappeared and went away to the coast, 
"where he became the god of the white men."

We are assured that this story cannot be due to missionary influence: it was 
known to the old men before the white men came, and they told Mr Mackenzie 
that it had not been changed in any way. It seems most likely that Ngeketo 
was not really a High God, but a human ancestor, though not honoured as such 
in the ordinary way, either because his family had died out or because the 
tribe had moved away from the place where he was buried and where only 
offerings could be made to his spirit. If he really introduced the maize 
plant (which, as we know, was brought from Brazil by the Portuguese) his 
legend must certainly be later than the sixteenth century; but the mention 
of that grain may be a modernizing touch, in the usual manner of story-
tellers, and, originally, he may have planted millet or beans, both of which 
seem to have been known from very early times. It is interesting to note, in 
passing, that where there is a tradition about millet the discovery is 
attributed to a woman, and, strangely enough, is usually associated with a 
discreditable motive.

Imana of the Ruanda
The people of Ruanda recognize a Supreme Being called Imana, clearly 
distinguished from the deified hero Ryang'ombe, whose legend will be given 
in another chapter, and from the imandwa, or ghosts. He is often spoken of 
as a helper in difficulty and distress, but is never prayed to direct: 
appeals to him are always expressed, one might say, as conditional wishes. 
Thus: "If Imana were with me he would help me." Imana is frequently referred 
to in Ruanda proverbs, such as: "Imana gives you-it is not a thing bought" 
(i.e., his gifts are free); "He who has received a gift from Imana is not 
stripped of it by the wind"; "Imana has long arms"; "There is none equal to 
Imana"; "A cultivator who has not Imana on his side has [at any rate] his 
two arms." This last seems to mean that a man must depend on his own 
exertions, instead of waiting on Providence, and so might be held to run 
counter to the general trend of thought as expressed in the others. But it 
may be merely a counsel of despair; in any case, one has not sufficient 
information to see what lies at the back of this utterance.

Imana figures in various legends, which show him distinctly acting and 
speaking as a person, though, strangely enough, his name is not, 
grammatically, placed in the personal class, but in that containing the 
names of animals-a point which opens up avenues of speculation not to be 
entered on here.[1]

The Serpent the Enemy
One of these legends[2] suggests marked Hamitic influence, in the mention of 
the serpent. Imana, once upon a time, used to talk with men. One day he said 
to a man (whether this was the first man on earth does not appear), " Do not 
go to sleep to-night; I am coming to give you some good news." There was a 
serpent hidden in the hut, who overheard these words. The man kept awake 
till cockcrow, after which he was overpowered by sleep, and did not hear 
when Imana came and called him. The serpent was on the watch and answered 
the call. Imana (who is never assumed to be omniscient) thought the man was 
speaking, and said,

[1. Spirits, as a rule, are not placed in the personal class of nouns, but 
yet not in the same class as Imana. Mulungu would have the plural milungu 
(not Walungu, as if personal), but I must say I have never come across it in 
the plural, except where there was reason to suspect European influence.

2 Johanssen, Ruanda, p. 119.]

You will die, but you will rise again; you will grow old, but you will get a 
new skin, you, your children, and your grandchildren." Next morning the man 
went to see Imana, and complained that he had not received any message. 
Imana asked, It was not you, then, to whom I spoke in the night?" "No." 
"Then it must have been the snake, who is for ever accursed. If a Tusi ever 
comes across that snake let him kill it-likewise the Hutu and the Twa. Let 
them kill one wherever they find it. But as for you, you will die, you and 
your children and your children's children."

Abarea, a local headman of the Galla, in the north-east of Kenya Colony, 
told me a somewhat similar story current among his people. In some respects 
it has a closer resemblance to the chameleon legend: here the messenger is a 
bird (as far as I could make out, a sort of hornbill) who is beguiled by the 
snake into reversing his message. As Abarea remarked in Swahili, "Nyoka ni 
adui-the snake is the enemy."

It seems to be assumed that Imana is unable to reverse the doom incurred 
through the serpent's treachery. Batusi, Bahutu, and Batwa are the three 
tribes who make up the population of Ruanda: the shepherd aristocracy, the 
Bantu cultivators, and the potter serfs, probably descended from the forest 
Pygmies.

The Story of the Glutton
Then we have the tale of Sebgugugu, the Greedy Man,[1] enforcing the homely 
old moral of the Goose who laid the Golden Eggs, through a quite 
extraordinary case of stupid and obstinate selfishness. Sebgugugu was a poor 
man whose sole wealth was a white cow with her calf. One day, while his wife 
was away, hoeing her garden-plot in the jungle, and he was sitting in the 
sun outside his hut, a bird came and perched on the gate-post. It began to 
sing, and as he listened he seemed to hear these words: "Sebgugugu, kill the 
White One (Gitale); kill the White One and get a

[1. Père Hurel, La Poésie chez les primitifs, p. 174 . The story is also 
told, with variations, by Johanssen, Ruanda, p. 120.]

hundred!" When his wife came home the bird was still singing, and he said, " 
Look here, wife! Do you hear what this bird says? " She answered, "Nonsense! 
It's only a bird singing." Again it sang the same words, and Sebgugugu 
said," Don't you understand? Imana is telling me that if I kill Whitey I 
shall get a hundred cows. Isn't it so?" "What do you mean? I have to feed 
our children on her milk, and if you kill her they will die. Do you mean to 
say you are going to believe what a bird tells you?" But he would not 
listen; he took his axe and went and killed the cow. The family had beef for 
dinner, and lived for some time on the rest of the meat, but no cows 
appeared in place of the White One. Then the bird came again, and this time 
advised him to kill the calf, which he did, in spite of his wife's 
opposition. When the meat was finished and no cows were forthcoming they all 
began to be very hungry. (An African might ask, "What about the garden 
produce?" -but no doubt it was the wrong time of year for that.) Sebgugugu 
said to his wife, " Now the children are starving! " She answered, " Did I 
not tell you what would happen when you would kill Whitey? " Then, in 
despair, they decided to tramp in search of food.

He tied up some of the children in mats, and put the rest into a basket, 
which his wife carried on her head; he took up the bundles, and so they 
started. They went on till they were quite tired out, and sat down by the 
wayside, and Sebgugugu cried out in his despair, "What shall I do with my 
children?" Then Imana, who is the creator, came along and said, "Sebgugugu, 
what is your trouble?" The man told him, and Imana pointed to a distant 
hill, saying, "See, yonder is a cattle-kraal. Go there and drink the milk of 
the cows. They are being herded for me by a crow. You must always give him 
some of the milk, and be sure never to strike him or use bad words to him." 
So they went to the kraal. There was no one there, but they found vessels 
full of milk. When Sebgugugu had drunk as much as he wanted he gave his wife 
some, and she fed the children. Then they all sat down and waited to see 
what would happen.

When the sun was low they saw the cattle coming home; there was no man or 
boy with them, but a great white-necked. crow kept flying to and fro above 
them, calling them and keeping them together. When they arrived Sebgugugu 
lit a fire at the kraal gate to drive away the mosquitoes, fetched a pail, 
and milked the cows, doing as he had been told and giving a bowl full of 
milk to the crow herdsman, before they all had their supper.

In this way all went well for some time, and then Sebgugugu began to be 
discontented. It is not clear what he had to complain of; but evidently he 
was "that sort of man." He said to his wife, "Now the children are old 
enough to herd the cattle for me I don't see what we want with that crow. I 
shall kill him." The wife protested in vain, and Sebgugugu, taking his bow 
and arrows, lay in wait for the return of the cattle when evening fell. When 
the crow came near enough he shot an arrow at him, missed, shot again-the 
crow flew away, and when he looked round there were no cattle to be seen-not 
so much as a stray calf! The family were once more reduced to destitution. 
Sebgugugu said, "What shall I do?" His wife, of course, could give him no 
comfort, so they picked up the children and set out on their travels. Worn 
out, as they sat by the wayside resting, he cried once more to Imana, and 
the long-suffering Imana directed him to a wonderful melon-vine growing in 
the bush, from which he could gather not only melons and gourds, but a 
variety of other fruits. Only he must not attempt to cultivate or prune the 
vine, or do anything but gather daily supplies from it. He found the vine, 
gathered gourds, and his wife cooked them. So again for a time all -went 
well, till the man took it into his head that the vine would be more 
productive if its branches were cut, and it immediately withered away, like 
Jonah's gourd. Again he was in despair, but Imana gave him one more chance. 
Going into the bush to cut firewood, he came across a rock with several 
small clefts, from which oozed forth Guinea corn, milk, beans, and other 
kinds of food. He gathered up what he could carry and returned to his wife. 

Next day he went back to the rock, taking with him a basket and ajar; but he 
grew impatient, because the corn, and so on, trickled out slowly, and he 
took a long time in filling his basket. He complained of this to his wife, 
but persevered for some days, and then told her that he was going to widen 
the cracks in the rock, so that they could get more abundant supplies. She 
tried to dissuade him, with the usual result: he went and cut some stout 
poles and hardened them in the fire. He went to the rock and tried to 
enlarge the clefts, using his poles as levers, but, with a crash like 
thunder, they closed up, and no more corn or milk -came forth. He went back 
to the camping-place and found no one there; his wife and children had 
disappeared without leaving a trace, and he was alone in the forest. We are 
left to suppose that this was the end of him.

Another version gives one more incident, perhaps less dramatically 
effective, in which he is guilty of wilful disobedience, and is devoured by 
a monstrous wild beast. Both agree in showing that Imana's patience had its 
limits.

Imana and the Childless Woman
One more legend[1] about Imana suggests the idea of a wise and loving 
providence. A childless woman came to him with the petition made by such 
women in all ages. Imana, reader of hearts, said to her, "Go home, and if 
you find a little creature in your path take it up and be kind to it." She 
set out, pondering over these words, of which she could not see the sense, 
and as she drew near her sister's house she saw the latter's little children 
playing in the dirt. One of them getting in her way, she pushed it back, 
saying angrily, "Be off! You're all over mud!" The child's mother came out, 
picked it up, and washed it clean. Her sister went home and waited a year: 
nothing happened. She went again to Imana, who asked if she had not seen the 
little creature he told her of. She answered, No." He said, "You saw it, but 
you would not touch it with your hands." She still denied it, and he 
explained, telling her

[1. Johanssen, Ruanda, p. 124.]

that she was not fit to be a mother and should have no children.

Another story, in which Imana appears in a very human aspect, will be given 
in the next chapter.

It has been suggested that Imana may be the same as Kihanga, supposing this 
last name to be derived from kuhanga (in some languages kupanga), 'to form, 
construct, create.' But Kihanga is a different person, an ancient king of 
Ruanda, who, legend says, was the first to introduce cattle to that country. 
(Or, rather, it was his injured daughter Nyiraruchaba who was responsible, 
but "that's another story.")

Imana must also be distinguished from Ryang'ombe, who is supposed to be the 
chief of the imandwa (ghosts). His roper lace is among the heroes, and we 
shall come to his legend later on, in Chapter VIII.

CHAPTER IV: THE HEAVEN COUNTRY AND THE HEAVEN PEOPLE
THE Zulus appear to have recognized a sky-god distinct from Unkulunkulu. 
This seems to strengthen the probability that the name Unkulunkulu is not, 
as Bleek thought, identical with Mulungu, since the latter name for the High 
God in some languages actually means 'sky.' "The king which is above," 
Umpengula Mbanda informed Dr Callaway, " we did not hear of him first from 
white men. In summer-time, when it thunders, we say, 'The king is playing.' 
And if there is one who is afraid the elder people say to him, 'It is 
nothing but fear. What thing belonging to the king have you eaten?'[1] This 
is why I say that the Lord of whom we hear through you we had already heard 
of before you came. But he is not like the Unkulunkulu, who, we say, made 
all things. But the former we call a king, for, we say, he is above; 
Unkulunkulu is beneath."[2]

They seem, however, to have been somewhat hazy on the subject, for another 
informant said that they were the same, Unkulunkulu being "the creator of 
all things," who is in heaven, though at first he was on earth; but " he 
went up to heaven afterwards." This would connect with the Yao legend, 
alluded to in our introductory chapter, that Mulungu used to live on the 
earth, but afterwards ascended to the sky by means of the spider's thread. 
The idea appears to be tolerably widespread, and is found outside the Bantu 
area. The Nandi myth of the Thunder leaving the earth and taking up his 
abode in the sky (impelled by the misconduct of the ancestral Dorobo) is 
perhaps an echo of it.

'Leza,' the name used for the High God by the Baila, Batonga, and several 
other tribes of Northern Rhodesia and the adjoining territories,[3] also, in 
one language at least, means

1. I.e. you must have committed some sin against him or you would not be 
afraid.

2. Callaway, Amazulu, p. 19.

3. Also, along with Mulungu, by the Anyanja.]

'rain.' "But," says E. W. Smith, "it is not plain that they regard rain and 
God as one and the same"; rather they speak of Leza as "the rain-giver," 
"the giver of thunder and much rain," "the one who does what no other can 
do." So, too, the Wachaga, who call their God 'Iruwa,' use the same word for 
the sun, but insist that the sun is not the same thing as God. Yet it is 
possible that in the beginning it really was the material sun that was 
worshipped. A story, recorded by Bruno Gutmann,[1] seems to point this way.

The Man who would shoot Iruwa
A poor man, living somewhere in the Chaga country, on Kilimanjaro mountain, 
had a number of sons born to him, but lost them all, one after another. He 
sat down in his desolate house, brooding over his troubles, and at last 
burst out in wild wrath: " Who has been putting it into Iruwa's head to kill 
all my boys? "-a fairly literal rendering, which suggests that he thought an 
enemy had done this. (Iruwa would never have thought of it on his own 
account.) But if this is correct his conclusion is scarcely logical; yet how 
many, in the bitterness of their hearts, would have felt much the same, even 
if they had expressed it differently! "I will go and shoot an arrow at 
Iruwa." So he rose up and went to the smith's forge, and got him to make 
some iron arrow-heads. When they were ready he put them into his quiver, 
took up his bow, and said, " Now I am going to the farthest edge of the 
world, to the place where the sun comes up. The very moment I see it I will 
loose this arrow against it-tichi!" imitating the sound of the arrow. So he 
set out and walked, on and on, till he came to a wide meadow, where he saw a 
gateway and many paths, some leading up towards the sky, some downward to 
the earth. And he stood still, waiting till the sun should rise, and keeping 
very quiet. After a while he heard a great noise, and the earth seemed to 
shake with the trampling of many feet, as if a great procession were 
approaching. And he heard people shouting one to another: "Quick! Quick! 
Open the gate

[1. Volksbuch, p. 144.]

for the King to pass through!" Presently he saw many men coming towards him, 
all goodly to look on and shining like fire. Then he was afraid, and hid 
himself in the bushes. Again he heard these men crying: "Clear the way where 
the King is going to pass!" They came on, a mighty host, and all at once, in 
the midst of them, he was aware of the Shining One, bright as flaming fire, 
and after him followed another long procession. But suddenly those in front 
stopped and began asking each other, "What is this horrible smell here, as 
if an earth-man had passed?" They hunted all about till they found the man, 
and seized him and brought him before the King, who asked, Where do you come 
from, and what brings you to us? And the man answered, "Nay, my lord, it was 
nothing-only sorrow which drove me from home, so that I said to myself, let 
me go and die in the bush." Then said the King, "But how about your saying 
you wanted to shoot me? Go on! Shoot away!" The man said, "O my lord, I dare 
not-not now!" "What do you want of me? You know that without my telling you, 
O chief!" "So you want me to give you your children back?" The King pointed 
behind him, saying, "There they are. Take them home with you!" The man 
looked up and saw all his sons gathered in front of him; but they were so 
beautiful and radiant that he scarcely knew them, and he said, "No, O chief, 
I cannot take them now. They are yours, and you must keep them." So Iruwa 
told him to go home and look out carefully on the way, for he should find 
something that would greatly please him. And he should have other sons in 
place of those he had lost.

And so it came to pass, for in due time other sons were born to him, who all 
lived to grow up. And what he found on the road was a great store of 
elephants' tusks, so that when his neighbours had helped him to carry them 
home he was made rich for life.

One must not too hastily conclude that the man's desire for sons was only 
selfish, and that, so long as he had enough to work for him and keep up his 
position in the tribe, he did not care whether they were the same ones he 
had lost or not. But it is easy to understand that he did not feel 
comfortable with these strange, bright beings, who, one must remember, had 
died as small children, perhaps as babies. It is a remarkable point that 
they should have been found in the company of the sun-god; for as a rule the 
Bantu think. of their dead as living underground. These same Chaga people 
point out their mountain tarns as entrances to the ghost world, and have 
many legends which assume it to be below rather than above. As they have 
been a good deal in touch with the Masai, and, indeed, to some extent mixed 
with them, this idea may perhaps be derived from an outside, probably a 
Hamitic, source. Though the Masai, apparently, concern themselves very 
little with the spirit world.

Another Bantu-speaking tribe subjected to strong Hamitic influence is -that 
of the Banyaruanda, by Lake Kivu, on the confines of British and Belgian 
territory. Their royal family and the clans composing the aristocracy are 
taller and lighter-complexioned than the cultivators who form the bulk of 
the population, and also markedly different in feature, though they have 
adopted the speech of the Bahutu, as they call the indigenous peasants. The 
name of their High God, Imana, is one I have been unable to trace beyond 
Ruanda. As we saw in the last chapter, he certainly seems to be regarded 
definitely as a person, and a beneficent as well as a just one, if we are to 
allow any weight to the legends.

Here is one recorded by Père Hurel.[1]

The Girls who wanted New Teeth
A number of young girls agreed together to "go and get teeth created for 
them."[2] But one of their companions was unable to join the party. This 
girl's mother was dead, and

[1. La Poésie chez les primitifs, p. z7.

2. This, as it sounds, is obscure, and no explanation is given. It may mean 
that, having lost their first teeth, they thought a special act of creation 
was needed to procure the second set; but they would seem to have been 
beyond the usual age for that process. Or they may only have wanted their 
teeth to be made white and even.]

she had a stepmother who kept her hard at work and otherwise made her life a 
burden, so that she had become a poor, stunted drudge, ill-clothed and 
usually dirty. As for going to ask for new teeth, this was quite out of the 
question. So when her friends came back and showed her their beautiful teeth 
she said nothing, but felt the more, and went on with her work. When the 
cows came home in the evening she lit the fire in the kraal, so that the 
smoke might drive away the mosquitoes, and then helped with the milking,[1] 
and when that was done served the evening meal. After supper she slipped 
away, took a bath, oiled herself, and started out without anyone seeing her. 
Before she had gone very far in the dark she met a hyena, who said to her, 
"You, maiden, where are you going?" She answered, "I'm going where all the 
other girls went. Father's wife would not let me go with them, so I'm going 
by myself." The hyena said, "Go on, then, child of Imana!" and let her go in 
peace. She walked on, and after a while met a lion, who asked her the same 
question. She answered him as she had done the hyena, and he too said, "Go 
on, child of Imana!" She walked on through the night, and just as dawn was 
breaking she met Imana himself, looking like a great, old chief with a kind 
face. He said to her, "Little maid, where are you going? " She answered, "I 
have been living with my stepmother, and she always gives me so much to do 
that I could not get away when the other girls came to ask you for new 
teeth, and so I came by myself." And Imana said, "You shall have them," and 
gave her not only new teeth, but a new skin, and made her beautiful all 
over. And he gave her new clothes and brass armlets and anklets and bead 
ornaments, so that she looked quite a different girl, and then, like a 
careful father, he saw her on her way home, till they had come so near that 
she could point out her village. Then he said, "When you get home whatever 
you do you must not laugh or smile at anyone, your father or your stepmother 
or anyone else." And so he left her.

[1. This is exceptional, as in most cattle-keeping Bantu tribes the girls 
are strictly forbidden to go near the cattle. The Hereros are another 
exception.]

When her stepmother saw her coming she did not at first recognize her, but 
as soon as she realized who the girl was she cried out, "She's been stealing 
things at the chief's place! Where did she get those beads and those 
bangles? She must have been driving off her father's cows to sell them. Look 
at that cloth! Where did you get it?" The girl did not answer. Her father 
asked her, "Where did you pick up these things?"-and still she did not 
answer. After a while they let her alone. The stepmother's spiteful speeches 
did not impress the neighbours, who soon got to know of the girl's good 
fortune, and before three days had passed a respectable man called on her 
father to ask her in marriage for his son. The wedding took place in the 
usual way, and she followed her young husband to his home. There everything 
went well, but they all-his mother and sisters and he himself-thought it 
strange that they never saw her laugh.

After the usual time a little boy was born, to the great joy of his parents 
and grandparents. Again all went well, till the child was four or five years 
old, when, according to custom, he began to go out and herd the calves near 
the hut. One day his grandmother, who had never been able to satisfy her 
curiosity, said to him, "Next time your mother gives you milk say you will 
not take it unless she smiles at you. Tell her, if she does not smile you 
will cry, and if she does not do so then you will die!" He did as she told 
him, but his mother would not smile; he began to cry, and she paid no 
attention; he went on screaming, and presently died. They came and wrapped 
his body in a mat, and carried it out into the bush-for the Banyaruanda do 
not bury their dead-and left it there. The poor mother mourned, but felt she 
could not help herself. She must not disobey Imana's commandment. After a 
time another boy was born. When he was old enough to talk and run about his 
grandmother made the same suggestion to him as she had done to his brother, 
and with the same result. The boy died, and was carried out to the bush. 
Again a baby was born-this time a bonny little girl.

When she was about three years old her mother one evening took her on her 
back and went out to the bush where the two little bodies had been laid long 
ago. There, in her great trouble, she cried to Imana, "Yee, baba wee! O my 
father! O Imana, lord of Ruanda, I have never once disobeyed you; will you 
not save this little one?" She looked up, and, behold! there was Imana 
standing before her, looking as kind as when she had first seen him, and he 
said, "Come here and see your children. I have brought them back to life. 
You may smile at them now." And so she did, and they ran to her, crying, 
"Mother! Mother!" Then Imana touched her poor, worn face and eyes dimmed 
with crying and her bowed shoulders, and she was young again, tall and 
straight and more beautiful than ever; the story says: "He gave her a new 
body and new teeth." He gave her a beautiful cloth and beads to wear, and he 
sent his servants to fetch some cows, so many for each of the boys. Then he 
went with them to their home. The husband saw them coming, and could not 
believe his eyes-he was too much astonished to speak. He brought out the one 
stool which every hut contains, and offered it to the guest, but Imana would 
not sit down yet. He said, "Send out for four more stools." So the man sent 
and borrowed them from the neighbours, and they all sat down, he and his 
wife and the two boys, and Imana in the place of honour. Then Imana said, 
"Now look at your wife and your children. You have got to make them happy 
and live comfortably with them. You will soon enough see her smiling at you 
and at them. It was I who forbade her to laugh, and then some wicked people 
went and set the children on to try to make her o so, and they died. Now I 
have brought them back to life. Here they are with their mother. Now see 
that you live happily together. And as for your mother, I am going to burn 
her in her house, because she did a wicked thing. I leave you to enjoy all 
her belongings, because you have done no wrong." Then he vanished from their 
sight, and while they were still gazing in astonishment a great black cloud 
gathered over the grandmother's hut; there was a dazzling flash, followed by 
a terrible clap of thunder, and the hut, with every one and everything in 
it, was burned to ashes. Before they had quite recovered from the shock 
Imana once more appeared to them, in blinding light, and said to the 
husband, "Remember my words, and all shall be well with you!" A moment later 
he was gone.

The Thunder's Bride
In this story we find Imana associated with thunder and lightning, as the 
Zulu lord of Heaven and the Thonga Tilo are, so that we may suppose him to 
be a sky-god, or, at any rate, to have been such in the beginning. In the 
Ruanda story which follows,[1] the Thunder is treated as a distinct 
personage (as he is by the Nandi), but he is nowhere said to be identical 
with Imana.

There was a certain woman of Ruanda, the wife of Kwisaba. Her husband went 
away to the wars, and was absent for many months. One day while she was all 
alone in the hut she was taken ill, and found herself too weak and wretched 
to get up and make a fire, which would have been done for her at once had 
anyone been present. She cried out, talking wildly in her despair: "Oh, what 
shall I do? If only I had some one to split the kindling wood and build the 
fire! I shall die of cold if no one comes! Oh. if some one would but come-if 
it were the very Thunder of heaven himself!"

So the woman spoke, scarcely knowing what she said, and presently a little 
cloud appeared in the sky. She could not see it, but very soon it spread, 
other clouds collected, till the sky was quite overcast; it grew dark, as 
night inside the hut, and she heard thunder rumbling in the distance. Then 
there came a flash of lightning close by, and she saw the Thunder standing 
before her, in the likeness of a man, with a little bright axe in his hand. 
He fell to, and had split all the wood in a twinkling; then he built it up 
and lit 

[1. Père Hurel, La Poésie chez les primitifs, p. 21.]

it, just with a touch of his hand, as if his fingers had been torches. When 
the blaze leapt up he turned to the woman and said, "Now, O wife of Kwisaba, 
what will you give me?" She was quite paralysed with fright, and could not 
utter a word. He gave her a little time to recover, and then went on: "When 
your baby is born, if it is a girl, will you give her to me for a wife?" 
Trembling all over, the poor woman could only stammer out, "Yes!" and the 
Thunder vanished.

Not long after this a baby girl was born, who grew into a fine, healthy 
child, and was given the name of Miseke. When Kwisaba came home from the 
wars the women met him with the news that he had a little daughter, and he 
was delighted, partly, perhaps, with the thought of the cattle he would get 
as her bride-price when she was old enough to be married. But when his wife 
told him about the Thunder he looked very serious, and said, "When she grows 
older you must never on any account let her go outside the house, or we 
shall have the Thunder carrying her off."

So as long as Miseke was quite little she was allowed to play out of doors 
with the other children, but the time came all too soon when she had to be 
shut up inside the hut. One day some of the other girls came running to 
Miseke's mother in great excitement. "Miseke is dropping beads out of her 
mouth! We thought she had put them in on purpose, but they come dropping out 
every time she laughs." Sure enough the mother found that it was so, and not 
only did Miseke produce beads of the kinds most valued, but beautiful brass 
and copper bangles. Miseke's father was greatly troubled when they told him 
of this. He said it must be the Thunder, who sent the beads in this 
extraordinary way as the presents which a man always has to send to his 
betrothed while she is growing up.' So Miseke had always to stay indoors and 
amuse herself as best she could-when she was not helping in the house-

[1. It is not uncommon in some African tribes for a grown man to bespeak a 
girl, for himself or for his son, while she is still a baby.]

work-by plaiting mats and making baskets. Sometimes her old playfellows came 
to see her, but they too did not care to be shut up for long in a dark, 
stuffy hut.

One day, when Miseke was about fifteen, a number of the girls made up a 
party to go and dig inkwa[1] and they thought it would be good fun to take 
Miseke along with them. They went to her mother's hut and called her, but of 
course her parents would not hear of her going, and she had to stay at home. 
They tried again another day, but with no better success. Some time after 
this, however, Kwisaba and his wife both went to see to their garden, which 
was situated a long way off, so that they had to start at daybreak, leaving 
Miseke alone in the hut. Somehow the girls got to hear of this, and as they 
had already planned to go for inkwa that day they went to fetch her. The 
temptation was too great, and she slipped out very quietly, and went with 
them to the watercourse where the white clay was to be found. So many people 
had gone there at different times for the same purpose that quite a large 
pit had been dug out. The girls got into it and fell to work, laughing and 
chattering, when, suddenly, they became aware that it was growing dark, and, 
looking up, saw a great black cloud gathering overhead. And then, suddenly, 
they saw the figure of a man standing before them, and he called out in a 
great voice, "Where is Miseke, daughter of Kwisaba?" One girl came out of 
the hole, and said, "I am not Miseke, daughter of Kwisaba. When Miseke 
laughs beads and bangles drop from her lips." The Thunder said, "Well, then, 
laugh, and let me see." She laughed, and nothing happened. "No, I see you 
are not she." So one after another was questioned and sent on her way. 
Miseke herself came last, and tried to pass, repeating the same words that 
the others had said; but the Thunder insisted on her laughing, and a shower 
of beads fell on the ground. The Thunder caught her up and carried her off 
to the sky and married her.

Of course she was terribly frightened, but the Thunder

[1. White clay, used for painting pots, which is found in dry stream-beds.]

proved a kind husband, and she settled down quite happily and, in due time, 
had three children, two boys and a girl. When the baby girl was a few weeks 
old Miseke told her husband that she would like to go home and see her 
parents. He not only consented, but provided her with cattle and beer (as 
provision for the journey and presents on arrival) and carriers for her 
hammock, and sent her down to earth with this parting advice: "Keep to the 
high road; do not turn aside into any unfrequented bypath." But, being 
unacquainted with the country, her carriers soon strayed from the main 
track. After they had gone for some distance along the wrong road they found 
the path barred by a strange monster called an igikoko, a sort of ogre, who 
demanded something to eat. Miseke told the servants to give him the beer 
they were carrying: he drank all the pots dry in no time. Then he seized one 
of the carriers and ate him, then a second-in short, he devoured them all, 
as well as the cattle, till no one was left but Miseke and her children. The 
ogre then demanded a child. Seeing no help for it, Miseke gave him the 
younger boy, and then, driven to extremity, the baby she was nursing, but 
while he was thus engaged she contrived to send off the elder boy, 
whispering to him to run till he came to a house." "If you see an old man 
sitting on the ash-heap in the front yard that will be your grandfather; if 
you see some young men shooting arrows at a mark they will be your uncles; 
the boys herding the cows are your cousins; and you will find your 
grandmother inside the hut. Tell them to come and help us." The boy set off, 
while his mother kept off the ogre as best she could. He arrived at his 
grandfather's homestead, and told them what had happened, and they started 
at once, having first tied the bells on their hunting-dogs. The boy showed 
them the way as well as he could,

[1. This might seem like a contradiction if the turning aside had really 
meant going far astray. But Miseke was in familiar country; the bypath into 
which her men had turned was not so very far from the right road, though 
shunned on account of the monster which haunted it. Being screened from the 
sun in her hammock, or, rather, carrying-basket, she would not have seen 
them take the wrong turning in time to direct them.]

but they nearly missed Miseke just at last; only she heard the dogs' bells 
and called out. Then the young men rushed in and killed the ogre with their 
spears. Before he died he said, "If you cut off my big toe you will get back 
everything belonging to you." They did so, and, behold! out came the 
carriers and the cattle, the servants and the children, none of them any the 
worse. Then, first making sure that the ogre was really dead, they set off 
for Miseke's old home. Her parents were overjoyed to see her and the 
children, and the time passed all too quickly. At the end of a month she 
began to think she ought to return, and the old people sent out for cattle 
and all sorts of presents, as is the custom when a guest is going to leave. 
Everything was got together outside the village, and her brothers were ready 
to escort her, when they saw the clouds gathering, and, behold! all of a 
sudden Miseke, her children, her servants, her cattle, and her porters, with 
their loads, were all caught up into the air and disappeared. The family 
were struck dumb with amazement, and they never saw Miseke on earth again. 
It is to be presumed that she lived happily ever after.

Climbing into Heaven
All primitive peoples, quite naturally, think of the sky as a solid vault, 
which joins the earth at the horizon-the place where, as the Thonga people 
say, the women can hit it with their pestles. Only no one now living has 
ever been able to reach that place. And even the tales about people who have 
got into the Heaven country do not represent them as having reached it in 
that way. Either they climb a tree, or they ascend by means of a rope,[1] or 
the spider obligingly spins a thread for them. The Zulus had an old saying: 
" Who can, plait a rope for ascending, that he may go to heaven?" [2] 
implying that such a thing is utterly impossible. Yet in the "Praises"

[1. I have never seen it explained bow the rope gets into position.

2. Ubani ongapot' igoda lokukupuka aye ezulwini?]

(Izibongo) of King Senzangakona, the father of Tshaka, he is said to have 
accomplished this feat.

The son of Jama the king, he twisted a cord;
Fearless he scaled the mansion of Heaven's lord,
Who over this earth of ours the blue vault hollowed.
And the ghosts of the house of Mageba fain would have followed,
But never will they attain,
Though they strive again and again
For the pass that cannot be won by spear or by sword-
No hold for the wounded feet that bleed in vain.[1]

No one appears to know anything more about this adventure of Senzangakona's. 
It is not said that he returned from his expedition, and, as tradition 
states that he died a natural death, it would not seem to refer to his 
departure from this world.

The Road to Heaven
The Baronga (in the neighborhood of Delagoa Bay) have a very old song, which 
runs something like this:

Oh, how hard it is to find a cord!
How I would love to plait a cord and go up to the sky! I would find rest!

The Ronga story of a mortal who found the way there is as follows. There was 
once a girl who was sent by her mother to fetch water from the river. On the 
way, talking and laughing with her companions, she dropped her earthen jar 
and broke it. "Oh, what shall I do now?" she cried, in great distress, for 
these large jars are not so easily replaced, and she knew there would be 
trouble awaiting her on her return. She exclaimed, "Bukali bwa ngoti! Oh, 
that I had a rope!" and looking up, sure enough she saw a rope uncoiling 
itself from a cloud. She seized it and climbed, and

[1. A very free paraphrase of

Mnta ka' Jama, owapot' igoda laya lafika ezuwini
Lapa izituta za Magweba zingayihufiha,
Zoba 'kuhwela zapuke amazwanyana.

The literal rendering of the last two words is "that they may break their 
little toes."]

soon found herself in the country above the sky, which appeared to be not 
unlike the one she had left. There was what looked like a ruined village not 
far off, and an old woman sitting among the ruins called to her, "Come here, 
child! Where are you going?" Being well brought up and accustomed to treat 
her elders with politeness, she answered at once, and told her story. The 
old woman told her to go on, and if she found an ant creeping into her ear 
to let it alone. "It will not hurt you, and will tell you what you have to 
do in this strange country, and how to answer the chiefs when they question 
you."

The girl walked on, and in a little while found a black ant crawling up her 
leg, which went on till it reached her ear. She checked the instinctive 
impulse to take it out, and went on till she saw the pointed roofs of a 
village, surrounded by the usual thorn hedge. As she drew near she heard a 
tiny whisper: "Do not go in; sit down here." She sat down near the gateway. 
Presently some grave old men, dressed in white, shining bark-cloth, came out 
and asked her where she had come from and what she wanted. She answered 
modestly and respectfully, and told them she had come to look for a baby.[1] 
The elders said, "Very good; come this way." They took her to a hut where 
some women were at work. One of them gave her a shirondo [2] basket, and 
told her to go to the garden and get some of the new season's mealies. She 
showed no surprise at this unexpected request, but obeyed at once, and 
(following the directions of the ant

[1. This seems to need explanation. Nothing, so far, has been said about a 
baby. I was tempted to think that the narrator might have forgotten the real 
beginning of the story, which was that the girl had been carrying her baby 
brother on her back and dropped him into the water when stooping to fill her 
jar., But M. Junod (from whose book Chants et contes des Baronga, p. 237, 
this story is taken) would not hear of this suggestion when I asked him. I 
cannot help thinking that this version is a confusion of two different 
stories, one of a girl breaking a jar (or, as in a Chaga tale, letting the 
monkeys get into the bean-patch), and another of a married woman who was 
tricked into drowning her baby and, in the end, got it back from the lord of 
Heaven. This is given in Duff Macdonald's Africana, vol i, P. 298.

2 A round basket with sloping sides, used chiefly for carrying mealies. 
There is quite an art in filling these baskets so as to make them hold the 
largest possible quantity; great nicety of arrangement is required.]

in her ear) pulled up only one stalk at a time, and arranged the cobs 
carefully in the basket, so as not to waste any space. When she returned the 
women praised her for performing her task so quickly and well, and then told 
her first to grind the corn and then to make porridge. Again instructed by 
the ant, she put aside a few grains before grinding, and, when she was 
stirring the porridge, threw these grains in whole, which, it seems, is a 
peculiar fashion in the cooking of the Heaven-dwellers. They were quite 
satisfied with the way in which the girl had done her work, and gave her a 
place to sleep in. Next morning the elders came to fetch her, and conducted 
her to a handsome house, within which a number of infants were laid out on 
the ground, those on one side wrapped in red cloth, on the other in white. 
Being told to choose, she was about to pick up one of the red bundles, when 
the ant whispered, "Take a white one," and she did so. The old men gave her 
a quantity of fine cloth and beads, as much as she could carry in addition 
to the baby, and sent heron her way home. She reached her village without 
difficulty, and found that every one was out, as her mother and the other 
women were at work in the gardens. She went into the hut, and hid herself 
and the baby in the inner enclosure. When the others returned from the 
fields, towards evening, the mother sent her younger daughter on ahead to 
put on the cooking-pots. The girl went in and stirred the fire; as the 
flames leapt up she saw the treasures her sister had brought home, and, not 
knowing how they had come there, she was frightened, and ran back to tell 
her mother and aunts. They all hurried in, and found the girl they had 
thought lost, with a beautiful baby and a stock of cloth to last a lifetime. 
They listened to her story in great astonishment; but the younger sister was 
seized with envy, and wanted to set off at once for that fortunate spot. She 
was a rude, wilful creature, and her -sister, knowing her character, tried 
to dissuade her, or, at any rate, to give her some guidance for the road. 
But she refused to listen. "You went off without being told anything by 
anybody, and I shall go without listening to anyone's advice."

Accordingly when called by the old woman she refused to stop, and even spoke 
insultingly; whereupon the crone said, Go on, then! When you return this way 
you will be dead!" "Who will kill me, then?" retorted the girl, and went on 
her way. When the ant tried to get into her ear she shook her head and 
screamed with impatience, refusing to listen when it tried to persuade her. 
So the ant took itself off in dudgeon.

In the same way she gave a rude answer to the village elders when they asked 
her why she had come, and when requested to gather mealies she pulled up the 
stalks right and left, and simply ravaged the garden. Having refused to 
profit by the ant's warnings, she did not know the right way to prepare the 
meal or make the porridge, and, in any case, did the work carelessly. When 
taken to the house where the babies were stored she at once stretched out 
her hand to seize a red-wrapped one; but immediately there was a tremendous 
explosion, and she was struck dead. "Heaven," we are told, gathered up her 
bones, made them into a bundle, and sent a man with them to her home. As he 
passed the place where she had met with the ant that insect called out, " 
Are you not coming back dead? You would be alive now if you had listened to 
advice!" Coming to the old woman's place among the ruins, the carrier heard 
her cry, "My daughter, haven't you died on account of your wicked heart?" So 
the man went on, and at last he dropped the bones just above her mother's 
hut. And her sister said, "She had a wicked heart, and that is why Heaven 
was angry with her."

There are points here which remind us of a familiar story in Grimm's fairy-
tales, and we shall meet with others still more like it later on. There are 
other stories of people who ascended to the Heaven country, some of which 
will be given in the next chapter.

CHAPTER V: MORTALS WHO HAVE ASCENDED TO HEAVEN
IN the instances hitherto mentioned, where a rope has been spoken of as the 
means of reaching the Heaven country, no explanation is offered as to the 
origin of the rope, or the means by which it became available. There are 
some stories and legends, possibly older, where the communication is said to 
be established through the spider's web. When Mulungu was compelled to leave 
the earth, say the Yaos, he said, I cannot climb a tree (as though that were 
the obvious way of reaching the sky), and went to call the spider, who " 
went on high, and returned again and said, 'I have gone on high nicely. . . 
. You now, Mulungu, go on high.'" That is, we may suppose, he spun his web 
(the narrator probably did not see why the spider should not be able to do 
this upward as well as downward) till it reached the sky, and spun another 
thread coming down. The Subiya also say that Leza ascended to heaven by a 
spider's thread.

This notion occurs in a tale[1] of, in some respects, much later 
development. It comes, like those about Kalunga already given, from Angola, 
and relates to "the son of Kimanaweze." Kimanaweze seems to be a mythical 
personage, perhaps originally identical with the first man, as, according to 
Héli Chatelain, " much of what the natives say of him corresponds with what 
the Amazulu tell of their Unkulunkulu." He figures in more than one folk-
tale. The one I am about to give is further remarkable, not merely for 
personifying the Sun (which, to a certain extent, is done by the Wachaga), 
but for giving him the Moon as a wife. The Bantu in general speak of the 
Moon as a man, and say that he has two wives, the Evening Star and the 
Morning Star, which they do not realize to be one and the same.

The Daughter of the Sun and Moon
Kimanaweze's son, when the time came for him to choose a wife, declared that 
he would not "marry a woman of the

[1. Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola, p. 31.]

earth, but must have the daughter of the Sun and Moon. He wrote "a letter of 
marriage"-a modern touch, no doubt added by the narrator[1]-and cast about 
for a messenger to take it up to the sky. The little duiker (mbambi) 
refused, so did the larger antelope, known as soko, the hawk, and the 
vulture. At last a frog came and offered to carry the letter. The son of 
Kimanaweze, doubtful of his ability to do this, said, "Begone! Where people 
of life, who have wings, gave it up dost thou say, 'I will go there But the 
frog persisted, and was at last sent off, with the threat of a thrashing if 
he should be unsuccessful. It appears that the Sun and Moon were in the 
habit of sending their handmaidens down to the earth to draw water, 
descending and ascending by means of a spider's web. The frog went and hid 
himself in the well to which they came, and when the first one filled her 
jar he got into it without being seen, having first placed the letter in. 
his mouth. The girls went up to heaven, carried their water-jars into the 
room, and set them down. When they had gone away he came out, produced the 
letter, laid it on a table, and hid.

After a while "Lord Sun" (Kumbi Mwene) came in, found the letter, and read 
it. Not knowing what to make of it, he put it away, and said nothing about 
it. The frog got into an empty water-jar, and was carried down again when 
the girls went for a fresh supply. The son of Kimanaweze, getting no answer, 
refused at first to believe that the frog had executed his commission; but, 
after waiting for some days, he wrote another letter and sent him again. The 
frog carried it in the same way as before, and the Sun, after reading it, 
wrote that he would consent, if the suitor came himself, bringing his 
'first-present'-the usual gift for opening marriage negotiations. On 
receiving this the young man wrote another letter, saying that he must wait 
till told the amount of the 'wooing-present,' or bride-price (kilembu).

He gave this to the frog, along with a sum of money, and it was conveyed as 
before. This time the Sun consulted his wife, who was quite ready to welcome 
the mysterious son-in-law.

[1. We often find stories brought up to date in this way.]

She solved the question of providing refreshments for the invisible 
messenger by saying, "We will cook a meal anyhow, and put it on the table 
where he leaves the letters." This was done, and the frog, when left alone, 
came out and ate. The letter, which was left along with the food, stated the 
amount of the bride-price to be "a sack of money." He carried the letter 
back to the son of Kimanaweze, who spent six days in collecting the 
necessary amount, and then sent it by the frog with this message: "Soon I 
shall find a day to bring home my wife." This, however, was more easily said 
than done, for when his messenger had once more returned he waited twelve 
days, and then told the frog that he could not find people to fetch the 
bride. But the frog was equal to the occasion. Again he had himself carried 
up to the Sun's palace, and, getting out of the water-jar, hid in a corner 
of the room till after dark, when he came out and went through the house 
till he found the princess's bed chamber. Seeing that she was fast asleep, 
he took out one of her eyes without waking her, and then the other.[1] He 
tied up the eyes in a handkerchief, and went back to his corner in the room 
where the water-jars were kept. In the morning, when the girl did not 
appear, her parents came to inquire the reason, and found that she was 
blind. In their distress they sent two men to consult the diviner, who, 
after casting lots, said (not having heard from them the reason of their 
coming), "Disease has brought you; the one who is sick is a woman; the 
sickness that ails her the eyes. You have come, being sent; you have not 
come of your own will. I have spoken." The Sun's messengers replied, "Truth. 
Look now what caused the ailment." He told them that a certain suitor had 
cast a spell over her, and she would die unless she were sent to him. 
Therefore they had best hasten on the marriage. The men brought back word to 
the Sun, who said, "All right. Let us sleep. To-morrow they shall take her 
down to the earth." Next day, accordingly, he gave orders for the spider to 
"weave a large cobweb" for sending his daughter down. Meanwhile the frog had 
gone

[1. The frog's magic powers are implied, if not explicitly stated.]

down as usual in the water-jar and hidden himself in the bottom of the well. 
When the water-carriers had gone up again he came out and went to the 
village of the bridegroom and told him that his bride would arrive that day. 
The young man would not believe him, but he solemnly promised to bring her 
in the evening, and returned to the well.

After sunset the attendants brought the princess down by way of the stronger 
cobweb and left her by the well. The frog came out, and told her that he 
would take her to her husband's house; at the same time he handed back her 
eyes. They started, and came to the son of Kimanaweze, and the marriage took 
place. And they lived happy ever after-on earth, for, as the narrator said, 
"They had all given up going to heaven; who could do it was Mainu the frog."

In its present form, as will have been noticed, this story is strongly 
coloured by Portuguese influence. The water-carriers, the Sun's house, with 
its rooms and furniture, the bag of money, all belong to present-day Loanda. 
But, for all that, the groundwork is essentially African. The frog and the 
diviner would, by themselves, be sufficient to prove this. (The frog, by the 
way, is usually a helpful creature in African folklore.) The glaring 
improbabilities in the story must not be regarded too critically; it is 
constantly taken for granted, as we shall find when considering the animal 
stories proper, that any animal may speak and act like a human being-though 
the frog, in this instance, seems to possess more than ordinary human 
powers. The specially strong cobweb prepared for the daughter's descent, 
while the water-carriers had been going up and down every day without 
difficulty, may have been necessitated by the number of the bride's 
attendants; but we are not told why they should have returned and left her 
alone at the foot of the heavenly ladder.'

[1. The people of the Lower Congo have a story about the spider fetching 
fire from heaven at the request of Nzambi, who is here regarded as the 
Earth-mother and the daughter (according to R.E. Dennett) of Nzambi Mpungu, 
the "first father," or the personified sky. (Other authorities insist that 
everywhere in Africa the relation of sky and earth is that of husband and 
wife.) He was helped by the tortoise, the woodpecker, the rat, and the 
sandfly, whom he conveyed up by means of his thread. The story maybe found 
in Dennett, Folk-lore of the Fjort [Fiote], p.74]

In other cases we find people reaching the Heaven country by climbing a 
tree, as is done by the mother in the Yao tale of "The Three Women." In the 
Zulu story[1] of "The Girl and the Cannibals" a brother and sister, escaping 
from these ogres, climb a tree and reach the Heaven country.

The Heaven-tree
And there is a curious tradition among the Wachaga [2] about a mysterious 
tree. A girl named Kichalundu went out one day to cut grass. Finding it 
growing very luxuriantly in a certain place, she stepped on the spot and 
sank into a quagmire. Her companions took hold of her hands and tried to 
pull her out, but in vain; she vanished from their sight. They heard her 
singing, "The ghosts have taken me. Go and tell my father and mother," and 
they ran to call the parents. The whole countryside gathered about the 
place, and a diviner advised the father to sacrifice a cow and a sheep. This 
was done, and they heard the girl's voice again, but growing fainter and 
fainter, till at last it was silent, and they gave her up for lost. But 
after a time a tree grew up on the spot where she had disappeared. It went 
on growing, until at last it reached the sky. The herd-boys, during, the 
heat of the day, used to drive their cattle into its shade, and themselves 
climbed up into the spreading branches. One day two of them ventured higher 
than the rest, and called out, "Can you see us still?" The others answered, 
"No! Do come down again!" but the two daring fellows refused. "We are going 
on into the sky to Wuhu, the World Above!" Those were their last words, for 
they were never seen again. And the tree was called Mdi Msumu," the Story-
tree."

The Tale of Murile
From the same region of Kilimanjaro comes the story of Murile, who also 
reached the Upper World, though neither by a rope nor a tree, and also came 
back.[3]

[1. Callaway, Nursery Tales, pp. 145 and 147

2 Gutmann, Volksbuch, p. 152.

3 Raum, Versuch, p. 307.]

A man and his wife living in the Chaga country had three sons, of whom 
Murile was the eldest. One day he went out with his mother to dig up 
maduma,[l] and, noticing a particularly fine tuber among those which were to 
be put by for seed, he said, " Why, this one is as beautiful as my little 
brother!" His mother laughed at the notion of comparing a taro tuber with a 
baby; but he hid the root, and, later, when no one was looking, put it away 
in a hollow tree and sang a magic song over it. Next day he went to look, 
and found that the root had turned into a child. After that at every meal he 
secretly kept back some food, and, when he could do so without being seen, 
carried it to the tree and fed the baby, which grew and flourished from day 
to day. But Murile's mother became very anxious when she saw how thin the 
boy was growing, and she questioned him, but could get no satisfaction. Then 
one day his younger brothers noticed that when his portion of food was 
handed to him, instead of eating it at once, he put it aside. They told 
their mother, and she bade them follow him when he went away after dinner, 
and see what he did with it. They did so, and saw him feeding the baby in 
the hollow tree, and came back and told her. She went at once to the spot 
and strangled the child which was "starving her son."

When Murile came back next day and found the child dead he was overcome with 
grief. He went home and sat down in the hut, crying bitterly. His mother 
asked him why he was crying, and he said it was because the smoke hurt his 
eyes. So she told him to go and sit on the other side of the fireplace. But, 
as he still wept and complained of the smoke when questioned, they said he 
had better take his father's stool and sit outside. He picked up the stool, 
went out into the courtyard, and sat down. Then he said, "Stool, go up on 
high, as my father's rope does when he hangs up his beehive in the forest!" 
[2] And the stool rose

[1. A kind of arum (Colocasia), the roots of which are used as food by the 
Wachaga; the taro of Polynesia.

2 He would throw one end of a rope up so as to pass over a branch, and then 
fasten it to the beehive, which would then be hauled up into place. These 
hives (made from the hollowed section of a log) are placed in trees by many 
East African tribes and left till full of honey, when the bees are smoked 
out, escaping through a hole made for the purpose in the back of the hive. 
The Zulus and other South African Bantu appear to content themselves with 
taking the honey found in hollow trees or holes in the rock, where the wild 
bees make their nests.]

up with him into the air and stuck fast in the branches of a tree. He 
repeated the words a second time, and again the stool moved upward. Just 
then his brothers happened to come out of the hut, and when they saw him 
they ran back and said to their mother, "Murile is going up into the sky!" 
She would not believe them. "Why do you tell me your eldest brother has gone 
up into the sky? Is there any road for him to go up by?" They told her to 
come and look, and when she saw him in the air she sang:

Mrile, wuya na kunu!
Wuya na kunu, mwanako!
Wuya xa kunu! "

[Murile, come back hither!
Come back hither, my child!
Come back hither!]

But Murile answered, "I shall never comeback, Mother! I shall never come 
back!"

Then his brothers called him, and received the same answer; his father 
called him-then his boy-friends, and, last of all, his uncle (washidu, his 
mother's brother, the nearest relation of all). They could just hear his 
answer, "I am not coming back, Uncle! I am never coming back!" Then he 
passed up out of sight.

The stool carried him up till he felt solid ground beneath his feet, and 
then he looked round and found himself in the Heaven country. He walked on 
till he came to some people gathering wood. He asked them the way to the 
Moon-chief's kraal,. and they said, "just pick up some sticks for us, and 
then we will tell you." He collected a bundle of sticks, and they directed 
him to go on till he should come to some people cutting grass. He did so, 
and greeted the grass-cutters when he came to them. They answered his 
greeting, and when he asked them the way said they would show him if he 
would help them for a while with their work. So he cut some grass, and they 
pointed out the road, telling him to go on till he came to some women 
hoeing. These, again, asked him to help them before they would show him the 
way, and, in succession, he met with some herd-boys, some women gathering 
beans, some people reaping millet, others gathering banana-leaves, and girls 
fetching water-all of them sending him forward with almost the same words. 
The water-carriers said, "Just go on in this direction till you come to a 
house where the people are eating." He found the house, and said, "Greeting, 
house-owners! Please show me the way to the Moon's kraal." They promised to 
do so if he would sit down and eat with them, which he did. At last by 
following their instructions he reached his destination, and found the 
people there eating their food raw. He asked them why they did not use fire 
to cook with, and found that they did not know what fire was. So he said, 
"If I prepare nice food for you by means of fire what will you give me?" The 
Moon-chief said, "We will give you cattle and goats and sheep." Murile told 
them to bring plenty of wood, and when they came with it he and the chief 
went behind the house, where the other people could not see them. Murile 
took his knife and cut two pieces of wood, one flat and the other pointed, 
and twirled the pointed stick till he got some sparks, with which he lit a 
bunch of dry grass and so kindled a fire. When it burned up he got the chief 
to send for some green plantains, which he roasted and offered to him. Then 
he cooked some meat and various other foods. The Moon-chief was delighted 
when he tasted them, and at once called all the people to ether, and said to 
them, "Here is a wonderful doctor come from a far country! We shall have to 
repay him for his fire." The people asked, "What must be paid to him?" He 
answered, "Let one man bring a cow, another a goat, another whatever he may 
have in his storehouse." So they went to fetch all these things. And Murile 
became a rich man. For he stayed some years at the Moon's great kraal and 
married wives and had children born to him, and his flocks and herds 
increased greatly. But in the end a longing for his home came over him. And 
he thought within himself: " How shall I go home again, unless I send a 
messenger before me? For I told them I was never coming back, and they must 
think that I am dead."

He called all the birds together and asked them one by one, If I send you to 
my home what will you say? " The raven answered, " I shall say, Kuruu! 
kuruu!" and was rejected. So, in turn, were the hornbill, the hawk, the 
buzzard, and all the rest, till he came to Njorovil, the mocking-bird, who 
sang:

"Mrile etsha kilalawu
    Tira ngama.
Mrile etsha kilalawu
    Mdeye mafuda na kiliko!"

[Murile is coming the day after to-morrow,
Missing out to-morrow.
Murile is coming the day after to-morrow.
Keep some fat in the ladle for him! "]

Murile was pleased with this, and told her to go. So she flew down to earth 
and perched on the gate-post of his father's courtyard and sang her song. 
His father came out and said, "What thing is crying out there, saying that 
Murile is coming the day after to-morrow? Why, Murile was lost long ago, and 
will never come back!" And he drove the bird away. She flew back and told 
Murile where she had been. But he would not believe her; he told her to go 
again and bring back his father's stick as a token that she had really gone 
to his home. So she flew down again, came to the house, and picked up the 
stick, which was leaning in the doorway. The children in the house saw her, 
and tried to snatch it from her, but she was too quick for them, and took it 
back to Murile. Then he said, "Now I will start for home." He took leave of 
his friends and of his wives, who were to stay with their own people, but 
his cattle and his boys came with him. It was a long march to the place of 
descent,[1] and Murile began to grow very tired. There

[1. We are not told how the cattle were to be got down, but probably they 
had to go clown the slope where the sky joins the earth at the horizon, 
which would account for the journey being longer than Murile's when he came 
up by Means of the magic stool!]

was a very fine bull in the herd, who walked beside Murile all the way. 
Suddenly he spoke and said, " As you are so weary, what will you do for me 
if I let you ride me? If I take you on my back will you cat my flesh when 
they kill me? " Murile answered, No! I will never eat you!" So the bull let 
him get on his back and carried him home. And Murile sang, as he rode along:

Not a hoof nor a horn is wanting!
    Mine are the cattle-hey!
Nought of the goods is wanting;
    Mine are the bairns to-day.
Not a kid of the goats is wanting;
    My flocks are on the way.
Nothing of mine is wanting;
    Murile comes to-day
With his bairns and his cattle-hey!

So he came home. And his father and mother ran out to meet him and anointed 
him with mutton-fat, as is the custom when a loved one comes home from 
distant parts. And his brothers and every one rejoiced and wondered greatly 
when they saw the cattle. But he showed his father the great bull that had 
carried him, and said, "This bull must be fed and cared for till he is old. 
And even if you kill him when he is old I will never eat of his flesh." So 
they lived quite happily for a time.

But when the bull had become very old Murile's father slaughtered him. The 
mother foolishly thought it such a pity that her son, who had always taken 
so much trouble over the beast, should have none of the beef when every one 
else was eating it. So she took a piece of fat and hid it in a pot. When she 
knew that all the meat was finished she ground some grain and cooked the fat 
with the meal and gave it to her son. As soon as he had tasted it the fat 
spoke and said to him, "Do you dare to eat me, who carried you on my back? 
You shall be eaten, as you are eating me!"

Then Murile sang: "O my mother, I said to you, 'Do not give me to eat of the 
bull's flesh!'" He took a second taste, and his foot sank into the ground. 
He sang the same words again, and then ate up the food his mother had given 
him. As soon as he had swallowed it he sank down and disappeared.

Other people who tell the story simply say, "He died." Be that as it may, 
that was the end of him.

The inhabitants of the Moon country, according to this legend, were very 
much like the earth-dwellers, except that they seem to have been less 
advanced in culture, having no knowledge of cooking or of fire. I have not 
come across any other reference to the Moon-chief, or his kraal, though, as 
already stated, the Bantu in general, when they think about the matter at 
all, describe the Moon as a man, like the Arabs and our Saxon 
forefathers.[1] In Nyasaland they give names to the Moon's two wives: the 
Evening Star is Chekechani, a poor housekeeper, who, during the fortnight he 
spends with her, starves him till he pines away to nothing. Puikani, the 
Morning Star, brings him back to life,[2] and feeds him up till he becomes 
quite round at the end of the month. The Giryama, in Kenya, call the planet 
Venus "the Moon's wife," but no one seems to have recorded any story 
connected with this expression.

Tailed Heaven-folk
The Ronga notion, too, as we have seen, appears to be that the dwellers 
above the sky are not very different from those beneath it. But we find here 
and there (so far only in detached fragments) traces of belief in a race of 
Heaven dwellers distinct from ordinary mortals. For instance, they are 
sometimes said to have tails. One clan of the Wachaga claims that its 
ancestor fell from the sky during a rainstorm. He belonged to a race called 
the Wakyambi, living in the sky, "far above the sun," and having tails. This 
ancestor, finding himself among tailless beings, and feeling ashamed of his 
peculiar appearance, secretly cut off his tail; consequently his descendants 
have none. Another legend says

[1. The Wasu, in Pare (south-east of Kilimanjaro), are an exception: they 
say that the sun is the father and the moon the mother of mankind.

2 At new moon they say, mwezi wafa, " the moon is dead."]

that once upon a time a man and a woman came down from the sky on a cloud 
and lighted on the hill Molama, in Machame. In the morning the inhabitants 
of the place found them standing there, and saw that they had tails like 
cows. When asked where they came from they answered, "God has sent us down 
on a cloud. We are looking for a place to live in." The people replied, "If 
you want to live with us you must have your tails cut off." They consented, 
and settled in that place, whither their descendants still come to 
sacrifice. It is said that cattle were sent down to them from the sky; they 
found them standing in front of their hut on the second morning.

The Wasu, the neighbours of the Wachaga on the southeast, speak of certain 
tailed beings inhabiting the clouds. Their nature is not very clear, but 
they are said to be always at war with the "good old people "-the ghosts of 
the human dead. "Sometimes," says a missionary long resident in Pare,[1] 
"they are held to be kind spirits who give people cattle, sometimes evil 
beings who bring disaster." It would probably be nearer the mark to say 
that, like ordinary human ghosts, they are beneficent or the reverse, 
according to their state of mind and the behaviour of the living.

Some of the Congo tribes, also, believe in the existence of 'Cloud folk' 
having tails. It is probable that if we could get at the folklore of all the 
tribes intervening between these two widely separated localities we should 
find the same notion everywhere. Outside the Bantu area the Lang'o, in the 
region of the Upper Nile (who, like the Wachaga, say that the first human 
pair had tails), and the Ewe, in West Africa, have traditions to the same 
effect, and something not very different comes out in the folk-tales of the 
Masai.

Whether, as one writer has suggested, these myths imply some dim race-memory 
of an ape ancestry our knowledge is not sufficient to decide; the general 
trend of Bantu thought (as shown in stories about baboons, for instance) 
would seem to negative such a conclusion. One might also ask whether the 
custom among some primitive tribes of

[1. Dannholz, Im Banne des Geisterglaubens, P. 24.]

wearing an artificial tail (as the principal, if not the sole, article of 
dress) could be the origin or the result of the tradition.

The Celestial Bellman
Murile-who reversed the action of Prometheus in bringing fire to, not from, 
heaven-is a somewhat mysterious figure, perhaps surviving from some 
forgotten mythology which, if recovered, would bridge some gaps in his 
story. There is a queer, fragmentary legend[1] about a person called Mrule, 
"the stranger from the sky," who may or may not have been originally the 
same as Murile. He had only one leg, and of the rest of his body only half 
was like a man; the other side was covered with grass.[2] He first alighted 
among the Masai (probably in the steppe to the north-west of Kilimanjaro), 
and went on thence to "our hill-country," ascending the mountain at Shira, 
hopping on his one leg. He was unable to speak. If he met anyone he only 
made a sound like mremrem. So it is hardly surprising that the people fled 
before him and barricaded themselves in their huts. He wandered on from 
place to place, and could get food nowhere. When he came to a homestead the 
inmates would call to him through their barred doors to go away. Naturally 
displeased, he found his way to the chief's place, but was not more kindly 
received there.[3] Then at last he spoke:

I am Mrule!
If ye reject me here below
Back to heaven I must go!

It was high noon, with the sun just overhead. He sprang into the air, rose 
straight up towards the sun, and was never seen on earth again.

[1. Gutmann, Volksbuch, p.150.

2 We shall meet with these half-men everywhere; they will be fully discussed 
in Chapter XIII. The grass growing out of one side is curious. I do not 
remember anything like it elsewhere, except in Zulu accounts of the 
Inkosazana, a strange being described as the Queen of Heaven, and in those 
of certain mysterious monsters. The half-men usually have nothing on their 
non-human side, or else it is made of wax.

3 One is reminded of a story by Mr H. W. Nevinson-one hopes not true-of an 
unfortunate Negro sailor shipwrecked on the Norfolk coast.]

But not long after this the chief fell into the fire, burning himself badly. 
His people consulted the diviners, who answered, You have sinned against 
Mrule. You all said, 'He will bring ill-luck to the country if we take him 
in. Who ever saw a being with one leg?' And the chief never asked him, What 
brings you here?' Because no one asked him anything he went away. But he is 
surely a great healer." Thus spoke the diviners. But all this time tortoises 
had been collecting in the plain. They gathered themselves into a long 
procession and came marching up to the chief's homestead, where they 
arranged themselves in a circle round the spot from which Mrule had 
ascended. And their leader chanted:

"Propitiate, propitiate, and, when ye have done so, asperse!"

The diviners interpreted this saying to the chief, and he at once sent for a 
black cow which had lately calved, a sheep, and the "water of expiation." 
They sacrificed the cow and the sheep, made a cut in the neck of the 
tortoise-chief, and took a drop of blood from him. Then they mixed this with 
the blood of the sacrifices and the water, and sprinkled the chief with it-
also the whole of the ground within the circle of tortoises. So the curse 
was lifted, the tortoises went their way into the plain, and the chief 
recovered from his injuries.

In quite recent times a legend has grown up out of one of those rumours 
which arise no one knows how. "It was after the first white men had come 
into our country."[1] One day at noon a man appeared, floating in the air. 
He was light-complexioned, and held a bell in either hand. And he cried, 
with a loud voice:

Pay that thou owest to thy brother!
Hast thou a beast of his, give it back!
Hast thou a goat of his, give it back!
    Thus saith the King.
Let every stranger in the land return to his own home;
Every child held in pawn shall go free to his father's house.
Cease from violence; break the spear!
    Thus saith the King."

[1. The first European to reach Chaga was Rebmann, in 1848.]

At sunset he was seen again. Sometimes he appeared in one place, sometimes 
in another; but he never touched the earth. The chief of Moshi (was this the 
famous Mandara, properly called Rindi?) ordered his men to keep a look-out 
for him. They sat and stared at the sky till the cool of the evening drove 
them indoors. But they never saw him more.

CHAPTER VI: THE GHOSTS AND THE GHOST COUNTRY
THE core of Bantu religion, we may say, is the cult of the dead.

The belief in a High God is more or less vaguely some tribes it is almost 
forgotten, or, at any rate, not much regarded-but everywhere among Bantu-
speaking peoples the spirits of the departed are recognized, honoured, and 
propitiated. There is not the slightest doubt that these people believe in 
something which survives the death of the body. No African tribe can be said 
with certainty to think that death ends all, perhaps not even the Masai,[1] 
of whom this has been asserted in a somewhat haphazard fashion. The 
universal Bantu custom of offerings to the spirits of deceased relatives is 
surely a sufficient proof to the contrary.

One cannot expect to find a reasoned theory of spiritual existence among 
people as relatively primitive as these, nor complete agreement between the 
beliefs of different tribes, or even between individuals of the same tribe. 
But, generally speaking, it is everywhere held that something, which we will 
call the ghost, lives on when the body dies, and can, to some extent, 
influence the affairs of the living. The ghosts can communicate with the 
living through dreams, through signs and omens, and through the medium of 
diviners or prophets. They may bring disaster on the family or the tribe if 
offended by neglect or, sometimes, as a judgment on some undiscovered sin. 
They are not invariably malignant, as sometimes stated; in fact, they are 
quite often regarded with affectionate respect, and show themselves helpful 
to their kinsfolk in time of need.

Spirit not Immortal
Though the ghost survives the body for an indefinite period it is not 
necessarily thought of as living on for ever. Some people distinctly state 
(perhaps only after having been

[1. See Hollis, The Masai, p. 307.]

forced by questioning to think the matter out) that after the lapse of 
several generations they simply go back to nothingness, except in the case 
of outstanding personalities, remembered beyond the circle of their 
immediate descendants, such as ancient chiefs and tribal benefactors. In 
other words, the ghosts last only as long as they are remembered by the 
living: the parents and grandparents are always commemorated and sacrificed 
to; the three preceding generations maintain a precarious existence, 
fighting for a share in the offerings and occasionally forcing attention by 
terrifying apparitions; any older than these are said to " go to pieces." 
Where reincarnation is definitely believed in, as seems to be the case to a 
great extent, life lasts as long as there is a child of the line to carry it 
on, and only comes to an end if the family dies out. Yet another view 
prevails among the Wazaramo,[l] a tribe of Tanganyika Territory, in the 
immediate neighbourhood of Dar-es- Salaam. With them family ghosts (those of 
father, grandfather, and maternal uncle) are called makungu, and are 
honoured and propitiated in the usual way. With the passing of generations 
they lose their individuality, and are merged in the host of spirits known 
collectively as vinyamkela or majini. The difference between these two 
classes is variously stated, but every one seems to be agreed that the 
latter are the more powerful of the two, while both have more power than 
ordinary kungu ghosts. Some say that the vinyamkela (singular kinyamkela) 
are the ghosts of children, the majini those of adults, while others hold 
that the former were in their lifetime kindly, inoffensive people, the 
majini men of violence. This last name is of comparatively recent 
introduction, being borrowed from the Arabic jinn; the earlier name for such 
a ghost was dzedzeta, or, according to some, mwene mbago, which means "lord 
(or lady) of the forest." This being is invisible, except to the 'doctors,' 
whose business is to exorcize him, and has his abode in hollow trees. The 
kinyamkela is also, as a rule, invisible, but when he (or she) appears it is 
as half a human body, "with one leg, one hand, one eye, and one

[1. Klamroth, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen, pp. 46-70 and 118-124.]

ear." I shall have something more to say about these half-human beings later 
on.

Abode of the Ghosts
Different accounts are given as to the whereabouts of the ghosts, but the 
most general notion seems to be that they remain for some time in or about 
the grave, or perhaps at a certain place in the hut they inhabited during 
life, and afterwards depart to the country of the dead, which is imagined to 
be underground. Here they live very much as they did on earth, as one 
gathers from the numerous legends of persons who have reached this country 
and come back to tell the tale.

The Yao chief Matope, who died near Blantyre in 1893, was buried, according 
to local custom, in his hut, which was then shut up and left to fall into 
ruin. A year after his death the headman brought out his stool and sprinkled 
snuff round it as an offering to his spirit. I was told that this would be 
done again in the following year; after that he would cease to haunt the 
spot. It was not said on this occasion where he was expected to go.

The Wazaramo believe ghosts as a rule to be mischievous: thus persons 
passing near a recent grave after dark may be pelted with stones by the 
kungu-a trick which is also sometimes played by the kinyamkela. But this 
characteristic is by no means universal.

The Dead return in Animal Form
Another very general belief is that the dead are apt to reappear in animal 
forms, most usually those of snakes or lizards, though, apparently, almost 
any animal may be chosen. The Atonga of Lake Nyasa say that by taking 
certain medicines a person can ensure his changing after death into 
whichever animal he may fancy. Some say that their great chiefs come back as 
lions. Wizards of a specially noisome kind can turn themselves at will, 
while living, into hyenas or leopards-it is not so clear whether they assume 
the forms of these animals after death. The precautions taken by way of 
annihilating, if that were possible, the dead bodies of such people would 
seem to have the object of preventing this.

The Country of the Dead
The ghost country can be reached through caves or holes in the ground; a 
favourite incident in folk-tales is the adventure of a man who followed a 
porcupine or other such creature into its burrow, and by and by found 
himself in the village of the dead. Mr Melland[1] says that by the Wakuluwe 
(a tribe near the south end of Lake Tanganyika) the fisinzwa (ghosts) "are 
supposed to remain in a village in the centre of the earth." Casalis, [2] an 
early observer of the Basuto (about 1840), says: "All natives place the 
spirit world in the bowels of the earth. They call this mysterious region 
mosima, the abyss." This word in recent dictionaries is said to mean only: 
"a hole in the ground, den, hole of a wild animal," so that the other 
signification, whether primary or derived, has probably been forgotten. The 
spirit country is very generally known by a name related to the Swahili 
kuzimu. The stem -zimu, or a similar form, occurs in many languages, meaning 
either a spirit or the kind of monstrous ogre who will be discussed later.

The Bapedi of the Transvaal used to say that the gateway to Mosima was in 
their country, and could be entered by anyone who had the courage. It seems 
to have been necessary for two or more persons to go together; they held 
each other's hands before entering the pass, and shouted: " Ghosts, get out 
of the way! We are going to throw stones!" After which they passed in 
without difficulty.

As already stated, the ghosts are believed to lead much the same life in 
their village as they did on the upper earth; but details vary from place to 
place. Some of Casalis' informants described valleys always green (no 
droughts such as South African farmers dread) grazed over by immense herds 
of beautiful hornless cattle. Others seemed to think that the life was but a 
dull one, without joy or sorrow."

[1. Through the Heart of Africa, p. 24.

2. Les Bassoutos, p. 761.]

The Wakuluwe shades are described as weary and homesick, which is the reason 
why from time to time they come up and fetch a relative to keep them 
company. In their country it is always night-the absence of daylight is not 
as a rule mentioned in these accounts-but "the village. . . is said to be 
lighted by a mightier light than [any on] earth, and the spirits wear 
shining clothes, and the huts are thatched with shining grass."

On Kilimanjaro the spirit land may be reached by plunging into pools, but 
there are also certain gateways-perhaps some of the caves which abound in 
the sides of that mountain. The gates are all closed nowadays-more's the 
pity!

The Haunted Groves
But sometimes the ghosts have their dwelling above ground, in the "sacred 
groves" where the dead are buried. This custom of burial in the forest is 
very general in East Africa; the trees of the burying-ground are never cut 
down, and care is taken to protect them, as far as possible, against the 
bush-fires which rage at the end of the dry season. Hence in Nyasaland you 
will find here and there, towering over the level scrub, a clump of tall 
trees, and in their shade some pots, a broken hoe or two, or the fragments 
of a bow will mark the place of graves.

In these groves the spirits sometimes hold their revels: people in distant 
villages have heard their drums. There are places deep in the woods where 
the earth has been swept clean, as if for a dancing-floor, and here they 
assemble. Passers-by may hear faint music, but see no one; the sounds seem 
to be in front, but when they have gone on a little way they are heard 
behind them.

In Nyasaland there are ghosts which haunt particular hills, probably those 
where old chiefs have been buried, and there are strange accounts given of 
"the spirits' hill" [1]-piri la mizimu-where women passing by carrying pots 
on their heads have had the pots taken from them by baboons. One is left to 
infer that the baboons are shapes assumed by

[1. Scott, Dictionary, P- 416.]

the ghosts, though this is not expressly stated, and elsewhere one finds 
baboons mentioned only as wizards' familiars, not as reincarnated ancestors. 
There are bananas grown on the spirits' hill-you can cut a bunch and eat 
some; but if you carry any away they will have disappeared before you reach 
your village.

Ghost Stories: the Kinyamkela's Bananas
Near Mkongole, in the Zaramo country, there was once a hollow tree haunted 
by a kinyamkela. Two boys from Mkongole, Mahimbwa and Kibwana, strolling 
through the woods, happened to come upon this tree, and saw that the ground 
had been swept clean all round it and that there was a bunch of bananas 
hanging from a branch. They took the bananas down, ate them, and went home 
quite happy. But that night, when they were both asleep in the 'boys' house' 
of their village, they were awakened by a queer noise, and saw the one-
legged, one-armed kinyamkela standing in the doorway. He called out to them: 
"You have eaten my bananas! You must die!" And with that they were suddenly 
hit by stones flying out of the darkness. There was a regular rain of 
stones, lumps of earth, and even human bones. The boys jumped up, ran out, 
and took refuge in another hut, but the stones followed them there. This 
went on for four nights-apparently without anyone getting seriously hurt-and 
then a doctor named Kikwilo decided to take the matter in hand. He said to 
the boys, "You have eaten the kinyamkela's bananas; that is why he comes 
after you." He took a gourd, twice seven small loaves of bread, a fowl, some 
rice, and some bananas, and went to the kinyamkela's tree, where he laid the 
things down, saying, "The boys are sorry for what they did. Can you not 
leave them alone now?" That night the kinyamkela appeared again to Mahimbwa 
and Kibwana, and said, "It's all right now; the matter is settled; but don't 
let it happen again."

So there was peace in the village, and all would have been well if the 
business had stopped there. But there was a certain man named Mataula, a 
wood-carver, addicted to hemp-smoking (this is perhaps mentioned to show 
that he was not quite responsible), who was, unluckily, absent at the time. 
When he came back and heard the story he declared that some one must have 
been playing a trick on the boys, and announced that he would sit up that 
night and see what happened. So he loaded his gun and waited. The kinyamkela 
must have heard his words, for as soon as it was dark he began to be pelted 
with bones and all sorts of dirt, and at last an invisible hand began to 
beat him with a leg-bone. He could not fire, as he could see no one, and was 
quite helpless to defend himself against the missiles. The neighbours had no 
cause to bless him, for they began to be persecuted similarly, and at last 
the whole population had to emigrate, as life in the village had become 
unendurable.[1]

Some well-authenticated reports from clergy of the Universities' Mission who 
have seen and felt lumps of mud thrown about without visible agency make one 
wonder whether stories like this ought not to be taken seriously. Similar 
occurrences nearer home have sometimes been satisfactorily explained, but 
not always.

Kwege and Bahati
Another story from Uzaramo [2] shows the dead coming back in the form of 
birds. This is less usual than for them to come as snakes or lions, except 
in the special case of a murdered man or woman, as will be illustrated by 
the story of Nyengebule to be told presently.

There was once upon a time a man who married a woman of the Uwingu clan 
(uwingu means 'sky') who was named Mulamuwingu, and whose brother, Muwingu, 
lived in her old home, a day or two's journey from her husband's.

The couple had a son called Kwege, and lived happily enough till, in course 
of time, the husband died) leaving his wife with her son and a slave, 
Bahati, who had belonged to an old friend of theirs and had come to them on 
that friend's death.

[Klamroth, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen, p. 118 . 

2. Ibid., p. 128.]

Now the tabu of the Sky clan was rain-that is, rain must never be allowed to 
fall on anyone belonging to it; if this were to happen he or she would die.

One day when the weather looked threatening Mulamuwingu said, "My son Kwege, 
just go over to the garden and pick some gourds, so that I can cook them for 
our dinner." Kwege very rudely refused, and his mother rejoined, "I am 
afraid of my mwidzilo (tabu). If I go to the garden I shall die." Then 
Bahati, the slave, said, "I will go," and he went and gathered the gourds 
and brought them back.

Next day Kwege's mother again asked him to go to the garden, and again he 
refused. So she said, "Very well; I will go; but if I die it will be your 
fault." She set out, and when she reached the garden, which was a long way 
from any shelter, a great cloud gathered, and it began to rain. When the 
first drops touched her she fell down dead.

Kwege had no dinner that evening, and when he found his mother did not come 
home either that day or the next (it does not seem to have entered into his 
head that he might go in search of her) he began to cry, saying, "Mother is 
dead! Mother is dead!" Then he called Bahati, and they set out to go to his 
uncle's village.

Now Kwege was a handsome lad, but Bahati was very ugly; and Kwege was well 
dressed, with plenty of cloth, while Bahati had only a bit of rag round his 
waist.

As they walked along Kwege said to Bahati, "When we come to a log lying 
across the path you must carry me over. If I step over it I shall die." For 
Kwege's mwidzilo was stepping over a log.

Bahati agreed, but when they came to a fallen tree he refused to lift Kwege 
over till he had given him a cloth. This went on every time they came to a 
log, till he had acquired everything Kwege was wearing, down to his leglets 
and his bead ornaments. And when they arrived at Muwingu's village and were 
welcomed by the people Bahati sat down on one of the mats brought out for 
them and told Kwege to sit on the bare ground. He introduced himself to 
Muwingu as his sister's son, and treated Kwege as his slave, suggesting, 
after a day or two, that he should be sent out to the rice-fields to scare 
the birds. Kwege, in the ragged kilt which was the only thing Bahati had 
left him, went out to the fields, looked at the flocks of birds hovering 
over the rice, and then, sitting down under a tree, wept bitterly. Presently 
he began to sing:

I, Kwege, weep, I weep!
And my crying is what the birds say.
Oh, you log, my tabu!
I cry in the speech of the birds.
They have taken my clothes,
They have taken my leglets,
They have taken my beads,
I am turned into Bahati.
Bahati is turned into Kwege.
I weep in the speech of the birds."

Now his dead parents, had both been turned into birds. They came and perched 
on the tree above him, listening to his song, and said, "Looo! Muwingu has 
taken Bahati into his house and is treating him like a free man and Kwege, 
his nephew, as a slave! How can that be?"

Kwege heard what they said, and told his story. Then his father flapped one 
wing, and out fell a bundle of cloth; he flapped the other wing and brought 
out beads, leglets, and a little gourd full of oil. His mother, in the same 
way, produced a ready-cooked meal of rice and meat. When he had eaten they 
fetched water (by this time they had been turned back into human beings), 
washed him and oiled him, and then said, "Never mind the birds-let them eat 
Muwingu's rice, since he has sent you to scare them while he is treating 
Bahati as his son!" So they sat down, all three together, and talked till 
the sun went down.

On the way back Kwege hid all the cloth and beads that his parents had given 
him in the long grass, and put on his old rag again. But when he reached the 
house the family were surprised to see him looking so clean and glossy, as 
if he had just come from a bath, and cried out, "Where did you get this oil 
you have been rubbing yourself with? Did you runoff and leave your work to 
go after it?" He did not want to say, "Mother gave it me," so he simply 
denied that he had been anointing himself.

Next day he went back to the rice-field and sang his song again. The birds 
flew down at once, and, seeing him in the same miserable state as before, 
asked him what he had done with their gifts. He said they had been taken 
from him, thinking that, while he was about it, he might as well get all he 
could. They did not question his good faith, but supplied him afresh with 
everything, and, resuming their own forms, they sat by him while he ate.

Meanwhile Muwingu's son had taken it into his head to go and see how the 
supposed Bahati was getting on with his job-it is possible that he had begun 
to be suspicious of the man who called himself Kwege. What was his 
astonishment to see a good-looking youth, dressed in a clean cloth, with 
bead necklaces and all the usual ornaments, sitting between two people, whom 
he recognized as his father's dead sister and her husband. He was terrified, 
and ran back to tell his father that Kwege was Bahati and Bahati Kwege, and 
related what he had seen. Muwingu at once went with him to the rice-field, 
and found that it was quite true. They hid and waited for Kwege to come 
home. Then, as he drew near the place where he had hidden his cloth, his 
uncle sprang out and seized him. He struggled to get away, but Muwingu 
pacified him, saying, "So you are my nephew Kwege after all, and that fellow 
is Bahati! Why did you not tell me before? Never mind; I shall kill him to-
day." And kill him they did; and Kwege was installed in his rightful 
position. Muwingu made a great feast, inviting all his neighbours, to 
celebrate the occasion. "Here ends my story," says the narrator.

Kwege, it will be seen, is described as anything but a model son, who does 
not deserve the kindness of his very forbearing parents; but it is evidently 
reckoned for righteousness to him that he submitted to any amount of 
inconvenience and indignity rather than break his mwidzilo. Another point to 
notice is the curious limitation in the powers of the ghosts. They can 
assume any form they please and go anywhere they wish; they can produce 
magical stores out of nowhere; but they never seem to suspect that Kwege is 
deceiving them when he says he has been robbed of their gifts. Why Kwege 
should not have exposed Bahati when he reached his uncle's house is not 
clear, unless, with African fatalism,[1] he felt sure that he would not be 
believed.

"False Bride" Stories
This story reminds one of Grimm's "Goose Girl," as far as Bahati's imposture 
is concerned; but the theme is a world-wide one. In Angola the story of 
Fenda Madia has probably come from Portugal, and has nothing to do with the 
ghosts, but the Zulu "Untombiyapansi" (more shortly told by McCall Theal as 
"The Girl and the Mbulu") is genuine African. Here a girl on her way to her 
sister's kraal (her parents being dead) is overtaken by an imbulu, It a 
fabulous creature which can assume the human form, but can never part with 
its tall." It tricks her out of her clothes, rides on her ox, and personates 
her on arriving at the village, where it is received as the chief's 
daughter, while Untombiyapansi is sent to scare the birds. She summons her 
dead parents from underground by striking the earth with a brass rod, and 
they appear in their own proper form and succour her. The imbulu is detected 
and killed, and the chief, already married to her sister, takes 
Untombiyapansi as his second Wife.[2]

The Makonde people,[3] in Tanganyika Territory, have a story of an orphan, 
who deserves more sympathy than Kwege. He was bullied by the other boys, who 
robbed him of the animals he had caught when he was more successful than 
they. So one day he proposed that they should go to hunt

[1. It is scarcely fair to use this expression as if it applied to all 
Africans; but the characteristic is noticeable among tribes who have 
suffered from slave-raids or the oppression of more powerful neighbours.

2. Callaway, Nursery Tales, P. 303.

3. The Makonde Plateau is near the East Coast, south of Lindi and to the 
north of the river Ruvuma. This story was collected by Mr Frederick 
Johnson.]

in a certain wood, where his father and mother were buried. When they came 
to the grave he told the others to sit down, saying, "If you see anything 
coming out don't run." Then he began to sing (his companions joining in the 
chorus):

Father! Father! come out of your grave!
    CHORUS: Ngondo liyaya! The raiders come!
They treat your child like the meanest slave.
        Ngondo liyaya! The raiders come!
I trapped my rats with weariful toil;
        Ngondo liyaya! The raiders come!
They've robbed me of all my hard-won spoil.
        Ngondo liyaya! The raiders come!
'You've no father or mother!' they said.
        Ngondo liyaya! The raiders come!
'Your parents have gone to the Place of the Dead!'
        Ngondo liyaya! The raiders come!"

There is a certain attractive simplicity about the literal translation of 
what follows:

Now came a snake from the grave there and lay down and coiled itself, and 
the boys wanted to run, and he said, "Do not run." And they sat there, 
clapping their hands. That snake came from the grave of his father. And he 
arose and sang at the grave of his mother, and a snake also came from that 
place and coiled itself there. And he sang again-

nearly the same song as before:

Father! Mother! from Dead Men's Town,
    CHORUS: Ngondo liyaya! The raiders come![1]
Come forth, come forth, and swallow them down,
Who scorned and wronged me day by day,
And robbed me of all my lawful prey.
'You've no father or mother!' they said.
'Your parents have gone to the Place of the Dead!'"

The snakes then rose up and swallowed all the boy's companions. Their son 
sang again, and they retired into their holes, while he went back to the 
village. The parents of the other boys asked him about them, but he only 
answered, "I do not know; they left me in the forest."

[1. Repeated after each line, as before.]

As the boys did not come home their parents consulted a diviner, who told 
them that "the orphan had hidden his companions." So they questioned the 
orphan lad, and he told every one who had lost a boy to bring him a slave a 
touch which cannot be very recent. They did so, and he set off for the grave 
with his newly acquired retinue, all singing together. He called once more 
on his parents, and the boys all came out, safe and sound, and marched back 
to the village. The orphan lad went with his slaves to an unoccupied piece 
of land in the bush, where they built a new village and he became a chief 
and lived there with his people.'

An African 'Holle' Story
How a girl reached the land of the ghosts and came back is told by the 
Wachaga.[2] Marwe and her brother were ordered by their parents to watch the 
bean-field and drive away the monkeys. They kept at their post for the 
greater part of the day, but as their mother had not given them any food to 
take with them they grew very hungry. They dug up the burrows of the field-
rats, caught some, made a fire, roasted their game, and ate it. Then, being 
thirsty, they went to a pool and drank. It was some distance off, and when 
they came back they found that the monkeys had descended on the bean-patch 
and stripped it bare. They were terribly frightened, and Marwe said, "Let's 
go and jump into the pool." But her brother thought it would be better to go 
home without being seen and listen to what their parents were saying. So 
they stole up to the hut and listened through a gap in the banana-leaves of 
the thatch. Father and mother were both very angry. "What are we to do with 
such good-for-nothing creatures? Shall we beat them? Or shall we strangle 
them?" The children did not wait to hear any more, but rushed off to the 
pool. Marwe threw herself in, but her brother's courage failed him, and he 
ran back home and told the parents: "Marwe has gone into the pool." They 
went down at once, quite

[1. Johnson, "Notes on Kimakonde."

2. Gutmann, Volksbuch, p. 117.]

forgetting the hasty words provoked by the sudden discovery of their loss, 
and called again and again, "Marwe, come home! Never mind about the beans; 
we can plant the patch again!" But there was no answer. Day after day the 
father went down to the pool and called her always in vain. Marwe had gone 
into the country of the ghosts.

You entered it at the bottom of the pool. Before she had gone very far she 
came to a hut, where an old woman lived, with a number of children. This old 
woman called her in and told her she might stay with her. Next day she sent 
her out with the others to gather firewood, but said, "You need not do 
anything. Let the others do the work." Marwe, however, did her part with the 
rest, and the same when they were sent out to cut grass or perform any other 
tasks. She was offered food from time to time, but always made some excuse 
for refusing it. (The living who reach the land of the dead can never leave 
it again if they eat while there a belief met with elsewhere than in 
Africa.) So time went on, till one day she began to weary, and said to the 
other girls, "I should like to go home." The girls advised her to go and 
tell the old woman, which she did, and the old body had no objection, but 
asked her, " Shall I hit you with the cold or with the hot? " It is not easy 
to see what is meant by this question, but in all stories of this kind, 
which are numerous, the departing visitor to the ghost land is given a 
choice of some kind-sometimes between two gifts, sometimes between two ways 
of going home. Perhaps the meaning of the alternative here proposed has been 
lost in transmission or in translation. The good girl always chooses the 
less attractive article or road, and Marwe asked to be "hit with the cold." 
The woman told her to dip her arms into a pot she had standing beside her. 
She did so, and drew them out covered with shining bangles. She was then 
told to dip her feet, and found her ankles adorned with fine brass and 
copper chains. Then the woman gave her a skin petticoat worked with beads, 
and said, "Your future husband is called Sawoye. It is he who will carry you 
home."

She went with her to the pool, rose to the surface, and left her sitting on 
the bank. It happened that there was a famine in the land just then. Some 
one saw Marwe, and ran to the village saying that there was a girl seated by 
the pool richly dressed and wearing the most beautiful ornaments, which no 
one else in the countryside could afford, the people having parted with all 
their valuables to the coast-traders in the time of scarcity. So the whole 
population turned out, with the chief at their head. They were filled with 
admiration of her beauty. (It seems that her looks had not suffered in the 
ghost country, in spite of her not eating.) They all greeted her most 
respectfully, and the chief wanted to carry her home; but she r1efused. 
Others offered, but she would listen to none till a certain man came along, 
who was known as Sawoye. Now Sawoye was disfigured by a disease from which 
he had suffered called woye, whence his name. As soon as she saw him Marwe 
said, "That is my husband." So he picked her up and carried her home and 
married her.

This is a somewhat unusual kind of wedding, from the Bantu point of view: 
nothing is said about the parents. But the whole circumstances were unusual: 
it is not every day that a girl comes back from the country of the dead, 
having had her destined husband pointed out by the chieftainess of the 
ghosts.

We are not told, but I think we must be meant to understand, that Sawoye 
soon lost his disfiguring skin disease and appeared as the handsomest man in 
the clan. With the old lady's bangles they bought a fine herd of cattle and 
built themselves the best house in the village. And they would have lived 
happy ever after if some of his neighbours, had not envied him and plotted 
to kill him. They succeeded, but his faithful wife found means to revive 
him, and hid him in the inner compartment of the hut. Then, when the enemies 
came to divide the spoil and carry Marwe off to be given to the chief as his 
wife, Sawoye came out, fully armed, and killed them all. After which he and 
Marwe were left in peace.

Other "Holle" Stories
Two interesting variants come from the Ngonde country. One is described by a 
learned German writer as "psychologically incomprehensible"; but if he had a 
complete version before him he would seem curiously to have missed the 
point. A woman is "persuaded by another"-evidently a jealous co-wife-to 
throw away her baby, because it is weakly: other versions show that he ought 
to have added "in the hope of getting it back improved in health and looks." 
The rest of the story is much the same as that of "La Route du ciel," and 
follows much more naturally from its opening than does that tale, except 
that the jealous woman, instead of being struck dead, gets only half a baby, 
with one arm, one leg, and so on.[1]

In the other story the opening is more mysterious: the mother, coming to a 
river too deep to ford, heard a voice telling her to throw her baby into the 
water, and she would be able to walk over dryshod. She did so, and the water 
parted to let her cross; but when she had reached the other side she could 
not find the child again. She had to go home without it, and was told by her 
husband to go away and never come back till she had found it. Wandering 
through the forest, she met, one after another, a lion, a leopard, a 
crocodile, and other animals, all, apparently, suffering from ophthalmia, 
who asked her where she was going, requested of her a most unpleasant 
service, and after she had rendered it allowed her to pass on. She then met 
a very old man, who told her that she would shortly come to a place where 
the path divided, and would hear a voice on one side saying mbo, and one on 
the other side saying ndi. She was to follow the first, which she did, and 
arrived at a hut, where a woman showed her a number of beautiful children 
and told her to choose one. There is the usual sequel: the envious neighbour 
disregards all advice and meets in the end with her deserts-in this case by 
having to carry home a wretched, diseased, and crippled infant.[2]

[1. Unpublished; quoted by Dr Fülleborn, in Das deutsche Njassa-und Ruwuma-
gebiet, p. 335.

2 Nauhaus, "Was sich die Konde in Deutsch-Ostafrika erzählen."]

The incident of the stream stands alone, so far as I know, in stories of 
this type. The dividing of a river occurs more than once in a very different 
connexion-in traditions of tribal migrations, as when one of the Ngoni 
chiefs was said to have struck the Zambezi with his stick, to let the people 
cross.[1] The voices-from the river and from the two paths-may belong to 
some bit of forgotten mythology. In one of the hare stories which form the 
subject of Chapter XVII the hyena tells the hare that when crossing the 
river he may hear a voice ordering him to throw away his bread. This, of 
course, is a trick on the hyena's part, but seems to be accepted as a 
possible occurrence, and may be an echo of some belief in river-spirits.

Do the Dead return to Life?
The possibility of the dead returning to life is frequently assumed in folk-
tales, [2] but I do not know that it is seriously believed in at the present 
day, as seems to be the case for the visits of living men and women to the 
Underworld. The Rev. Donald Fraser relates an extraordinary incident [3]: a 
man was thought to have died, but came to, and said that he had reached the 
ghosts' country, where he saw and spoke to people, but none would answer 
him; in fact, they showed him decidedly that they did not want him, and he 
had to come back.

The Wazaramo appear to have a divinity called Kolelo, who lives in a cave in 
the form of a huge serpent. Remembering the very common belief that the 
spirits of the dead come back in the form of snakes, it may be considered 
probable that this Kolelo was originally an ancestral ghost. He played a 
great part in the troubles of 1905 (known as the "Majimaji Rebellion") in 
what was then German East Africa; but his legend will come in more fittingly 
in Chapter XVI.

[1. The Rev. T. Cullen Young thinks this may have arisen from the fact that 
the Ngoni had never seen a log canoe, which might be described as a stick 
('log,' 'tree,' and 'stick ' might sometimes be expressed by the same word), 
and misunderstood as the tradition was passed on.

2 As in the story of "Tangalimlibo," Theal, Kaffir Folklore, p.54.

3 Winning a Primitive People, p. 126.]

The name seems also to be attached to a cave in the Nguu country, the seat 
of a famous oracle-also to be mentioned in Chapter XVI.

The notion that the soul of a murdered person may come back in the shape of 
a bird, to make the crime known and call for justice on the murderer, has 
been touched on in a previous page. In the next chapter will be given 
several stories showing how the innocent blood cries for vengeance, and how 
its cry never passes unheard.

CHAPTER VII: THE AVENGER OF BLOOD
THE usual unwritten law of primitive peoples is, in theory at least, "a life 
for a life," the clan of the murdered man being entitled to kill the 
murderer, if they can get hold of him; if not, one of his family, or, at any 
rate, a member of the same clan. No difference was originally made between 
intentional and accidental killing, though this distinction came to be 
recognized later. In time the principle of ransom came into force-the 
weregild of our Saxon ancestors. The Yaos would express it thus in a case 
where the relations had failed to kill the murderer out of hand and had 
captured a relative of his: "You have slain our brother; we have caught 
yours; and we will send him after our brother-or keep him as a slave-unless 
you pay a ransom." This last alternative has tended more and more to become 
the usual practice in Africa.

Murder of a Relative
But a difficulty arose when a man killed one of his own relations. In that 
case who could demand compensation? for the slayer and the slain were of the 
same clan. And the general belief about this shows that such a thing is 
regarded with horror and as almost unthinkable. Such a man would be seized 
by a kind of madness-the Anyanja call it chirope,[1] and say, " The blood of 
his companion enters his heart; it makes him just like a drunk man." Or, as 
the Yaos say,[2] " He will become emaciated, lose his eyesight, and 
ultimately die a miserable death." Though the owner of a slave in theory had 
the power of life and death, he was afraid of chirope if he killed him. He 
could escape only by being 'doctored ' with a certain charm, which, one may 
suppose, would not be too easily procured.

The Warrior's Purification
A man who had killed another in battle also had to be 'doctored,' for fear 
that he should be haunted by the ghost

[1. Scott, Dictionary, p. 96.

2. Duff Macdonald, Africana, vol. i, p. 168.]

of the slain-no doubt because, from the nature of the case, the dead man's 
kin could not follow the usual procedure. With the Zulus [1] the 'doctoring' 
(ukuqunga) was a long and complicated process, involving various tabus: an 
essential point was that the warrior must cut open the corpse of his foe 
before it began to swell. This precaution (the neglect of which rendered him 
liable to be possessed by the avenging ghost-a form of insanity known as 
iqungo) has, not unnaturally, been misunderstood and given rise to reports 
of "atrocities," "mutilation of the dead," and so on, as happened in the 
Zulu War of 1879.

The Two Brothers
There is a well-known story, current, probably, among all the South African 
Bantu, in which the secret murder of a brother is brought to light and 
avenged. It is usually called "Masilo and Masilonyane," though the Zulu 
variant has a different name. In some versions the guilty brother is killed 
when detected, but in what would appear to be the oldest and most authentic 
he is driven from the clan and becomes an outcast. Perhaps we find the 
beginning of a change from the older view in one case, where he is said to 
have been killed, not by a member of the family, but by a servant (mohlanka) 
of Masilonyane's-presumably not a member of the clan.

In the most usual form of the story [2] the two brothers, Masilo and 
Masilonyane, went hunting together and happened upon a ruined village. The 
younger, Masilonyane, went straight on through the ruins with his dogs, 
while his brother turned aside and skirted round them. In the middle of the 
ruins Masilonyane found a number of large earthen pots turned upside down. 
He tried to turn up one of the largest, but it resisted all his efforts. 
After he had tried in vain several times he called to his brother for help, 
but

[1. Colenso, Zulu-English Dictionary, p. 513.

2. I have here, more or less, combined two versions: one by S. H. Edwards, 
in the South African Folk-Lore Journal, vol. i, p. 139, and the other by 
Jacottet, in his Treasury of Ba-Suto Lore, p. 56.]

Masilo refused, saying, "Pass on. Why do you trouble about pots?" 
Masilonyane persevered, however, and at length succeeded in heaving up the 
pot, and in doing so uncovered a little old woman who was grinding red ochre 
between two stones. Masilonyane, startled at this apparition, was about to 
turn the pot over her again, but she remonstrated: "My grandchild, do you 
turn me up and then turn me upside down again?" She then requested him to 
carry her on his back. Before he had time to refuse she jumped up and clung 
to him, so that he could not get rid of her. He called Masilo, but Masilo 
only jeered and refused to help him. He had to walk on with his burden, 
till, at last, seeing a herd of springbok, he thought he had found a way of 
escape, and said, "Grandmother, get down, that I may go and kill one of 
these long-legged animals, so that I may carry you easily in its skin." She 
consented, and sat down on the ground, while Masilonyane called his dogs and 
made off at full speed after the game. But as soon as he was out of her 
sight he turned aside and hid in the hole of an ant-bear. The old woman, 
however, was not to be defeated. After waiting for a time and finding that 
he did not come back she got up and tracked him by his footprints, till she 
came to his hiding place. He had to come out and take her up again, and so 
he plodded on for another weary mile or two, till the sight of some 
hartebeests gave him another excuse for putting her down. Once more he hid, 
and once more she tracked him; but this time he set his dogs on her, and 
they killed her. He told the dogs to eat her, all but her great toe, which 
they did. He then took an axe and chopped at the toe, when out came many 
cattle, and, last of all, a beautiful cow, spotted like a guinea-fowl.

This incident, monstrous as it appears to us-especially as there has been no 
hint that the old woman was of unusual size; indeed, she was not too big to 
be carried on Masilonyane's back-is not uncommon in Bantu folklore, and in 
some cases seems to link on to the legend of the Swallowing Monster. Now 
Masilo, who had shirked all the unpleasant part of the day's adventures, 
came running up and demanded a share of the cattle. Masilonyane, not 
unnaturally, refused, and they went on together.

After a while Masilonyane said he was very thirsty, and his brother said he 
knew of a water-hole not far off. They went there, and found that it was 
covered with a large, flat stone. They levered up the stone with their 
spears, and Masilonyane held it while Masilo stooped to drink. When he, in 
his turn, stooped to reach the water Masilo dropped the stone on him and 
crushed him to death. Then he collected the cattle and started to drive them 
home. Suddenly he saw a small bird perching on the horn of the speckled cow; 
it sang:

"Chwidi! Chwidi! Masilo has killed Masilonyane, because of his speckled 
cow!"

(People say it was Masilonyane's heart which was changed into a bird.) 
Masilo threw a stone at the bird, and seemed to have killed it, but it came 
to life again, and before he had gone very far he saw it sitting on the 
cow's horn, and killed it once more, as he thought.

When he reached his home all the people crowded together and greeted him. 
"Dumela! Chief's son! Dumela! Chief's son! Where is Masilonyane?" He 
answered, "I don't know; we parted at the water-hole, and I have not seen 
him since." They went to look at the cattle, and exclaimed in admiration, 
"What a beautiful cow! just look at her markings!"

While they were standing there the little bird flew up with a great whirring 
of wings and perched on the horn of the speckled cow and sang:

Chwidi! Chwidi! Masilo has killed Masilonyane, all for his speckled cow!"

Masilo threw a stone at the bird, but missed it, and the men said, "just 
leave that bird alone and let us hear." The bird sang the same words over 
and over again, and the people heard them clearly. They said, "So that is 
what you have done! You have killed your younger brother." And Masilo had 
nothing to say. So they drove him out of the village.

A different version from North Transvaal[1] makes the cattle come out of a 
hollow tree, and says nothing about the old woman. It also prefixes to the 
story some incidents not found elsewhere, which show Masilonyane in a less 
favourable light than that in which we have so far regarded him. At any 
rate, he does something, by his arrogance, to provoke his elder brother's 
enmity. Their father had entrusted them with the means of buying a beast or 
two to start a herd-the recognized manner of providing for sons. Masilonyane 
(here called Mashilwane), by clever trading and repeated strokes of good 
luck, soon became richer than his brother, and so provoked Masilo's envy. 
Mashilwane did nothing to conciliate him; on the contrary, he kept on 
boasting of his prosperity, and even, when his wife died, said, "I am 
Mashilwane, whom death cannot touch!"

Another point of difference in this version is that it is one of 
Mashilwane's dogs who reveals the murder and leads the clansmen to the place 
where the body is hidden. In the other there is no question of the body; 
indeed, in one form of the story the murdered man comes to life again, the 
bird suddenly taking his shape. On the whole the North Transvaal version 
seems later and more consciously elaborated perhaps in response to questions 
from European auditors.

A hunter's dogs figure in a story from Angola,[2] where an elder brother 
kills a younger, being envious of his success. He gives part of the body to 
the two dogs, but they refuse to eat it; instead they lift up their voices 
and denounce him. He kills and buries them; they come to life, follow him 
home, and report the whole affair in the village. The story ends: "They 
wailed the mourning"; nothing is said about the fate of the murderer. A 
brother killing a brother is something quite outside the common course of 
law.

It is not entirely the same with a wife, who, by the nature of the case, 
must belong to a different clan; the duty of

[1. Hoffmann, Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen, vol. vi, No. 5.

2. Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola, p. 127.]

exacting retribution naturally falls on her relations once the crime is made 
known.

The Xosa Tale of Nyengebule
So it was with Nyengebule.[1] He had two wives, who, one day, went out 
together to collect firewood in the forest. The younger found a bees' nest 
in a hollow tree, and called her companion to help her take out the 
honeycomb. When they had done so they sat down and ate it, the younger 
thoughtlessly finishing her share, while the elder kept putting some aside, 
which she wrapped up in leaves to take home for her husband. Arriving at the 
kraal, each went to her own hut. The elder, on entering, found her husband 
seated there, and gave him the honeycomb. Nyengebule thanked her for the 
attention, and ate the honey, thinking all the time that Nqandamate, the 
younger wife, who was his favourite, would also have brought him some, 
especially as he was just then staying in her hut. When he had finished 
eating he hastened thither and sat down, expecting that she would presently 
produce the titbit. But he waited in vain, and at last, becoming impatient, 
he asked, "Where is the honey?" She said, "I have not brought any." 
Thereupon he lost his temper and struck her with his stick, again and again. 
The little bunch of feathers which she was wearing on her head (as a sign 
that she was training for initiation as a doctor) fell to the ground; he 
struck once more in his rage; she fell, and he found that she was dead. He 
made haste to bury her, and then-he is shown as thoroughly selfish and 
callous throughout-he gathered up his sticks and set out for her parents' 
kraal, to report the death (which he would represent as an accident) and 
demand his lobolo-cattle [2] back. But the little plume which had fallen 
from her head when he struck her turned into a bird and flew after him.

When he had gone some distance he noticed a bird sitting on a bush by the 
wayside, and heard it singing these words:

[1. South African Folk-Lore Journal, July 1879.

2 A man who loses his wife before she has had any children is entitled to 
get back the cattle he paid on his marriage-unless her parents can give him 
another daughter instead of her.]

"I am the little plume of the diligent wood-gatherer,
The wife of Nyengebule.
I am the one who was killed by the house-owner, wantonly!
He asking me for morsels of honeycomb."

It kept up with him, flying alongside the path, till at last he threw a 
stick at it. It paid no attention, but kept on as before, so he hit it with 
his knobkerrie, killed it, threw it away, and walked on.

But after a while it came back again and repeated its song. Blind with rage, 
he again threw a stick at it, killed it, stopped to bury it, and went on his 
way.

As he was still going on it came up again and sang:

"I am the little plume of the diligent wood-gatherer . . ."

At that he became quite desperate, and said, "What shall I do with this 
bird, which keeps on tormenting me about a matter I don't want to hear 
about? I will kill it now, once for all, and put it into my bag to take with 
me." Once more he threw his stick at the little bird and killed it, picked 
it up, and put it into his inxowa-the bag, made from the skin of some small 
animal, which natives carry about with them to supply the place of a pocket. 
He tied the bag up tightly with a thong of hide, and thought he had now 
completely disposed of his enemy.

So he went on till he came to the kraal of his wife's relations, where he 
found a dance going on. He became so excited that he forgot the business 
about which he had come, and hurried in to join in the fun. He had just 
greeted his sisters-in-law when one of them asked him for snuff. He told 
her-being in a hurry to begin dancing and entirely forgetful of what the bag 
contained-to untie the inxowa, which he had laid aside. She did so, and out 
flew the bird dri-i-i! It flew up to the gate-post, and, perching there, 
began to- sing:

Ndi 'salana sika' Tezateza
'Mfazi Unyengebule;
Ndingobulewe 'Mnimindhlu ngamabom,
Ebendibuza amanqatanqata obusi."

He heard it, and, seeing that every one else had also heard it, started to 
run away. Some of the men jumped up and seized hold of him, saying, "What 
are you running away for?" He answered-his guilty conscience giving him away 
against his will-"Me! I was only coming to the dance. I don't know what that 
bird is talking about."

It began again, and its song rang out clearly over the heads of the men who 
were holding him:

"Ndi 'salana sika' Tezateza. . ."

They listened, the meaning of the song began to dawn on them, and they grew 
suspicious. They asked him, "What is this bird saying?" He said, "I don't 
know."

They killed him.

With this brief statement the story closes, leaving to the imagination the 
clamour that arose, the cries of the mother and sisters, the brothers 
rushing for their kerries, the doomed man's frantic struggles.... Bambulala, 
"They killed him."

Father Torrend says:

Tales of this kind, showing that every crime finds an unexpected revealer, 
appointed by a superior power, are very common in the whole of the Zambezi 
region. In this particular tale [which will be given presently] the revealer 
is a child . . . in others it is a little dog, but in tales far more 
numerous it is a little bird which no killing can prevent from rising from 
the dead and singing of the criminal deed until punishment is meted out to 
the guilty person."[1]

One such story was collected by Mrs Dewar [2] among the Winamwanga, to the 
north of Lake Nyasa, on the farthest edge of the "Zambezi region," since 
their country is near the sources of the Chambezi.[3] As set down by her it 
is very short, but it may be worth while to reproduce it here, as it gives 
the notes of the bird's song.

Once upon a time there was a man and his younger brother. The younger 
brother was chief [It is not explained how this happened, but no doubt he 
was the son of the ' Great Wife,' and as such his father's heir.] One day 
when he climbed a mpangwa

[1. Bantu Folklore, p. 17.

2 Chinamwanga Stories, p. 29.

3 But the story is not confined to that region, its underlying motive being 
practically universal.]

tree [which bears an edible fruit, much liked] his elder brother killed him. 
Afterwards he came to life again as a little bird and sang:

["Nzye! [a mere exclamation] He has killed me because of the mpangwa fruit,
The mpangwa by the roadside.
Doesn't it help us in time of need?"]

That is all, but the rest is not difficult to guess. The bird's song seems 
somewhat obscure, but probably means that the young man was gathering the 
fruit to eat in a time of scarcity. This is a detail stressed in the next 
story,[1] though the other incidents are quite different.

Out of the Mouths of Babes
Once upon a time there was a married couple who had two children. Not long 
after the birth of the second the wife said she wanted to go and see her 
mother. The husband agreed, and they set out. It happened to be a time of 
famine, and they had little or nothing to eat, so when they came to a wild 
fig-tree by the wayside the man climbed it and began to shake down the 
fruit.[2] The wife and the elder child picked up the figs and ate them as 
fast as they fell. Presently there fell, among the rest, a particularly 
large and fine one. The husband called out: "My wife, do not eat that fig! 
If you do I will kill you." [3] The wife, not without spirit, answered, 
"Hunger has no law. And, really, would you kill me, your wife, for a fig? I 
am eating it; let us see whether you dare kill me!"

She ate the fig, and her husband came down from the tree and picked up his 
spear.

[1. Torrend, Bantu Folklore, p. 9.

2. It is edible, but somewhat insipid, and not considered worth eating when 
anything better is to be had.

3. The selfish and greedy husband and father is frequently held up to 
reprobation in folk-tales. Refusal to share food with others is looked on as 
something worse than mere lack of manners-it is "simply not done."]

"My fig! Where has it gone?" he said, pointing the weapon at her.

She answered, "I have eaten it."

He said not another word, but stabbed her. As she fell forward on her knees 
the baby she was carrying on her back stared at him over her shoulder. He 
took no notice, only saying, "My children, let us go now, as I have killed 
your mother."

The elder boy picked up his little brother and put him on his back. The 
baby, Katubi, looked behind him at the dead woman and began to cry. His 
brother sang:

How can I silence Katubi?
Oh, my dear Katubi!
How can I silence Katubi ?

The father asked him what he was saying, but he said, I am not speaking; it 
is only baby crying." The father said, "Let us go on. You shall eat when you 
get there." They went on and on, and at last the baby himself began to sing: 

"Silence Katubi!
My brother has become my mother!"

That is, he is carrying him on his back, as his mother had been doing.

The father heard it, and, thinking it was the elder boy who sang, said, 
"What are you talking about, you little wretch? I am going to kill you. 
What, are you going to tell tales when, we get to your grandmother's?" The 
child, terrified, said, "No! I won't say anything!"

Still they went on, and the baby kept looking behind him, and after a while 
began again:

[1. The baby's name is significant; it means "Expose the truth "-literally, 
Make the thing white." These songs, of which each line is usually repeated 
at least twice, are an essential feature in the story. The words are always 
known to some, at any rate, of the audience, who sing them in chorus every 
time they occur. Bishop Steere says (Swahili Tales, p. vii): "It is a 
constant characteristic of popular native tales to have a sort of burden, 
which all join in singing. Frequently the skeleton of the story seems to be 
contained in these snatches of singing, which the story-teller connects by 
an extemporized account of the intervening history."

"What a lot of vultures
Over the fig-tree at Moya's!
What a lot of vultures!"

And he cried again. The father asked, "What are you crying for?" and the boy 
said that he was not crying; he was only trying to quiet the baby. The man, 
looking back, saw a number of vultures hovering over the place he had left, 
and as he did so he heard the song again:

"What a lot of vultures!"

The boy, when asked once more why the baby was crying, answered, "He is 
crying for Mother!" And the father said, Nonsense! Let us get on. You're 
going to see your grandmother!"

The same incident was repeated, till the father, in a rage, turned back and 
began beating both the children. The boy asked, "Are you going to kill me, 
as you killed Mother?"

The furious man shouted, "I do mean to kill you!" How ever, he held his hand 
for the moment, and the boy slipped past him and went on in front, and 
presently the baby's voice was heard again:

"What a lot of vultures!"

They reached the village at last, and the man exchanged greetings with his 
mother-in-law. He seems to have failed to satisfy her when she inquired 
after his wife, for, on the first opportunity, she questioned the little 
boy: "Now where has your mother been left?" The child shook his head, and 
did not speak for a while. Then he said, "Do you expect to see Mother? She 
has been killed by Father-all for the sake of a wild fruit!"

At the same moment the baby began to sing:

"What a lot of vultures!"

The grandmother must have been convinced by this portent, for she questioned 
the boy no further, but only said, Stop, Baby! We are just going to kill 
your father also!" She set some men to dig a deep, narrow hole inside the 
hut, while she prepared the porridge. When the hole was ready she had a mat 
spread over it, and then brought in the porridge and sent the boy to call 
his father to supper. The guilty man came in, saw the mat spread in what 
appeared to be the best place, and immediately sat down on it. The 
grandmother had large pots of boiling water ready, and as soon as he had 
fallen into the hole they poured it over him and killed him.[1]

The significance of this story is emphasized by the fact that "the revealer 
is a little being which might have been thought to have no notion of right 
or wrong." This is still more strongly brought out-in a somewhat crude 
fashion in Father Torrend's alternative version, where it is actually the 
unborn child which makes its way into the world to proclaim the father's 
guilt.

The same people, the Bwine-Mukuni, have another tale, which we need not 
reproduce in full, where a young chief, killed by his covetous companions, 
"was changed into a little bird with pretty colours," which, though not 
merely killed but burnt to ashes, revives and flies to the house of the dead 
man's sister. Its song has a certain beauty.

A irire ntingini!
A irire ntingini!
Karaterententa koni kakaswa.
Kwironga kwironga ryabo A irire ntingini!

[1. This mode of execution seems in the folk-tales to be considered 
appropriate for aggravated cases of murder, like the above, or as an 
effectual means of putting an end to extra-human pests, like the imbulu of 
the Zulu story referred to in a previous chapter. In another version, also 
given by Father Torrend, the man is speared by his wife's brothers.]

[Let the big drum roll! (CHORUS: Let the big drum roll!)
It flaps the wings, the little bird that has come out from the deep river,
From the great river of God. Let the big drum roll!]

There are six stanzas. In the fourth Nemba, the chief's sister, is called on 
to begin threading beads for the mourners towear. The last verse is as 
follows:

Let the big drum roll! Let the big drum roll!
The land Where-I-wash-the-wrongs,
It is far from this place to which you have brought me,
Me who have no feet.[1] Let the big drum roll!

This is explained by Torrend as referring to Bantu notions of a future life, 
and his note may fitly close this chapter.

The souls, though "having no feet," are supposed to go to a deep river of 
God, far away, not a simple mulonga "river," but a rironga, "big, deep 
river," where God washes the wrongs clean and where birds with beaks all 
white-that is, innocent souls-cry vengeance against the spilling of 
blood.[2]

[1. I have nowhere else seen any reference to this notion. In whatever form 
the dead are supposed to appear they are normally assumed to have their full 
complement of limbs. Is there a belief that some kinds of birds are without 
feet, as was formerly said about the bird of Paradise ? The "birds with 
white beaks" are mentioned in the third verse of the song.

2 Bantu Folklore, p. 25.]

CHAPTER VIII: HEROES AND DEMI-GODS
GREAT chiefs, or men otherwise distinguished, whose memory lives on after 
many generations, are not only honoured beyond the worship paid to ordinary 
ghosts, but become the subjects of many a legend. Some of these heroes are 
plainly mythical, others are known to have actually existed, and some 
historical persons have become legendary without receiving divine honours. 
One knows that the genesis of myths is not confined to remote ages; they may 
spring up any day, even in civilized countries: there have been at least 
three well-known examples within the last twenty years. I remember being 
present at a conversation during which, as I believe, a legend was nipped in 
the bud. Some Zulus, after consulting together in undertones, asked Miss 
Colenso, very respectfully, whether it was true that her father had 
prophesied before his death that his house (Bishopstowe, near 
Pietermaritzburg) would be burned down. She answered that very likely he 
might have said, some time or other, that if due precautions were not taken 
a fire might reach the house during the grass-burning season-which, in fact, 
actually happened, owing, however, to a sudden change of wind rather than to 
any lack of care. I fear the questioners were disappointed; but one can 
imagine how the story would have grown if not discouraged.

The Ox-eater
In the countries to the west of Lake Victoria there is a cult of a being 
known as Ryang'ombe, or Lyang'ombe, concerning whom curious legends are 
current. His name means "Eater of an ox"; in full it is, in the language of 
the Baziba, Kashaija Karyang'ombe, "the little man who eats an [whole] ox." 
The name is distinctly Bantu, and is connected with his story. In Ruanda and 
Urundi, where his worship is fully developed, it does not seem to be 
entirely understood; and another indication of his Bantu origin is to be 
found in the fact that the mysteries of Ryang'ombe are supposed specially to 
belong to the Bahutu, the Bantu agricultural community; and, though the 
Batusi aristocracy frequently take part in them, there is a very strict rule 
that the reigning chief must never have been initiated into this particular 
rite. This seems strange, as Rehse, writing of the Baziba, says that 
Ryang'ombe is "the spirit of the cattle, only venerated by the Bahima."[1] 
But there is much in the whole subject which still awaits investigation. The 
Baziba tell a story which differs considerably from the Ruanda legend as 
given by P. Arnoux[2] and by Johanssen;[3] but, for all one knows, both may 
circulate side by side-in one of the countries at any rate. Some feats of 
his remind one strongly of the Zulu Hlakanyana, but the latter is merely a 
trickster, and never, so far as I know, attained the status of a national 
hero, or became an object of worship. Ryang'ombe, according to this story,4 
spoke before he was born, and ate a whole ox immediately after his entrance 
into the world. His father told him of a terrible ogre, Ntubugezi, notorious 
for killing people; Ryang'ombe at once made for the giant's abode, insulted 
and defied him, and made him give up eleven head of cattle, which he 
(Ryang'ombe) swallowed at once. He then attacked another ogre, Ntangaire, 
and swallowed him whole, but did not long enjoy his triumph, for Ntangaire 
cut his way out and killed him. In the Ruanda legend, likewise, Ryang'ombe's 
mortal career ends disastrously, though after a different fashion.

Ryang'ombe in Ruanda
The Banyaruanda give Ryang'ombe's family affairs in great detail. His father 
was Babinga, described as the "king of the imandwa";[5] his mother, 
originally called Kalimulore,[6] was an uncomfortable sort of person, who 
had

[1. The Bahima are the Hamitic invaders who form the pastoral aristocracy in 
Buganda, Bunyoro, and elsewhere. In Ruanda they are called Batusi.

2. Anthropos (1913),vol.viii.

3. Ruanda, pp.109-111.

4. H.Rehse, Kiziba p. 371

5. The imandwa are a superior order of spirits, distinct from the common 
herd of ghosts, who are called bazimu, and mostly thought of as malevolent. 
All the imandwa are known by name; many of them are in one way or another 
related to Ryang'ombe, and each has his or her own special ritual.

6. After the birth of her son she was known as Nyiraryang'ombe ('Mother of 
Ryang'ombe').]

the power of turning herself into a lioness, and took to killing her 
father's cattle, till he forbade her to herd them, and sent some one else in 
her place. She so frightened her first husband that he took her home to her 
parents and would have no more to do with her. After her second marriage, to 
Babinga, there seems to have been no further trouble. It is not clear how 
Babinga could have been " king of the ghosts " while still living, but when 
he died his son, Ryang'ombe, announced that he was going to take his 
father's place. This was disputed by one-of Babinga's followers named 
Mpumutimuchuni, and the two agreed to decide the question by a game of 
kisoro,[l] which Ryang'ombe lost. Perhaps we are to understand by the long 
story which follows that he passed some time in exile; for he went out 
hunting, and heard a prophecy from some herd-lads which led to his marriage. 
After some difficulties with his parents-in-law he settled down with his 
wife, and had a son, Binego, but soon left them and returned to his own 
home.

As soon as Binego was old enough his mother's brother set him to herd the 
cattle; he speared a heifer the first day, a cow and her calf the next, and 
when his uncle objected he speared him too. He then called his mother, and 
they set out for Ryang'ombe's place, which they reached in due course, 
Binego having, on the way, killed two men who refused to leave their work 
and guide him, and a baby, for no particular reason. When he arrived he 
found his father playing the final game with Mpumutimuchuni. The decision 
had been allowed to stand over during the interval, and Ryang'ombe, if he 
lost this game, was not only to hand over the kingdom, but to let his 
opponent shave his head-that is, deprive him of the crest of hair which 
marked his royal rank. Binego went and stood behind his father to watch the 
game, suggested a move which enabled him to win, and when Mpumutimuchuni 
protested stabbed him. Thus he secured his father in the kingship, which, 
apparently, was so far counted to him for righteousness as to outweigh all 
the

[1. A game variously known as mankala, mweso, bao, msuo, etc., and played 
all over Africa, either on a board or with four rows of holes scooped in the 
ground.]

murders he had committed. Ryang'ombe named him, first as his second-in-
command and afterwards as his successor, and Binego, as will be seen, 
avenged his death. Like all the imandwa, with the exception of Ryang'ombe 
himself, who is uniformly kind and beneficent, he is thought of as 
mischievous and cruel, and propitiated from fear, especially when the 
diviner has declared, in a case of illness, that Binego is responsible. 
During these ceremonies, and also in the mysteries celebrated from time to 
time, certain persons are not only recognized as mediums of Ryang'ombe, 
Binego, or other imandwa, but actually assume their characters and are 
addressed by their names for the time being.

Ryang'ombe's Death
The story of his death is as follows.

Ryang'ombe one day went hunting, accompanied by his sons, Kagoro and 
Ruhanga, two of his sisters, and several other imandwa. His mother tried to 
dissuade him from going, as during the previous night she had had four 
strange dreams, which seemed to her prophetic of evil. She had seen, first, 
a small beast without a tail; then an animal all of one colour; thirdly, a 
stream running two ways at once; and, fourthly, an immature girl carrying a 
baby without a ngobe.[1] She was very uneasy about these dreams, and begged 
her son to stay at home, but, unlike most Africans, who attach great 
importance to such things, he paid no attention to her words, and set out. 
Before he had gone very far he killed a hare, which, when examined, was 
found to have no tail. His personal attendant at once exclaimed that this 
was the fulfilment of Nyiraryang'ombe's dream, but Ryang'ombe only said, 
"Don't repeat a woman's words while we are after game." Soon after this they 
encountered the second and third portents (the "animal all of one colour" 
was a black hyena), but Ryang'ombe still refused to be impressed. Then they 
met a young girl carrying a baby, without the usual skin in which it is 
supported. She stopped Ryang'ombe

[1. The skin in which an African woman carries a baby on her back. The Zulus 
call it imbekko.]

and asked him to give her a ngobe. He offered her the skin of one animal 
after another; but she refused them all, till he produced a buffalo hide. 
Then she said she must have it properly dressed, which he did, and also gave 
her the thongs to tic it with. Thereupon she said, "Take up the child." He 
objected, but gave in when she repeated her demand, and even, at her 
request, gave the infant a name. Finally, weary of her importunity, he said, 
"Leave me alone!" and the girl rushed away, was lost to sight among the 
bushes, and became a buffalo. Ryang'ombe's dogs, scenting the beast, gave 
chase, one after the other., and when they did not return he sent his man, 
Nyarwambali, to see what had become of them. Nyarwambali came back and 
reported: "There is a beast here which has killed the dogs." Ryang'ombe 
followed him, found the buffalo, speared it, and thought he had killed it, 
but just as he was shouting his song of triumph it sprang up, charged, and 
gored him. He staggered back and leaned against a tree; the buffalo changed 
into a woman, picked up the child, and went away.

At the very moment when he fell a bloodstained leaf dropped out of the air 
on his mother's breast. She knew then that her dream had in fact been a 
warning of disaster; but it was not till a night and a day had passed that 
she heard what had happened. Ryang'ombe, as soon as he knew he had got his 
death-wound, called all the imandwa together, and told first one and, on his 
refusal, another to go and call his mother and Binego. One after another all 
refused, except the maidservant, Nkonzo, who set off at once, travelling 
night and day, till she came to Nyiraryang'ombe's house and gave her the 
news. She came at once with Binego, and found her son still living. Binego, 
when he had heard the whole story, asked his father in which direction the 
buffalo had gone; having had it pointed out, he rushed off, overtook the 
woman, brought her back, and killed her, with the child, cutting both in 
pieces. So he avenged his father.

Ryang'ombe then gave directions for the honours to be paid him after his 
death; these are, so to speak, the charter of the Kubandwa society which 
practises the cult of the imandwa. He specially insisted that Nkonzo, as a 
reward for her services, should have a place in these rites, and, 
accordingly, we find her represented by one of the performers in the 
initiation ceremony, as photographed by P. Schumacher. Then "at the moment 
when his throat tightened" he named Binego as his successor, and so died.

Here Ryang'ombe appears as a headstrong adventurer, whose principal virtue 
is courage, and it is a little difficult to gather from his story, as here 
related, why he should have been credited with so many good qualities. He 
shows some affection for his mother (though not sufficient to make him 
consider her wishes) and for his son, and gratitude to the poor dependent 
who fulfilled his last request-but that is all one can say.

Spirits inhabiting Volcanoes
The definition of a myth, as laid down by the Folk-Lore Society, is: "A 
story told to account for something"; of a legend: "A story told as true, 
but consisting either of fact or fiction, or both indifferently." The story 
of Ryang'ombe would seem to come under both definitions, for it is certainly 
(at least in Ruanda-in Kiziba it is more like an ordinary fairy-tale) told 
as true, and it is held to account not only for the kubandwa mysteries (of 
which P. Arnoux has given a very full account in the seventh and eighth 
volumes of Anthropos), but for certain volcanic phenomena.

The Virunga volcanoes, north of Lake Kivu, are a striking feature of the 
Ruanda country. They are among the few still active in Africa, and there 
have been several remarkable eruptions in quite recent times. It appears 
that after his death Ryang'ombe took up his abode in the Muhavura volcano, 
the most easterly of the group, where he still lives, though occasionally 
migrating to Karisimbi, about midway between Lake Kivu and the smaller lake, 
Bolere. The memory of former eruptions is preserved in accounts of battles 
between Ryang'ombe and his enemy, Nyiragongo, who then lived in Mount 
Mikeno. Ryang'ombe, with his fiery sword, cleft this mountain from top to 
bottom, and drove Nyiragongo westward to the mountain which still bears his 
name. He then cut off the top of this peak with his sword, threw Nyiragongo 
into it, and piled hot stones on him to keep him down. One is reminded of 
Enceladus, buried under Etna by Zeus.

The other imandwa, Ryang'ombe's relatives and dependents, are supposed to be 
living with him in Muhavura. As already mentioned, they are, in the main, 
spiteful and mischievous, and a great part of his energy is devoted to 
keeping them within bounds. The inferior ghosts, the bazimu, are by some 
said to haunt their former dwelling-places; others say that the good ones-
i.e., those who during their lifetime were initiated into the kubandwa 
mysteries go to join Ryang'ombe in Muhavura, while the 'profane' (nzigo) are 
sent to Nyiragongo.[1] This notion may be due to the Hamitic invaders, as 
the idea of a future state of rewards and punishments is, in general, 
foreign to Bantu thought. The absence of any really moral distinction 
('good' being simply synonymous with 'initiated'), coupled with the recent 
date of the earliest missions to Ruanda, would negative the supposition of 
Christian influence.

Names Common to Ruanda and Buganda
Before quitting the subject of Ryang'ombe I should like to call attention to 
an interesting point. Dr Roscoe, writing of Buganda, speaks of "the fetish 
Lyang'ombe," [2] but gives no details about him. In the absence of any 
further information it is impossible to determine whether the name alone was 
carried from Ruanda into Kiziba, and thence into Buganda, whether it was 
accompanied by any elements of the original story, or whether a fresh one 
grew up in its new

[1.Anthropos (1912), vol. vii.

2. The Northern Bantu, p. 134. This word-of which anthropologists are now 
somewhat shy-is used by Dr Roscoe as the equivalent of ejembe, literally, 'a 
horn,' because the objects in question are usually horns, filled with charms 
of all sorts and believed to be the abode, for the time being, of some 
particular spirit. The Baganda speak of "the horn of Lyang'ombe," "the horn 
of Nambaga," and so on. It seems hardly correct to speak of "the fetish 
Lyang'ombe," as it is the horn, and not the spirit, which is the 'fetish '-
if that word must be used.]

home. It is evident that some, at any rate, of the Ruanda myths, if they 
were ever heard, would be speedily forgotten in a country with no active 
volcanoes.

Then there is Mukasa. In Buganda he is the most important of the ' gods '-
i.e., heroes or demi-gods, originally ghosts, and quite distinct from 
Katonda, the creator, probably also from Gulu, the sky-god. He has much the 
same character as Ryang'ombe in Ruanda, being "a benign god, who never asked 
for human life, and, perhaps, a man of old time, deified on account of his 
benevolence. But the Banyaruanda make Mukasa the son-in-law of Ryang'ombe, 
and so far from being of a kindly disposition that his wife died of his 
cruel treatment. He was, curiously enough, the ferryman on the Rusizi, the 
river which runs out of Lake Kivu into Tanganyika. The story of his marriage 
seems to be connected with some traditional hostility between two sections 
of the Ruanda people.

Another point to notice is that the 'mediums'-people possessed by the 'gods' 
(balubale), through whom they give their oracles-are called in Luganda 
emandwa, which, as mentioned above, is the name for the superior class of 
spirits in Ruanda.

Culture-heroes
Dr Haddon says: "The term hero is usually applied to one who stands out from 
among ordinary mortals by his . . . conspicuous bravery or sustained power 
of endurance . . . but [also by] inventiveness, moral or intellectual 
qualities, or the introduction of new cults."[1] This might apply to 
Ryang'ombe. 'Culture-heroes' are those who have done anything "to improve 
the conditions of human existence." I suppose we might reckon among these 
the Thonga chief who taught his people to peg out hides on the ground in 
order to dress them. The earlier process was for a number of men to stand 
round, hold the edges of the hide in their teeth, and lean back till it was 
sufficiently stretched. It is not clear how far this is to be taken 
seriously, but we have

[1. Encyc1opædia of Religion and Ethics, vol. vi, p. 633]

a distinct culture-hero in Kintu, who brought goats, sheep, fowls, millet, 
and the banana into Buganda. Several tribes have a legend of a mighty hunter 
who came into the country with trained dogs and, like Theseus, cleared out 
dangerous wild beasts or fought with monsters. Such was Mbega of the 
Wakilindi, whom we shall meet in the next chapter.

Such also was Kibwebanduka, the tribal hero of the Wazaramo, who led them 
from Khutu to their present home (probably about 1700), and drove out the 
cannibal Akamba, who were then occupying it.[1] It is said that his 
footprints and those of his dog are still to be seen on a rock somewhere in 
Khutu, to the north-west of the Zaramo country. The Baziba have a similar 
hero, Kibi, who came from Bunyoro.

Sometimes animals figure as culture-heroes; one of the hare's many 
adventures turns on this notion, though sometimes the same story is told of 
an unnamed man or boy, who combines his benefits with flagrant cheating. One 
example of this, though not the best or most typical, occurs in the story of 
Hlakanyana (told in Chapter XI, below). Meanwhile the tale of Sudika-Mbambi 
will serve to illustrate what has just been said. It comes, like that of 
"The Son of Kimanaweze," given in Chapter V, from Angola.[2]

Sudika-Mbambi the Invincible
Sudika-Mbambi was the son of Nzua dia Kimanaweze, who married the daughter 
of the Sun and Moon. The young couple were living with Nzua's parents, when 
one day Kimanaweze sent his son away to Loanda to trade. The son demurred, 
but the father insisted, so he went. While he was gone certain cannibal 
monsters, called makishi, descended on the village and sacked it-all the 
people who were not killed fled. Nzua, when he returned, found no houses and 
no people; searching over the cultivated ground, he at last came across his 
wife, but she was so changed that

[1. I do not know whether there is any warrant for this accusation against 
the Akamba. Cannibalism is regarded with horror by the East African tribes 
in general, though some of them are very sure that their neighbours practise 
it. For Kibwebanduka see Klamroth, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen, p. 
44.

2 Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola, p. 85.]

he did not recognize her at first. "The makishi have destroyed us," was her 
explanation of what had happened.

They seem to have camped and cultivated as best they could; and in due 
course Sudika-Mbambi ('the Thunderbolt') was born. Like others who will be 
mentioned later, he was a wonder-child, who spoke before his entrance into 
the world, and came forth equipped with knife, stick, and "his kilembe"-a 
'mythic plant,' explained as "life-tree," which he requested his mother to 
plant at the back of the house. Scarcely had he made his appearance when 
another voice was heard, and his twin brother Kabundungulu was born. The 
first thing they did was to cut down poles and build a house for their 
parents. Ryang'ombe and (as we shall see) Hlakanyana were similarly 
precocious, but their activities were of a very different character. Soon 
after this Sudika-Mbambi announced that he was going to fight the makishi. 
He told Kabundungulu to stay at home and to keep an eye on the kilembe: if 
it withered he would know that his brother was dead; he then set out. On his 
way he was joined by four beings who called themselves kipalendes and 
boasted various accomplishments-building a house on the bare rock (a sheer 
impossibility under local conditions), carving ten clubs a day, and other 
more recondite operations, none of which, however, as the event proved, they 
could accomplish successfully. When they had gone a certain distance through 
the bush Sudika-Mbambi -directed them to halt and build a house, in order to 
fight the makishi." As soon as he had cut one pole all the others needed cut 
themselves. He ordered the kipalende who had said he could erect a house on 
a rock to begin building, but as fast as a pole was set up it fell down 
again. The leader then took the work in hand, and it was speedily finished.

Next day he set out to fight the makishi, with three kipalendes, leaving the 
fourth in the house. To him soon after appeared an old woman, who told him 
that he might marry her granddaughter if he would fight her (the 
grandmother) and overcome her. They wrestled, but the old woman soon threw 
the kipalende, placed a large stone on top of him as he lay on the ground, 
and left him there, unable to move.

Sudika-Mbambi, who had the gift of second-sight, at once knew what had 
happened, returned with the other three, and released the kipalende. He told 
his story, and the others derided him for being beaten by a woman. Next day 
he accompanied the rest, the second kipalende remaining in the house. No 
details are given of the fighting with the makishi, beyond the statement 
that " they are firing."[1] The second kipalende met with the same fate as 
his brother, and again Sudika-Mbambi was immediately aware of it. The 
incident was repeated on the third and on the fourth day. On the fifth 
Sudika-Mbambi sent the kipalendes to the war, and stayed behind himself. The 
old woman challenged him; he fought her and killed her-she seems to have 
been a peculiarly malignant kind of witch, who had kept her granddaughter 
shut up in a stone house, presumably as a lure for unwary strangers. It is 
not stated what she intended to do with the captives whom she secured under 
heavy stones, but, judging from what takes place in other stories of this 
kind, one may conclude that they were kept to be eaten in due course.

Sudika-Mbambi married the old witch's granddaughter, and they settled down 
in the stone house. The kipalendes returned with the news that the makishi 
were completely defeated, and all went well for a time.

Treachery of the Kipalendes
The kipalendes, however, became envious of their leader's good fortune, and 
plotted to kill him. They dug a hole in the place where he usually rested 
and covered it with mats; when he came in tired they pressed him to sit 
down, which he did, and immediately fell into the hole. They covered it up, 
and thought they had made an end of him. His younger brother, at home, went 
to look at the 'life-tree,' and found that it had withered. Thinking that, 
perhaps,

[1. Through the Portuguese occupation (dating from the sixteenth century) 
guns would be familiar objects to the Angola natives.]

there was still some hope, he poured water on it, and it grew green again.

Sudika-Mbambi was not killed by the fall; when he reached the bottom of the 
pit he looked round and saw an opening. Entering this, he found himself in a 
road-the road, in fact, which leads to the country of the dead. When he had 
gone some distance he came upon an old woman, or, rather, the upper half of 
one,[1] hoeing her garden by the wayside. He greeted her, and she returned 
his greeting. He then asked her to show him the way, and she said she would 
do so if he would hoe a little for her, which he did. She set him on the 
road, and told him to take the narrow path, not the broad one, and before 
arriving at Kalunga-ngombe's house he must "carry a jug of red pepper and a 
jug of wisdom." [2] It is not explained how he was to procure these, though 
it is evident from the sequel that he did so, nor how they were to be used, 
except that Kalunga-ngombe makes it a condition that anyone who wants to 
marry his daughter must bring them with him. We have not previously been 
told that this was Sudika-Mbambi's intention. On arriving at the house a 
fierce dog barked at him; he scolded it, and it let him pass. He entered, 
and was courteously welcomed by people who showed him into the guest-house 
and spread a mat for him. He then announced that he had come to marry the 
daughter of Kalunga-ngombe. Kalunga answered that he consented if Sudika-
Mbambi had fulfilled the conditions. He then retired for the night, and a 
meal was sent in to him-a live cock and a bowl of the local porridge 
(funji). He ate the porridge, with some meat which he had brought with him; 
instead of killing the cock he kept him under his bed. Evidently it was 
thought he would assume that the fowl was meant for him to eat (perhaps we 
have here

[1. Half-beings are very common in African folklore, but they are usually 
split lengthways, having one eye, one arm, one leg, and so on. This case I 
thought to be quite unique, but have since come across something of the same 
sort in a manuscript from Nyasaland.

2 What is meant by "a jug of wisdom" is not clear, but very likely it is 
merely a nonsense expression, used for the sake of the pun: ndungu is 'red 
pepper,' and ndunge 'wisdom.']

a remnant of the belief, not known to or not understood by the narrator of 
the story, that the living must not eat of the food of the dead), and a 
trick was intended, to prevent his return to he upper world. In the middle 
of the night he heard people inquiring who had killed Kalunga's cock; but 
the cock crowed from under the bed, and Sudika-Mbambi was not trapped.

Next morning, when he reminded Kalunga of his promise, he was told that the 
daughter had been carried off by the huge serpent called Kinyoka kya Tumba, 
and that if he wanted to marry her he must rescue her.

Sudika-Mbambi started for Kinyoka's abode, and asked for him. Kinyoka's wife 
said, "He has gone shooting."[1] Sudika-Mbambi waited awhile, and presently 
saw driver ants approaching-the dreaded ants which would consume any living 
thing left helpless in their path. He stood his ground and beat them off; 
they were followed by red ants, these by a swarm of bees, and these by 
wasps, but none of them harmed him. Then Kinyoka's five heads appeared, one 
after the other. Sudika-Mbambi cut off each as it came, and when the fifth 
fell the snake was dead. He went into the house, found Kalunga's daughter 
there, and took her home to her father.

But Kalunga was not yet satisfied. There was a giant fish, Kimbiji, which 
kept catching his goats and pigs. SudikaMbambi baited a large hook with a 
sucking-pig and caught Kimbiji, but even he was not strong enough to pull 
the monster to land. He fell into the water, and Kimbij swallowed him.

Kabundungulu, far away at their home, saw that his brother's life-tree had 
withered once more, and set out to find him. He reached the house where the 
kipalendes were keeping Sudika-Mbambi's wife captive, and asked where he 
was. They denied all knowledge of him, but he felt certain there had been 
foul play. "You have killed him.

[1. This need not mean that we must suppose Kinyoka to have been other than 
a real serpent. Readers of "Uncle Remus" will not need to be reminded that 
animals in folk-tales perform all sorts of actions which would be quite 
impossible if their real character were strictly kept in view.]

Uncover the grave." They opened up the pit, and Kabundungulu descended into 
it. He met with the old woman, and was directed to Kalunga-ngombe's 
dwelling. On inquiring for his brother he was told, "Kimbiji has swallowed 
him." Kabundungulu asked for a pig, baited his hook, and called the people 
to his help. Between them they landed the fish, and Kabundungulu cut it 
open. He found his brother's bones inside it, and took them out. Then he 
said "My elder, arise!" and the bones came to life. Sudika-Mbambi married 
Kalunga-ngombe's daughter, and set out for home with her and his brother. 
They reached the pit, which, it would seem, had been filled in, for we are 
told that "the ground cracked," and they got out. They drove away the four 
kipalendes-one is surprised to learn that they did not kill them out of 
hand-and, having got rid of them, settled down to a happy life.

But the end of the story is decidedly disappointing. Kabundungulu felt that 
he was being unfairly treated, since his brother had two wives, while he had 
none, and asked for one of them to be handed over to him. Sudika-Mbambi 
pointed out that this was impossible, as he was already married to both of 
them, and no more was said for the time being. But some time later, when 
Sudika-Mbambi returned from hunting, his wife complained to him that 
Kabundungulu was persecuting them both with his attentions. This led to a 
desperate quarrel between the brothers, and they fought with swords, but 
could not kill each other. Both were endowed with some magical power, so 
that the swords would not cut, and neither could be wounded. At last they 
got tired of fighting and separated, the elder going east and the younger 
west. The narrator adds a curious sentence to the effect that Sudika-Mbambi 
is the thunder in the eastern sky and Kabundungulu the echo which answers it 
from the west.

Nature-myths of this sort, so far as I am aware, occur very rarely, if at 
all, among the Bantu, and I am inclined to doubt whether this conclusion 
really belongs to the story.

The Wonder-child
Many Bantu tribes have a tale which may well come under this heading. It has 
points of contact with those of Sudika-Mbambi (though the main theme is 
quite different) and Ryang'ombe on the one hand and, on the other, with the 
tricksters Huveane and Hlakanyana. The hero-always a wonder-child, like 
Ryang'ombe and Hlakanyana-is called by the Yaos Kalikalanje, by the Anyanja 
Kachirambe, by the Hehe Galinkalanganye,[1] by the Baronga Mutipi (in 
another story Mutikatika), and by the Lambas Kantanga. They all have the 
following points in common:

A woman gets into difficulties-usually when alone in the bush-and is helped 
by an ogre, a demon, or an animal (in one case a hyena; in another a lion), 
on promising to hand over to this being the next child to which she gives 
birth.

The birth takes place with unusual circumstances, and the child shows 
marvellous precocity.

The mother, about to hand him over to the devourer, finds him too sharp for 
her, and devises one stratagem after another, which he always defeats.

Finally the ogre (or other enemy) is killed.

The opening incident varies considerably in the different stories. In one 
the woman cannot lift her load of firewood by herself; in another it is her 
water-jar, with which her companions unkindly refuse to help her (in both 
these cases the birth is expected very shortly); others introduce the 
episode (which also occurs in several quite different stories) of the woman 
sent out by her husband to look for water in which there are no frogs. In 
the Angola story of Na Nzua the mother has a craving for fish, which can 
only be satisfied by her promising the child, when born, to the river-spirit 
Lukala. Except in the above particular, this story differs

[1. This, from various indications, would seem to be the form whence the 
preceding two are derived. It means "the one who was held over the fire" 
(from kalanga, 'roast,' 'scorch'), because as soon as he was born he told 
his mother to put him on a potsherd and hold him over the fire. This may be 
connected with a custom of passing new-born babies through the smoke. The 
Yao name has the same meaning, but is differently explained. Kachirambe, in 
Nyanja, has no meaning applicable to the story.]

markedly from the rest. That of Kachirambe,[l] again, has an entirely 
different opening, and is altogether so curious that it may well be related 
here.

Kachirambe of the Anyanja
Some little girls had gone out into the bush to gather herbs. While they 
were thus busied one of them found a hyena's egg [2] and put it into her 
basket. Apparently none of the others saw it; she told them, somewhat to 
their surprise, that she had now picked enough, and hastened home. After she 
was gone the hyena came and asked them, "Who has taken my egg?" They said 
they did not know, but perhaps their companion who had gone home had carried 
it off. Meanwhile the girl's mother, on finding the egg in her basket, had 
put it on the fire. The hyena arrived and demanded the egg; the woman said 
it was burnt, but offered to give him the next child she had to cat. 
Apparently this callous suggestion was quite spontaneous on her part; but as 
there was no child in prospect just then she probably thought that the 
promise was quite a safe one, and that by the time its fulfilment became 
possible some way out could be found. The hyena, however, left her no peace, 
waylaid her every day when she went to the stream for water, and kept asking 
her when the child was to be produced. At last he said, " If you do not have 
that child quickly I will eat you yourself." She went home in great trouble, 
and soon after noticed a boil on her shin-bone, which swelled and swelled, 
till it burst, and out came a child.[3] He was fully armed, with bow, 
arrows, and quiver, had his little gourd of charms slung round his neck, and 
was followed by his

[1. Rattray, Some Folk-lore Stories and Songs in Chinyanja, p.133.

2. There is no attempt at explaining this, and I have seen no other mention 
of a hyena's egg. But this animal is, in popular belief, so abnormal that 
anything may be expected of it.

3. This strange incident has several parallels, though none, so far as I am 
aware, in connexion with this particular story. The Wakuluwe (Tanganyika 
Territory) say that the first woman brought forth a child in this way, and 
the (non-Bantu) Nandi have a tradition that their first ancestor was an old 
man who produced a boy and a girl from the calf of his leg.]

dogs! He announced himself in these words: "I, Kachirambe, have come forth, 
the child of the shin-bone!" The mother was struck with astonishment, but it 
does not seem to have occurred to her to go back on her promise. When next 
she went to draw water and the hyena met her with the usual question she 
replied, "Yes, I have borne a child, but he is very clever; you will never 
be able to catch him, but I myself will beguile him for you. I will tie you 
up in a bundle of grass, and tell Kachirambe to go and fetch it." So she 
tied up the hyena in a bundle of the long grass used for thatching, and left 
it lying beside the path. Kachirambe, when sent to fetch it, stood still a 
little way off, and said, "You, bundle, get up, that I may lift you the 
better!" And the bundle of grass rose up of itself. Kachirambe said, "What 
sort of bundle is this that gets up by itself? I have never seen the like, 
and I am not going to lift it, not I!" So he went home.

The hyena, after releasing himself from the grass, came back and said to the 
woman, "Yes, truly, that youngster of yours is a sharp one!" She told him to 
go in the evening and wait in a certain place; then she called Kachirambe 
and said, "I want you to set a trap in such and such a place for the rats; 
they have been destroying all my baskets." Kachirambe went and chose out a 
large, flat stone; then he cut a forked stick, and whittled the cross-piece 
and the little stick for the catch, and twisted some bark-string, and made a 
falling trap, of the kind called diwa, and set and baited it. In the evening 
his mother said to him, "The trap has fallen. Go and see what it has 
caught!" He said, "You, trap, fall again, so that I may know whether you 
have caught a rat!" The hyena, waiting beside the trap, heard him, lifted up 
the stone, and let it fall with a bang. Kachirambe said, What sort of trap 
is it that falls twice? I have never seen such a one."

Next the mother told the hyena that she would send Kachirambe to pick beans. 
The boy took the basket and went to the field, but then he turned himself 
into a fly, and the hyena waited in vain. Kachirambe returned home with a 
full basket, to his mother's astonishment. She was nearly at her wits' end, 
but thought of one last expedient; she sent him into the bush to cut wood. 
The night before he had a dream, which warned him that he was in great 
danger, so he took with him his bow, and his quiver full of arrows, and his 
'medicine-gourd,' as well as a large knife. He climbed up into a tree which 
had dead branches, and began to cut. Presently he saw the hyena below, who 
said, "You are dead to-day; you shall not escape. Come down quickly, and I 
will eat you!" He answered, "I am coming down, but just open your mouth 
wide!" The hyena, with his usual stupidity, did as he was told, and 
Kachirambe threw down a sharp stick which he had just cut-it entered the 
hyena's mouth and killed him. Kachirambe then came down and went home; when 
drawing near the house he shot an arrow towards it, to frighten his mother, 
and said, "What have I done to you, that you should send wild beasts after 
me to eat me?" She, thoroughly scared, begged his pardon, and we are to 
suppose that he granted it, for the story ends here.

Galinkalanganye was not so forgiving; he contrived to change places with his 
mother after she was asleep, and it was she who was carried off by the 
hyena. Similarly, Mutipi's mother was eaten by the lion to whom she had 
promised her son, and Kalikalanje himself killed his mother, after he and 
his companions had shot Namzimu (the demon who had come to claim him). The 
tricks devised for handing over these lads to the enemy, and the stratagems 
by which they are defeated, vary in the different stories, but the bundle of 
grass appears in every one, and also in that of Huveane.

CHAPTER IX: THE WAKILINDI SAGA
A SAGA is defined by one authority as "a series of legends which follows in 
detail the lives and adventures of characters who are probably historical." 
We are therefore quite right in applying this name to the stories related 
about the high chiefs of Usambara, who are certainly historical characters, 
though perhaps not all of the adventures attributed to them ever really took 
place.

Usambara is one of the most beautiful countries to be found in Africa-a land 
of rocky hills and clear streams, of woods and fertile valleys. The upland 
pastures feed herds of cattle and countless flocks of sheep and goats; the 
bottom lands and even the hill-slopes are carefully cultivated and bear 
abundant crops of plantains and sugar-cane, rice and maize and millet. The 
first European to visit this country was Krapf, the missionary, who walked 
overland from Rabai in 1848, and was overjoyed at the thought of planting a 
mission in such a little paradise. The paramount chief, Kimweri, received 
him hospitably, and consented to give him a piece of ground to build on, 
though circumstances prevented this plan from being carried out till the 
arrival of the Universities' Mission, some twenty years later. Krapf was 
greatly impressed, not only by the scenery and the abundant resources of the 
country, but by the evidences of order and good government which met him on 
every side.

This Kimweri, who died at a great age in 1869, seems to have been the fifth 
of his line. Its founder is described as an Arab who came from Pemba to the 
Zigula country and built his house on the hill Kilindi, in the district of 
Nguu, or Nguru. Here he settled down, married more than one wife, and had a 
numerous family. One of his wives, seemingly the youngest, or, at any rate, 
the latest married, had two sons, of whom the younger is the Shambala 
national hero, Mbega.[1]

[1. The main source of this narrative is a Swahili account, written by the 
late Abdallah bin Hemedi, and printed at the Universities' Mission, Magila.]

Mbega, a Child of Ill-omen
Mbega would, in ordinary circumstances, have had short shrift, for he cut 
his upper teeth first, and such infants are, by most of the Bantu, 
considered extremely unlucky. Indeed, so strong is the belief that if 
allowed to grow up they would become dangerous criminals that in former 
times they were invariably put to death. At Rabai, on the now forsaken site 
of the old fortified village on the hill-top, a steep declivity is pointed 
out where such ill-omened babies were thrown down. It must have been the 
rarity of this occurrence that caused it to be regarded as unnatural, and so 
produced the belief. Mbega's parents, however, no doubt because his father 
despised such pagan superstitions (he must have been a Moslem, though his 
sons did not follow his faith), paid no attention to this custom, but on the 
contrary took every care of him, and he grew up strong and handsome and 
beloved by every one, except his half-brothers, the sons of the other wives. 
Their hostility could not injure him as long as his father lived, but both 
parents died while he was still a youth. He had a protector, however, in his 
elder brother, "his brother of the same father and the same mother"-a tie 
always thus carefully specified in a polygamous society. But this brother 
died, and the rest took on themselves the disposal of his property, which-
along with the guardianship of the widow and children-should naturally have 
passed to Mbega. They did not even summon him to the funeral.

When all the proper ceremonies had been performed and the time came for 
"taking away the mourning," which means slaughtering cattle and making a 
feast for the whole clan, at, or after, which the heir is placed in 
possession, all the relatives were assembled, but not the slightest notice 
was taken of the rightful heir. Mbega, naturally, was deeply wounded-the 
record represents him as saying, "Oh, that my brother were alive! 1 have no 
one to advise me, no one; my father is dead, and my mother is dead!" So he 
went his way home, and wept upon his bed (akalia kitandani pake), and was 
ready to despair.

Mbega shut out from his Inheritance
The brothers chose the son of a more distant kinsman to succeed to the 
property and marry the widow, and handed over to him the dead man's house 
and a share of his cattle, dividing the rest among themselves. Mbega, 
hearing of this, as he could not fail to do, consulted with the old men of 
the village, and sent them to his brothers and the whole clan, with the 
following message: "Why do they not give me my inheritance? Never once when 
one of the family died have they called me to the funeral. What wrong have I 
done?"

When the messengers had finished speaking "those brothers looked each other 
in the eyes, and every man said to his fellow, 'Do you answer.'" At last one 
of them spoke up and said, "Listen, ye who have come, and we will tell you. 
That Mbega of yours is mad. Why should he send you to us instead of coming 
himself? Tell him that there is no man in our clan named Mbega. We do not 
want to see him or to have anything to do with him."

The old men asked what Mbega had done, that they should hate him so, and the 
spokesman replied that he was a sorcerer (mchawi) who had caused all the 
deaths that had taken place in the clan. Anyone might know that he was not a 
normal human creature, since he was a kigego who had cut his upper teeth 
first; but his parents had been weak enough to conceal the fact and bring 
him up like any other child. He went on to say that when Mbega's mother died 
he and the others had consulted a diviner, who told them that Mbega-was 
responsible (a cruel slander on a most affectionate son), and they had 
represented to their father that he ought to be killed, "but he would not 
agree through his great love for him." Now that Mbega's parents and his own 
brother were no more they would take things into their own hands, since, if 
let alone, he would exterminate the whole clan. They did not wish to have 
his blood on their hands, but let him depart out of the country on peril of 
his life, and, as for the messengers: "Do not you come here again with any 
word from Mbega." They replied, with the quiet dignity of aged councillors, 
"We shall not come again to you." So they returned to Mbega, who received 
them with the usual courtesies and would not inquire about their errand till 
they had rested and been fed and had a smoke. Then they told him all, and he 
said, "I have heard your words and theirs, and in truth I have no need to 
send men to them again. I, too, want no dealings with them."

Mbega, a Mighty Hunter
Now Mbega, though hated by his near kinsmen, was beloved by the rest of the 
tribe, more especially the young men, whom he took with him on hunting 
expeditions and taught the use of trained dogs, then a novelty in the 
country. His father, no doubt, had brought some with him from Pemba. The 
name of Mbega's own favourite dog, Chamfumu, has been preserved. The 
chronicler adds: "This one was his heart." It does not seem clear whether 
this phrase merely expresses the degree of his affection for this particular 
dog, or whether there is some hint that Mbega's life was bound up with him. 
This idea of the totem animal as 'external soul' was probably not strange to 
the old-time Washambala, but Abdallah bin Hemedi might well fall to 
understand it, and nothing of the sort appears anywhere else in the story.

The land was sorely plagued with wild beasts, which ravaged the flocks and 
destroyed the crops. We hear most of the wild swine, which still, in many 
parts of East Africa, make the cultivator's life a burden to him. Mbega and 
his band of devoted followers scoured the woods with the dogs, put a stop to 
the depredations of the animals, and supplied the villagers with meat.

When Mbega's messengers had reported the answer returned by his brothers he 
called his friends together, told them the whole story, and informed them 
that he would have to leave the country. They asked where he was going, and 
he replied that he did not know yet, but would find out by divination, and 
would then call them together and take leave of them.

We are given to understand that Mbega was highly skilled in magic-white 
magic, of course-and this may have lent some colour to his brothers' 
accusations. If the expression he used on this occasion ("I am going to use 
the sand-board") is to be taken literally it seems to refer to the Arab 
method of divining by means of sand spread on a board, the knowledge of 
which Mbega's father may have brought with him from Pemba.

The young men protested against the notion of his leaving them, and declared 
that they would follow him wherever he went. He was determined not to allow 
this , knowing it would cause trouble with their parents, but said no more 
till he had decided on his course. He then consulted the oracle, and 
determined to direct his steps towards Kilindi, where he was well known. 
Next day, his friends being assembled, he told them he must leave them. He 
would not tell them where he was going, in case they should be asked by his 
brothers. They were very unwilling to agree to this, insisting that they 
would go with him, but were persuaded at last to give way. He sent for all 
his dogs and distributed them among the young men, keeping for himself seven 
couples, among them the great Chamfumu, "who was his heart." He also gave 
them his recipes for hunting magic, in which, to this day, most natives put 
more faith than in the skill of the hunter or the excellence of his weapons.

Mbega goes to Kilindi
So Mbega went forth, carrying his spears, large and small, and his dog-
bells, and his wallet of charms, and, followed by his pack, came on the 
evening of the second day to the gate of Kilindi town. It was already shut 
for the night, and, though those within answered his call, they hesitated to 
admit him till he had convinced them that he was indeed Mbega of Nguu, the 
hunter of the wild boar. Then the gate was thrown open, and the whole town 
rushed to welcome him, crying, "It is he! It is he!" They escorted him to 
the presence of the chief, who greeted him warmly, assigned him a dwelling, 
and gave orders that everything possible should be done to honour him. "So 
they gave him a house, with bedsteads and Zigula mats"-about all that was 
usual in the way of furniture-and when all the people summoned for the 
occasion had gone their several ways rejoicing Mbega rested for two or three 
days.

He remained at Kilindi for many months, and not only cleared the countryside 
of noxious beasts, but secured the town by his magic against human and other 
enemies. He possessed the secret of raising such a thick mist as to render 
it invisible to any attacking force, and could supply charms to protect men 
and cattle from lions and leopards. He seems also to have had some skill as 
a herbalist, for we are told that he healed the sick. In these ways, and 
still more "because he was he," he made himself universally beloved. The 
chief's son, in particular, who insisted on making blood brotherhood with 
him, worshipped him with all a youth's enthusiasm.

Death of the Chief's Son
As time went on all the wild pigs in the immediate neighbourhood of Kilindi 
were killed or driven away, and the cultivators had peace; but one day it 
was reported that there was a number of peculiarly large and fierce ones in 
a wood two or three days' journey distant. Mbega at once prepared to set 
out, and the chief's son wished to go with him. Mbega was unwilling to take 
the risk, and his companions all tried to dissuade the young man, but he 
insisted, and they finally gave way, on condition of his getting his 
father's leave. The father consented, and he joined the party.

The pigs, when found, were indeed fierce: it is said they "roared like 
lions." The dogs, excited beyond their wont by a stimulant Mbega 
administered to them, were equally fierce, and when the hunters rushed in 
with their spears some of them were overthrown in the struggle and others 
compelled to take refuge in trees. A number of pigs were killed, but five 
men were hurt, and when the ground was cleared it was found that the chief's 
son was dead.

There could be no question of returning to Kilindi: Mbega knew he would be 
held responsible for the lad's death, and for once was quite at a loss. When 
the others said, "What shall we do? " he answered, "I have nothing to say; 
it is for you to decide." They said they must fly the country, and as he, 
being a stranger, did not know where to go they offered to guide him. So 
they set out together, fifteen men in all (the names of ten among them have 
been preserved by tradition), with eleven dogs-it would seem that three had 
perished in the late or some other encounter with the wild boars. Their 
wanderings, recorded in detail, ended in Zirai, on the borders of Usambara, 
where they settled for some time, and Mbega's fame spread throughout the 
country. The elders of Bumburi (in Usambara) sent and invited him to become 
their chief, "and he ruled over the whole country and was renowned for his 
skill in magic, and his kindness, and the comeliness of his face, and his 
knowledge of the law; and if any man was pressed for a debt Mbega would pay 
it for him." He married a young maiden of Bumburi, and no doubt looked 
forward to spending the rest of his life there. But he had reckoned without 
the men of Vuga.

Mbega called to be Chief of Vuga
Vuga, the most important community of Usambara, had for some time been at 
war with the hillmen of Pare. The headman, Turi, having heard reports of 
Mbega's great powers, especially as regards war-magic, first sent messengers 
to inquire into the truth of these reports, and then came himself in state 
to invite him to be their chief. He encamped with his party at Karange, a 
short distance from Bumburi, with beating of drums and blowing of warhorns. 
Mbega, hearing that they had arrived, prepared to go to meet them, and also 
to give some proof of his power. Having put on his robe of tanned bullock's 
hide and armed himself with sword, spear, and club, he sent off a runner, 
bidding him say, "Let our guest excuse me for a little, while I talk with 
the clouds, that the sun may be covered, since it is so hot that we cannot 
greet each other comfortably." For it was the season of the kaskazi, the 
north-east monsoon, when the sun is at its fiercest.

The Vuga men were astonished at receiving this message, but very soon they 
saw a mist rising, which spread till it became a great cloud and quite 
obscured the sun. Mbega had filled his magic gourd with water and shaken it 
up; then taken a fire-brand, beaten it on the ground till the glowing embers 
were scattered, and then quenched them with the water from the gourd. The 
rising steam formed the cloud, and the Vuga elders were duly impressed.

When, at last, they saw h m face to face they felt that all they had been 
told of him was true, so comely was his face and so noble his bearing. Turi 
explained why he had come, and after the usual steps had been taken for 
entertaining the guests Mbega agreed to accept the invitation on certain 
conditions. These chiefly concerned the building of his house and the 
fetching of the charms which he had left in charge of his Kilindi friends at 
their camp in the bush. These were to be taken to Vuga by a trusty messenger 
and hidden at a spot on the road outside the town, which he would have to 
pass.

Everything being agreed upon, Mbega went to inform his father-in-law, and 
ask his leave to take away his wife-an interesting point, as indicating that 
the tribal organization was matrilineal. It should also be noted that the 
father-in-law, while consenting for his own part, said that his wife must 
also be consulted. She, however, made no difficulty, "but I must certainly 
go and take leave of my daughter."

Mbega than bade farewell to the elders of Bumburi, insisting that he did not 
wish to lose touch with them and enjoining on them to send word to him at 
Vuga of any important matter. He wanted his wife's brother to accompany him, 
so that she might not feel cut off from all her relatives; also four of the 
old men.

The party set out, travelling by night and resting by day, when Mbega 
sacrificed a sheep and performed various 'secret rites,' which he explained 
to his brother-in-law. On the following morning they reached the place where 
the charms had been deposited, and the man who had hidden them produced them 
and handed them over to Mbega, who gave them to his wife to keep. They 
camped in this place for the day, and when night came on a lion made his 
appearance. The men scattered and fled; Mbega followed the lion up and 
killed him with one thrust of his spear. When his men came back he gave most 
careful directions about taking off and curing the skin, for reasons which 
will appear later. They then set out once more, and reached Vuga by easy 
stages early in the morning. The war-drum was beaten, and was answered by 
drums from the nearest hills, and those again by others from more distant 
ones, proclaiming to the whole countryside that the chief had come. And from 
every village, far and near, the people thronged to greet him. His house was 
built, thatched, and plastered according to his instructions, and when it 
was finished he had cattle killed and made a feast for the workers, both men 
and women. He then sent for the lion-skin, which meanwhile had been 
carefully prepared, and had it made into a bed for his wife, who was shortly 
expecting her first child.

Soon after she had taken her place on this couch Turi's wife was sent for, 
and, she having called the other skilled women to attend on the queen, 
before long the cry of rejoicing, usual on such occasions, was raised. All 
the people came, bringing gifts and greetings, and Mbega had a bullock 
killed, and sent in some meat for the nurses. His first question to them was 
whether the birth had taken place on the lion-skin; when informed that it 
had he asked whether the child was a boy or a girl. They told him that it 
was a boy, and he asked, "Have you given him his 'praise-name' yet?"[1] They 
answered that they had not done so, where-

[1. The term used is jina la mzaha, translated by Madan, in his Swahili 
dictionary, as "nickname," but the meaning is really the same as the Zulu 
isibongo, an honorific title. Its use caused some heart-burnings in a later 
generation, when two branches of the family quarrelled. Stanley, in 1871, 
had some trouble with a kind of brigand called Simba Mwene, who had a 
fortified stronghold on the road to Unyanyembe, but this man, I believe, was 
in no way connected with the Wakilindi, and had assumed the title with no 
right to it.]

upon he said that the boy's name was to be Simba, the Lion, and by this name 
he was to be greeted. Mbega's original name-the one first given him in his 
childhood-was Mwene, hence his son was to be greeted as Simba (son) of 
Mwene, which became a title handed down in the male line of the dynasty. But 
the name officially bestowed on the boy, at the usual time, was Buge.

As soon as the child was old enough his mother's kinsmen claimed him, and he 
was brought up by his uncles at Bumburi-another indication of mother-right 
in Usambara. Mbega afterwards married at least one other wife, and had 
several sons, but Buge's mother was the 'Great Wife,' and her son the heir. 
When he had arrived at manhood his kinsmen at Bumburi asked Mbega's 
permission to install him as their chief, which was readily granted. The lad 
ruled wisely, and bade fair to tread in his father's footsteps. His younger 
brothers, as they grew up, were also put in charge of districts, ruling as 
Mbega's deputies; this continued to be the custom with the Wakilindi chiefs, 
who also assigned districts to their daughters.

Mbega's Death and Burial
Now it came to pass that Mbega fell sick, but no one knew it except five old 
men who were in close attendance on him. His failing to appear in public 
created no surprise, for he had been in the habit, occasionally, of shutting 
himself up for ten days at a time and seeing no one, when it was given out 
that he was engaged in magic, as was, indeed, the case. His illness, which 
was not known even to his sons, lasted only three days, and the old men kept 
his death secret for some time. They sent messengers to Bumburi by night to 
tell Buge that his father was very ill and had sent for him, He set off at 
once, and, on arriving, was met by the news that Mbega was dead. The funeral 
was carried out secretly-no doubt in order to secure- the succession by 
having Buge on the spot before his father's death was known. First a black 
bull was killed and skinned and the grave lined with its hide; then a black 
cat was found and killed and a boy and a girl chosen who had to lie down in 
the grave, side by side, and stay there till the corpse was lowered into it. 
This, no doubt, was a symbolical act, representing what in former times 
would have been a human sacrifice. When the corpse was laid in the grave the 
two came out of it, and were thenceforth tabu to each other: they were 
forbidden to meet again as long as they lived. Then the cat was placed 
beside the dead man and the grave filled in.

All this was done without the knowledge of the people in the town. The 
elders agreed to install Buge as successor to his father, and his wife was 
sent for from Bumburi. She arrived in the early morning, and at break of day 
the drums were sounded, announcing the death of the chief, and Buge 
sacrificed two bullocks at his father's grave. Then he was solemnly 
proclaimed as chief, and his younger brother Kimweri took his place at 
Bumburi.

Mboza and Magembe
Buge's reign was a short one; when he died Shebuge, the son of his principal 
wife, was still under age. He had, by another wife, a son, Magembe, and a 
daughter, Mboza, somewhat older than her brother. She was a woman of 
considerable ability and great force of character, as is apparent from the 
fact that the elders consulted her about the succession. She advised them to 
appoint Kimweri, keeping her own counsel as to further developments, for she 
was determined that her own full brother, Magembe, should succeed him.

Kimweri died after a reign of eight years, and was buried with the same 
rites as his father and brother, Mboza hurrying on the funeral without 
waiting for her brothers. Shebuge and Magembe, unable to arrive in time, 
sent cattle for the sacrificial feast. Mboza summoned a council of the 
elders, and gave her vote in favour of electing Magembe to the 
chieftainship, to which they agreed. She then said that in her opinion the 
mourning had lasted long enough, and they should now end it with the usual 
feast, after which she would go home to Mwasha and-when the proper number of 
days had passed-send the herald (mlao) with orders for the warriors to go 
and fetch the chief (zumbe).

Now word was brought to Shebuge at Balangai that Magembe was about to be 
proclaimed chief of Vuga by his sister Mboza. He made no protest, but 
contented himself with saying that he certainly intended to claim his share 
of his father's treasure, and to call himself, henceforward, not Shebuge, 
but Kinyasi. This he explained to mean: "I walk alone; I have no fellow."

When six months had passed Mboza sent word that the kitara (as the Zulus 
would say, "the King's kraal") was to be made ready, and messengers sent to 
fetch Magembe from Mulungui, where he lived. When she heard the signal-drums 
announcing his arrival she would set out for Vuga with her people. So far 
all her plans had worked smoothly, as no one dared oppose her, "for she was 
a woman of a fierce spirit and feared throughout the country, because of her 
skill in magic." But now she met with a check: her messengers, on their way 
to Mulungui, were intercepted by Shebuge Kinvasi's maternal uncles, who 
induced them to delay while they themselves started for Balangal and 
conducted their nephew in triumph to Vuga. The messengers reached Mulungui, 
and set out on the return journey with Magembe, but always, without knowing 
it, a stage behind his rival. When, with the dawn, they reached Kihitu the 
royal drums crashed out in the town, and, marching on, they were further 
perplexed by hearing the shouts of Mbogo! Mbogo! ('Buffalo!'), with which 
the multitude were greeting the new chief. They were speedily enlightened by 
people coming from the town. Magembe, as soon as he knew that matters were 
finally settled, left Usambara in disgust, never to return; but this comes a 
little later in the story; for the moment the chronicler is more concerned 
with Mboza.

That princess left Mwasha as soon as the boom of the great drum was heard, 
and by midday had halted at the villages just outside Vuga, when she heard 
from some people returning from the town, who stopped to greet her, the name 
of the new chief. She at once sent for the elders and some of the principal 
men. "Let them come hither to the gate, that I may question them!" The men 
delivered their message to the Mlugu,[l] who asked: "Why so? Can she not 
enter the town and greet the chief?" Whereto the reply was brief and 
sufficient: "She does not want to do so."

So they all went out and found her standing in the road, staff in hand, her 
sword girt about her and her kerrie stung over her shoulder, and they 
greeted her, but she answered not a word. At last she spoke and said, "Who 
is the chief who has entered the town?"

And the Mlugu answered, "It is Shebuge Kinyasi of Balangai." Said Mboza: 
"Whose counsel was this? When I called you, together with all the men of 
your country, and said to you, men of Vuga, 'Let us now all of us choose the 
chief,' we chose Magembe. Who,then,has dared to change the decision behind 
my back?"

Mboza emigrates and founds another Kingdom
They explained what had happened, and, once it had been made clear to her 
that Shebuge had already entered the kigiri, [2] she knew the matter was 
past remedy, and shook the dust of Vuga from her feet, sending back to 
Shebuge's uncles a message which the bearers could not understand, but took 
to be a curse, and were filled with fear accordingly. Shebuge, however, paid 
no heed to it.

Mboza, with her husband, her three sons and two daughters, her servants, and 
her cattle, left at once for Mshihwi, the husband's home country. There she 
founded a new settlement, which she called Vuga, as a rival to her brother's 
town. The local inhabitants were very ready to welcome her, and to all who 
came to greet her she distributed cattle and goats and announced her 
intentions: "I set this my son Shebuge as chief in this my town, and he 
shall be

[1. A high official; the title is sometimes rendered 'Prince.'

2 Kigiri is, properly, the mausoleum of the chiefs, which is placed in a 
special hut within the royal kraal. When the new chief has been introduced 
into this, in the course of his installation, his appointment is confirmed 
beyond recall. When she heard that this had taken place Mboza knew that her 
case was hopeless.]

greeted as 'Lion Lord,' like as his uncle at Vuga." She thus founded a rival 
line, and when, in the course of years, she felt her end approaching she 
straitly charged all her children never to set foot in the original Vuga, or 
to be induced, on any pretext, to enter into friendly relations with their 
kinsmen there. To her eldest son she left all her charms, and imparted to 
him her secret knowledge, to be made use of in case of war-such as the magic 
for raising a mist and the charms for turning back the enemy from the town. 
Her last words to him were an injunction to keep up the feud for ever, "you 
and your brothers, your sons and your grandsons."

Shebuge's Wars and Death
Shebuge Kinyasi, for his part, was little disposed towards conciliation, and 
the two Vugas were soon at war, which continued till his attention was 
claimed in other directions. Unlike his grandfather, Mbega, who is not 
extolled as a warrior, but as a great hunter and a general benefactor to his 
people, Shebuge was ambitious to distinguish himself as a conqueror. He was 
successful for a time, making tributary, not only all the districts now 
included in Usambara, but the Wadigo and other tribes as far as the coast at 
Pangani, Tanga, and Vanga. The Wazigula, however, refused to submit to him, 
and in a fight with them he was cut off with a few followers and overpowered 
by numbers. "They let off arrows like drops of rain or waves in a storm. And 
Shebuge was hit by an arrow, and he died.".

Next morning, when the Wazigula came to pick up the weapons of the slain, 
they found a man sitting beside Shebuge's body. He drew his bow on the first 
man who approached him and shot him dead, and so with the next and the next, 
but at last the rest surrounded him and seized him, and asked, "Who art 
thou?" And he said, "I am Kivava, a man overcome with sorrow and 
compassion." They said, "Wherefore are thy compassion and thy sorrow. He 
answered, In your battle yesterday my chief was slain." They asked him, 
"What chief?"

He told them: "In yesterday's fight Shebuge died. My fellows fled, but, as 
for me, I had sworn a free man's oath: this Shebuge who is dead was my 
friend at home; I bade farewell to my comrades; but, as for me, I cannot 
leave Shebuge. If I were to go back to Vuga, how should I face Shebuge's 
children, and his wives? My life is finished to-day. I was called 'the 
Chief's Friend'-I can no longer bear that name. It is better that I too 
should die as Shebuge has died."

They declared that they did not want to kill him, and turned to leave, but 
he, to provoke them, shot an arrow after them and hit the Zigula chief's 
son. Then at last they seized him, and he said, "Slay me not elsewhere, only 
on this spot where Shebuge is lying." So they slew him and left him there. 
And when they reached their village they told to all men the tale of 
Shebuge's friend, who kept troth and loved him to the death.

The fugitives of Shebuge's host, who meanwhile had reached the Ruvu river, 
heard the news on the following day; they gathered together and returned to 
the battlefield, which was quite deserted by the enemy. They made a bier and 
took up Shebuge's body and laid him on it, and so brought him back to Vuga 
for burial. And his son Kimweri succeeded him.

From thenceforth it was fixed that the chiefs of Vuga should bear the names 
of Kimweri and Shebuge in alternate generations. This Kimweri is he who was 
mentioned at the beginning of the chapter and is usually known as "the 
Great." With him we have definitely passed into the light of history, as 
known to Europeans-and there we may leave the Wakilindi.

CHAPTER X: THE STORY OF LIONGO FUMO
BISHOP STEERE wrote, in 1869, that "the story of Liongo is the nearest 
approach to a bit of real history I was able to meet with. It is said that a 
sister or Liongo came to Zanzibar, and that her descendants are still living 
there."[1]

Since reading these words I have been informed that there is now at Mombasa 
a family of the Shaka clan and tribe claiming descent from Liongo Fumo. Even 
apart from this, there seems every reason to believe that he had a real 
existence, though some mythical elements have been incorporated into his 
legend.

Shaka, which gives its name to one of the thirteen tribes (miji, or, as they 
are more usually called, mataifa) of Mombasa, was a small principality at 
the mouth of the Ozi river, founded in very early times by colonists from 
Persia. The ruins of Shaka may still be seen not very far from the present 
town of Kipini, and another group of ruins, somewhat nearer it, goes by the 
name of Wangwana wa Mashah, "the noblemen of the Shahs." The rulers of 
Shaka, to whose family Liongo Fumo belonged, bore the Persian title of Shah.

Liongo Fumo, Poet and Bowman
Shaka was conquered by Sultan Omar of Pate, whose dates are variously given, 
but he seems to have been more or less contemporary with our Edward III, one 
authority even putting him as early as 1306. It is therefore safe to say 
that Liongo flourished during the twelfth century, if not earlier. It is 
true that one informant said to me, Liongo warred with the Portuguese," 
which would put him not earlier than the sixteenth century, but this is not 
supported by the general weight of authority.

Liongo's grave was pointed out to me at Kipini in 1912, also the site of the 
well outside the city gate which plays a

[1. Swahili Tales, p. vi.]

part in his story, and even the exact spot where he met his death. Most 
people, there and at Lamu, knew, at any rate, the song which is handed down 
as having been sung by him in prison, and almost anyone you met, Swahili or 
Pokomo, could tell you his story.

Many poems attributed to him circulate in manuscript among educated Swahili, 
and some are recited from memory even by the illiterate. It was two poor 
labourers, working on a cotton plantation, who showed me Liongo's grave They 
were evidently quite familiar with the story. One of the Poems was printed 
by Steere at the end of his Swahili Tales, with an English translation and a 
rendering into modern Swahili supplied by a native scholar at Zanzibar. As a 
rule, the language in which they are written is to a Swahili much as 
Chaucer's English is to us.

Liongo, as we have seen, was of the house of the Shaka Mashah, but, though 
the eldest son, could not succeed his father, his mother having been one of 
the inferior wives. He seems, however, to have been in every way more able 
than his brother, the lawful Shah Mringwari. His extraordinary stature and 
strength, his courage, his skill with the bow, and his poetical talents have 
been celebrated over and over again in song and story. The Pokomo fisherfolk 
tell how he conquered them and imposed on them the "tribute of heads"-that 
is to say, from every large village two boys and two girls, from every small 
village one of each. Also how he was "a tall man" (muntu muyeya) and very 
strong, and once, leaving Shaka in the morning, walked to Gana (at or near 
the present Chara)-about two days' journey each way-and returned the same 
day.

Liongo and his brother were not on good terms. By whose fault the quarrel 
began we are not told, but it is quite conceivable that the elder, kept by 
no fault of his own out of a position which he considered his due, and which 
he was more competent to fill than Mringwari, chafed under a sense of 
injustice, which embittered his already overbearing temper. It does not 
appear that, like Absalom, he stole the hearts of the people, for Mringwari 
had always been the more popular of the two, and Liongo's high-handed ways 
soon made him hated; yet he always had some to love him. Like Napoleon, he 
seems to have had a gift that way, which he exercised when he chose. Among 
the poems attributed to him is the tender Pani kiti:

Give me a chair that I may sit down
And soothe my Mananazi,
That I may soothe my wife,
Who takes away my grief and heaviness.[1] . . .

Anyhow, the enmity between the two went so far that Liongo attempted 
Mringwari's life.

The "Hadithi yar Liongo"
A poem of uncertain date (not supposed to be written by him, but telling his 
story) relates how certain Galla, coming to Pate to trade, heard of Liongo 
from the sultan, who dwelt so much on his prowess that their curiosity was 
aroused, and they expressed a wish to see him. So he sent a letter to Liongo 
at Shaka, desiring him to come. Liongo replied "with respect and courtesy" 
that he would come, and he set out on the following day, fully armed and 
carrying three trumpets .[2] The journey from Shaka to Pate was reckoned at 
four days, but Liongo arrived the day after he had started. At the city gate 
he blew such a blast that the trumpet was split, and the Galla asked, "What 
is it? Who has raised such a cry?" He answered, "It is Liongo who has come!"

Liongo sounded his second trumpet, and burst it; he then took the third, and 
the townsfolk all ran together, the Galla among them, to see what this 
portended. He then sent a messenger to say, "Our lord Liongo asks leave to 
enter." The gate was thrown open, and he was invited in, all the Galla being 
struck with astonishment and terror at the sight of him. "This is a lord of 
war," they said; "he can put a hundred armies to flight."

He sat down, at the same time laying on the ground the

[1. Steere's translation, in Swahili Tales, P. 473.

2. Panda, probably of ivory, like the great siwa of Lamu, still in 
existence.]

wallet which he had been carrying. After resting awhile he took out from it 
a mortar and pestle, a millstone, cooking pots of no common size, and the 
three stones used for supporting them over the fire.[1] The Galla stood by, 
gaping with amazement, and when at last they found speech they said to the 
sultan, "We want him for a prince, to marry one of our daughters, that a son 
of his may bring glory to our tribe." The sultan undertook to open the 
matter to Liongo, who agreed, on certain conditions (what these were we are 
not told), and the wedding was celebrated with great rejoicing at the Galla 
kraals. In due course a son was born, who, as he grew up, bade fair to 
resemble his father in strength and beauty.

It would seem as if Liongo had been living for some time at Pate (for he did 
not take up his abode permanently with the Galla)-no doubt as a result of 
the quarrel with his brother. But now some one-whether an emissary of 
Mringwari's or some of the Galla whom he had offended-stirred up trouble; 
"enmity arose against him," and, finding that the sultan had determined on 
his death, he left Pate for the mainland. There he took refuge with the 
forest-folk, the Wasanye and Wadahalo. These soon received a message from 
Pate, offering them a hundred reals (silver dollars) [2] if they would bring 
in Liongo's head. They were not proof against the temptation, and, unable to 
face him in fight, planned a treacherous scheme for his destruction. They 
approached him one day with a suggestion for a kikoa,[3] since a regular 
feast-in their roving forest life-"is not to be done." They were to dine off 
makoma (the fruit of the Hyphaene palm), each man taking his turn at 
climbing a tree and gathering for the party, the intention being to shoot 
Liongo when they had him at a disadvantage. However, when it came to his

[1. This poet describes Liongo as a giant, on the scale of Goliath of Gath. 
The Galla-who as a rule are tall men-"only reached to his knees." But most 
accounts speak of him merely as an ordinary human being of unusual stature 
and strength.

2 Of course a touch inserted by some comparatively recent writer or copyist.

3 Defined by Madan as " a meal eaten in common provided by each of those who 
join in it by turns." The one in the story was repeated as many times as 
there were people taking part.]

turn, having chosen the tallest palm, he defeated them by shooting down the 
nuts, one by one, where he stood. This, by the by, is the only instance 
recorded of his marksmanship, though his skill with the bow is one of his 
titles to fame.

Liongo escapes from Captivity
The Wasanye now gave up in despair, and sent word to the sultan that Liongo 
was not to be overcome either by force or guile. He, unwilling to trust them 
any further, left them and went to Shaka,[l] where he met his mother and his 
son. His Galla wife seems to have remained with her people, and we hear 
nothing from this authority of any other wives he may have had. Here, at 
last, he was captured by his brother's men, seized while asleep-one account 
says: "first having been given wine to drink": it was probably drugged. He 
was then secured in the prison in the usual way, his feet chained together 
with a post between them, and fetters on his hands. He was guarded day and 
night by warriors. There was much debating as to what should be done with 
him. There was a general desire to get rid of him, but some of Mringwari's 
councillors were of opinion that he was too dangerous to be dealt with 
directly: it would be better to give him the command of the army and let him 
perish, like Uriah, in the forefront of the battle. Mringwari thought this 
would be too great a risk, and there could be none in killing him, fettered 
as he was.

Meanwhile Liongo's mother sent her slave-girl Saada every day to the prison 
with food for her son, which the guards invariably seized, only tossing him 
the scraps.

Mringwari, when at last he had come to a decision, sent a slave-lad to the 
captive, to tell him that he must die in three days' time, but if he had a 
last wish it should be granted, "that you may take your leave of the world." 
Liongo sent word that he wished to have a gungu dance performed where he 
could see and hear it, and this was granted.

[1. Pate, in the poem I have been quoting from, but this is inconsistent 
with the further development of the narrative.]

He then fell to composing a song, which is known and sung to this day:

O thou handmaid Saada, list my words to-day!
Haste thee to my mother, tell her what I say.
Bid her bake for me a cake of chaff and bran, I pray,
And hide therein an iron file to cut my bonds away,
File to free my fettered feet, swiftly as I may;
Forth I'll glide like serpent's child, silently to slay.

When Saada came again he sang this over to her several times, till she knew 
it by heart-the guards either did not understand the words or were too much 
occupied with the dinner of which they had robbed him to pay any attention 
to his music. Saada went home and repeated the song to her mistress, who 
lost no time, but went out at once and bought some files. Next morning she 
prepared a better meal than usual, and also baked such a loaf as her son 
asked for, into which she inserted the files, wrapped in a rag.

When Saada arrived at the prison the guards took the food as usual, and, 
after a glance at the bran loaf, threw it contemptuously to Liongo, who 
appeared to take it with a look of sullen resignation to his fate.

When the dance was arranged he called the chief performers together and 
taught them a new song-perhaps one of the "Gungu Dance Songs" which have 
been handed down under his name. There was an unusually full orchestra: 
horns, trumpets, cymbals (matoazi), gongs (tasa), and the complete set of 
drums, while Liongo himself led the singing. When the band was playing its 
loudest he began filing at his fetters, the sound being quite inaudible amid 
the din; when the performers paused he stopped filing and lifted up his 
voice again. So he gradually cut through his foot-shackles and his 
handcuffs, and, rising up in his might, like Samson, burst the door, seized 
two of the guards, knocked their heads together, and threw them down dead. 
The musicians dropped their instruments and fled, the crowd scattered like a 
flock of sheep, and Liongo took to the woods, after going outside the town 
to take leave of his mother, none daring to stay him.

Liongo undone by Treachery at last
Here he led an outlaw's life, raiding towns and plundering travellers, and 
Mringwari was at his wits' end to compass his destruction. At last Liongo's 
son-or, as some say, his sister's son[1]-was gained over and induced to 
ferret out the secret of Liongo's charmed life, since it had been discovered 
by this time that neither spear nor arrow could wound him. The lad sought 
out his father, and greeted him with a great show of affection; but Liongo 
was not deceived. He made no difficulty, however, about revealing the 
secret-perhaps he felt that his time had come and that it was useless to 
fight against destiny. When his son said to him) after some hesitation, "My 
father, it is the desire of my heart-since I fear danger for you-that I 
might know for certain what it is that can kill you," Liongo replied, "I 
think, since you ask me this, that you are seeking to kill me." The son, of 
course, protested: "I swear by the Bountiful One I am not one to do this 
thing! Father, if you die, to whom shall I go? I shall be utterly 
destitute."

Liongo answered, My son, I know how you have been instructed and how you 
will be deceived in your turn. Those who are making use of you now will 
laugh you to scorn, and you will bitterly regret your doings! Yet, though it 
be so, I will tell you! That which can slay me is a copper nail driven into 
the navel. From any other weapon than this I can take no hurt." The son 
waited two days, and on the third made an excuse to hasten back to Pate,[2] 
saying that he was anxious about his mother's health. Mringwari, on 
receiving the information, at once sent for a craftsman and ordered him to 
make a copper spike of the kind required. The youth was feasted and made 
much of

[1. His nearest relation and rightful heir, in Bantu usage; but this would 
not be the case in Moslem law, whether Arab or Persian, and most accounts 
call the traitor his son. This was the promising son of the Galla wife. We 
bear of no other children; yet there must have been more if it is true that 
there are direct descendants of his now living.

2 Liongo seems to have been living unmolested for some time at Shaka, where 
he may have rallied some followers to his cause, while Mringwari, 
apparently, had retreated to Pate.]

for the space of ten days, and then dispatched on his errand, with the 
promise that a marriage should be arranged for him when he returned 
successful. On arriving at Shaka he was kindly welcomed by his father (who 
perhaps thought that, after all, he had been wrong in his suspicions), and 
remained with him for a month without carrying out his design either from 
lack of opportunity or, as one would fain hope, visited by some compunction. 
As time went on Mringwari grew impatient and wrote, reproaching him in 
covert terms for the delay. "We,. here, have everything ready"-i.e., for the 
promised wedding festivities, which were to be of the utmost magnificence. 
It chanced that on the day when this letter arrived Liongo, wearied out with 
hunting, slept more soundly than usual during the midday heat. The son, 
seizing his opportunity, screwed his courage to the sticking-place, crept 
up, and stabbed him in the one vulnerable spot.

Liongo started up in the death-pang and, seizing his bow and arrows, walked 
out of the house and out of the town. When he had reached a spot half-way 
between the city gate and the well at which the folk were wont to draw water 
his strength failed him: he sank on one knee, fitted an arrow to the string, 
drew it to the head, and so died, with his face towards the well.

The townsfolk could see him kneeling there, and did not know that he was 
dead. Then for three days neither man nor woman durst venture near the well. 
They used the water stored for ablutions in the tank outside the mosque; 
when that was exhausted there was great distress in the town. The elders of 
the people went to Liongo's mother and asked her to intercede with her son. 
"If she goes to him he will be sorry for her." She consented, and went out, 
accompanied by the principal men, chanting verses (perhaps some of his own 
poems) "with the purpose of soothing him." Gazing at him from a distance, 
she addressed him with piteous entreaties, but when they came nearer and saw 
that he was dead she would not believe it. "He cannot be killed; he is 
angry, and therefore he does not speak; he is brooding over his wrongs in 
his own mind and refuses to hear me!" So she wailed; but when he fell over 
they knew that he was dead indeed.

They came near and looked at the body, and drew out the copper needle which 
had killed him, and carried him into the town, and waked and buried him. And 
there he lies to this day, near Kipini by the sea.

The Traitor's Doom
The news reached Pate, and Mringwari, privately rejoicing at the removal of 
his enemy, sent for Mani Liongo, the son (who meanwhile had been sumptuously 
entertained in the palace), and told him what had happened, professing to be 
much surprised when he showed no signs of sorrow. When the son replied that, 
on the contrary, he was very glad Mringwari turned on him. "You are an 
utterly faithless one! Depart out of my house and from the town; take off 
the clothes I have given you and wear your own, you enemy of God!" Driven 
from Pate, he betook himself to his Galla kinsmen, but there he was received 
coldly, and even his mother cast him off. So, overcome with remorse and 
grief, he fell into a wasting sickness and died unlamented.

The Pokomo tradition has it that Liongo's enemies, having made use of the 
son for their own purposes, slew him, for they said, "If you kill a snake 
you must cut off its head. If you do not cut off its head it will bite 
again. Therefore it is better to kill this son also!" Hamisi wa Kayi, who 
told the story to Bishop Steere at Zanzibar, said, "And they seized that 
young man and killed him, and did not give him the kingdom." In any case he 
reaped the due reward of his treason.

The mourning for Liongo, in which the townsfolk of Shaka joined with his 
mother, shows that she was not alone in the more favourable view of him. 
"Liongo was our sword and spear and shield; there is none to defend us now 
he is gone!"

The grave, as I saw it in 1912, was a slight elevation in the ground, which 
might once have been a barrow. It was roughly marked at the head and foot 
with rows of white stones, evidently remnants of a complete rectangle. The 
native overseer in charge of the plantation in which it was situated told me 
that he and the European superintendent had measured the grave some time 
before, and found its length from east to west to be "fourteen paces"-some 
twelve or fourteen yards, suggesting that Liongo might, indeed, have been a 
giant whose knees were level with the head of a tall Galla. He and others 
said that the grave had formerly been marked with an inscribed stone "seven 
hundred years old"-but some European had dug it up and taken it away. As far 
as I know it has never been traced. So much for Liongo. With all his faults 
he had

The genius to be loved, so let him have
The justice to be honoured in his grave.

The idea of the charmed life, protected against every weapon but one, or 
vulnerable in one point only is familiar from European mythology (Balder, 
Siegfried, Achilles), but it is still a matter of living belief in Africa. 
Chikumbu, a Yao chief living on Mlanje in 1893, could, I was assured, be 
killed by one thing only-a splinter of bamboo; he had 'medicines' against 
everything else. A generation or two earlier Chibisa, a chief of the 
Mang'anja, was proof against everything but a 'sand-bullet,' which killed 
him as he stood on an ant-hill shouting his war-song.

Since writing this chapter I have found a curious parallel in a Rumanian 
ballad which is quoted in Panait Istrati's Les Haidoucs. The brigand 
Gheorghitza, who could be killed in one way only, was shot with a silver 
bullet, by a close friend turned traitor, "in the seat of the soul " (un peu 
au-dessus du nombril, où cela fait mal aux vaillants). He seized his gun, 
leaned against a rock, and took aim at his false friend, but death came upon 
him as he knelt. For three days none durst come near him; then one Beshg 
Elias went up to the body, cut off the head, and carried it, to Bucharest. 
And all who met him wept when they saw the head of Gheorghitza, "so 
beautiful was he!"

CHAPTER XI: THE TRICKSTERS HLAKANYANA AND HUVEANE
WE find two curious figures in the mythology of the South-eastern Bantu. 
Huveane belongs to the Bapedi[1] and Bavenda, in the Eastern Transvaal. We 
have met with him before, as the First Man (though, incongruously enough, we 
also hear about his father) and, in some sense, the creator; but, as was 
stated at the time, he also appears in a very different character. 
Hlakanyana plays a conspicuous part in Zulu folklore; he no longer belongs 
to mythology proper, being more on the level of Jack the Giant-killer and 
Tom Thumb in our own fairytales. But there seems to be some uncertainty 
about his real nature. One of his names is Ucakijana, which means the Little 
Weasel, and though the people who told his story to Bishop Callaway 
explained this by saying he was like a weasel for his small size and his 
cunning, it may well be that he had actually been an animal to begin with. 
Some of his adventures are exactly the same as those which by other Bantu 
tribes are ascribed to the hare, the really epic figure in their folklore, 
and the authentic ancestor of Uncle Remus's Brer Rabbit. It is quite 
possible, though I do not know of any direct evidence for this, that he was 
originally a totem animal, and, as such, a mysterious power, like the 
Algonkin hare, in North America, who made the world.

As for Huveane, his name is a diminutive of Huve (or Hove)-a name given in 
some accounts to his father. Some of the Bushman tribes have a divinity Huwe 
(or Uwe) who created and preserves all wild things, and to whom they pray to 
give them food. In Angola Huwe (represented, of course, by a masked man) is 
said to appear to the young Bushmen when they are being initiated into 
manhood.

It might be thought that the Bantu had borrowed the idea of Huve, if not of 
Huveane, from the Bushmen; but Miss Bleek, who knows more about the Bushmen 
than anyone

[1. A branch of the great Suto-Chuana group of tribes, between Pretoria and 
Pietersburg. They are perhaps better known as Sekukuni's people.]

else, is of opinion, for several reasons, that the reverse is more likely to 
be true.

The name of Huveane's father varies a good deal; some call him Hodi, others, 
again, Rivimbi or Levivi. The Thonga[1] clans in the Spelonken district of 
the Transvaal have heard of him in a very confused and fragmentary way, 
probably from the Bavenda, but it is the latter, along with the Bapedi, who 
really know the legend.

Huveane produces a Child
Of this legend there are various versions, none apparently complete, but 
they can be used to supplement each other. One, obtained from the Masemola 
section of the Bapedi, [2] begins in a way which recalls the story of 
Murile. Only whereas Murile cherished a Colocasia tuber, which magically 
developed into an infant, Huveane is quite baldly stated to have "had a 
baby." The narrator seems to see nothing improbable in this (though 
Huveane's parents and their neighbours did), and no explanation is given of 
this extraordinary proceeding; but the Basuto have a story resembling this 
in which the result is produced by the boy having swallowed some medicine 
intended for his mother. Another version has it that Huveane modelled a baby 
in clay and breathed life into it. This may possibly have some vague 
connexion with the idea of his having originated the human race; it may, on 
the other hand, be due to some echo of missionary teaching.

The creation idea had, no doubt, fallen more or less into the background by 
the time the story had taken shape as above; but in any case one must not be 
troubled by such incongruities as the existence of Huveane's parents. The 
impossibility of such a situation would never occur to the primitive mind.

Huveane kept his child in a hollow tree, and stole out

[1. The tribe of which the Delagoa Bay Baronga are a branch. They extend 
from St Lucia Bay, in the south, to the Sabi river, in the north. Some clans 
of the Bila section of the tribe, now known as Magwamba, are isolated in the 
Eastern Transvaal.

2. Hoffmann, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen, Vol vi, P. 238.]

early every morning to feed it with milk before it was time for him to begin 
herding the sheep and goats. His parents noticed that he used to take the 
milk, and could not make out what he did with it; so one day his father 
followed him stealthily, saw him feeding the child, hid till Huveane had 
gone away, and carried the baby to his wife. They then placed it among the 
firewood and other things stacked up under the eaves of the hut. When 
Huveane brought the flock home he went straight to his tree and found no 
baby there. He went into the courtyard, sat down by the fire, where his 
parents were seated, and did not speak, only looking miserable. His mother 
asked him what was the matter, and he said the smoke was hurting his eyes. 
"Then you had better go out and sit somewhere else." He did so, but remained 
gloomy. At last his mother told him to go and fetch a piece of wood from the 
pile, which he did, and found the baby wrapped in a sheepskin and quite 
safe. His parents, relieved to find that he had recovered his spirits, let 
him have his way, and he went on caring for the child, whom he called 
Sememerwane sa Matedi a Telele, "One who causes much trouble."

Huveane plays Tricks with the Stock
His parents continued, however, to be uneasy; they could not understand how 
the child had been produced, and the neighbours, when the story leaked out, 
began to talk of witchcraft. Huveane did not trouble himself, but went on 
herding his father's stock and devising practical jokes to play upon him. 
When a ewe or goat had twins, which not infrequently happened, he took one 
of the lambs or kids and shut it up in a hollow ant-heap. In this way he 
gradually collected a whole flock. Some one, who had noticed that the ewes, 
when driven out in the morning, always collected round the ant-heaps, told 
Huveane's father, and the latter followed his son to the pasture, heard the 
bleating of the lambs and kids inside the ant-heaps, took away the stones 
which blocked the entrance, and seized the lambs to take them to their 
mothers. But as he did not know to which mother each belonged the result was 
confusion worse confounded. Huveane, exasperated beyond endurance, struck 
his father with the switch he had in his hand. No doubt this helped to bring 
matters to a crisis, but for the moment the old man was too much impressed 
with the sudden increase of the flock to be very angry. In the evening, when 
the villagers saw the full number being driven home, they were filled with 
envy, and asked him where he had got all those animals. He told the whole 
story, which gave rise to endless discussions.

Plans for Huveane's Destruction
It was certain that Huveane could be up to no good; he must have produced 
those sheep and goats by magic-and how came he to have a child and no mother 
for it? He certainly ought to be got rid of. They put it to his father that 
the boy would end by bewitching the whole village. They handed him some 
poison, and in the evening, when Huveane was squatting by the fire, his 
mother brought him a bowl of milk. He took it, but, instead of drinking, 
poured it out on the ground. The neighbours took counsel, and suggested to 
the father that he should dig a pit close to the fireplace, where Huveane 
was in the habit of sitting, and cover it over. But Huveane, instead of 
sitting down in his usual place, forced himself in between his brothers, who 
were seated by the fire, and in the struggle for a place one of them fell 
into the pit. Next they dug another pit in the gateway of his father's 
enclosure, where he would have to pass when he came home with the flocks in 
the evening. He jumped over the pitfall, and all his sheep and goats did 
likewise.

This having failed, some one suggested that a man with a spear should be 
tied up in a bundle of grass, a device adopted, as we have seen, by 
Kachirambe's mother. This was done, and Huveane's father sent him to fetch 
the bundle. He took his spear with him-to his father's surprise-and, when 
near enough, threw it with unerring aim. The man inside jumped up and ran 
away. Huveane returned to his father, saying, "Father, I went to do as you 
told me, but the grass has run away."

Huveane's Practical Jokes
The villagers were driven to the conclusion that it was quite impossible to 
compass Huveane's destruction by any stratagem, however cunning, and they 
were fain to let him be. He knew- that he was a match for them, and 
thenceforth set himself to fool them by pretended stupidity. Whatever tricks 
he played on them he knew that he was safe.

One day he found a dead zebra, and sat down on it while watching his flock. 
In the evening, when he returned and was asked where he had been herding 
that day, he said, "By the striped hill." Three or four days running he gave 
the same answer, and, his relatives' curiosity being roused, some of them 
followed him and found the zebra-by this time badly decomposed. They told 
him, "Why, this is game; if you find an animal like this you should heap 
branches over it, to keep the hyenas away, and come and call the people from 
the village to fetch the meat." Next day Huveane found a very small bird 
lying dead; he heaped branches over it and ran home with the news. Half the 
village turned out, carrying large baskets; their feelings on beholding the 
'game' may be imagined. One of the men informed him that this kind of game 
should be hung round one's neck; he did this next day, and was set down as a 
hopeless idiot. Several other tricks of the same kind are told of him; at 
last, one day, his father, thinking he should no longer be left to himself, 
went herding with him. When the sun was high he became very thirsty; Huveane 
showed him a high rock, on the top of which was a pool of water, and knocked 
in a number of pegs, so that he could climb up. They both went up and drank; 
then Huveane came down, took away the pegs, one by one, and ran home, where 
his mother had prepared the evening meal. Huveane ate all that was ready; 
then he took the empty pots, filled them with cow dung, and ran off to drive 
in the pegs and let his father come down. The old man came home and sat down 
to the supper, which, as his graceless son now informed him had been 
magically changed, so as to be entirely uneatable. After this the parents 
and neighbours alike seem to have felt that there was nothing to be done 
with Huveane, except to put up with him as best they could. We hear nothing 
more about the child in the hollow tree.

It almost seems as if the trick played by Huveane on his father were a kind 
of inverted echo of one tradition about the High God, whom some call 
Huveane. "His abode is in the sky. He created the sky and the earth. He came 
down from the sky to make the earth and men. When he had finished he 
returned to the sky. They say he climbed up by pegs,[1] and after he had 
gone up one step he took away the peg below him, and so on, till he had 
drawn them all out and disappeared into the sky." [2]

Some say that all the incidents detailed above belong, not to Huveane (whom 
the narrators call the Great God, Modimo o Moholo), but to his son Hutswane, 
who, it is believed, will one day come again, bringing happiness and 
prosperity to mankind-a somewhat unexpected conclusion after all that we 
have heard about him.

Hlakanyana's Precocious Development and Mischievous Pranks
"Uhlakanyana is a very cunning man; he is also very small, of the size of a 
weasel"-icakide; hence his other name. He is "like the weasel; it is as 
though he really was of that genus; he resembles it in all respects." As 
already stated, it is probable that he really was a weasel, though the fact 
had been so far forgotten by the time the story was written down as we have 
it that the narrators thought the name needed explanation. Why the weasel 
was chosen does not seem clear: his exploits are credited by most of the 
Bantu to the hare, by a few to the jackal.[3]

Hlakanyana was a chief's son. Like Ryang'ombe, he spoke before he was born; 
in fact, he repeatedly declared

[1. No doubt driven into the solid vault of the sky, where it was believed 
to join the earth at the horizon.

2 Hoffmann, in Zeitschrifif für Eingeborenensprachen, vol. xix, p. 270

3 Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 3]

his impatience to enter the world. No sooner had he made his appearance than 
he walked out to the cattle-kraal, where his father had just slaughtered 
some oxen, and the men were sitting round, ready for a feast of meat. Scared 
by this portent-for they had been waiting for the birth to be announced-they 
all ran away, and Hlakanyana sat down by the fire and began to eat a strip 
of meat which was roasting there. They came back, and asked the mother 
whether this was really the expected baby. She answered, "It is he"; 
whereupon they said, "Oh, we thank you, our queen. You have brought forth 
for us a child who is wise as soon as he is born. We never saw a child like 
this child. This child is fit to be the great one among all the king's 
children, for he has made us wonder by his wisdom." [1]

But Hlakanyana, thinking that his father did not take this view, but looked 
upon him as a mere infant, asked him to take a leg of beef and throw it 
downhill, over the kraal fence (the gateway being on the upper side). All 
the boys and men present were to race for it) and "he shall be the man who 
gets the leg." They all rushed to the higher opening, but Hlakanyana wormed 
his way between the stakes at the lower end of the kraal, picked up the leg, 
and carried it in triumph to meet the others, who were coming round from the 
farther side. He handed it over to his mother, and then returned to the 
kraal, where his father was distributing the rest of the meat. He offered to 
carry each man's share to his hut for him, which he did, smeared some blood 
on the mat (on which meat is laid to be cut up), and then carried the joint 
to his mother. He did this to each one in turn, so that by the evening no 
house had any meat except that of the chief's wife, which was overstocked. 
No wonder that the women cried out, "What is this that has been born to-day? 
He is a prodigy, a real prodigy!" His next feat was to take out all the 
birds which had been caught in the traps set by the boys, and bring them 
home, telling his mother to cook them and cover the pots, fastening down the 
lids. He then went off to sleep in the boys' house (ilau),

[1. Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 8.]

which he would not ordinarily have entered for several years to come, and 
overbore their objections, saying, " Since you say this I shall sleep here, 
just to show you!" He rose early in the morning, went to his mother's house, 
got in without waking her, opened the pots, and ate all the birds, leaving 
only the heads, which he put back, after filling the lower half of the pots 
with cow dung, and fastened down the lids. Then he went away for a time, and 
came back to play Huveane's trick on his mother. He pretended to have come 
in for the first time, and told her that the sun had risen, and that she had 
slept too long-for if the birds were not taken out of the pot before the sun 
was up they would turn into dung. So he washed himself and sat down to his 
breakfast, and when he opened the pots it was even as he had said, and his 
mother believed him. He finished up the heads, saying that, as she had 
spoilt his food, she should not have even these, and then announced that he 
did not consider himself her child at all, and that his father was "a mere 
man, one of the people and nothing more." He would not stay with them, but 
would go on his travels. So he picked up his stick and walked out, still 
grumbling about the loss of his birds.

He goes on his Travels
When he had gone some distance and was beginning to get hungry he came upon 
some traps with birds in them and, beginning to take them out, found himself 
stuck fast. The owner of the traps was a 'cannibal'-or, rather, an ogre who, 
finding that birds had more than once disappeared from his traps, had put 
sticks smeared with birdlime in front of them. Now he came along to look at 
them, and found Hlakanyana, who, quite undisturbed, addressed him thus: 
"Don't beat me, and I will tell you. Take me out and cleanse me from the 
birdlime and take me home with you. Have you a mother?" The ogre said he 
had. Hlakanyana, evidently assuming that he was to be eaten, said that he 
were beaten and killed at once his flesh would be ruined for the pot. "I 
shall not be nice; I shall be bitter. Cleanse me and take me home with you, 
that you may put me in your house, that I may be cooked by your mother. And 
do you go away and just leave me at your home. I cannot be cooked if you are 
there; I shall be bad; I cannot be nice." The hare, in some stories, uses 
the same stratagem to escape being eaten.

The ogre, a credulous person, like most of his kind, did as he was asked, 
and handed Hlakanyana over to his mother, to be cooked next morning.

When the ogre and his younger brother were safely out of the way Hlakanyana 
proposed to the old woman that they should "play at boiling each other." He 
got her to put on a large pot of water, made up the fire under it, and when 
it was beginning to get warm he said, "Let us begin with me." She put him in 
and covered the pot. Presently he asked to be taken out, and then, saying 
that the fire was not hot enough, made it up to a blaze and began, very 
rudely, to unfasten the old woman's skin petticoat. When she objected he 
said: "What does it matter if I have unfastened your dress, I who am mere 
game, which is about to be eaten by your sons and you?" He thrust her in and 
put on the lid. No sooner had he done so than she shrieked that she was 
being scalded; but he told her that could not be, or she would not be able 
to cry out. He kept the lid on till the poor creature's cries ceased, and 
then put on her clothes and lay down in her sleeping-place. When the sons 
came home he told them to take their 'game' and eat; he had already eaten, 
and did not mean to get up. While they were eating he slipped out at the 
door, threw off the clothes, and ran away as fast as he could. When he had 
reached a safe distance he called out to them, "You are eating your mother, 
you cannibals!" They pursued him hot-foot; he came to a swollen river and 
changed himself into a piece of wood. They came up, saw his footprints on 
the ground, and, as he was nowhere in sight, concluded he had crossed the 
river and flung the piece of wood after him. Safe on the other bank, he 
resumed his own shape and jeered at the ogres, who gave up the pursuit and 
turned back.

He kills a Hare, gets a Whistle, and is robbed of it
Hlakanyana went on his way, and before very long he spied a hare. Being 
hungry, he tried to entice it within reach by offering to tell a tale, but 
the hare would not be beguiled. At last, however (this part of the story is 
not very clear, and the hare must have been a different creature from the 
usual Bantu hare!), he caught it, killed it, and roasted it, and, after 
eating the flesh, made one of the bones into a whistle. He went on, playing 
his whistle and singing:

"Ngahlangana no Nohloya
Saptlapekana
Ngagwanya
Wapehwa wada wavutwa."

["I met Hloya's mother,
And we cooked each other.
I did not burn;
She was done to a turn."]

In time he came to a large tree on the bank of a river, overhanging a deep 
pool. On a branch of the tree lay an iguana, I who greeted him, and 
Hlakanyana responded politely. The iguana said, "Lend me your whistle, so 
that I can hear if it will sound." Hlakanyana refused, but the iguana 
insisted, promising to give it back. Hlakanyana said, "Come away from the 
pool, then, and come out here on to the open ground; I am afraid near a 
pool. I say you might run into the pool with my whistle, for you are a 
person that lives in deep water." The iguana came down from his tree, and 
when Hlakanyana thought that he was at a safe distance from the river he 
handed him the whistle. The iguana tried the whistle, approved the sound, 
and wanted to take it away with him. Hlakanyana would not hear of this, and 
laid hold of the iguana as he was trying to make off, but received such a 
blow from the powerful tail that he had to let go, and the iguana dived into 
the river, carrying the whistle with him.

[1. This is the word used by Callaway (probably unaware that there are no 
iguanas on the African continent) to translate uxamu, which is really the 
monitor lizard (Monitor niloticus).]

In a Xosa version it is Hlakanyana who steals the whistle from the iguana.

One of the Ronga stories about the hare describes him as challenging a poor 
gazelle to the game of "cooking each other." Having killed her, he made her 
horns into a kind of trumpet, which he used to sound an alarm of war.

In fact, this trick, in one form or other, and attributed to different 
actors, is found throughout the Bantu area. Compare the case of Jack and the 
Cornish giant.

Hlakanyana again went on till he came to a place where a certain old man had 
hidden some bread.[1] He ran off with it, but not before the owner had seen 
him; the old man evidently knew him, for he called out, "Put down my bread, 
Hlakanyana." Hlakanyana only ran the faster, the old man after him, till, 
finding that the latter was gaining on him, he crawled into a snake's hole. 
The old man put in his hand and caught him by the leg. Hlakanyana cried, 
laughing, "He! He! you've caught hold of a root!" [2] So the old man let go, 
and, feeling about for the leg, caught a root, at which Hlakanyana. yelled, 
"Oh! Oh! you're killing me!" The old man kept pulling at the root till he 
was tired out and went away. Hlakanyana ate the bread in comfort, and then 
crawled out and went on his way once more.

He nurses the Leopard's Cubs
In the course of his wanderings he came upon a leopard's den, where he found 
four cubs and sat down beside them till the mother leopard came home, 
carrying a buck with which to feed her little ones. She was very angry when 
she saw Hlakanyana, and was about to attack him, but he disarmed her by his 
flattering tongue, and finally persuaded her to let him stay and take care 
of the cubs, while she went out to hunt. "I will take care of them, and I 
will build a beautiful house, that you may lie here at the foot of the

[1. Isinkwa. Though now used for' bread' in our sense (which was unknown to 
the Bantu before they came in contact with Europeans), this word really 
means steamed dumplings of maize or amabele (millet).

2. So Brer Tarrypin says to Brer Fox, "Tu'n loose dat stump-root an' ketch 
hold o' me!" This incident occurs over and over again in Bantu folklore.]

rock with your children." He also told her he could cook a somewhat 
unnecessary accomplishment, one would think, in this case; but it would seem 
that he had his reasons. The leopard having agreed, Hlakanyana brought the 
cubs, one by one, for her to suckle. She objected, wanting them all brought 
at once, but the little cunning fellow persisted and got his way. When they 
had all been fed she called on him to make good his promise and skin the 
buck and cook it, which he did. So they both ate, and all went to sleep. In 
the morning, when the leopard had gone to hunt, Hlakanyana set to work 
building the house. He made the usual round Zulu hut, but with a very small 
doorway; then, inside, he dug a burrow, leading to the back of the hut, with 
an opening a long way off. Then he took four assagais which he had carried 
with him on his travels, broke them off short to rather less than the width 
of the doorway, and hid them in a convenient place. Having finished, he ate 
one of the cubs. When the mother came home he brought them out as before, 
one by one, taking the third twice, so that she never missed any of them. He 
did the same the next day, and the next. On the fourth day he brought out 
the last cub four times., and at length it refused to drink. The mother was 
naturally surprised at this, but Hlakanyana said he thought it was not well. 
She said, "Take care of it, then," and when he had carried it into the house 
called him to prepare supper. When she had eaten Hlakanyana went into the 
house, and the leopard called out that she was coming in to look after the 
child. Hlakanyana said, "Come in, then," knowing that she would take some 
time squeezing herself through the narrow entrance, and at once made his 
escape through the burrow. Meanwhile she had got in, found only one cub, 
concluded that he must have eaten the rest, and followed him into the 
burrow. By this time Hlakanyana was out at the other end; he ran round to 
the front of the house, took his assagais from the hiding-place, and fixed 
them in the ground at the doorway, the points sloping inward. The leopard 
found she could not get very far in the burrow, so she came back into the 
hut, and, squeezing through the doorway to pursue Hlakanyana into the open, 
was pierced by the assagais and killed.

Makanyana and the Ogre
Hlakanyana now sat down and ate the cub; then he skinned the leopard, and 
gradually-for he remained on the spot for some time-ate most of the flesh, 
keeping, however, one leg, with which he set out once more on his travels, 
"for he was a man who did not stay long in one place." Soon after he met a 
hungry ogre, with whom he easily made. friends by giving him some meat, and 
they went on together. They came across two cows, which the izimu said 
belonged to him. Hlakanyana suggested that they should build a hut, so that 
they could slaughter the cows and eat them in peace and comfort. The ogre 
agreed; they killed the cows and started to build. As rain was threatening 
Hlakanyana said they had better get on with the thatching.

This is done by two people, one inside the hut and the other on the roof, 
passing the string with which the grass is tied backward and forward between 
them, pushing it through by means of a pointed stick. Hlakanyana went 
inside, while the ogre climbed on the roof. The latter had very long hair (a 
distinguishing feature of the amazimu), and Hlakanyana managed to knit it, 
lock by lock, into the thatch, so firmly that he would not be able to get 
off. He then sat down and ate the beef which was boiling on the fire. A 
hailstorm came on, Hlakanyana went into the house with his joint, and the 
ogre (who seems to have been a harmless creature enough) was left to perish. 
"He was struck with the hailstones, and died there on the house"-as anyone 
who has seen an African hailstorm can readily believe.

Having caused the death of another izimu in a way which need not be related 
here, as the same thing occurs (with more excuse) in a different story, 
Hlakanyana took up his abode for a time with yet another, who seems to have 
had no reason to complain of him. As usual, when no ill fortune befell him 
he became restless, and took the road once more, directing his steps towards 
the place on the river where the iguana had robbed him of his whistle. He 
found the iguana on his tree, called him down, killed him, and recovered the 
whistle. Then he went back to the ogre's hut, but the owner had gone away, 
and the hut was burned down. So he said, "I will now go back to my mother, 
for, behold, I am in trouble."

He goes Home
But his return was by no means in the spirit of the Prodigal Son, for he 
professed to have come back purely out of affection for her., saying, "Oh, 
now I have returned, my mother, for I remembered you!" and calmly omitting 
all mention of his exploits during his absence. She believed this, being 
only too ready to welcome him back, and he seems to have behaved himself for 
a time. Nothing is said of his father's attitude, or of that of the 
clansmen.

The next episode is a curious one: it is told all over Africa in connexion 
with different characters-the hare, the jackal, a man, an old woman, a girl, 
a boy. The attraction evidently lies in the repeated enumeration of objects, 
adding one every time, after the fashion of The House that Jack Built.

The day after his return home Hlakanyana went to a wedding, and as he came 
over a hill on the way back he found some umdiandiane-a kind of edible 
tuber, of which he was very fond. He dug it up and took it home to his 
mother, asking her to cook it for him, as he was now going to milk the cow. 
She did so, and, tasting one to see if it was done, liked it so much that 
she ate the whole. When he asked for it she said, " I have eaten it, my 
child," and he answered, "Give me my umdiandiane, for I dug it up on a very 
little knoll, as I was coming from a wedding." His mother gave him a milk-
pail by way of compensation, and he went off. Soon he came upon some boys 
herding sheep, who were milking the ewes into old, broken potsherds. He 
said, "Why are you milking into potsherds? You had better use my milk-pail, 
but you must give me a drink out of it." They used his milk-pail, but the 
last boy who had it broke it. Hlakanyana said, " Give me my milk-pail, my 
milk-pail my mother gave me, my mother having eaten my umdiandiane"-and so 
on, as before. The boys gave him an assagai, which he lent to some other 
boys, who were trying to cut slices of liver with splinters of sugar-cane. 
They broke his assagai, and gave him an axe instead. Then he met some old 
women gathering firewood, who had nothing to cut it with, so he offered them 
the use of his axe, which again got broken. They gave him a blanket, and he 
went on his way till nightfall, when he found two young men sleeping out on 
the hillside, with nothing to cover them. He said, "Ah, friends, do you 
sleep without covering? Have you no blanket?" They said, "No." He said, 
"Take this of mine," which they did, but it was rather small for two, and as 
each one kept dragging it from the other it soon got torn. Then he demanded 
it back. "Give me my blanket, my blanket which the women gave me," and so 
on. The young men gave him a shield. Then he came upon some men fighting 
with a leopard, who had no shields. He questioned them as he had done the 
other people, and lent one of them his shield. It must have been efficient 
as a protection, for they killed the leopard, but the hand-loop by which the 
man was holding it broke, and of course it was rendered useless. So 
Hlakanyana said:

Give me my shield, my shield the young men gave me,
The young men having torn my blanket,
My blanket the women gave me,
The women having broken my axe,
My axe the boys gave me,
The boys having broken my assagai,
My assagai the boys gave me,
The boys having broken my milk-pail,
My milk-pail my mother gave me,
My mother having eaten my umdiandiane,
My umdiandiane I dug up on a very little knoll,
As I was coming from a wedding."

They gave him a war-assagai (isinkemba).

Here the story as given by Bishop Callaway breaks off, the narrator saying, 
"What he did with that perhaps I may tell you on another occasion." But a 
Xosa version recorded by McCall Theal [1] which gives the series of 
exchanges rather differently, puts this episode before that of the ogre's 
traps (also quite different in detail) and that of the leopard's cubs, and 
follows it up with two more incidents. One (relating to the tree belonging 
to the chief of the animals, of which no one knows the name) is much better 
told elsewhere, as an adventure of the hare; the other recalls an exploit of 
the hare in providing food for the lion, which is told by the Pokomo on the 
Tana river, and by many other people besides. But in this case Hlakanyana 
made provision only for himself. He came to the house of a jackal and asked 
for food. Being told there was none, he said, "You must climb up on the 
house and cry out with a loud voice, 'We are going to be fat to-day, because 
Hlakanyana is dead I'" When the jackal did so all the animals came running 
to hear the news, and, finding the door open, went in. Hlakanyana, hidden 
inside, shut the door, killed them at his leisure, and ate. We hear no more 
about the jackal.

Then he returned home for the last time, and his story reaches its 
conclusion. He went out to herd his father's calves-no doubt seized by a 
sudden impulse to make himself useful-and found a tortoise, which he picked 
up and carried home on his back. His mother said, "What have you got there, 
my son?" And he answered, "just take it off my back, Mother." But that she 
could not do, however hard she tried, for the creature held fast. So she 
heated some fat and poured it on the tortoise, which let go only too 
quickly, "and the fat fell on Hlakanyana and burned him, and he died. That 
is the end of this cunning little fellow."

But I suspect that this is only a late version, and that the real Hlakanyana 
never came to an end in that sense, any more than Huveane. Has anyone ever 
heard the end of Jack the Giant-killer?

Though Hlakanyana is not, so far as one knows, associated with any such 
traditions, however dim, as those told of Huveane, it is by no means 
impossible that he may, in the far-off origins of myth, have played a 
similar part.

[1. Kaffir Folklore, p. 96.]

Huveane was really a benefactor, as well as a trickster, though in the 
popular tales the latter aspect has tended to predominate, and we may even 
discover traces of such a character in Hlakanyana, as when he supplies the 
herd-]ads with a milk-pail, the women with an axe, and so forth, though the 
emphasis is certainly laid on the way in which he invariably got back his 
own with interest.

This union of apparently incompatible characteristics does not seem to 
strike the primitive mind as impossible. Wundt, in his Völkerpsychologie,[l] 
points out that legendary heroes are of three kinds, the deliverer and 
benefactor, the malignant, hurtful demon, and the mischievous jester, who 
stands midway between the two. And in the imagination of very primitive 
people we not infrequently find "these qualities united in one and the same 
being. Thus Manabozho of the Algonkin is both demiurgus (creator) and 
deliverer, but at the same time he plays the part sometimes of a harmful 
demon, sometimes of a tricksy, humorous sprite," the hero of innumerable 
popular jests.

[1. Vol. V, Part II, P- 47]

CHAPTER XII: THE AMAZIMU
THE word izimu, in the Zulu tales, is usually, as by Callaway and Theal, 
translated 'cannibal.' But this word, with us, is ordinarily applied to 
people who, for one reason or another, are accustomed to eat human flesh. As 
Callaway pointed out long ago, however, "it is perfectly clear that the 
cannibals of the Zulu legends are not common men; they are magnified into 
giants and magicians." Perhaps it might also be said that the attributes of 
the legendary amazimu were transferred to the abhorred beings, who, driven 
to cannibalism by famine, kept up the habit when it was no longer needed 
and, as Ulutuli Dhladhla told the bishop, "rebelled against men, forsook 
them, and liked to eat them, and men drove them away . . . so they were 
regarded as a distinct nation, for men were game (izinyamazane) to them."[1] 
In fact, he distinctly says that "once they were men," and implies that they 
were so no longer.

Cannibals
The practice of cannibalism undoubtedly exists in Africa, though it is much 
less common than is sometimes supposed; and it is usually of a ceremonial 
character, which is a different matter from using human flesh as ordinary 
food. This last seems to be-or to have been-done by some tribes in West 
Africa-e.g., the Manyema-but one need not accept all the sensational 
statements that have been published on this subject. So far as there is any 
truth in these, the custom probably originated in famine times, as it did 
with the people referred to by Bishop Callaway's informant. Thus, it is 
said, in Natal, after a long drought, a certain chief of the Abambo, named 
Umdava, "told his people to scatter themselves over the veld and catch all 
the people they came upon in the paths to serve as food . . . and those 
people lived on human flesh till the time for the crops came round." [2] The 
dwellers on Umkambati (the Table Mountain

[1. Nursery Tales, p. 156.

2 Colenso, Zulu-English Dictionary, P. 705.]

near Pietermaritzburg) were more than once attacked by these cannibals.

The old chief Nomsimekwana, who died less than thirty years ago, had a 
narrow escape from them in his childhood. They seized his whole family and 
drove them along, making the boy carry on his head the pot in which, so they 
told him, he was to be cooked. Watching his opportunity, at a turn in the 
path hidden by the tall grass he slipped into the Umsunduzi river, and lay 
concealed under the bushes which overhung the bank-the spot was pointed out 
to me in 1895. Failing to find him, the enemy came to the conclusion that he 
had been killed by the hippopotami, who at that time abounded in the river, 
and passed on their way. Nomsimekwana's sister and the other captives were 
ultimately killed and eaten.

Those man-eaters who refused to give up the practice when the necessity for 
it had passed fled to the mountains, pursued by universal execration, and 
eked out a wretched existence in dens and caves, sallying forth, when 
occasion offered, to attack lonely travellers. Moshesh, paramount chief of 
the Basuto, spared no pains in putting an end to these horrors, though he 
refused to exterminate the criminals, as his councillors advised, provided 
they would turn from their evil ways. He gave them cattle, and encouraged 
them to till the soil, and when that generation had died out cannibalism was 
a thing of the past,

Ulutuli Dhladhla, whom we quoted in a previous paragraph, said that "the 
word amazimu, when interpreted, means to gormandize-to be gluttonous." But 
the word exists in so many Bantu languages, with (as far as one can 
discover) no such connotation, that I cannot help thinking him mistaken. 
Moreover, it has, distinctly, some relation to mzimu (of a different noun 
class), which means 'a spirit' -in the first instance an ancestral spirit. 
It is not used in Zulu, where the ancestral spirits are called amadhlozi, or 
amatongo, save in the phrase izinkomo ezomzimu, "cattle of the spirits"-
i.e., slaughtered as a sacrifice to them. Here umzimu seems to be "a 
collective name for amatongo."

Ogres
The Basuto use the word madimo (singular ledimo) for 'cannibals,' badimo for 
'spirits' or 'gods.' Zimwi is the Swahili word for a being best described as 
an ogre; the word occurs in old, genuine Bantu tales, and I have heard it 
used by a native; but most Swahili nowadays seem to prefer the Arabic loan-
words jini and shetani. A ghost is mzuka; but the stem -zimu survives in the 
expression kuzimu, "the place of spirits "-thought of as underground -and 
muzimu, a place where offerings are made to, spirits. The Wachaga and the 
Akikuyu have their irimu, the Akamba the eimu (the Kamba language is 
remarkable for dropping out consonants), and the Duala, on the other side of 
Africa, their edimo. Other peoples in West Africa, while having a notion of 
beings more or less similar, call them by other names. The makishi of the 
Ambundu in Angola play the same part in folk-tales as the amazimu-their name 
may perhaps be connected with the Kongo nkishi (nkisi in some dialects), 
which meant originally 'a spirit,' but now more usually 'a charm,' or the 
object commonly called a 'fetish.' The Aandonga (in the Ovambo country south 
of Angola), strangely enough, tell the usual ogre tales of the esisi 
'albino.' Albinos are found, occasionally, in all parts of Africa; they are 
not, as a rule, so far as one can learn, regarded with horror, though the 
Mayombe of the Lower Congo think that they are spirit children, and observe 
particular ceremonies on the birth of such a one.

The appearance of the izimu is variously described, but it seems to be 
agreed that he can assume the appearance of an ordinary human being, if it 
is not his usual guise. The Zulus and the Ambundu say they may be recognized 
by their long, unkempt hair-a noticeable point among people who either shave 
off their hair frequently for reasons of cleanliness, or build it up into 
elaborate structures, like the conical coiffures of Zulu wives or the head-
rings of their husbands.

The makishi are sometimes said to have many heads; in one story when the 
hero cuts off a dikishi's head he immediately grows a second; in another a 
dikishi carries off a woman and makes her his wife; when her child is born 
and found to have only one head the husband threatens to call it "our folk" 
to eat her if she ever has another like it. As the second baby appears with 
two heads the threat was not fulfilled. But, thinking it best to be on the 
safe side, the wife took the elder child and ran away, hid for the night in 
a deserted house, was surprised when asleep by a wandering dikishi, and 
eaten after all.

Other accounts of the amazimu are still more weirdly sensational. The irimu 
of the Wachaga is said to be a 'were-leopard'-that is, a man who is able at 
will to change himself into a leopard. But in one story this irimu, or 
leopard, is described as having ten tails; in another he presents himself in 
human shape at a homestead, as a suitor to the daughter, but is detected 
when she catches sight of a second mouth on the back of his head.[1] In the 
Ronga story of "Nabandji" [2] the people of the cannibal village whence the 
young man takes a wife all have this peculiar feature. It may not be out of 
place here to mention a Hausa (Nigeria) belief that a witch has mouths all 
over her back. It is not easy to see what can have suggested this notion.

The Chaga idea of the irimu seems to be a fairly comprehensive one. An 
unfortunate man, who broke a tabu, was turned into an irimu, with the result 
that thorn-bushes grew out of his body, and he wandered about the country, 
swallowing everything that came in his way. His brother, whom he had 
considerately warned to keep his distance, consulted a diviner and, by his 
advice, set the thorns on fire. When they were all burned away the irimu 
returned to his own proper shape.[3]

Sometimes the amazimu are said to have only one leg, or only half a body; 
one story of a Kikuyu irimu describes him as having one leg, but two heads, 
one of which was stone; one-half of his body was human, but the other half 
stone. The Basuto speak of a set of beings with one leg, one arm,

[1. Gutmann, Volksbuch, p. 75

2. Junod, Chants et contes, p. 246.

3. Gutmann, Volksbuch, p. 73.]

one ear, and one eye, but these are called matebele [1] (it is not quite 
clear why), not madimo. They carry off a chief's daughter, though it is not 
suggested that she is to be eaten. In the story of "The Mothemelle" [2] we 
hear of cannibals (madimo) "hopping on one leg." But these half-bodied 
beings, while appearing in folklore all over Africa, are, as a rule, quite 
distinct from the amazimu. They are not invariably malignant; often,. 
indeed, very much the reverse. They will be discussed later on.

The Little People
Chatelain thought that the makishi were the aboriginal inhabitants of the 
country, the 'Batua' (Batwa) Pygmies, "not as they are now, but as they 
appeared to the original Bantu settlers." But there is no evidence that the 
Pygmies or the Bushmen (whom the Zulus call Abatwa) were ever regarded as 
cannibals. Callaway's Zulu informants were very emphatic about "the 
dreadfulness of the Abatwa," who, if offended, as by a reference to their 
small stature, about which they were especially sensitive, would shoot you 
with a poisoned arrow as soon as look at you. But there is no reference to 
their eating human flesh.

There is a distinct body of tradition about these 'little people,' who are 
nowhere confused with the amazimu; they may be dangerous if irritated, as 
stated above, but are otherwise inoffensive, and even helpful, when 
approached in the right way. The Wachaga have tales about the Wakonyingo, 
supposed to live on the summit of Kilimanjaro (formerly believed 
inaccessible to human feet), which show them in quite an amiable light. Even 
the man who insulted them by taking them for children and asking when their 
parents were coming home met with no worse fate than waiting dinnerless till 
nightfall, and then going home as he

[1. This name is applied by the Basuto not only to the Zulus of Rhodesia 
(Amandebele), but to the Zulus and Xosa in general. Their relations with 
these people have so often been hostile that their name may have been given 
for this reason to the monsters in question.

2. Jacottet, Treasury of Ba-Suto Lore, p. 224.]

had come, whereas his more tactful brother was presented with a fine herd of 
cattle.

Dr Doke,[l] writing about the Lamba people, also distinguishes between ogres 
(wasisimunkulu or wasisimwe[2] and dwarfs (utuchekulu), whom he calls 
'gnomes.' These, however, differ from the other 'little people' in one 
important respect-they eat people. The gnome is renowned for the one long 
tooth, blood-red and sharp, with which it kills its victims. Moreover, the 
Lamba people recognize the existence of pygmies (utunyokamafumo), distinct 
from the gnomes. In the one story in which they figure they come much nearer 
the character of the wakonyingo. Yet in "The Choric Story [3] of the Lion" a 
gnome shows himself helpful in saving a man and his sister from an ogre.[4] 
And in another tale a gnome who has been robbed of his drums by the chief's 
orders sprinkles 'medicine' over the men carrying them off, whereupon they 
all fall down dead, and he recovers his property. But, having done so, he 
sprinkles them again, and they return to life. And the matter was arranged 
amicably in the end.

The Kamba Aimu
A different origin for the amazimu has been suggested by others-viz., that 
they are the ghosts of evil-disposed persons. This is expressly affirmed by 
the Akamba about some spirits called limu ya kitombo. They

haunt woods and waste places . . . they are evil spirits and are supposed to 
be the disembodied relics of people who have killed their neighbours by the 
help of black magic. . . . God has banished them to the woods, where they 
wander about without anyone to care for them by sacrificing to them. . . . A 
man who lived at Kitundu went out one night about midnight to look at a 
maize-field

[1. Lamba Folklore, pp. 385-386.

2 This word contains the same root (-simwe) as -zimu.

3 Dr Doke uses this expression to translate ulusimi, "a prose story 
interspersed with songs," in which the audience join. See also Steere, 
Swahili Tales, Preface, p. vii.

4 This belongs to the type of story labelled "Robber Bridegroom" in the 
Folk-Lore Society's classification.]

some distance away.... On his way back he met a spirit in the path; it was 
of enormous size, and had only one leg ... before he could move he was 
struck down by a flash of fire, and the spirit passed on its way.'

This may well have been the origin of the amazimu, but I fancy that in most 
cases it has been forgotten, and they are looked on as quite different from 
the ghosts, good or bad. Another point to notice is that the ghosts are 
still largely believed in and taken quite seriously, while the amazimu 
proper occur only in stories related for entertainment (and, possibly, 
instruction), but not accepted as fact. This fits in with Mr Hobley's 
account of the aimu, described by the Akamba as wicked ghosts, and actually 
seen (and even felt!) by people now living.

It will be noticed that the Akamba, like the Akikuyu, give the aimu, or some 
of them, only one leg. Dr Lindblom also mentions this characteristic. In 
addition he states that the eimu is "a figure appearing in different shapes, 
sometimes smaller than a dwarf, sometimes of superhuman size . . . though, 
on the other hand, he also often appears as a wholly human being . . . he is 
a gluttonous ogre, and kidnaps people in order to eat them up." This writer 
refers to several Kamba stories-unfortunately not yet published in one of 
which the eimu appears as a handsome young man and lures a girl to his home; 
in another a Kamba woman turns into an eimu and eats her own grandchild.[2]

The idea of the eimu seems here to be mixed up, in some cases, with that of 
the Swallowing Monster, in the peculiar form in which it occurs in 
Basutoland and in Ruanda:

A favourite ending to many tales about the eimu, or nearly related, more or 
less monstrous beings, is that the monster, now

[1. Hobley, Bantu Beliefs, pp. 89 and 91. It is curious that both this and 
other authorities give the plural of eimu as aimu, which is properly a 
plural of the person class, whereas the right form would be maimu, of the 
sixth noun class. Aimu is also the Kamba word for the ancestral spirits, but 
this plural is seldom, if ever, used for the ogres, while the singular of 
aimu, 'ghosts,' is equally rare, so that there is not likely to be any 
confusion between the two. Izimu and all cognate words in. Bantu belong to 
the li-ma class (5-6), while the words for the ancestral ghosts belong (with 
some exceptions, as aimu, above) to the mu-mi class (3-4).

2 Lindblom, Kamba Tales, pp. viii and ix.]

at length vanquished, tells his conqueror in his death-hour to cut off his 
little finger, and, this having been done, the people and cattle that he had 
devoured all come to life again.

Stories of Escape from Ogres
There are several stories which, in slightly differing shapes, are found 
probably in all parts of the Bantu area. Some of them are familiar to us 
from European analogues, though this does not necessarily mean that they 
have been imported. In one the ogre puts a girl into a bag and carries her 
about the country till she is rescued by her relations. Another tells how a 
party of girls or lads pass the night in an ogre's hut, and are rescued by 
the ready wit of the youngest. Then we have the girl forcibly married to an 
ogre who makes her escape in various ways. And, again, there is the theme, 
already referred to, of the "Robber Bridegroom," though he is more commonly 
a transformed animal (hyena, leopard, or lion) than an ogre properly so 
called. But, as the Chaga irimu, for instance, is also described as a 'were-
leopard,' it is not always easy to keep the two notions distinct.

Some stories of escape from ogres employ the familiar device of obstacles 
created by the fugitives throwing various things behind them, which become a 
rock, a fire, a forest of knives, and a lake or river. This particular 
incident may not be indigenous to Africa; it is not found in all the 
stories, and those which have it-e.g., "Kibaraka," referred to in our 
concluding chapter-contain other foreign elements. There is no reason to 
suppose that most of the other incidents are not of home growth.

Of the type first mentioned there is a well-known example in the story of 
"Tselane," which (first published by Arbousset in 1842) was introduced to 
English readers by Sir James G. Frazer, under the title of "A South African 
Red Riding-hood." [1] The resemblance to the European Red Riding-hood is not 
very close, and applies chiefly to the opening incident, which is not found 
in most of the versions.

[1. Folk-Lore Journal (1889), vol. vii, p. 167.]

Tselane, remaining behind in the hut from which her parents have migrated, 
is charged by her mother not to open the door to anyone but herself. The 
ogre, by imitating the mother's voice, gains admission and carries the girl 
off. The same opening is found in "Demane and Demazana" (where it is a 
brother, not the mother, whose voice is counterfeited), but in the Zulu 
"Usitungusobendhle" [1] and the Xosa "The Cannibal's Bird," [2] and in most, 
if not all, of the other stories, a party of girls go out to bathe, or to 
gather wild fruits, or for some other purpose, and one of them, either 
unwittingly, or even in wanton mischief, offends the ogre, who thereupon 
seizes her.

A curious point in the Sesuto, Xosa, and Zulu versions is that when the ogre 
has been (as they think) finally disposed of he is changed into a tree, 
which seems to have retained harmful powers, for when people tried to get 
honey out of the hollow trunk their hands stuck fast.[3] Something of the 
same notion appears in the Swahili tale I am about to relate. It is called " 
The Children and the Zimwi."

A Swahili Tale
Some little girls went out to look for shells on the seashore. One of them 
found a very beautiful shell and, fearing to lose it, laid it on a rock, so 
that she could pick it up on the way home. However, as they were returning 
she forgot it till they had passed the place, and then, suddenly remembering 
it, asked her companions to go back with her. They refused, and she went 
alone, singing to keep up her courage,[4] and found a zimwi sitting on the 
rock. He said, "What do you want?" and she sang her song over again. He 
said, "I can't hear you. Come closer!" And when she

[1. Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 74.

2. Theal, Kaffir Folklore, p. 25.

3. The same thing happens in a Ronga story to some women who had offended 
the ghosts by trespassing on their sacred grove.

4. The words of the song are a mixture of Yao and Swahili (indicating a 
probable origin for the story). The meaning is not very clear, except for 
the two lines: "I have forgotten my shell; I said, Let me go back and pick 
it up." Neither is it clear from the text as it stands whether she began to 
sing before or after she had seen the zimwi. If the latter, the song may 
have been intended to propitiate him, though it seems to have had the 
opposite effect.]

had done so he seized her and put her into a barrel (pipa)[1] which he was 
carrying.

He then set off on his travels, and when he came to a village made for the 
place of meeting [2] and announced that he was prepared to give a musical 
entertainment in return for a meal. "I have this drum of mine. I should like 
a fowl and rice." He beat the drum, and the imprisoned child sang in time to 
the rhythm, to the delight of every one. He was given plenty of food, but 
gave none to the girl. He went on and repeated his performance at the next 
village, which happened to be the girl's own home. The report of his music 
seems to have preceded him, for the people said, "We have heard, O zimwi, 
that you have a most beautiful drum; now, please, play to us!" He asked for 
pombe (native beer), and, being promised that he should have some, began to 
beat the drum, and the girl sang. Her parents at once recognized her voice, 
and when the performance was over supplied the drummer with all the liquid 
refreshment he required. He soon went to sleep, and they opened the drum, 
released their daughter, and hid her in the inner compartment of the hut. 
They then put into the drum a snake and a swarm of bees and some biting 
ants, and fastened it up again.

In the Sesuto and Xosa versions the parents, instead of making the ogre 
drunk, induce him to go to the stream for water, and give him a leaky pot in 
order to delay his return as long as possible. In one case they put in a dog 
as well as the venomous ants, in the other snakes and toads, the latter 
being supposed poisonous.

After a while they awakened him, saying, "Ogre, wake up! Some strangers have 
arrived, and they want to hear.

[1. Later on it is called a drum (ngoma), as it is in Dudley Kidd's story of 
"The Child in the Drum," in Savage Childhood, p. 233. In this the child is 
said to be a boy; but I cannot help thinking this is a mistake. Europeans 
seem to take for granted that a child is masculine unless otherwise 
specified.

2. Called by Duff Macdonald the 'Forum'; in Chinyania bwalo; in Swahili 
baraza. It is sometimes merely an open space under the village fig-tree, 
sometimes an erection like a bandstand, sometimes a more ambitious 
structure, with seats for the elders, who hold their discussions there. 
Strangers arriving at a village always make for this place.]

your music." So he lifted his drum and began to beat it, but the voice was 
silent. He went on beating, but no other sound was heard, and at last he 
took his leave, and was not pressed to stay.

When he had gone a certain distance and was no longer in sight of the 
village he stopped and opened his drum. Immediately the snake shot out and 
bit him, the bees stung him, and he died.

The Baleful Pumpkin
But that was not the end of him. On the spot where he died there sprang up a 
pumpkin-vine, which bore pumpkins of unusual size. One day some small boys 
passing by stopped to admire them, and, prompted by the destructive instinct 
which seems to be inherent in the very young of all climes, exclaimed, 
"jolly fine pumpkins, these! Let's get father's sword and have a slash at 
them!"

The largest of the pumpkins waxed wroth and chased the children-breaking off 
its stem and rolling over and over, one must suppose-and they took to their 
heels. In their headlong flight they came to a river, and saw the old 
ferryman sitting on the bank by his canoe.

"You, Daddy, ferry us over! Take us to the other side! We are running away 
from a pumpkin."

The old man, without waiting for explanations, took them across, and they 
ran on till they came to a village, and found all the men sitting in the 
baraza, to whom they appealed: "Hide us from that pumpkin! The zimwi has 
turned into a pumpkin. You will just have to take it and burn it with fire."

No doubt this version has lost some particulars in transmission; the whole 
neighbourhood must have known the story, and been aware that the pumpkin-
plant had grown out of the zimwi's remains; one may guess that the boys had, 
over and over again, been told not to go near it, and, boylike, were all the 
more attracted to the forbidden thing.

The men seem at once to have appreciated the danger; they hurried the boys 
off into a hut and told them to keep quiet behind the partition at the back. 
Presently the pumpkin arrived. It is not explained how it had crossed the 
river, but in such a case one marvel the more is easily taken for granted. 
It spoke with a human voice, saying, "Have you seen my people [i.e., my 
slaves] who are running away?"

The village elders, who by this time had returned to their seats and were 
deliberately taking snuff, asked, "What are your people like? We don't know 
anything about them." But the pumpkin was not to be put off. "You have them 
shut up inside the hut!"

Then the old headman gave the word, two or three strong men seized the 
pumpkin, chopped it to pieces, and built a roaring fire, in which it was 
consumed to ashes. They scattered the ashes, and then released the boys, who 
went home to their mothers.

We have already referred to versions in which the dead ogre turns into a 
tree; in a Kiniramba story I collected by Mr Frederick Johnson a porcupine, 
which seems to partake of the nature of an ogre or some other uncanny being, 
is killed and buried under the fireplace. "In the morning they found a 
pumpkin growing." This began by speaking, repeating everything that was said 
in its presence, and ended by swallowing all the people in the village. The 
Shambala people also have a story in which a pumpkin figures as the 
Swallowing Monster-but here nothing is said about its origin.

To return to the story of the ogre, some other versions give it a more 
dramatic ending. In these he reaches his home, hands the bag to his wife, 
and tells her to open it and cook the food. She refuses, on finding that 
"the bag bites"; so, in turn, do his daughter and his son. He shuts himself 
into the hut and opens the bag, with the result already related; but instead 
of expiring on the spot he forces his way out, and throws himself head first 
into a pool, or a marsh, out of which a tree subsequently grows.

[1. Kiniramba Folk-tales, p. 334.]

The Magic Flight
The second of the types mentioned above is well exemplified by the story of 
Sikulumi, which is told, without much variation in its main features, by 
Zulus, Xosas, Basuto, and Baronga.

One day a number of men seated by the fence of the chief's cattle-fold saw 
several birds of a kind they had never seen before perched on a tree not far 
off. The chief's son, Sikulumi, said, "These are indeed beautiful birds. I 
want to catch one and make a plume for my head [isidhodhlo] of his 
feathers."

So he and some friends set off in pursuit of the birds, which had already 
flown away while they were seizing their knobkerries. They followed them 
across country for a long time, and at last succeeded in knocking down 
several. By this time the sun had set, and they were far from home; but as 
darkness fell they perceived the glimmer of a distant fire, and made for it 
straightway. When they came up with it they found it was burning in an empty 
hut, which, though they could not know it, belonged to some amazimu. They 
went in and made themselves at home, plucked their birds, roasted, and ate 
them, after cutting off the heads, which Sikulumi arranged all round the 
ledge of the hut. Then they made plumes out of the feathers, and when they 
had done so went to sleep-all but Sikulumi.

In the middle of the night an ogre arrived, having left his fellows at a 
distance, and Sikulumi heard him muttering to himself, "Something smells 
very good here in my house!" [1] He looked at the sleepers, one by one-
Sikulumi, of course, pretending to be asleep-and said, "I will begin with 
this one, I will cat that one next, and then that one, and finish up with 
him whose little feet are white from walking through the sand!" [2] He then 
caught sight of the birds' heads, crunched them up, and swallowed them, 
before starting off to call the other ogres to the feast.

[1. Endhlini yami lapa kwanuka 'zantungwana! Some versions make him say, "I 
smell human flesh."

2. In the Ronga version he says, ". . . I shall get fat right down to my 
little toe!"]

Sikulumi at once roused his friends and told them what had happened, and 
they, picking up their plumes and their sticks, set off for home, running 
for all they were worth. They had gone quite a long way when Sikulumi 
remembered suddenly that he had left his plume behind. His friends said, 
"Don't go back. Take one of ours. Why should you go where cannibals are?" 
But he persisted. He took his stick, rubbed it with 'medicine,' and planted 
it upright in the ground, saying, "If this stick falls over without rising 
again you will know that I am dead, and you must tell my father when you get 
home. As long as it stands firm I am safe; if it shakes you will know that I 
am running for my life."

Meanwhile the ogre had come back with his friends, and when they found no 
one in the hut they were furious with him for cheating them, so they killed 
and ate him.

On his way back to the hut Sikulumi saw an old woman sitting by a big stone 
beside the path. She asked him where he was going, and he told her. She gave 
him some fat, and said, "If the ogres come after you put some of this on a 
stone." He reached the hut, and found a whole party seated round the fire, 
passing his plume from hand to hand. On the fire a large pot was boiling, in 
which they were cooking toads.[1] Sikulumi sprang in among them, snatched 
his plume from an old hag who happened to be holding it at that moment, and 
at the same time shattered the pot with a blow of his knobkerrie, scattering 
the toads all over the floor. While the ogres were occupied in picking them 
up he made his escape. They were not long, however, in following him, and 
when he saw them he did as the friendly old woman had told him and threw 
some of the fat on a stone. When the ogres came up to this stone they began 
(it is not explained why) to fight for the possession of it. One of them 
swallowed it, whereupon the others killed and ate him. Sikulumi thus

[1. Is this significant? I do not remember to have seen it noticed by any 
writer on folklore; but a Nyasaland native told me that witches, at certain 
seasons, eat frogs (or toads) as a part of their magical practices. The 
incident of the stone, a little farther on, is not easy to understand.]

gained some advantage, but soon they had nearly come up with him again. He 
threw some more fat on a stone, an

the same thing happened as before. Again they started after him, and this 
time he threw down his skin cloak, which began to run off by itself. The 
ogres ran after it, and were so long catching it that he was able to rejoin 
his friends, and they all made their way home.

Here, properly, the story comes to an end, but the Baronga add another 
adventure at a cannibal village, and the Xosa version [1] gives the further 
incident of the ogres again nearly coming up with them and being baffled by 
a "little man" (not accounted for by the narrator) who turned a large stone 
into a hut. They took refuge in it, and the ogres, to whom the outside still 
looked like a stone, tried to bite it, till they broke all their teeth and 
went away.

The young men then reached their own village, and found that it had been 
swallowed up, with all its inhabitants, except one old woman, by a monster 
called an inabulele. This episode really belongs to another story, which 
will be dealt with in a later chapter. The tale then goes on to relate 
Sikulumi's courtship and marriage to the daughter of Mangangezulu. It is not 
said that her family are cannibals, though "no one ever leaves the place of 
Mangangezulu," as they seem to be in the habit of killing strangers. By the 
help of a friendly mouse Sikulumi escapes with the girl, and she takes with 
her "an egg, a milksack, a pot, and a smooth stone." When she throws down 
the first it produces a thick mist, the milksack becomes a lake, the pot 
darkness, and the stone a huge rock. Thus the pursuers are baffled, and he 
reaches his home in safety.

The Ogre Husband
From the Duruma, a tribe living inland from Mombasa to the west and north-
west, comes the story of "Mbodze and the Zimwi," which forms a good 
illustration of our third type.

There was a girl named Mbodze, who had a younger

[1. Theal, Kaffir Folklore, P. 78.]

sister, Matsezi, and a brother, Nyange. She went one day, with six other 
girls, to dig clay-either for plastering the huts or for making pots, which 
is usually women's work. There was a stone in the path, against which one 
after the other stubbed her toes; Mbodze, coming last, picked up the stone 
and threw it away. It must be supposed that the stone was an ogre who had 
assumed this shape for purposes of his own; for when the girls came back 
with their loads of clay they found that the stone had become a huge rock, 
so large that it shut out the view of their village, and they could not even 
see where it ended. When they found that they could not get past it the 
foremost in the line began to sing:

"Stone, let me pass, O stone! It is not I who threw you away, O stone!
She who threw you away is Mbodze, Matsezi's sister,
    And Nyange is her brother."

The rock moved aside just enough to let one person pass through, and then 
closed again. The second girl sang the same words, and was allowed to pass, 
and so did the rest, till it came to Mbodze's turn. She, too, sang till she 
was tired, but the rock did not move. At last the rock turned into a zimwi-
or, rather, we may suppose, he resumed his proper shape-seized hold of 
Mbodze, and asked her, "What shall I do with you? Will you be my child, or 
my wife, or my sister, or my aunt?" She answered, "You may do what you like 
with me." So he said," I will make you my wife"; and he carried her off to 
his house.

There was a wild fig-tree growing in front of the zimwi's house. Mbodze 
climbed up into it, and sang:

"Matsezi, come, come! Nyange, come, come!"

But Matsezi and Nyange could not hear her.

She lived there for days and months, and the zimwi kept her well supplied 
with food, till he thought she was plump enough to be eaten. Then he set out 
to call the other ogres, who lived a long way off and were expected to bring 
their own firewood with them. No sooner had he gone than there appeared a 
chitsimbakazi,[l] like the friendly gnome in the Lamba story, who, by some 
magic art, put Mbodze into a hollow bamboo and stopped up the opening with 
wax. She then collected everything in the house except a cock, which she was 
careful to leave behind, spat in every room, including the kitchen, and on 
both the doorposts, and started.

Before she had gone very far she met the ogres, coming along the path in 
single file, each one carrying his log of wood on his head. The first one 
stopped her, and asked, "Are you Marimira's wife?"-Marimira being the ogre, 
Mbodze's husband.

She sang in answer, "I am not Marimira's wife: Marimira's wife has not a 
swollen mouth [like me [2]]. Ndi ndi! this great bamboo!"

At each ndi she struck the bamboo on the ground, to show that it was hollow, 
and the ogre, seeing that the upper end was closed with wax, suspected 
nothing and passed on.

The other ogres now passed her, one after another. The second was less 
easily satisfied than the first had been, and insisted on having the bamboo 
unstopped, but when he heard a great buzzing of bees [3] he said hastily, 
"Close it! Close it!" The same happened with all the rest, except the last, 
who was Marimira himself. He asked the same question as the others, and was 
answered in the same way, and then said, "What are you carrying in that 
stick? Unstop it and let me see!" The sprite, recognizing him, said to 
herself, "Now this is the end! It is Marimira; I must be very cunning," and 
she sang:

"I am carrying honey, ka-ya-ya!
I am carrying honey, brother, ka-ya-ya!
Ndi ndi! this great bamboo!"

[1. This sprite will come into the next chapter. There is usually no 
indication as to its sex, unless we can infer it from the termination -hazi 
which in some languages is a feminine suffix. But in a Swahili story very 
like this one the helpful being is expressly said to be "a little old 
woman."

2 The appearance of the chitsimbakazi is not described, but one may assume 
that it had some sort of a snout, like an animal.

3 These bees are not accounted for; the text says simply The bees buzzed at 
him-who-o-o-o!" Perhaps we are to suppose that the sprite had filled up the 
top end of the bamboo with honeycomb, and that the bees hatched out inside!]

But he kept on insisting that he must see, and at last she took out the wax: 
the bees swarmed out and began to settle upon him, and he cried in a panic, 
"Funikia! funikia! Shut them up!"

So he passed on with his guests, and the sprite went on her way.

The ogres reached Marimira's house, and he called out, "Mbodze!" The spittle 
by the doorposts answered, "He-e!" He then cried, "Bring some water!" and a 
voice from inside answered, Presently!" He got angry, and, leaving the 
others seated on the mats, went in and searched through the whole house, 
finding no one there and hearing nothing but the buzzing of flies. 
Terrified-and, as will be seen, not without reason-at the thought of the 
guests who would feel themselves to have been brought on false pretences, he 
dug a hole to hide in and covered himself with earth-but his one long tooth 
projected above the soil.

It will be remembered that a cock had been left in the house when everything 
else was removed; and this cock now began to crow, "Kokoikoko-o-o! Father's 
tooth is outside!"

The guests, waiting outside, wondered. "Hallo! Listen to that cock. What is 
he saying?" "Come! Go in and see what Marimira is doing in there, for the 
sun is setting, and we have far to go!" So they searched the house, and, 
coming upon the tooth, dug him up and dragged him outside, where they 
killed, roasted, and ate him-all but his head. While doing so they sang:

"Him who shall eat the head, we will eat him too."

After a while one of them bit off a piece from the head; the others at once 
fell upon him and ate him. This went on till only one was left. He fixed up 
a rope to make a swing and climbed into it, but the rope was not strong 
enough; it broke, and he fell into the fire. "And he began to cry out, 
'Maye! Maye! [Mother!] I'm dying!' And he started to chew himself there in 
the fire," and so perished.

This incident is somewhat puzzling; it may be a misunderstood report of an 
episode in another story [1] in which the ogre tries to trick his victim by 
inducing him to get into a swing fixed above a boiling cauldron, but is 
caught in his own trap. The swing is quite a popular amusement in Africa, 
wherever children can get a rope fixed to a convenient branch of a tree.

Meanwhile the chitsimbakazi had reached Mbodze's home. A little bird flew on 
ahead, perched outside the house, and sang:

"Mother, sweep the yard! Mbodze is coming!"

The mother said, "just listen to that bird! What does it say? It is telling 
us to sweep the yard, because Mbodze is coming." So she set to work at once, 
and presently the sprite arrived and said, "Let me have a bath, and then I 
will give you your daughter."

She gave her a bath and rubbed her with oil and cooked gruel for her. The. 
sprite said, "Don't pour it into a big dish for me; put it into a coconut 
shell," which the woman did. When the chitsimbakazi had eaten she unstopped 
the bamboo and let Mbodze out, to the great joy of the whole family, who 
could not do enough to show their gratitude.

The Were-wolf Husband
The ogre as bridegroom appears in a Chaga story, of a kind found all over 
Africa,[2] and told to warn girls against being overhard to please in the 
choice of a husband. But the wooer is not so often called an ogre, as such, 
as a lion, a hyena, or a leopard, who has assumed a man's shape for the time 
being. Some of these stories are more detailed than the one I am about to 
give, and will come better into the next chapter.

There was once a girl who refused to marry.[3] Her

[1. Steere, Swahili Tales, p. 383: "The Spirit and the Sultan's Son."

2. Thus by the Ewe on the Gold Coast, the Ikom, the Hausa, and others. 
English-speaking people in Sierra Leone call the ogre the Devil (the story 
is headed "Marry the Devil, there's the Devil to pay"), but such a person is 
not known to Africans, unless they have heard of him from white people.

3 Gutmann, Volksbuch, p.75]

parents, too, discouraged all wooers who presented themselves, as they said 
they would not give their daughter to any common man. (This is an unusual 
touch: in most tales of this kind it is the parents who remonstrate and the 
girl who is wilful.)

On a certain day the sword-dance was going on at this girl's village, and 
men came from the whole countryside to take part in it. Among the dancers 
there appeared a tall and handsome young man, wearing a broad ring like a 
halo round his head, who drew all eyes by his grace and noble bearing. The 
maiden fell in love with him at first sight, and her parents also approved 
of him. The dancing went on for several days, during which time she scarcely 
took her eyes off him. But one day, as he happened to turn his back, she 
caught sight of a second mouth behind his head, and said to her mother, That 
man is a rimu!" They would not believe it. " That fine fellow a rimu! 
Nonsense I just you go with him and let him cat you, that's all!"

The suitor presented himself in due course, and the marriage took place. 
After spending some days with the bride's parents the couple left for their 
home. But her brothers, knowing the husband to be a rimu, felt uneasy, and 
followed them, without their knowledge, keeping in the bushes alongside the 
path. When they had gone some distance the husband stopped and said, " Look 
back and tell me if you can still see the smoke from your father's hut." She 
looked, and said that she could. They went on for another hour or two, and 
then he asked her if she could see the hills behind her home. She said yes, 
and again they went on. At last he asked her again if she could see the 
hills, and when he found that she could not said, What will you do now? I am 
a rimu. Climb up into this tree and weep your last tears, for you must die!"

But her brothers, watching their chance, shot him with poisoned arrows, and 
he died. She came down from the tree and the brothers took her home.

CHAPTER XIII: OF WERE-WOLVES, HALFMEN, GNOMES, GOBLINS, AND OTHER MONSTERS
WERE-WOLVES is a term used for convenience, as being most familiar, but 
there are no wolves in Africa, at any rate south of the Sahara. It is the 
hyena (called 'wolf ' by South Africans), the lion, and the leopard who have 
the unpleasant habit of assuming at will the human form or, which comes to 
the same thing, sorcerers have the power of turning themselves into these 
animals; and some tribes even have the strange notion that a course of 
treatment with certain medicines will enable a person to take after his 
death the shape of any animal he wishes.

I have already referred to the numerous stories of which the theme is the 
"Robber (or Demon) Bridegroom." In one collected by R.E. Dennett on the 
Lower Congo the original idea seems to have dropped out of sight: the chief 
character is simply called a 'robber' (mpunia); and in Dr Doke's book [1] he 
is a chiwanda, [2] which this writer translates 'devil'-a word I prefer to 
avoid in discussing African beliefs.

"The Choric Story of the Lion," also given by Dr Doke, [3] is a fairly good 
specimen of this type, but is without the usual opening. Most stories of 
this kind begin by saying that a girl refused every offer of marriage, 
sometimes imposing a difficult, or even impossible, condition on her 
suitors.

The Girl who married a Lion
A lion "went to a village of human beings and married." It is not expressly 
said that he changed his shape, but this seems to be implied in the 
following sentence: "And the

[1. Lamba Folklore, p. 85.

2 The Balamba distinguish between chiwanda ('demon or evil spirit'), sisimwe 
('ogre'), mukupe ('goblin,' 'half-man,' also called mupisi and chinkuwaila), 
and akachekulu (pl. utuchekulu) ('gnome').

3 Lamba Folklore, p. 107.]

people thought that maybe it was but a man and not a wild creature."

In due course the couple had a child. Some time after this the husband 
proposed that they should visit his parents, and they set out, accompanied 
by the wife's brother. In several parallel stories a younger brother or 
sister of the bride desires to go with her, and when she refuses follows the 
party by stealth, but there is no indication of this here.

At the end of the first day's journey they all camped in the forest, and the 
husband cut down thorn-bushes and made a kraal (mutanda), after which he 
went away, saying that he was going to catch some fish in the river. When he 
was gone the brother said to his sister, "He has built this kraal very 
badly," and he took his axe and cut down many branches, with which to 
strengthen the weak places.

Meanwhile the husband had gone to seek out his lion relations, and when they 
asked him, "How many animals have you killed?" he replied, "Two and a young 
one." When darkness fell he "had become a huge male lion," and led the whole 
clan (with a contingent of hyenas) to attack his camp. Those inside heard 
the stealthy footfalls and sat listening. The lions hurled themselves on the 
barrier, trying to break through, but it was too strong, and they fell back, 
wounded with the thorns. He who by day had been the husband growled: "M. . 
.," and the baby inside the kraal responded: "M. . ." Then the mother sang:

"The child has bothered me with crying; watch the dance!
    Walk with a stoop; watch the dance!"

The were-lion's father, quite disgusted, said, "You have brought us to a man 
who has built a strong kraal; we cannot eat him." And as day was beginning 
to break they all retired to the forest.

When it was light the husband came back with his fish, and said that he had 
been detained, adding, "You were nearly eaten," meaning that his absence had 
left them exposed to danger. It seems to be implied that the others were 
taken in by his excuses, but the brother, at any rate, must have had his 
suspicions. When the husband had gone off again, ostensibly to fish, he 
said, "See, it was that husband of yours who wanted to eat us last night." 
So he went and walked about, thinking over the position. Presently he saw 
the head of a gnome (akachekulu) projecting from a cleft in a tree; it asked 
him why he had come, and, on being told, said, "You are already done for; 
your brother-in-law is an ogre that has finished off all the people in this 
district." The creature then asked him to sweep out the midden inside his 
house [1]-and after he had done so told him to cut down the tree, which it 
then hollowed out and made into a drum, stretching two prepared skins over 
the ends. It then slung the drum round the man's waist, and said, "Do as if 
you were going to do this"-that is, raise himself from the ground. And, 
behold, he found himself rising into the air, and he reached the top of a 
tree. The gnome told him to jump down, and he did so quite easily. Then it 
said, "Put your sister in the drum and go home." So he called her, and, 
having stowed her in it, with the baby, rose up and sat in the tree-top, 
where he began to beat the drum. The lion, hearing the sound, followed it, 
and when he saw the young man in the tree said, "Brother-in-law, just beat a 
little"; so the man beat the drum and sang:

"Boom, boom sounds the little drum
    Of the sounding drum, sounds the little drum!
Ogre,[2] dance, sounds the little drum
    Of the sounding drum, sounds the little drum!

The lion began to dance, and the skins he was wearing fell off and were 
blown away by the wind, and he had to go back and pick them up. Meanwhile 
the drum carried the fugitives on, and the lion pursued them as soon as he 
had recovered his skins. Having overtaken them, he called up into the tree, 
"Brother-in-law, show me my child!" and the following dialogue took place:

"What, you lion, am I going to show you a relation of mine?"

[1. Meaning, evidently, the hollow tree!

2. It is noticeable that the name sisimwe is here applied to the lion.]

"Would I eat my child?" conveniently ignoring the fact that he had himself 
announced the killing of "the young one."

"How about the night you came? You would have eaten us!"

Again the brother-in-law beat the drum, and the lion danced (apparently 
unable to help himself), and as before lost his skins, stopped to pick them 
up, and began the chase again, while the man went springing along the 
treetops like a monkey. At last he reached his own village, and "his mother 
saw as it were a swallow settle in the courtyard" of his home. She said, 
"Well, I never! Greeting, my child!" and asked where his sister was. He 
frightened her at first by telling her that she had been eaten by her 
husband, who was really a lion, but afterwards relented and told her to open 
the drum. Her daughter came out with the baby, safe and sound, and the 
mother said, praising her son, "You have grown up; you have saved your 
sister!" She gave him five slave-girls-a form of wealth still accepted in 
Lambaland not so very long ago.

The lion had kept up the pursuit, and reached the outskirts of the village, 
but, finding that his intended victims were safe within the stockade, he 
gave up and returned to the forest.

The Hyena Bridegroom
A story from Nyasaland is different enough from the above to be interesting. 
I was told it, many years ago, by a bright little boy at Blantyre; but, as 
might be expected, he did not know it perfectly, and very likely I missed 
some points in writing it down from his dictation. I have therefore pieced 
it out from another version, written out much later by a Nyanja man, Walters 
Saukila, which clears up several difficult points.

There was a girl in a certain village who refused all suitors, though 
several very decent young men had presented themselves. Her parents 
remonstrated in vain; she only said,

I don't like the young men of our neighbourhood; if one came from a distance 
I might look at him!" So they left off asking for her, and she remained 
unmarried for an unusually long time.

One day a handsome stranger arrived at the village and presented himself to 
the girl's parents. He had all the appearance of a rich man; he was wearing 
a good cloth, had ivory bracelets on his arms, and carried a gun and a 
powder-horn curiously ornamented with brass wire. The maiden exclaimed, on 
seeing him, "This is the one I like!" Her father and mother were more 
doubtful, as was natural, since no one knew anything about him; but in spite 
of all they could say she insisted on accepting him. He was, in fact, a 
hyena, who had assumed human shape for the time being.

The usual marriage ceremonies took place, and the husband, in. accordance 
with Yao and Nyanja custom, settled down at the village of his parents-in-
law, and made himself useful in the gardens for the space of several months. 
At the end of that time he said that he had a great wish to visit his own 
people. His wife, whom he had purposely refrained from asking, begged him to 
let her accompany him. When all was ready for the journey her little 
brother, who was suffering from sore eyes, said he wanted to go too; but his 
sister, ashamed to be seen in company with such an object, refused him 
sharply. He waited till they had started, and then followed, keeping out of 
sight, till he was too far from home to be sent back.

They went on for many days, and at last arrived at the hyenas' village, 
where the bride was duly welcomed by her husband's relations. She was 
assigned a hut to sleep in, but, to keep her brother out of the way, she 
sent him into the hen-house.

In the middle of the night, when she was asleep, the people of the village 
took their proper shape and, called together by the hyena husband, marched 
round the hut, chanting:

    "Timdye nyama, sananone!"
[Let us eat the game, but it is not fat yet."]

The little boy in the hen-house was awake and heard them; his worst fears 
were confirmed. (W. Saukila says: "Though that one was small as to his size, 
he was of surpassing sense.") In the morning he told his sister what he had 
heard, but she would not believe him. So he told her to tie a string to her 
toe and put the end outside where he could get it. This he drew into the 
hen-house, and that night, when the hyenas began their march, he pulled the 
string and awakened his sister. She was now thoroughly frightened, and when 
he asked her next morning, "Did you hear them, sister?" she had nothing more 
to say.

The Magic Boat
The boy then went to his brother-in-law and asked him for the loan of an axe 
and an adze. The man (as he appeared to be), who had no notion that he was 
detected and every reason to show himself good-natured, consented at once, 
and watched him going off into the bush, well pleased that the child should 
amuse himself.

The latter soon found and cut down a tree such as he needed, and then began 
to shape a thing which he called nguli [1]-something in the nature of a 
small boat. When he had finished it he got into it and sang

Chinguli changa delu-delu!
Chinguli changa delu-delu!
[My boat! swing! swing!]

And the nguli began to rise up from the earth. As he went on singing it rose 
higher and higher, till it floated above the tops of the tallest trees. The 
hyena-villagers all rushed out to gaze at this wonder, and the boy's sister 
came with them. Then he sang once more:

"Chinguli changa, tsikatsika de-de, tsikatsila!"

["My boat! come down! down, de-de! [expressive of descending] come down!"]

 

[1. Nguli is properly a spinning-top-a toy very popular in African villages. 
Chinguli, the word used later on, means a large nguli, This object has 
hitherto been a great puzzle. The Rev. H. B. Barnes (Nyanja-English 
Vocabulary) says, "Chinguli in a native story apparently plays the part of 
the 'magic carpet' in the Arabian Nights." The explanation that it was "like 
a canoe to look at" is due to Walters Saukila.]

And it floated gently down to the ground. The people were delighted, and 
cried out to him to go up again. He made some excuse for a little delay, and 
whispered to his sister to get her bundle (which, no doubt, she had ready) 
and climb in. She did so, and when both were safely stowed he sang his first 
song once more. Again the vessel rose, and this time did not come down 
again. The spectators, after waiting in vain, began to suspect that their 
prey was escaping, and shouted to the boy to come back, but no attention was 
paid to them, and the nguli quickly passed out of sight. Before the day was 
out they found themselves above the courtyard of their home, and the boy 
sang the words which caused them to descend, so that they alighted on their 
mother's grain-mortar. The whole family came running out and overwhelmed 
them with questions; the girl could not speak for crying with joy and 
relief, and her brother told the whole story, winding up with: "Look here, 
sister, you thought I was no good, because I had sore eyes-but who was it 
heard them singing, 'Let us eat her!' and told you about it?" The parents, 
too, while praising the boy, did not fail to point the moral for the benefit 
of their foolish daughter, who, some say, had to remain unmarried to the end 
of her days.

Anyone who has heard a native story-teller chant Chinguli changa cannot help 
wondering whether we have a far-off echo of it in Uncle Remus's "Ingle-go-
jang, my joy, my joy!" though it occurs in an entirely different story.

The Half-men
Some of the amazimu, as stated in the last chapter, are described as having 
only half a body, but this by no means applies to all of them, and there is 
a distinct set of half-beings who cannot be classed as ogres.

In Nyasaland a being called Chiruwi is, or was, believed to haunt lonely 
places in the forest, carrying an axe. He has one eye, one arm, one leg, the 
other half of his body being made of wax. He challenges any man he meets to 
wrestle with him; if the man can overcome him he offers to show him "many 
medicines" if he will let him go, and tells him the properties of the 
various trees and herbs. But if the man is thrown "he returns no more to his 
village; he dies."

A little boy at Ntumbi, in the West Shire district, told me a curious story 
in which "a big bird," with one wing, one eye, and one leg, carried some 
children across a flooded river.

In a tale of the Bechuana, which is something like this, the children are 
pursued by an ogre, take refuge up a tree, and are rescued before he is able 
to cut it down by a "great thing called Phuku-phuku," which is not further 
described. What seems to be a parallel version attributes the rescue to "a 
great bird," which "hovered over them and said, 'Hold fast to me.'" There is 
no indication that this bird was without the usual number of wings and legs; 
but it is quite evident that he is, as the editor of the South African 
Folklore Journal [1] remarks, "a personage worth studying."

A fuller form of the story, however, was obtained by the Rev. C. Hoffmann 
among the Bapedi in the Transvaal. But even this throws no light on the 
bird's nature; he is simply called nonyana votze, " a beautiful bird," and 
carries the children home under his wings. In retelling it in a more popular 
form for young readers [2] Mr Hoffmann calls him a peacock, and represents 
him as such in his illustration; but this must be a picturesque addition of 
his own, for the peacock was quite unknown in South Africa till introduced 
by Europeans, and it is very unlikely that the original narrators had ever 
heard of it.

The Baronga tell of a village of "one-legged people (mangabangabana), who 
also possess wings, or, at any rate, the power of flying. They seem to be 
quite distinct from ogres-called in Ronga simply "eaters of men," though 
they sometimes have another name, switukulumukumba. A girl who escapes from 
the cannibals' village is, later on, carried off by the flying half-men; but 
there is no suggestion that they intend to eat her.

[1. Vol. i, Part I, January 1879, p. 16.

2. Afrikanischer Grossvater, p. 5.]

In the story of Namachuke, however, the one-legged beings are certainly 
cannibal ogres. Part of this story is much like that given in the last 
chapter, of the girl escaping from the ogre's house; but the opening is 
different, and there is also an unexpected sequel: Namachuke and her co-
wives are beguiled by curiosity into leaving their home and following the 
monsters, and are devoured, together with the unfortunate children who have 
come to look for them.

Similarly, the Zulu amadhlungundhlebe, who had only one leg, were said to be 
man-eaters.

But these are exceptions: the genuine half-men are more akin to Chiruwi, 
though their character varies; some are merely terrifying, like the one 
formerly believed to haunt the Cameroons Mountain, to see whom was death.

Sechobochobo of the Baila is "a kind of wood-sprite, described as a man with 
one arm and one eye, living in the forest; he brings good luck to those who 
see him; he takes people and shows them trees in the forest which can serve 
as medicines.

But the accounts of this being would seem to vary, for elsewhere we read, 
"If one chances to see it he will die."

Sikulokobuzuka
The Basubiya say that Sikulokobuzuka is wax on one side of him; the leg on 
the other is like that of an animal. Some say that he has a wife and 
children, in form like himself. He lives on wild honey, and is reported to 
have a hut made of elephants' tusks and python skins, but his village, where 
are stored many pots of honey, meat, and fat, is invisible to human eyes. 
His axe and spears are made of wax. The account given to M. Jacottet by 
Kabuku, a young man of the Subiya tribe, scarcely bears out the statement 
made by some that it is death to meet Sikulokobuzuka-fortunately, he has a 
shorter name, Chilube, which will be more convenient to use. A certain man, 
Mashambwa,[l] told Kabuku that while looking for honey in

[1. "Textes Subiya," No. 47, p. 138.]

the forest he heard a honey-guide calling; he whistled to it, and it led him 
to a tree containing a bees' nest. He lit a torch, climbed the tree, smoked 
the bees out, and had just taken the honey, when he saw Chilube approaching. 
He came down, carrying his honey on a wooden platter, and met Chilube, who 
at once demanded it. Mashambwa refused, and Chilube said, "Come, then, let 
us wrestle." They did so, Mashambwa taking care to get his opponent off the 
grass and on to a sandy place, where, after a long struggle, he succeeded in 
throwing him. He said, "Shall I kill you?" and Chilube replied, "Don't kill 
me, my chief, and I will get you the medicine for bewitching people and 
killing them." Mashambwa said, "I don't want that," and Chilube said, "There 
is another, which helps you to get plenty of meat." He agreed to accept 
this, and Chilube said, "Let me go, and I will get it for you." So he showed 
him all the herbs and trees which possessed healing properties or were good 
as charms for luck in hunting, or finding food in other ways, or for gaining 
the favour of one's chief.

Mashambwa set off homeward, but soon lost his way and wandered about till he 
once more met Chilube, who guided him to his village, telling him that he 
must not speak to anyone or answer if spoken to. This seems to have been a 
recognized rule, for when Mashambwa reached home and the people found that 
he did not respond to their greetings they knew that he had met Chilube, and 
let him alone, but built a hut for him in a place apart.

Mashambwa lay ill in that hut for a whole year. Chilube arrived as soon as 
those who had built it had left, and thenceforth came regularly, bringing 
him food and medicine. At last he recovered, and, looking out over the 
forest one day, saw a number of vultures. This appears to have been the sign 
that his period of silence and seclusion was over, for he called out, "Look 
at my vultures over there!"and the villagers went to the spot and found a 
freshly killed animal. So they brought back the meat and gave him some, and 
he ate with them and took up his old life again.

After this it seems hardly fair to dismiss Chilube as "cruel and wicked" or 
"a strange and maleficent being" (in M. Jacottet's words, "être étrange et 
malfaisant"). Nor is it apparent why an up-to-date hunter, meeting Chilube 
in the forest, should, without provocation, have pointed his gun at him and 
set his dogs on him. Chilube fled-he is said (not unnaturally) to fear dogs 
and guns-and one would not be surprised to learn that no more medicines were 
shown to people in that neighbourhood.

In Angola[1] we find that Fenda Madia is helped by an old woman with "one 
arm, one leg, one side of face, and one side of body," and among the 
Wangonde a similarly formed old woman takes some girls across a river.

There is a curious development of the same notion in a story about a jealous 
woman who tricked her co-wife into throwing away her baby. When she found 
out that the mother had recovered her child and received rich gifts in 
addition she threw her own baby into the river-and recovered it, indeed, but 
only to find that it had but half a body.[2]

There is a strange legend of the Wagogo to the effect that the first heaven 
(there are four in all, one above the other) is inhabited by half-beings of 
this kind; I do not know whether such a notion has been recorded elsewhere.

Perhaps the lake-god Mugasha, on the Victoria Nyanza, who has only one leg, 
should be mentioned in this connexion; and I recall a curious statement made 
by a Giryama, Aaron Mwabaya, at Kaloleni in 1912: "When the print of a human 
foot is seen side by side with a hyena's spoor the traces are those of a 
sorcerer who is on one side human, on the other a hyena." This I have never 
heard elsewhere: -people in Nyasaland had a different way of accounting for 
human footprints beside a hyena's track, but that is "another story."

Gnomes and Spirits
We have already come across Dr Doke's 'gnomes,' fearsome beings called by 
the Balamba "little ancient ones,"

[1. Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola, p. 32

2. See ante, p. 96.]

who kill their victims with "one long tooth, blood-red and sharp." But, as 
we have seen in the story of the lion, they are by no means always 
malignant. They may be of either sex.

The chitsimbakazi of the Duruma perhaps belongs to the same family; their 
neighbours the Giryama have a katsumbakazi-no doubt the same word-of which 
W. E. Taylor remarks that it is "said to be seen occasionally in daylight. 
It is usually malignant." He does not describe its appearance, beyond saying 
that its stature is very low-a point on which it seems to be sensitive: 
"When it meets anyone it . . . asks him, 'Where did you see me?' If the 
person is so unlucky as to answer, 'Just here,' he will not live many days; 
but if he is aware of the danger and says, 'Oh, over yonder,' he will be 
left unharmed, and sometimes even something lucky will happen to him." [1]

A similar story used to be told by the Zulus of the Bushmen, only, instead 
of inflicting death by some occult means, they would retaliate on the spot 
with a poisoned arrow.

The "little people" in Nyasaland, known by a name which means "Where did you 
see me?" are similarly quick to resent this insult.

The forests of the Tana Valley are haunted by a thing which the Wapokomo 
call kitunusi, which behaves like Chiruwi or Chilube, though not shaped like 
them. As far as one can gather, its form is that of a normal human being, 
and it does not seem to be particularly small. There are two kinds: one 
walks about upright, "like a child of Adam, as my informant said, the other 
hitches itself about in a sitting position, though not devoid of legs. It 
wears a cloth of kaniki (dark blue cotton stuff): if anyone who wrestles 
with it can manage to tear off a bit of this his fortune is made: "he puts 
it away in his covered basket [kidzamanda] and becomes rich"; presumably the 
cloth multiplies itself, but this is not explained. Those who meet the 
kitunusi and do not stand up to it boldly are apt to

[1. Giryama Vocabulary, p. 32.]

be stricken with paralysis in all their limbs, or with some other illness.

Two other creatures, classified by Professor Meinhof as "haunting demons" 
(Spukdämonen), are, or were some time ago, to be found in the Tana forests. 
One is the ngojama, in sight like to a man, but with a long claw ("an iron 
nail," say some) in the palm of his right hand. Other people, the Galla, for 
instance, say that the ngojama is simply a lion who has grown too old to 
hunt game and taken to eating men. This is curiously borne out by the very 
similar names for 'lion' in Zulu, Herero, and Tswa[1]; in the last-named 
language, moreover, it is confined to man eating lions. I was told, by 
Pokomo natives, a strange story about a man named Bombe, which to some 
slight extent resembles Mashambwa's adventure with Chilube. The ngojama came 
upon Bombe when he was up a tree taking honey, and waited to seize him when 
he came down, but Bombe handed him the best pieces of honeycomb, and made 
his escape while the monster lingered to eat them. When he saw Bombe in his 
canoe, half-way across the river, he stood on the bank, crying, "Wai! wai! 
If I had known I would not have eaten the honey!" There is no suggestion of 
a contest (as with the kitunusi), and it is evident that the ngojama cannot 
swim. His last words to Bombe were, "Go I You are a man I But we shall meet 
another day."

The other forest-haunting bogy is the ngoloko, described to me as a huge 
serpent-so huge that when my informant's father saw him at night he took him 
for a great dead tree-a white bulk which would be clearly visible even 
without a moon. When he got nearer he saw that it was a monstrous snake, 
with luminous ears (a strange touch), which he had at first taken for 
flames. They were like the yellow flowers I had just picked from a bush-
which, if I remember rightly, were something like the Corchorus of our 
gardens. This seems to have been all I could gather about the ngoloko. A 
writer in Blackwood's Magazine [2] some years ago

[1. The language of a tribe near Inhambane, in Portuguese East Africa.

2 November 1917.]

gave an account of what he had heard from the natives about this being, but 
his description rather fits the ngojama. He took it to be an anthropoid ape-
hitherto unknown in Africa east of the Great Lakes. He was shown a print of 
its foot (which, in fact, seemed to show a long claw), and heard uncanny 
roarings at night, which people assured him were the voice of the ngoloko. 
But the print, of which a tracing was procured, was credibly pronounced to 
have been made by the foot of an ostrich; and the cry of the ostrich is 
powerful enough to be heard at a great distance, especially by night.

About the kodoile, also enumerated among the dangers of the Tana forests, I 
did not succeed in getting any information, beyond the fact that "the 
Swahili call it dubu," which is dubb, the Arabic name for the bear. In the 
Pokomo New Testament (Revelation xiii, 2) 'bear' is translated kodoile, and 
ngojama is the rendering of 'dragon.' There are, so far as known at present, 
no bears in Africa south of the Sahara-the 'Nandi bear,' concerning which 
many reports have been in circulation, is now generally held to be a 
mythical animal. In fact, a Zanzibar man who saw a bear for the first time 
in his life in the London Zoo could only describe it as "the illegitimate 
offspring of a hyena (yule mwana haramu wa fisi).

CHAPTER XIV: THE SWALLOWING MONSTER
THE legend of a monster which swallows the population of a village-or, 
indeed, of the whole country and is subsequently slain by a boy hero seems 
to be current all over Africa. We have found part of it fitted into one of 
the ogre tales already dealt with, and we shall find some versions 
incorporating parts of stories which, strictly speaking, should be classed 
under other headings. McCall Theal [1] remarked:

There is a peculiarity in many of these stories which makes them capable of 
almost indefinite expansion. They are so constructed that parts of one can 
be made to fit into parts of another, so as to form a new tale. . . . These 
tales are made up of fragments which are capable of a variety of 
combinations.[2]

This might be taken to imply that conscious invention was at work in so 
constructing the stories, but it is not necessary to assume that this was 
the writer's meaning. Classical mythology affords numerous examples of the 
way in which floating traditions attach themselves to each other without 
special intention on anyone's part. After writing has been introduced and 
poets have given literary form to these traditions the case is different. 
African folklore has not in general reached this stage.

The main points of the legend are these:

A whole population is swallowed by a monster.
One woman escapes and gives birth to a son.
This son kills the monster and releases the people.
They make him their chief.

Some versions add that the people in time become envious and plan his 
destruction (here the incidents resemble those of Huveane's story); and 
these, again, vary considerably. Some say that he triumphed over his enemies 
in the end; others that he was slain by them.

[1. The historian of South Africa, who also collected the folklore of the 
Xosas.

2 Kaffir Folklore, p. vii.]

In most of these legends the boy is miraculously precocious, like Hlakanyana 
and Kachirambe; but occasionally, like Theseus, he has to wait till he is 
grown up. In one his mother tells him to lift a certain stone, several years 
in succession, and when at last he is able to do it he is reckoned strong 
enough for the great enterprise.

The Whale and the Dragon
E. B. Tylor [1] was of opinion that this legend is a kind of allegorical 
nature-myth.

Day is daily swallowed up by night, to be set free at dawn, and from time to 
time suffers a like but shorter durance in the maw of the Eclipse and the 
Storm-cloud. Summer is overcome and prisoned by dark Winter, but again set 
free. It is a plausible opinion that such scenes from the great nature-drama 
of the conflict of light and darkness are, generally speaking, the simple 
facts which in many lands and ages have been told in mythic shape, as 
legends of a Hero or Maiden devoured by a monster and hacked out again or 
disgorged.

The point is illustrated by examples from the myths of the Burman Karens, 
the Maoris, and the North American Indians, as well as by the stories of 
Ditaolane and Untombinde, about to be related here. Tylor traces to the same 
origin the legends of Perseus and Andromeda (ultimately modernized and 
Christianized as St George and the Dragon), Herakles and Hesione, and 
Jonah's 'whale.' This last introduces a different element, which finds a 
parallel in some African stories we shall have to consider in a later 
chapter.

But such allegorizing, as Wundt [2] has shown, is foreign to the thought of 
primitive people. They may think that the lightning is a bird and that an 
eclipse is caused by something trying to eat up the sun or moon; but this 
myth of day and night is too abstract a conception for them.

It may be worth noting that a Christian writer of Basutoland has made use of 
the Swallower legend as a dim

[1. Primitive Culture, vol. i, p. 334 sqq.

2 Völkerpsychologie, vol. v, Part II, p. 268.]

foreshadowing of the promise of a Redeemer.[1] In his somewhat mystical 
story Moeti oa Bochabela (The Traveller to the East) the old men relate it 
to Fekisi, the young dreamer, tormented by the "obstinate questionings" of 
'whence' and 'whither.' And, indeed, it might well lend itself to such an 
interpretation.

Khodumodurno, or Karnmapa
The Basuto tell the legend as follows.

Once upon a time there appeared in our country a huge, shapeless thing 
called Khodumodumo (but some people call it Kammapa). It swallowed every 
living creature that came in its way. At last it came through a pass in the 
mountains into a valley where there were several villages; it went to one 
after another, and swallowed the people, the cattle, the goats, the dogs, 
and the fowls. In the last village was a woman who had just happened to sit 
down on the ash-heap. She saw the monster coming, smeared herself all over 
with ashes, and ran into the calves' pen, where she crouched on the ground. 
Khodumodumo, having finished all the people and animals, came and looked 
into the place, but could see nothing moving, for, the woman being smeared 
with ashes and keeping quite still, it took her for a stone. It then turned 
and went away, but when it reached the narrow pass (or nek) at the entrance 
to the valley it had swelled to such a size that it could not get through, 
and was forced to stay where it was.

Meanwhile the woman in the calves' pen, who had been expecting a baby 
shortly, gave birth to a boy. She laid him down on the ground and left him 
for a minute or two, while she looked for something to make a bed for him. 
When she came back she found a grown man sitting there, with two or three 
spears in his hand and a string of divining bones (ditaola [2]) round his 
neck. She said, "Hallo, man!

[1 Thomas Mofolo, who has more recently written an historical romance, 
Chaka, introduced to English readers through the medium of Mr Dutton's 
translation.

2 So in some versions of the story he is called Ditaolane; in others he is 
merely Moshanyana, which means 'little boy.']

Where is my child?" and he answered, "It is I, Mother!" Then he asked what 
had become of the people, and the cattle, and the dogs, and she told him.

"Where is this thing, Mother?"

"Come out and see, my child."

So they both went out and climbed to the top of the wall surrounding the 
calves' kraal, and she pointed to the pass, saying, "That object which is 
filling the nek, as big as a mountain, that is Khodumodumo."

Ditaolane got down from the wall, fetched his spears, sharpened them on a 
stone, and set off to the end of the valley, where Khodumodurno lay. The 
beast saw him, and opened its mouth to swallow him, but he dodged and went 
round its side-it was too unwieldy to turn and seize him and drove one of 
his spears into it. Then he stabbed it again with his second spear, and it 
sank down and died.

He took his knife, and had already begun to cut it open, when he heard a 
man's voice crying out, "Do not cut me!" So he tried in another place, and 
another man cried out, but the knife had already slashed his leg. Ditaolane 
then began cutting in a third place, and a cow lowed, and some one called 
out, "Don't stab the cow!" Then he heard a goat bleat, a dog bark, and a hen 
cackle, but he managed to avoid them all, as he went on cutting, and so, in 
time, released all the inhabitants of the valley.

There was great rejoicing as the people collected their belongings, and all 
returned to their several villages praising their young deliverer, and 
saying, "This young man must be our chief." They brought him gifts of 
cattle, so that, between one and another, he soon had a large herd, and he 
had his choice of wives among their daughters. So he built himself a fine 
kraal and married and settled down, and all went well for a time.

Ingratitude of the Tribe
But the unintentionally wounded man never forgot his grudge, and long after 
his leg was healed began, when he noticed signs of discontent among the 
people, to drop a cunning word here and there and encourage those who were 
secretly envious of Ditaolane's good fortune, as well as those who suspected 
him because, as they said, he could not be a normal human being, to give 
voice to their feelings.

So before long they were making plans to get rid of their chief. They dug a 
pit and covered it with dry grass-just as the Bapedi did in order to trap 
Huveane-but he avoided it. They kindled a great fire in the courtyard, 
intending to throw him into it, but a kind of madness seized them; they 
began to struggle with each other, and at last threw in one of their own 
party. The same thing happened when they tried to push him over a precipice; 
in this case he restored to life the man who was thrown over and killed.

Next they got up a big hunt, which meant an absence of several days from the 
village. One night when the party were sleeping in a cave they induced the 
chief to take the place farthest from the entrance, and when they thought he 
was asleep stole out and built a great fire in the cave-mouth. But, less 
successful than the MacLeods in the case of the MacDonalds of Eigg, when 
they looked round they saw him standing among them.

After this, feeling that nothing would soften their inveterate hatred, he 
grew weary of defeating their stratagems, and allowed them to kill him 
without offering any resistance. Something of the same kind is told of 
Chaminuka, the Prophet of the Mashona, as will be seen in due course. Some 
of the Basuto, when relating this story, add, " It is said that his heart 
went out and escaped and became a bird."

The Guardian Ox
The legend of Ditaolane, however, does not always end like this, on a bitter 
note of sorrow for human ingratitude. One version makes him escape from his 
enemies, like Hlakanyana, by turning himself into a stone, which one of them 
throws across a river; but this, somehow, does not seem quite in character.

A Sesuto variant [1] ascribes his safety to a favourite ox, which warns him 
of danger, cannot be killed without its own consent, and returns to life 
after being slaughtered and eaten. The peculiar relationship between 
Ditaolane and this ox is not explained: but in a Zulu tale which resembles 
this episode (though it has no reference to the Swallowing Monster) the ox 
is said to have been born shortly before the boy and to have been brought up 
with him.[2] The latter, with two others of the same kind, being quite 
distinct from the subject of this chapter, will not be dwelt on here. In 
this version the conclusion is so well worked out in connexion with the 
earlier part that it does not strike one as a mere accidental mixing up of 
two stories. It seems, however, to stand alone among the many variants of 
the Khodumodumo legend.

A notable point is that the young man's own mother, frightened by the 
neighbours' talk, turns against him and tries to poison him. Warned by the 
ox, he refuses the bread she gives him; his father afterwards takes it by 
accident and dies. The ox said: "You see, you would have died yourself; your 
mother does not love you." Here, as in the case of Huveane, we see natural 
affection overcome by the fear of one who is regarded as an uncanny being. 
The circumstances of his birth would have become known, and, the villagers 
would argue, a being so powerful for good would be equally capable of doing 
harm, quite regardless of the fact that he had never given them cause to 
distrust him.

Untombinde and the Squatting Monster
In the Zulu tale of Untombinde the isiququmadevu 3 lives in the Ilulange, a 
mythical river not to be located nowadays. The names applied to this monster 
in the course of the story show that it is looked upon as a female.

A chief's daughter, Untombinde, goes, with a number of

[1. Jacottet, Treasury of Ba-Suto Lore, p. 76.

2 Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 221: "Ubongopa ka'Magadhlela."

3 Callaway explains this word to mean "a bloated, squatting, bearded 
monster."]

other girls, to bathe in the Ilulange, against the warnings of her parents: 
"To the Ilulange nothing goes and returns again; it goes therefor ever." The 
girls found, oncoming out of the water, that the clothes and ornaments they 
had left on the bank had disappeared; they knew that the isiququmadevu must 
have taken them, and one after another petitioned politely for their return. 
Untombinde, however, said, " I will never beseech the isiququmadevu," and 
was immediately seized by the monster and dragged down into the water.

Her companions went home and reported what had happened. The chief, though 
he evidently despaired of recovering her ("Behold, she goes there for 
ever!"), sent a troop of young men to "fetch the isiququmadevu, which has 
killed Untombinde." The warriors found the monster squatting on the river-
bank, and were swallowed up, every one, before they could attack her. She 
then went on to the chief's kraal, swallowed up all the inhabitants, with 
their dogs and their cattle, as well as all the people in the surrounding 
country.

Among the victims were "two beautiful children,[1] much beloved." Their 
father, however, escaped, took his two clubs and his large spear, and went 
his way, saying, "It is I who will kill the isiququmadevu."

By this time the monster had left the neighbourhood, and the man went on 
seeking her till he met with some buffaloes, whom he asked, "Whither has 
Usiququmadevu [2] gone? She has gone away with my children!" The buffaloes 
directed him on his way, and he then came across some leopards, of whom he 
asked the same question, and who also told him to go forward. He next met an 
elephant,

[1. The narrator says they were twins, but nothing in the story turns on 
this, which is remarkable, as twins are usually considered by the Bantu 
either as extremely unlucky (in former times one of them was frequently 
killed) or as possessed of abnormal powers and bringing a blessing to the 
family and the village.

2. Note the different initial. U- is the prefix for personal names, which 
has not hitherto been considered necessary; it is used only by the father of 
the twins. The buffaloes, the leopards, and the elephant, in replying, call 
her by three elaborate "praise-names," with which the reader need not be 
troubled. The father as deliverer is an important variation.]

who likewise sent him on, and so at last he came upon the monster herself, 
and announced, " I am seeking Usiququmadevu, who is taking away my 
children!" Apparently she hoped to escape recognition, for she directed him, 
like the rest, to "go forward." But the man was not to be deceived by so 
transparent a device: he "came and stabbed the lump, and so the 
isiququmadevu died."

Then all the people, cattle, and dogs, and, lastly, Untombinde herself, came 
out unharmed, and she returned to her father.

Her story is by no means finished, but the rest of it belongs to an entirely 
different set of ideas, that which is represented in European folklore by 
the tale of "Beauty and the Beast."

The same monster figures in the story of "Usitungusobenhle," [1] but only as 
the final episode. Here it is a girl who effects the deliverance. Nothing is 
said of her subsequent career, only: "Men again built houses and were again 
happy; and all things returned to their former condition."

The Family swallowed by the Elephant
Another story,[2] which treats the theme after a somewhat different fashion 
(though agreeing in one point with the last), is that of a woman who rashly 
built her house "in the road, and left her children there while she went to 
look for firewood. An elephant came by and swallowed the two children, 
leaving a little girl who happened to be staying with them and who told the 
mother, on her return, what had happened. The woman (like the father in the 
previous tale) set out to look for the elephant, carrying provisions (a 
large pot containing ground maize and amasi [3]) and a knife. She went on 
her way, asking all the animals she met where she could find an elephant 
with one tusk, which had eaten her children. They told her to go on till

[1. Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 84.

2. Ibid., p. 31: "Unanana-bosele."

3 Sour milk, a staple article of diet with the pastoral tribes of Africa. 
Fresh milk is not, by the Zulus at any rate, drunk by grown-up people; but 
it is given to children.]

she came to a place where there were white stones on the ground under some 
high trees. She found the elephant in the place indicated, and asked it the 
same question: it also told her to go on, and, when she persisted, swallowed 
her. Inside it "she saw large forests and great rivers and many high lands; 
on one side there were many rocks; and there were many people who had built 
their villages there, and many dogs and many cattle; all were there inside 
the elephant; she saw, too, her own children sitting there."

The elephant thus comes into line with Kammapa and the other monsters, 
though we are not in their case told anything about the country inside them. 
This is quite natural, as the deliverer, coming from outside, would not, of 
course, see anything of the interior. Tylor says that the description of the 
country in the elephant's stomach "is simply that of the Zulu Hades"; but I 
have hitherto failed to come upon any other evidence for the country of the 
dead being so located.

The mother gave her children some amasi, and, finding that they had eaten 
nothing since they had been parted from her, said, "Why do you not roast 
this flesh?" They said, "If we eat this beast, will it not kill us?" She 
reassured them: "No, it will itself die."

She made a great fire-how we are not told; but as she had been gathering 
wood she may have had some sticks of the right kind for producing sparks by 
friction. She then took her knife and cut pieces off the elephant's liver, 
which she roasted and gave to the children. The other people, who had never 
thought of this expedient and had likewise eaten nothing, soon followed her 
example, with the result that "the elephant told the other beasts, saying, 
'From the time I swallowed the woman I have been ill; there has been pain in 
my stomach.'" The animals could do nothing to help him, merely suggesting 
that the pain might be caused by his having so many people inside him, and 
he soon afterwards died. The woman then began to cut her way out, and before 
long a cow came out, saying, "Moo, moo; at length we see the country!" 
followed by a goat, a dog, and the people, who all, in their several ways, 
said the same thing. "They made the woman presents: some gave her cattle, 
some goats, and some sheep," and she set out for home with her children, 
rich for life. There she found the little girl who had been left behind and 
who had given her up for dead.

There is an important difference here, in that the deliverance is effected 
from inside, by one of the persons swallowed. In the story of "Little Red 
Stomach" ("Siswana Sibomvana" [1]) the boy is swallowed by a monster called 
"the owner of the water," but not further described, and when it died in 
consequence (nothing is said of his inflicting any further injury) cut his 
way out, and was none the worse.

But in the great majority of Bantu stories the Swallower is cut open, as by 
Ditaolane, and usually (though not always) by a small boy. The Zulu story 
last mentioned has points of contact with a curious and rather repulsive 
incident occurring in some of the animal tales, in which the tortoise, or 
some other creature, gains entrance to the body of some large animal and 
proceeds to eat it from the inside. We find this outside the Bantu area, 
among the Malinke of French West Africa and the Temne of Sierra Leone, [2] 
and Dr Nassau has recorded [3] from the Bantu-speaking Benga of Spanish 
Guinea the story of the giant goat, who was done to death through the greed 
of the tortoise and the leopard.

The Devouring Pumpkin
In the story of Tselane [4] it was seen that the slain ogre was changed into 
a tree. In "The Children and the Ogre [zimwe]"-told in Swahili, but 
apparently coming from the Yao tribe-a pumpkin-vine springs up on the spot 
where he died. This in due course produces pumpkins, and one of these, 
apparently offended by the remarks of some passing children, breaks off its 
stem and rolls after

[1. Theal, Yellow and Dark-shinned People of Africa, p. 227. Also in South 
African Folk-Lore Journal, March 1879, P. 26.

2 Cronise and Ward, Cunnie Rabbit, p. 231.

3 Where Animals Talk, p. 202.

4. See ante, p. 180.]

them. In Usambara a gourd or pumpkin appears as the Swallowing Monster. 
Nothing is said as to its origin, but a comparison with the Swahili story 
suggests that it may have been the reincarnation of some ogre or wicked 
magician.'

Some little boys, playing in the gardens outside their village, noticed a 
very large gourd, and said, "just see how big that gourd is getting!" Then 
the gourd spoke and said, "If you pluck me I'll pluck you!" They went home 
and told what they had heard, and their mother refused to believe them, 
saying, "Children, you lie!" But their sisters asked to be shown the place 
where the boys had seen the talking gourd. It was pointed out to them, and 
they at once went there by themselves, and said, as their brothers had done, 
"just see how big that gourd is getting!" But nothing happened. They went 
home, and, of course, said that the boys had been making fun of them. Then 
the boys went again and heard the gourd speak as before. But when the girls 
went it was silent. It would probably have been contrary to custom for all 
to go together.

The gourd continued to grow: it became as big as a house, and began 
swallowing all the people in the village. Only one woman escaped-we are not 
told how. Having swallowed every one within reach, the gourd made its way 
into a lake and stayed there.

In a short time the woman bore a boy, and, apparently, they lived on 
together on the site of the ruined village. When the boy had grown older he 
asked his mother one day where his father was. She said, "He was swallowed 
up by a gourd which has gone into the lake." So he went forth, and when he 
came to a lake he called out, "Gourd, come out! Gourd, come out!" There was 
no answer, and he went on to another lake and repeated his command. He saw 
"one ear of the gourd" come out of the water (by which it would appear that 
the gourd had by this time assumed some sort of animal shape), and climbed a 
tree, where he kept on shouting, "Gourd, come out!" At last the gourd came 
out and set off in pursuit of him; but he

[1. Seidel, Geschichlen und Lieder der Afrikaner, p. 174]

ran home and asked his mother for his bow and quiver. He hastened back, and 
when he came in sight of the monster loosed an arrow and hit it. He shot 
again and again, till, wounded by the tenth arrow, it died, roaring " so 
that it could be heard from here to Vuga."[1] The boy then called to his 
mother to bring a knife, and the usual ending follows. It may be worth while 
to remark that the young chief seems to have lived out his life without 
further trouble.

Another Talking Pumpkin
The pumpkin-monster who swallowed up a whole population is also found, but 
in a totally different Setting-in a Kiniramba story collected by Mr 
Frederick johnson.[2] Here the first part, relating how Kiali left her 
husband because he had murdered her sister, and was thrown into a hole and 
left for dead by a porcupine on her way to her mother's village, has very 
little to do with the episode which mainly concerns us. The connecting-link 
is the porcupine, which assumed Kiali's shape and took her place in her 
home, till exposed by the recovery of the real Kiali. They threw it on the 
fire, and "it died, and they buried it in the fireplace." Next morning a 
pumpkin was seen growing on the spot, and, some one remarking on it, it 
repeated the words. Everything that was said before it it repeated, and when 
they brought an axe to make an end of this uncanny growth "they were 
swallowed, and it swallowed all the people in the land, except a woman who 
was with child and had hidden herself in some cave." The child, when born, 
asked, "Where are the people?" and, on being told, went off to forge a 
weapon. This boy, Mlilua, is the hero of another story where, in somewhat 
different circumstances, people who have been swallowed are restored to 
life. In this one he set out to seek the giant (lintu) of whom

[1. The old capital of the Shambala paramount chiefs, distant about twenty-
five miles from the mission station where one gathers that the story was 
told.

2 The Aniramba are to be found in the central districts of Tanganyika 
Territory
(Kiniramba Folk-tales, p. 334).]

his mother had told him, and brought her one animal after another (beginning 
with a grasshopper!) only to be told every time that this was not the right 
one. In the same way the lad in the Swahili tale of "Sultan Majnun" brought 
his mother the various animals he had killed, hoping that each one was "the 
Nunda, eater of people."[1]

At last Mlilua found the monster bathing, and shot an arrow at it. He went 
on shooting, while his mother sang, "My son, throw the spines, Kiali, 
hundred spines [of the porcupine]! If you do not throw to-day we shall be 
finished completely!" (It is not clear whether this is a figurative 
expression for arrows, or whether Mlilua really shot the spines of the 
porcupine at the monster. The mention of the name Kiali refers to the fact 
that the pumpkin took its origin from the porcupine which had personated the 
woman Kiali.)

At last the giant's strength was exhausted, and he said to Millua, When you 
begin cutting me begin at the back. If you cut me in front you will kill 
your people." Having said this, he died. Mlilua took the hint, and the 
people, cattle, goats, and fowls came out safely, all except one old woman, 
who, being in an awkward place, had her ear cut. She apparently accepted his 
apologies, and made some beer, which she invited him to drink. But she 
bewitched (poisoned?) him, and Mlilua died.

Three Variants
In the Delagoa Bay region the 'Swallowing' (or 'Engulfing') Monster theme is 
represented, in a somewhat different form, by two tales [2]: in one a little 
herd-boy, swallowed by a cannibal ogre, made him so uncomfortable that the 
ogre's own companions, with his consent, cut him open and thus released-not 
only the boy, but all the people and cattle previously swallowed.

In the other tale the giant Ngumbangumba is killed by the boy Bokenyane, 
who, like Kachirambe, is produced from an abscess on his mother's leg, but, 
unlike him, is followed

[1. See infra, p. 220.

2 Junod, Chants et contes, pp. 198 and 200.]

by two younger brothers. Bokenyane first hit the ogre with an arrow, and the 
other two went on shooting at him till he died. It was the mother who cut 
the body open-in this case with an axe. The conclusion is somewhat unusual. 
After the people had begun rebuilding their villages they asked who was 
their deliverer; the mother answered, "It is Bokenyane." They gave the three 
brothers five wives apiece, and then chose Bokenyane for their chief, 
because it was he who had shot the first arrow.

The other two were not pleased with this decision, and Bochurwane, the 
second, said, Let me reign!" Bokenyane refused absolutely, but his brothers 
dispossessed him by force, and he fled into the bush, where, in the end, he 
went mad.

Mrs Dewar's Chinamwanga collection[1] contains two very different versions 
of the same tale-one, certainly, incomplete. This one opens like "Tselane," 
but, as a brother and sister are concerned, it also recalls "Demane and 
Demazana" and the almost too well known parallel in Grimm. It begins by 
saying that " Once upon a time a goblin [ichitumbu] ate up all the people in 
the world. Only two remained-Nachiponda and Changala."

But when Changala had killed the goblin with his spear nothing further is 
recorded. When first wounded he said, "A hippo-fly has stung me"-just as 
Ngumbangumba, as each arrow hit him, remarked, "The mosquitoes are biting 
me."

The second story, called "Ichitumbu," begins and ends like most of the 
others, but the mother is shut up in a hut by her two sons (as Tselane is by 
her parents) while they go to hunt, and foolishly opens the door to the 
goblin. He suggests 'playing'; she wrestles with him, but is overcome and 
carried off. The boys come up in time, set their dogs on the goblin, and 
rescue her. Next day (in spite of the sons' warning) the same thing happens, 
and again on the day after that; but this time she is killed and eaten. The 
sons bring about the usual ending, and so "became chiefs, and the people 
honoured them."

[1. See Chapter VII, p. 106.]

Yet another version has been obtained from the Duala people, in the far 
north-west, but quite sufficient have already been given.

The Nunda
Quite a different line of thought, which may or may not have developed out 
of the "Swallowing Monster" idea, is that connected with "the Nunda, eater 
of people." This is found in the story of "Sultan Majnun," [1] but has 
little if any connexion with the first part of the story, which relates how 
a bird year after year stole the dates from the sultan's garden, till 
defeated by his youngest son. This may be of exotic origin, but the Nunda, 
whether under this name or another, is not confined to Swahili-speaking 
Africans. The peculiarities of this particular version seem to be: the Nunda 
begins as an ordinary cat, which, being left unmolested when catching and 
eating the chickens, grows in size and fierceness with each successive year, 
till it ends as a monstrous creature larger than an elephant. Secondly, 
though it has devoured everything it came across, nothing is ever recovered. 
The youngest son, who kills the Nunda in the end, does so only after 
bringing in a succession of animals, each larger than the last, and ending 
with an elephant. He is told by his mother, on every occasion, "My son, this 
is not he, the Nunda, eater of people."

This "method of trial and error" is that followed by Mlilua in the Kiniramba 
tale, which, however, in what follows is true to the main type of the 
'Swallower' stories.

Jonah's Whale, the Frog, and the Tortoise
Both Tylor and W. A. Clouston (though the latter does not mention the 
African legend we have been discussing in the pages he devotes to "Men 
swallowed by Monster Fish" [2]) associate the Biblical story of Jonah with 
the same class of ideas. Whether or not one can suppose any original 
connexion, there is this important difference that Jonah was

[1. Steere, Swahili Tales, pp. 199 and 247.

2. Popular Tales and Fictions, vol. i, pp. 403-411.]

returned to the upper air unharmed, and (so far as one knows) without injury 
to the whale. But in all but one of the examples he quotes as parallels the 
fish is cut open. In these two cases we have a link with a curious incident 
which occurs more than once in African ogre-tales: a frog, or in some cases 
a tortoise, swallows some children in order to save them from the ogre, and 
produces them safe and sound at their home. A good, typical instance of this 
class of tale is that given by M. Junod [1]under the title of "L'Homme-au-
Grand-Coutelas." We have the usual set of incidents-girls passing the night 
in the ogre's hut and saved by the wakefulness of one among them; the 
friendly frog is less frequently met with, but Dr Doke has a similar ending 
to the story of "The Great Water-snake and the People." [2] A man of the Luo 
tribe (a non-Bantu-speaking people commonly called 'Kavirondo' in Kenya 
Colony) told me much the same story, in which the girls were swallowed by a 
tortoise.

Those of us who have been brought up on Grimm will easily remember "The Wolf 
and the Kids," which, like "Red Riding-hood," if not springing from the same 
root, must have originated in a similar stratum of thought. The differences 
of background and colouring are as interesting as the resemblance persisting 
through the long course of development which has separated the European 
stream of tradition from the African.

[1. Chants et contes, p. 144.

2 Lamba Folklore, p. 247- See infra, p. 300.]

CHAPTER XV: LIGHTNING, THUNDER, RAIN, AND THE RAINBOW
IT is only natural that lightning and thunder should powerfully affect the 
human imagination all the world over.

Even when their causes are more or less understood there are few or none but 
must feel a peculiar thrill at sight of the flash and sound of the answering 
roar. To the primitive mind lightning is a living thing, instinct with 
destructive power, thunder the voice of some angry spirit or supra-mundane 
animal. Lightning is, perhaps, most often conceived of as a bird, and there 
seems no reason to doubt the good faith of those who declare they have 
actually seen it.

Various descriptions are given of it: sometimes it becomes identified with 
an actual bird; thus the Amandebele give the name of isivolovolo both to the 
'bird of heaven' (inyoni yezulu) and to the white-necked fish-eagle, which 
flies at a great height and whose droppings possess magical properties.

Dudley Kidd, in Bomvanaland, had a brown bird pointed out to him as the 
lightning-bird. He was about to shoot it, but was dissuaded, and therefore 
presumably was unable to determine its species, as he gives no further 
information. The bird known to Afrikanders as 'hammerkop' (the tufted umber) 
seems in some way to be associated with lightning as well as rain; to 
destroy its nest is to bring down a storm.

The Lightning-bird described
One of Bishop Callaway's informants had seen a feather of the lightning-
bird, which may very possibly have been a peacock's feather, as it is a fact 
that peacocks' feathers were sold in Natal about 1860 by some enterprising 
person who declared that they had been obtained from the 'heavenbird.'[1] 
According to this man, the bird "is quite peculiar, for its feathers 
glisten. A man may think it is red; again he sees that it is not so-it is 
green." [2] This suggests a kind

[1. Amazulu, p. 119.

2 Ibid., p. 383.]

of metallic iridescence, so that it is not surprising if peacocks' feathers 
were accepted as being the genuine article. Another account says that it has 
a red bill, red legs, and a short red tail, like fire; "its feathers are 
bright and dazzling, and it is very fat."

The Xosas call this bird impundulu-a name nowadays adopted for an electric 
tram-car! It is said to "appear as such"-that is to say, in its proper form 
as a bird-only to women, but Dr Hewat [1] does not mention what women, if 
any, have ever seen it. When it darts down as lightning people only see the 
flash.

It lays a big egg where it strikes, which eggs bring ill-luck to the 
neighbourhood where laid. The only way to circumvent the bird is to stand 
ready with a kerrie and hit right through the flash. . . . No one has ever 
succeeded in killing one yet.

He goes on to say that the doctor [2] is supposed to dig up the egg in order 
to destroy it; but it is somewhat inconsistent with this to be told in the 
next sentence that "the possession of the egg would bring great good 
fortune."

The Lightning-bird's Nest found in Mashonaland
The destruction of the egg seems elsewhere to be considered essential, as 
would appear from a very interesting account by a magistrate in Mashonaland, 
writing under the name'Mbizo.'[3] He says that, the lightning having struck 
a tree near the native messengers' camp at his station, a woman doctor was 
called in. After examining the place she ran to and fro, round and round, 
and at last fixed on a spot, which she marked by sticking a horn into the 
earth, and said that the eggs would be found there. (It seems that none but 
natives were present at this ceremony.) "Digging operations followed"; but 
it is not said who dug, which is not without importance. The three 
Government messengers who were looking on reported that not far from the 
surface a small round hole was found, very smooth, as if plastered; digging 
down from this, at a depth of some two

[1. Bantu Folklore, p. 91.

2. Isanusi; in Natal he is inyanga yezulu.

3 Nada (1924), p. 60.]

feet they found a nest with two eggs-quite ordinary looking eggs apparently. 
The magistrate, on examining the spot, could find no trace of the smooth 
hole, nor any reason to doubt that the woman had placed the nest in the 
excavation herself, probably diverting the spectators' attention, as 
conjurors know how, at the critical moment. When he dropped the eggs on the 
ground and broke them (they were unmistakably addled) all the people present 
fled in real terror; but some one must have returned later-perhaps the 
doctor herself-for "all particles of the eggs were carefully gathered, 
doctored, and thrown into a deep pool in the Sebakwe River."

This was done to prevent the lightning striking again in the same spot, 
which, as a matter of fact, it never did, in this instance, up to the time 
of writing, though fifteen years had passed since the incident took place. 
If these precautions are omitted it is believed that the bird will come back 
to pick up its eggs, "with probably fatal results."

Mr Guy Taylor, the editor of Nada, has in his possession a curious 
earthenware object, turned up by the plough near the Chikuni Mission,[1] 
which the natives declare is "an egg laid by lightning." None of the local 
natives (Batonga and Baila) had ever seen anything like it.

Heaven-doctors
The Natal 'heaven-doctors' are more concerned with the bird itself than with 
its eggs. They set a bowl of amasi mixed with various medicines in the place 
where they wish the lightning to strike, and when they see the flash rush 
forward and kill the bird. It seems to have been believed that this had 
repeatedly happened. The bird was boiled down for the sake of its fat, which 
was a very precious medicine, used, among other purposes, for anointing the 
sticks held by the 'heaven-herds' in the ceremony of conjuring the 
lightning, to be described presently. The Bomvanas, it would seem, do not 
recognize the possibility of this procedure, if Dudley Kidd was correct in 
stating it

[1. In Northern Rhodesia.]

as their belief that "the bird sets its own fat on fire and throws it down."

Chimungu of the Baronga
The Baronga identify the lightning-bird with a hawk called chimungu, which 
is believed to bury itself in the ground where it strikes. These people 
credit the 'medicine' prepared from it with the peculiar virtue of enabling 
its possessor to detect thieves. One has not heard of this use of it among 
the Zulus, with their well-known character for honesty. When lightning has 
struck any spot of ground and burnt up the grass on it the Ronga chief 
"casts the bones," and then sends for the professional expert. This man 
arrives, with a long black stick in his hand, digs at the spot indicated, 
and finds the bird, alive or dead; one supposes that in the former case he 
kills it, but this is not specified. He then carefully measures the depth of 
the hole, making a notch on his stick for future reference, takes the bird 
home, roasts it, and grinds it to powder. What is done when a case of theft 
is reported may be read in M. Junod's book.[1]

The Girl who saw the Lightning-bird
A Tumbuka native told the Rev. Donald Fraser that he had never seen the 
lightning-bird, "but a girl of our village saw it not long ago." It was a 
large black bird, with "a big, curling tail, like a cock's." It seems to 
have splashed into a pool of water near where she was hoeing in her garden, 
and then to have "run up her hoe and scratched her," after which it flew 
back into the clouds. As the narrator had seen "the marks of its claws on 
her body" it is probable that the girl had really been struck by lightning, 
which has been known to leave curious scars. Further, it is believed that 
"those little scarlet insects you see on the path during the rains are the 
children of the lightning."[2]

The lakeside people of Buziba (on the eastern shore of Lake Victoria) think 
lightning and thunder are caused by

[1. The Life of a South African Tribe, vol. ii, pp. 403-404

2. Winning a Primitive People, p. 65.]

flocks of small, glittering red birds, which nest in the rocks near the 
lake. When Kayura, ruler of the storm (he is the son of the one-legged lake-
god Mugasha), is so disposed he sends these birds out: the flashing of their 
feathers is the lightning and the rushing sound of their wings the thunder. 
During a thunderstorm Mugasha's missing leg is said to be seen in the 
clouds-a phenomenon of which, so far as I am aware, no explanation has been 
offered.

Other Embodiments of Lightning
But birds are not the only creatures held responsible for, or supposed to be 
connected with, the lightning. The Lambas [1] say that with the flash an 
animal like a goat, but with the hind legs and tail of a crocodile, descends 
to earth, let down by a cord like a "strong cobweb." Ordinarily it is drawn 
up again, but should the 'cobweb' break the animal would be heard crying 
like a goat, "and the people run together to kill and burn it." They cannot 
do this without being protected by special 'medicine,' as it is highly 
dangerous to approach the creature.

No one will use for firewood a tree which has been struck by lightning, 
while the Zulus (and other cattle-breeding peoples) will never eat the flesh 
of an animal so killed, unless it has been 'doctored' and they themselves 
have been washed with the proper 'medicines.' It is a world-wide notion, 
quite easy to understand, that any person or thing marked for destruction by 
this mysterious power must be tabu. So the Romans used to sacrifice a sheep 
on the spot where anyone had been struck by lightning, and made it a sacred 
place for ever. The Bushongo people of the Kasai suppose lightning to be an 
animal something like a leopard, but black. It is called "Tsetse Bumba," and 
is the subject of a curious legend.[2] Bumba, the creator, after producing 
nine creatures, of which Tsetse was one, and, subsequently, the human race, 
imposed on them various tabus, which are observed to this day. But Tsetse 
refused to obey these

[1. Doke, The Lambas of Northern Rhodesia, p. 225.

2. Torday and Joyce, Les Bushongo, p. 20.]

rules, and began working mischief; so Bumba drove her from the earth, and 
she took refuge in the sky, where she has dwelt ever since. But when people 
began to suffer because they could not get fire Bumba allowed her to return 
now and then, and, though every one of these occasions was marked by 
disaster, men were able to light their fires from trees which had been 
struck, and thenceforth carefully kept them burning in their huts.

The Lightning-dog of the Congo
The people of the Lower Congo call lightning Nzazi (or Nsasi); with them it 
takes the form of a kind of magic dog, either red or black, with shaggy hair 
and a curly tail. When he comes down he gives one sharp bark-ta!-and with 
the second bark he goes up again. No charm can avail against him, and 
neither wizard nor witch-doctor has power to avert his attacks. The Zulus, 
however, know better, as we shall see. R. E. Dennett was told this story by 
a Luangu man:

A man met a beautiful dog, and was so pleased with its appearance that he 
determined to take it home with him. As it was raining heavily he took it 
with him inside his shimbee (hut) and, lighting a fire, proceeded to dry and 
warm his pet. Suddenly there was an explosion, and neither man, dog, nor 
shimbee were ever seen again. This dog was Nsasi, so Antonio told me.[2]

This same man, Antonio Lavadeiro (the Lower Congo people very often have 
Portuguese names), had a strange experience on his own account, which seems 
to imply that Nzazi is not himself a dog, but hunts with twelve couple of 
hounds. Here Nzazi is the thunder, and his dogs the lightning. Antonio was 
playing at marbles under a shed with some friends during a heavy shower of 
rain, when "it thundered frightfully, and Nzazi sent his twenty-four dogs 
down upon them. They seized one of the party who had left the shed for a 
moment, and the fire burnt up a living palm-tree." [3]

[1. Torday, writing in French, made Tsetse feminine, but this may only have
been because of the gender of la foudre.

2. The Black Man's Mind, p. 138.

3. Folk-lore of the Fjort, P. 7.]

But Antonio also told of a man, still living when he spoke, who had been 
caught up to heaven by a flash of lightning and had a very good time there 
for two or three weeks. He was then asked by Nzambi (God) himself whether he 
would rather stay for ever or return to earth. He said he wanted to return, 
as he missed his friends and relations. So he was sent back to them.

Dudley Kidd mentions, somewhat vaguely, "a fat baby said by the people of 
Mashonaland to cause the thunder when it crawls on the ground after 
descending from the sky at the spot where the lightning struck the earth. No 
further details are given about this infant, which seems to have been 
reported at second or third hand, or even less directly. We have already 
seen that some, at least, of the Mashona believe in the lightning-bird.

The Balungwana
But one wonders whether there may be some obscure connexion with the 
balungwana of the Baronga. These are tiny beings, sometimes called 'dwarfs' 
(psimhunwanyana), but more often by the name which seems to mean 'little 
Europeans.'[2] They are said to come down from the sky when heavy rain is 
falling; if there is thunder without rain people say, "The balungwana are 
playing up there." Nothing is said about lightning in connexion with them, 
and they sometimes appear before a great disaster, such as the locust 
visitation of 18 94, when "a little man and a little woman" fell from the 
sky and said to the people, "Do not kill the locusts; they belong to us[1]" 
In 1862, just before the war between two rival Gaza chiefs, a mulungwana 
alighted on a hill at Lourenço Marques, and was seen by many people. 
M.Junod's informant had not himself seen him: he was "too little" at the 
time, and his parents would not let him go and look. He added, surprisingly, 
that "the white men

[1. The Essential Kafir, p. 121.

2 Junod, Life of a South African Tribe, vol. ii, P. 405. Possibly the name 
is not, as one thinks at first, a diminutive of the Ronga word for 'white 
men' (perhaps borrowed from Zulu), but of a plural of Mulungu, as used by 
many East African tribes, though not by the Baronga. In that case it would 
mean ' little gods.']

seized him and took him to Mozambique." It does not appear that any 
inquiries were made of the Portuguese authorities concerning this 
extraordinary capture.

Heaven-herds, or Heaven-doctors
Thunderstorms being exceedingly frequent and violent in tropical and sub-
tropical Africa, more particularly, perhaps, in the south, where the 
abundance of ironstone in the hills may add to the danger from lightning, 
the art-or science-of averting them, or, at any rate, of preventing damage, 
has been developed in great detail. The Zulus have their 'heaven-herds' (who 
shepherd the thunderclouds), or 'heaven-doctors.' They instinctively feel a 
storm coming on, a faculty acquired by what is called 'eating the heaven'-
that is, eating the flesh of a beast killed by lightning-they also make cuts 
in their bodies and rub in a 'medicine' compounded from this flesh, with, in 
addition, that of the lightning-bird, scrapings from the 'thunderbolt,' and, 
perhaps, certain herbs. The 'thunderbolt' may be a meteorite; it is said to 
be "a thing like the shank of an assagai," which buries itself in the ground 
where the lightning strikes, the spot being marked by "a heap of jelly-like 
substance." The 'doctor,' who has been watching the flash, at once digs here 
and finds the object.

These experts are supposed to turn back hail and lightning, but not rain, 
which, in a land of frequent and disastrous droughts, is a blessing 
anxiously awaited. They have to undergo a special initiation and observe 
certain tabus, which do not, to our thinking, seem to have much point: for 
instance, they must never drink from a cup of beer unless it is quite full, 
or eat izindumba beans unless given to them. But if these and other 
prohibitions are infringed the 'doctor' loses his power, and if he is 
unsuccessful in averting a storm it is at once attributed to his not having 
'fasted'-a term which includes other matters besides abstinence from food.

When a storm is coming on the inyanga yezulu seizes his sticks, which have 
been rubbed with the proper 'medicines,' and takes up his station outside 
the house-sometimes on the wall of the cattle-fold, if this is of stone. He 
brandishes his sticks, and shouts, 'scolding the heaven,' ordering the storm 
to depart, and whistling to it as herd-boys do to their cattle. While this 
goes on no one in the house is supposed to speak; and if it is hailing 
people do no work, for this, it is believed, would attract the lightning.

Birds which bring Rain
Rain, of course, is a pressing preoccupation for many natives of Africa, and 
the professional rain-doctor is an important person. He will be more fitly 
treated in the next chapter; but there are also rain-rites in which all the 
people take part, and rain-charms which may be used by individuals. Thus the 
ground horribill (insingizi [1]) is a bird intimately associated with rain. 
When there has been no rain for some time they catch an insingizi, kill it, 
and throw it into a pool, when, "if it rains"-for it seems as if this result 
were by no means certain-" it is said it rains for the sake of the insingizi 
which has been killed: the heaven becomes soft; it wails for it by raining, 
wailing a funeral wail." [2] If a number of these birds are seen gathered 
together in one place, uttering their cries, it is supposed that they are 
calling for rain, and that it will soon follow.

The Bateleur eagle (ingqungqulu) is looked to for omens of various kinds; 
among others it announces the coming of rain. But it is not, like the other 
bird, used as a rain-charm.

Shouting for Rain
The feast of first-fruits (ukutshwama) was formerly, perhaps is still, held 
in or about the month of January, when the new crops begin to be fit for 
use. But it sometimes happens that the rains have been late in coming, and 
consequently there is no 'new food' to be eaten. On such occasions the 
assembled people intone 'magical songs,'

[1. The dictionaries give both 'ground hornbill' and 'turkey-buzzard' as 
equivalents for insingirti. There is no clue as to which is meant here, but 
I imagine the former.

2 Callaway, Amazulu, p. 407.]

which are believed to produce the desired effect. These same songs may also 
be used with the opposite intention, viz., to stop excessive and long-
continued rain when an army is on the march.

I have heard people 'shouting for rain' on the slopes of Mount Bangwe, in 
the Shire Highlands, with weird, wailing cries-perhaps calling on the spirit 
of the old chief Kankomba, who used to be invoked for the same purpose in 
Duff Macdonald's day.[1] But this is straying too far from our proper 
subject, and it is time to consider the myths of the rainbow.

The Rainbow
Africans have been struck not so much by the beauty of the rainbow as by its 
strangeness, and they nearly always look on it as malignant and dangerous. 
This may seem unaccountable to us, accustomed to think of it as the symbol 
of hope, and familiar with the lovely figure of Iris, the messenger of the 
gods. But it is a common belief that it stops the rain, and this is quite 
enough to constitute it an enemy. Its colours are sometimes said to be the 
glow of a destroying fire: "If it settles on the trees," said a Luyi man to 
Emile Jacottet, "it will burn all the leaves." It is curiously associated 
with ant-heaps, in which it is supposed to live. Anyone who sees it-that is, 
sees the place where its end seems to rest on the earth-runs away as fast as 
he can: "if he sees you he will kill you." It is described--one cannot see 
why-as an animal as big as a jackal, with a bushy tail. Others say it is 
like a many-coloured snake,[2]

[1. Africana, vol. i, p. 70.

2 Virgil, in the fifth book of the Æneid (84-93), tells how, when Æneas had 
made offerings at his father's tomb, a snake came out from "the foot of the 
shrine" and glided round it seven times. Its scales were blue and gold, and 
glittered in many colours like the rainbow. It tasted the food and drink 
there set out, and then crept back into the earth whence it came. Æneas did 
not know whether to think it "the genius of the place" or an attendant on 
his father: an African would never have doubted that it was Anchises 
himself. The reference to the rainbow is curious, but must not be pressed as 
indicating that in ancient Italy it was thought of as a snake; while in 
Africa the rainbow snake has no connexion with the ancestral ghost.]

which is more intelligible. Some Zulus say that it is a sheep, or lives with 
a sheep. The common Zulu expression for it, however (the only one I remember 
to have heard), is utingo lwenkosikazi, 'the Queen's arch'-that is, one of 
the arched wattles forming the hut of that mysterious being the Queen of 
Heaven, concerning whom it is difficult to obtain exact information.

The Kikuyu [1] say it is a 'wicked animal,' which lives in the water, comes 
out at night, eats goats and cattle, and has even been known to eat people. 
There was one which lived in Lake Nalvasha and swallowed the cattle of the 
Masai, but was at last killed by the young warriors. This, it seems, was 
related as an actual occurrence.

It is worth noting that the Kikuyu say, "the rainbow in the water [in the 
spray from a waterfall] and the sky is not the animal itself, but its 
picture," because in a very distant region of West Africa the Ewe (in Togo) 
say the same thing: the rainbow is the reflection of the snake in the 
clouds. These people also think that it hides in an ant-hill, whence it 
rises up after rain.

One of the Kikuyu stories of the rainbow ("The Giant of the Great Water") 
could really be classed with those about the Swallowing Monster, recounted 
in a previous chapter.

The Baganda are perhaps exceptional in their way of regarding the rainbow, 
whom they call Musoke; he is the patron of fishermen. It is wrong, by the 
by, to point at the rainbow, so they say: anyone who does so will find his 
finger become stiff. The Baila,[2] on the contrary, point at the rainbow to 
drive it away, not with the finger, but with the pestle used for pounding 
grain. They call it the bow of Leza (God), but none the less credit it with 
preventing the fall of rain.

Where the Rainbow ends
"They have a curious idea that just below where the bow touches earth there 
is a very fierce goat-ram, which burns

[1. W. S. and K. Routledge, With a Prehistoric People, pp. 307-314.

2. Smith and Dale, The Ila-speaking Peoples, vol. ii, p. 220.]

like fire." But here and there one comes upon traces of the notion-familiar 
to us in Europe-that some treasure would be found at the point where the 
rainbow touches the ground, if one could only reach it. The Ewe (who, 
however, need not concern us here) think this is where the valuable 'Aggrey 
beads' are to be found. A Chaga story told by Dr Gutmann[1] relates how a 
needy Dorobo set out from his home to ask Iruwa for cattle. When he came to 
the " rainbow's end " he stood still and uttered his prayer. And this he did 
for many days. But no cattle appeared. Then he was seized with rage (the 
story-teller says, " his heart rose up "); he drew his sword and cut the 
rainbow in two. Half of it flew up to the sky; the other half fell to the 
ground and sank in, making a deep hole. Nothing more is said about the 
Dorobo; one would not be surprised to learn that he perished miserably as a 
punishment for his presumption. Later on some people came upon the hole and, 
climbing down, found "another country." They came back and reported what 
they had seen: those to whom they told it would not believe them. So they 
went down again, and returned with vessels full of milk, which convinced the 
sceptics. But some lions had followed them down, and the next time any 
people descended they found no one there, the inhabitants having emigrated. 
(It is not actually stated that the first explorers found any people in the 
underground region, but it must be understood that they are implied in the 
mention of milk.) They heard the growling of the lions, and made the best of 
their way back, as they had come. Since then no one has ventured down the 
pit. Frankly, I do not know what to make of this.

Rainbow Snakes
The people of Luangu hold, if Dennett was correctly informed, that there are 
two rainbows, a good and an evil one. But the rainbow snakes, which seem to 
be distinct from these two, are six, and not one. They correspond to the 
colours of the rainbow, which are counted as six, not seven-perhaps

[1. Volksbuch, p. 153.]

no distinction is drawn between indigo and blue. (But this writer's 
statements about numbers must be received with caution, because one never 
knows how much he read into what he was told by the people themselves.)

In Mayombe, to the east of Luangu, the rainbow is called Mbumba Luangu. It 
is, says Père Bittremieux,[1] an enormous nkisi-snake, which comes out of 
water and wriggles up the nearest high tree when it wants to stop the rain. 
It is worshipped (if that is the correct word to use in this connexion) by 
the secret society of the Bakimba. There is a saying that you should not 
stand still in the place where the rainbow appears to shoot up from the 
earth, nor stare at the mist whence it rises. If you do so your eyes will 
become dim and misty.

So much for the rainbow.

[1. Idioticon, vol. i, p. 387.]

CHAPTER XVI: DOCTORS, PROPHETS, AND WITCHES
THE term 'witch-doctor' is often loosely used, as if it were synonymous with 
'witch' or 'sorcerer.' This is something like putting the policeman and the 
detective in the same category as the criminal. There may be witchdoctors 
who are-scoundrels, as there may be unjust magistrates or corrupt policemen; 
but, on the whole, the witchdoctor is a force on the side of law and 
justice, and one does not see how, where a belief in witchcraft is firmly 
rooted in the minds of the people, he could well be dispensed with. His 
office is to detect and prevent crime and bring offenders to justice, and 
his methods are on the whole less barbarous than those of Matthew Hopkins, 
the witch-finder.

No African would ever confuse these two personages: the 'doctor' is inyanga 
(mganga, sing'anga), the witch mchawi, or mfiti, or umtagati.

But the Zulu word inyanga, like our 'doctor,' covers a variety of meanings; 
properly it denotes a person skilled in any art or knowledge: a blacksmith, 
for instance, is inyanga yensimbi, "a doctor of iron." So the inyanga may be 
either a diviner or a herbalist, or both at the same time; possibly, also, a 
seer or prophet.

The Doctor's Training
The diviner and the herbalist learn their business in the ordinary way, 
being trained by a professional, to whom they act as assistants till duly 
qualified. The rules of the diviner's art have been carefully studied by M. 
Junod, and fully described in his book The Life of a South African Tribe.[1] 
The seer is usually a man of a peculiar, nervous temperament, either known 
as such from childhood or seeming to

[1. Vol. ii, pp. 493-519. Smith and Dale (The Ila-speaking Peoples, vol. i, 
pp. 265-272) enumerate nine methods of divination, all different from that 
of the 'divining-bones' used by the Baronga, Zulus, and others. An 
interesting point is the statement of a diviner, apparently made in all good 
faith, that the spirits of his father and mother were contained in his 
"medicine gourd," and it was they who gave the answers to the questions 
put.]

develop special powers after a dangerous illness. He has to undergo a severe 
initiation, spending a great deal of time alone in the wilds. Some say that 
this condition is brought about through possession by a spirit. The 
Lambas[1] think there are certain goblins (ifinkuwaila, already mentioned in 
Chapter XIII) with only half a body who wander about, invisible, in troops, 
hopping along on their one leg. Sometimes the fancy takes one of them to 
possess a human being, and then he or she (for they are of both sexes and 
all ages) hits some passer-by in the face. It is not clear whether the man 
feels anything at the time, but after reaching his home he is taken ill, and 
begins to see visions-perhaps a procession of "beings in endless march 
across the heavens, going westward, arrayed in feather headdresses and 
carrying their sleeping-mats." [2] He has then to be treated by some person 
already initiated, and is thenceforward known as a mowa. He can always see 
the one-legged goblins, which are invisible to other people; he becomes 
peculiarly skilled in dancing, and acquires the power of composing special 
songs and singing them. These people are called in to sing and dance at 
funerals and other ceremonies, and, being paid for their services, make 
quite a good thing of it.

Prophets
The prophet is able to see what is happening at a distance, to predict the 
future, and to receive and deliver messages from spiritual beings, whether 
the ghosts of ancestors or others. The immense influence wielded by such men 
has been proved over and over again by such incidents as the "cattle-
killing" of 1856, when Umhlakaza, passing on the messages received in trance 
by his niece (some say his daughter) Nongqauze, prophesied that when the 
people had slaughtered all their cattle and emptied their grain-bins, so as 
to leave themselves no store of food,. the old dead chiefs would come back, 
bringing with them huge herds of splendid beasts, and the white men would 
leave the country, never to return. The sun would rise blood-red, and

[1. Doke, The Lambas of Northern Rhodesia, p. 251.

2. Ibid., p. 253]

the pits would be miraculously filled to overflowing with food. All this was 
firmly believed by many people, and the resulting tragedy is only too well 
known. About twenty-five thousand lives are thought to have been lost in the 
famine.

Umhlakaza had an official standing as a doctor, and is said to have himself 
seen visions confirming what his niece had told him. The girl used to sit by 
a pool, where she saw faces of people and other images in the water-in fact, 
practised what is known as crystal-gazing, though she seems to have been 
subject to trances as well.

Trances
The trance is a familiar phenomenon among the Bantu tribes. Doctors induce 
it in themselves, or others, by means known to themselves, probably chewing 
certain herbs or inhaling the smoke of them when burned. The practitioners 
of the Wakuluwe [1] prepare a drink known as Lukansi, which gives the 
drinker "invulnerability, superhuman strength, and the power to know and see 
things withheld from ordinary people."

But trances also occur spontaneously. The Rev. Donald Fraser [2] heard of a 
man who had himself seen the abode of the spirits.

He was supposed to have died, and his body was tied up in a mat and prepared 
for burial, but . . . signs of returning life were seen. On his recovery he 
told how he had gone by a narrow road until he came to a great village where 
the people lived without marriage. He had spoken to them, but none would 
hold conversation with him. They told him to be gone, for he was not wanted 
there. He tried to tell his story, but no one would listen to him. They beat 
irons together and tried to drown his words, for he was too uncanny.

This is much the same as the tale of Mpobe and others like it, where people 
had similar experiences during their waking hours. But these are usually 
related as legends, not as having happened to people known to the narrators. 
There

[1. Melland and Cholmeley, Through the Heart Of, Africa, p. 21.

2. Winning a Primitive People, p. 126.]

is a novel touch here in the behaviour of the dead people. As a rule they 
are more civil, and, instead of silencing their visitor, content themselves 
with telling him not to talk about them on his return to the upper world.

Probably what happened to the man whose story was told by Antonio Lavadeiro 
[1] might also be described as a trance. He was either struck by lightning 
or stunned by a clap of thunder, and remained unconscious for two or three 
weeks, during which, according to his own account, he was caught up to the 
sky and very hospitably entertained by Nzambi Mpungu.

Possession
This trance state may be caused, according to African ideas, either by the 
person's spirit leaving his body and travelling off into unknown regions or 
by 'possession.' A Lamba man or woman may be possessed, as we have seen, by 
an ichinkuwaila goblin, but also by the ghosts of deceased human beings. 
There is quite an influential order of .people in this tribe who are 
possessed by spirits of Lenje chiefs, never by chiefs of their own tribe. 
The first sign of possession is a serious illness, for which no remedy seems 
to avail, and which brings on a state in which he "begins to speak in a 
weird way, using the most extravagant language, telling of wonderful things 
he says he has seen." [2]

It is the possessing spirits who enable such persons to prophesy. Sometimes 
their prophecies are said to have been fulfilled, as, for instance, that of 
those who told the people, long, long ago, "You will all drink out of one 
well," meaning that tribal differences would be disregarded, which was held 
to have come true when white men came into the country and put a stop to 
inter-tribal warfare.

Possibly some of these people are clairvoyants; others may have built up a 
reputation by means of some lucky guesses; but many, in Lambaland, at any 
rate, would appear to be unscrupulous impostors, who travel from place

[1. See ante, P. 228.

2. Doke, The Lambas ofNorthern Rhodesia, pp. 258-267.]

to place and charge substantial fees for their services. They deliver 
oracles from deceased chiefs, whose 'mediums' they are; they profess to 
bring rain in time of drought and to keep the birds from the crops; they 
practise incantations warranted to ensure luck in hunting and administer 
medicine to childless couples. Dr Doke knew a lazy ne'er-do-well who made 
quite a comfortable living in this way.

These wamukamwami are readily distinguished by their appearance; they never 
cut their hair, but wear it plaited in long tails, smeared with oil and red 
ochre and (in former times, at any rate) adorned with the white shell-disks 
which are the insignia of chieftainship. The 'ecstatic' seer of the Zulus 
seems always to, have a more or less unkempt appearance-which is only in 
character-but I do not know that he adopts any distinctive fashion. The 
getup of the witch-doctor proper is a different matter; of course, it varies 
locally, but an essential part of it is usually the tail of a zebra fitted 
into a handle and waved about in performing exorcisms or other operations. 
Bishop Peel of Mombasa used to carry a fly-whisk of this kind when on tour, 
and it was a favourite joke with his carriers to declare that he was a 
mganga.

The Lamba doctors proper, awalaye, are herbalists and diviners, and provide 
charms of all sorts, for protecting the crops and for other purposes. Charms 
of this kind are also supplied by the wamukamwami, a fact which illustrates 
the overlapping of functions already referred to.

Predictions fulfilled
More than one prophet is said to have foretold the coming of the Europeans-
among others one Mulenga in Ilala (Northern Rhodesia). He said, "There will 
arrive people white and shining, their bodies like those of locusts!" 
Whether this description was recognized as fitting the first white explorers 
when they made their appearance does not seem to have been recorded. Ilala 
is the scene of Living stone's last journey and death, but the prediction 
was probably made after his time, Mulenga also foretold the cattle plague of 
the early nineties and the locust invasion of 1894.

Podile, a chief of the Bapedi "in old times" (but unfortunately there is no 
clue to his date: 'old times' might mean in the time of the speaker's 
grandfather), prophesied the coming of the Boers by saying that "red ants 
will come and destroy the land and another wise man, about the same time, 
said, I see red ants coming. They have baskets on their heads [hats]. Their 
feet are those of zebras [the impression produced by boots]. Their sticks 
give out fire [guns]. They travel with houses; the oxen walk in front. 
Receive them kindly." This was supposed to be fulfilled when Trichard's 
party arrived in 1837.[1] If the prediction was really made at the time 
stated it may be a genuine case of what is known in the Scottish Highlands 
as 'second sight.'

Chaminuka
A famous seer in Mashonaland was Chaminuka, of Chitungwiza, in the Hartley 
district. He is called a 'wizard' by Mr Posselt, [2] but he seems really to 
have been a man of high character and unusual, perhaps abnormal, gifts. 
Lobengula used frequently to consult him, and for many years treated him 
with great consideration. He had remarkable power over animals, not 
necessarily of an occult nature: he kept tame pythons and other snakes; 
antelopes gambolled fearlessly about his hut, and his celebrated bull, 
Minduzapasi, would lie down and rise up, march and halt, at the word of 
command. He was believed to be the medium of the spirit called Chaminuka; 
his real name was Tsuro. He was credited with the power to bring rain and to 
control the movements of game; Frederick Courteney Selous, when hunting in 
that part of the country, was told by his followers that they would never 
succeed in killing an elephant unless they first asked Chaminuka's 
permission. When this was done he gave the messenger a reed which was 
supposed "to bring the elephants back on their tracks

[1. Hoffmann, Afrikanischer Grossvater, p. 285.

2. Nada (1926), p. 85.]

by first pointing the way they had gone and then drawing it towards him."[1]

In 1883 a man who believed Chaminuka to have been responsible for the death 
of his wife went to Lobengula with a false accusation of witchcraft against 
him. The king may or may not have believed this, but in any case he resolved 
on Chaminuka's destruction. He sent him a message, inviting him to Bulawayo 
on a friendly visit, but the old man was not deceived. He said, "I go to the 
Madzwiti [the Amandebele], but I shall not return; but, mark you, some eight 
years hence, behold I the stranger will enter, and he will build himself 
white houses."

The prophecy was fulfilled before the eight years were out, for the 
Chartered Company's pioneer expedition entered Mashonaland in 1890.

He set out, accompanied by his wife and two of his sons, and met Lobengula's 
war-party near the Shangani river. Most of the warriors kept out of sight; 
only a few headmen came to meet him. His wife, Bavea, who had been a captive 
of the Amandebele (she was sent to Chaminuka by Lobengula), said, "They are 
going to kill you! I know the Amandebele; I see blood in their eyes! Run! 
Run!" He refused, saying he was too old to run. "If his day has come 
Chaminuka does not fear to die; but bid my son, who is young and swift of 
foot, creep away in the bushes while there is yet time and carry the news to 
my people."

The little party were soon surrounded and all killed, except Chaminuka 
himself, Bavea, and his other son, Kwari, who was wounded in the leg, but 
got away. The old chief sat on a rock, calmly playing on his mbira.[2] His 
assailants tried to stab him with their spears, but could not even wound 
him. Some of them had rifles and fired at him, but the bullets fell round 
him like hailstones, without touching

[1. A Hunter's Wanderings, p.331.

2. An elementary kind of piano, with a set of wooden or iron keys fixed over 
gourd resonators on a semicircular hoop, which the player carries suspended 
round his neck by a strap.]

him. At last he told them that he could be killed only by an innocent young 
boy, and such a one, being fetched, dispatched him unresisting. The impi, 
having cut up his body in order to get the liver and heart, which were held 
to be powerful 'medicines,' went on to Chitungwiza, in order to exterminate 
Chaminuka's whole clan, as Lobengula had commanded. But Bute, the son who 
had been sent away, was fleet of foot, and reached the village in time, and 
when the warriors arrived they found only empty huts and such stores and 
cattle as the people had been unable to take with them. Bavea was taken back 
to Bulawayo, but escaped, and in 1887 told the story to Selous,[1] who saw 
her in Lomagundi's country (North Mashonaland).

The Rev. Arthur Shearly Cripps, who had abundant opportunities of hearing 
the stories about Chaminuka on the spot, has woven them into what might be 
called a beautiful prose poem, treating his material very freely, but never, 
one feels, departing from the spirit underlying the cruder native tradition. 
This, of course, has not been drawn upon here.

Mohlomi of the Basuto
I cannot pass on without a reference to another seer, Mohlomi, whom the Rev. 
E. W. Smith has called " the greatest figure in Basuto history." He died in 
1815, long enough ago for legends to have gathered about his name, as, in 
fact, they have done, but not sufficiently so to have obscured the real 
facts to any great extent. Though in the royal line and called to be chief 
through the incapacity of his elder brother, he cared nothing for power, and 
much preferred to travel about in quest of knowledge, more particularly 
knowledge of medicinal herbs. He was renowned both as a physician and a 
rain-maker. There is no reason to suppose him an impostor in the latter 
capacity; he evidently believed in his powers, and his belief must

[1. Travel and Adventure in South-east Africa, p. 113. The account in the 
text is taken partly from this book and partly from Mr Posselt's article. 
Selous does not mention Kwari or the only way in which Chaminuka (whom he 
calls Chameluga) could be killed.

2 Chaminuka.]

have been confirmed by the cases in which, if tradition is to be believed, 
he was (possibly owing to some fortunate coincidence) successful. His 
prophetic career began at an early age, when) in the course of his puberty 
initiation ceremonies,[1] he felt himself, in a dream or trance, carried up 
to the sky, and heard a voice saying, "Go, rule by love and look on thy 
people as men and brothers." He had a strong influence over Moshesh, who, 
like other chiefs, frequently came to him for advice and, unlike them, often 
followed it. The mythical element in his story comes out in the assertion 
that he was "able to transport himself from one place to another in a 
supernatural way." In his last illness he prophesied a famine and a cattle 
plague; and when dying, on coming out of a kind of trance, he said, "After 
my death a cloud of red dust will come out of the east and consume our 
tribes. The father will eat his children." This has been taken to refer to 
the series of wars and migrations which began shortly afterwards and 
continued till the middle of the nineteenth century.

Only One Way of Death
It will have been noticed that, as in the cases of Liongo, Chikumbu and 
Chibisa, there was only one way in which Chaminuka could be killed. The 
usual account given of this is that the person in question had charms 
against every possible weapon, or other cause of death, but one, which, of 
course, had to be kept secret.

At Kolelo, in Nguu, Tanganyika Territory, there is a cave haunted (almost 
within living memory, if not still) by the spirit of a great mganga who in 
his lifetime was a chief in Ukami. In time of drought the headmen of the 
Wadoe and neighbouring tribes would come there to pray for rain. When they 
greeted him on their arrival they would hear a rushing sound, like that of 
an approaching rainstorm. Then, in some cases, a voice would be heard, 
saying, "There is an evil man among you," and would go on to describe one 
member of the party by his clothes. If such

[1. Ellenberger, History of the Basuto, p. 90.]

a one was indeed present he was at once driven away. Then they put up their 
prayer, and if they heard the rushing sound a second time they knew that 
their request was granted, and went away happy. If there was silence in the 
cave, it was a sign that the spirit was angry, and they had to "go back in 
the sun," instead of being refreshed by a shower even before they had 
reached their homes.

This rain-doctor-his name has not been recorded-was reckoned invulnerable 
during his lifetime; none of his enemies could succeed even in wounding him, 
with arrow, sword, or 'gunshot. But unfortunately he happened to quarrel 
with his wife when a raiding-party was close at hand, and she got into 
communication with the raiders and, like Delilah, though not for the same 
reason, betrayed her husband's secret. His tabu (mwiko or mzio in Swahili) 
was to be struck with the stalk of a pumpkin: if this was done he would die 
immediately.

The enemies at once procured a pumpkin-stalk, and threw it so as to hit him. 
It did, in fact, kill him, but the manner of his death was not seen, for a 
mighty wind arose and carried him off to the cave of Kolelo, "where he is to 
this day," and no one could tell whither he went. After some days his 
clothes and weapons were found in the cave, but he was never seen again.

The woods near this cave are uncanny: drums are occasionally heard there, 
though no drummers are to be seen, also the trilling cry made by women at 
weddings. Sometimes the traveller comes on an open space among the trees, 
where the ground is clean white sand, smooth as if just swept for a dance: 
this is where the ghosts hold their revels.

Kolelo and the Majimaji Rising
The name Kolelo attained a certain publicity about 1905, but not in 
connexion with the haunted cave in Nguu. This Kolelo was a huge serpent, 
living in a cave in the mountains of Uluguru.[1] The Zaramo people tell how, 
once upon a time, two women went into the forest to dig up roots.

[1. Klamroth, in Zeitschrift für Kolonialsprachen, p. 139.]

Suddenly they heard a rumbling underground, but could see nothing to cause 
it. One woman ran back to the village; the other, known as Mlamlali,[1] 
stayed. Presently a great snake appeared, took the woman into its cave, and 
said, "The High God has sent me. I am to take you to wife so that you can 
carry my message to mankind. And you of the Mlali clan shall be my people 
and serve me for ever in this cave. I have two companions, and we are 
commissioned to restore everything which has been spoiled or ruined on 
earth."

Mlamlali was long sought for by her friends, but no trace of her was found, 
till suddenly she came home wearing beautiful ornaments and none the worse 
for her experience.

The message she brought was mainly concerned with directions for 
cultivation; but in 1905 occurred the rising (known as the "Majimaji 
Rebellion" [2]) with which Kolelo's name is chiefly associated. Two prophets 
appeared, who foretold that the sun and moon would rise in the west and set 
in the east, and other wonders would be seen. They forbade the people to pay 
taxes to the Government, and won over the adherence of a certain chief by 
showing him, as he was persuaded to believe, his deceased father in the 
flesh. It appears that they were able to produce a person with a striking 
resemblance to the dead man. The tribesmen were to arm themselves with 
millet-stalks, which would turn to rifles in their hands; they would be 
supplied with a certain medicine which would have the effect of turning the 
enemy's bullets to water (maji in Swahili). The failure of the rising did 
not put an end to the Kolelo cult; but his oracles from thenceforth seem 
only to have concerned themselves with agricultural matters. For instance, 
his

[1. Women's names are that of their clan, with the prefix Mla.

2 The rising was known as the "Majimaji Rebellion" on account of the belief 
in a certain sacred water, stated to have been obtained from the Sudan 
through Uganda, which was said to confer invulnerability in battle and to 
protect the user against every sort of evil. An account of the whole 
movement and of the secret society which is supposed to have originated it 
was contributed by Mr J. H. Driberg to the Journal of the Royal 
Anthropological Institute, vol. lxi, under the title "Yakañ."]

medium, Kiganga, forbade people to eat the leaves of the manioc plant 
(elsewhere a popular vegetable), perhaps because it is of comparatively 
recent introduction into Uzaramo. All Wazaramo know the name of Kiganga, but 
no one professes to have seen her. Two men, however, have met Mlamlali, who 
acts as caretaker to Kolelo's cave, and would not allow them to enter it. 
Another medium in residence at the cave is Mhangalugome, who interprets 
Kolelo's oracles, given in the same way as those of the Nguu spirit, by a 
rushing noise in the depth of the cavern, perhaps caused by an underground 
river. It is true that it appears to be intermittent, but this might be 
accounted for by varying currents of air.

Witches and 'Voodoo'
As to the activities of the witch proper, which it is the business of the 
mganga to check, very strange things are related. Some level-headed 
missionaries have witnessed occurrences which they could attribute only to 
unseen agencies. Bishop Weston, at Weti, in the island of Pemba) saw and 
felt lumps of clay thrown by invisible hands, one falling through the iron 
roof of the hut in which he stood, another thrown upward from outside. Pemba 
is a well known centre of witchcraft; anyone curious about such matters can 
find a detailed account of the witch-guilds and their horrible sacrifices in 
Captain Craster's book Pemba, the Spice Island of Zanzibar.

The doings of the wachawi (or wanga) there related are not unlike those we 
hear of in the island of Hayti-and we may be sure they lose nothing in the 
hands of romancers under the names of Obeah and Voodoo (or Vaudoux). The 
subject hardly comes within the scope of this book, but one thing may be 
pointed out: it is too commonly assumed that these doings are typical of 
African mentality in general, and constitute an essential part of African 
religion. But it is a very suggestive fact that the Pemba witch-guilds and 
those described by Dr Nassau in West Africa are recruited from the slaves, 
and the same is obviously the case in the West Indies. It should be 
remembered that many, if not most, of these people had been sold into 
slavery for their crimes, perhaps for this very crime of witchcraft. Dr 
Nassau says, in fact, that the Benga and neighbouring tribes credited the 
slaves as a body with addiction to unlawful arts, and if a free man died

suspicion almost always located itself on the slave community, for the 
reason that it was known that slaves did practise the Black Art, and partly 
because it was safer to make an accusation against a defenceless slave than 
against a free man. It resulted, therefore, that, just because they were 
defenceless, the slaves actually did practise arts in their supposed self-
defence that gave justification for the charge that they were witches and 
wizards.[1]

I have been assured, quite seriously, by more than one person in the coastal 
region of Kenya Colony, that certain sorcerers, whom they called wanga,[2] 
were in the habit of coming to your door in the night and calling the 
occupant of the house. If you came out and followed them into the forest it 
was implied, rather than stated, that it was all up with you. It also seemed 
to be implied that once the intended victim had answered the call he had no 
choice but to go and, presumably, be killed and eaten.

The Resuscitated Corpse
Another belief, held strongly in practically every part of Africa, is that 
witches hold their revels at the graves of those recently dead, digging up 
and reanimating the corpse, and then killing it again, eating the flesh, and 
taking some of the parts as ingredients of the most powerful charms.

But this is not their only reason for resuscitating corpses. There is a 
strange and horrible superstition, widely distributed, with considerable 
local variations, to the effect that it is done in order to obtain a 
familiar, who can be sent about

[1. In an Elephant Corral, p. 155. The Benga live near Corisco Bay, in 
Spanish Guinea.

2. It is not clear what is the exact difference between wanga and wachawi. 
W.E. Taylor derived the former word from anga, 'to float in the air,' and 
seems to have believed seriously that these persons have the power of 
'levitation.' But probably the word comes from the same root as mganga and 
(Lamba) ubw-anga, 'charm.']

on the warlock's evil errands. The Zulus call such a creature umkovu; it is 
supposed to be like a child in stature and to be unable to speak except in 
an "inarticulate, confused" sort of way, expressed by the word 
ukutshwatshwaza. This is because the owner has cut off the tip of its 
tongue, to prevent its betraying his secrets; he also, for what purpose is 
not stated, runs a red-hot needle up the forehead. It is employed, among 
other things, to place poison, or what is believed to have the same effect, 
in the kraals, and also acts the part of the Irish banshee, as a death is 
believed to occur when it has been seen in a kraal, and should anyone happen 
to be ill at the time the relatives would give up all hope of his 
recovery.[1] Another account says that they can make the grass trip up a 
belated traveller by twining round his legs, and (a touch recalling the 
wanga I was warned against at Jomvu) if anyone is foolish enough to answer 
when they call his name they cut his throat and, in some way, force him to 
become one of them.

The Yaos, and probably some other tribes, are terrorized by a thing called a 
ndondocha, of like origin with the umkovu, but in some ways very different. 
According to information kindly supplied by Dr Meredith Sanderson, on the 
day of burial, or within three days from that date, a wizard goes to the 
grave at night armed with a 'tail' or a horn containing 'medicine'; with 
this he strikes the grave, uttering the words, "Arise; your mother summons 
you!" The earth in the grave heaves and 'boils,' and the corpse emerges 
without any visible passage having been made. The wizard then carries it on 
his back to a cave, or to his house, where he keeps it in the verandah-room 
(a compartment partitioned off under the broad eaves of the hut). Here other 
medicines are used, and the legs are amputated at the knee-joint. The corpse 
is now in a state of semi-animation; it is fed by the owner, but cannot move 
without his orders. If it is not fed it cries unceasingly; its cry is like 
the mewing of a cat. It cannot speak. It creeps along

[1. Bryant, Zulu-English Dictionary, p. 322. See also Colenso, Zulu-English 
Dictionary, p. 282.]

the ground, propelling itself by means of the stumps of its legs and on its 
hands. The possession of a ndondocha gives supernatural power to its owner. 
It is usually employed for killing his enemies, and when people hear its cry 
they say, "It is ominous; the banshee has wailed," meaning that by morning 
somebody will have died. Should the owner die the 'familiar' will rot away 
for want of the necessary medicines to keep it alive.

The Tuyewera
Even queerer and more uncanny are the tuyewera of the Kaonde country, in 
Northern Rhodesia.[1] These are imps, having the figure of human beings, 
about three feet high though the Lambas say they are like a kind of wild 
cat-and are made, for a consideration, by sorcerers, not professedly in 
order to kill people, but to get wealth for the purchaser. They do this by 
(invisibly) stealing the food of his neighbours and adding it to his store. 
After a while they tell him that they are lonely and want company, and if he 
does not name some one for them to kill they will kill him. He names a 
person, whom they kill by sucking his breath when he is asleep; he then 
becomes one of them. The owner has to keep on supplying them with victims, 
and at last is himself killed, either by them or by his neighbours on 
discovering that he possesses tuyewera.

The Lambas occasionally procure these imps from the Kaonde practitioners, 
but for the purpose of counteracting witchcraft rather than of increasing 
their possessions. A man will come and tell the maker that he has lost. a 
number of his relatives in suspicious circumstances, and wants some powerful 
ubwanga to put a stop to this. He is supplied with a pair, takes them home, 
and makes a sleeping-place for them in the bush, not far from his hut. The 
witches are soon got rid of, but the tuyewera are by no means satisfied. The 
man has to name one friend or kinsman after another, and at last his wife. 
When he really has no one left to give them he

[1. Melland, In Witch-bound Africa, p. 204, and Doke, The Lambas of Northern 
Rhodesia, p. 315]

picks them up and carries them back to the maker, saying, "Here are your 
little things. The people are all finished." But so long as one of his kin 
remains they will not go."

The Baila call these creatures by a slightly different name, tuyobela,[2] 
and say they are the ghosts of men and women who have been killed by 
witches. These are said to raise up the dead person "as an evil spirit"; but 
from the accounts given it is not clear how this process differs from that 
of restoring the corpse to life, since the tuyobela are solidly material 
enough to bite people. Mr Smith's friend Mungolo had seen them, and at first 
took them for children, as they were only eighteen inches high, but "on 
looking again he saw that they had the bodies of full-grown men," and their 
faces were turned round the wrong way. Their activities are much the same as 
those already described: "they are sent out to steal, to make people sick, 
and to kill."

A West African Parallel
The Mayombe, in French Congo, have a belief in some gruesome beings which 
recall the above descriptions: they are small in stature, have legs cut off 
at the knee, high shoulders, and one remarkably long finger-nail; their skin 
is jet-black, and their hair long and tangled. They are called nkuyu unana. 
But, instead of being fabricated by sorcerers for their own evil purposes, 
they are the ghosts of witches who rise from the grave of their own accord. 
They wander about burial-grounds and deserted villages, approach people's 
houses by night in order to steal chickens; they frighten children, and 
occasionally attack grown persons. They speak through the nose, and may be 
heard moaning and complaining of the cold. Sometimes they play tricks on 
people by imitating children's voices. If a man should succeed in shooting 
one of these creatures he ought to burn the body-presumably to prevent its 
rising again. If he misses he

[1. Doke, The Lambas of Northern Rhodesia, p. 315.

2. Smith and Dale, The Ila-speaking Peoples, vol. ii, p. 132. The name is 
derived from kuyobela, 'to twitter,' because they chirp and twitter like 
birds. Perhaps the word used in Kaonde is a corruption of this, as I cannot 
find an etymology for it in that language.]

should pour poison into the hole by which it has been in the habit of 
leaving and re-entering the grave.'

After these the more ordinary witches' familiars and messengers, such as 
baboons, hyenas, leopards, wild-cats, owls, seem quite commonplace.

Spells or Curses
The Swahili and some of the neighbouring coast tribes have, as might be 
expected, modified their beliefs to some extent under Moslem influence. The 
spirits of the dead are sometimes called wazuka, but more often spoken of by 
the Arabic names jini and shetani, and though the mganga is still, if I 
mistake not, a power in the land, the charms he supplies are apt to be slips 
of paper with a verse of the Koran written on them, or a magic square 
bearing the names of the four angels (Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Israfil), 
with other words of power. Women and children might often have been seen 
twenty years ago wearing the "amulet of seven knots," a cord of black wool 
over which the wise man, as he tied each knot, had repeated the Sura Ya Sin 
(the thirty-sixth chapter of the Koran).

One way of injuring an enemy is to get a duly qualified person to "read Hal 
Badiri" against him-that is, to intone the incantations contained in an 
originally harmless book of prayers offered in the names of those who fought 
at the battle of Badr (the Ahl Badri in correct Arabic). Again, the spiteful 
or vindictive person may go to the grave of a well-known saint (such as the 
site known as Pa Shehe Jundani at Mombasa) and leave an offering there, 
burning a little incense while uttering his or her desire. Not that all 
prayers put up at Shehe Jundani's tomb are necessarily malignant; no doubt 
there are many artless petitions akin in spirit to those one has seen 
pencilled on the walls of Saint Étienne-du-Mont, in Paris-for children, for 
success in love, possibly (since the "march of progress" has not left 
Mombasa untouched) for success in examinations. These, of course, could 
hardly be classed as magic-black or white.

[1. Bittremieux, Idioticon, vol. ii, p. 510.]

CHAPTER XVII: BRER RABBIT IN AFRICA
THE Uncle Remus stories, which suddenly became so popular about fifty years 
ago, not only delighted both young and old, but attracted the serious 
attention of folklore students. It is now generally recognized-though the 
point was hotly debated at first-that they originally came from Africa, 
brought by the Negro slaves, who, in the southern states, seem mostly to 
have belonged to Bantu-speaking tribes.[1] When it was discovered that the 
Indians of the Amazon had numbers of similar tales it was suggested by some 
that the Negro stories had been directly or indirectly borrowed from them; 
by others that the Indians had borrowed them from the Brazilian Negroes. 
Neither suggestion seems to fit the facts. On the one hand, every story in 
"Uncle Remus" can be shown to exist in a more primitive shape in Africa, and 
among people who cannot be suspected of having imported it from America or 
elsewhere. Thus the "Tar-baby" story is known, in slightly differing forms, 
to the Duala, the Sumbwa (a tribe to the south of Lake Victoria), the Mbundu 
of Angola, the Makua, the people of the Lower Congo, and several more.

On the other hand, the more we know of the folk-tales current in different 
parts of the world the less likely it seems that the Amazonian Indians 
should have borrowed their stories from the Negroes. In the Malay Peninsula, 
where the local equivalent for Brer Rabbit is the little mouse-deer, he 
figures in much the same incidents as the African hare and Hlakanyana. These 
incidents and the traits of character

[1. Most, as is generally supposed, from the Congo; but there is evidence 
that slaves were frequently, during the first quarter of the nineteenth 
century, imported from Mozambique and other ports on the East Coast. 
"Mombasas," are mentioned among the Negro slaves in Cuba; and many cargoes 
of slaves were smuggled from Havana into the southern states after the 
import trade had been declared illegal. This perhaps explains why the 
African hare (Kalulu of the Nyanja, Sungura of the Swahili) should be such a 
prominent figure in Negro folklore, while his place is taken on the Congo 
(where it appears there are no hares) by the little antelope known as the 
water chevrotain. The slaves of the British West Indies were chiefly West 
Africans (Yorubas, Ibos, Fantis, etc.), and their 'Nancy' stories are mostly 
concerned with the spider (Anansi).]

which they illustrate are common to human nature all the world over; the 
animal actors, of course, vary locally.

The Jackal
In India it is the jackal who plays clever tricks on the stronger and 
fiercer animals; in Europe the fox; in New Guinea and Melanesia yet others. 
The tortoise, however, seems a universal favourite, except, perhaps, in 
North Germany, where one of his best-known adventures is ascribed to the 
hedgehog.

The jackal is the hero for the Hottentots, and also for the Galla and Somali 
of North-eastern Africa, who consider the hare a stupid sort of creature, 
and blame him (at least the Hottentots do) for-like the chameleon elsewhere 
taking away men's hope of reviving after death. The Moon, angry with him for 
failing to deliver his message, threw a chunk of wood at, him, which is why 
his lip is split to this day.

The Basuto have-apparently through contact with the Hottentots-confused the 
characters of the jackal and the hare, giving to the former the famous story 
of the Animals and the Well, which will be related presently, though the 
hare comes into his own on several other occasions.

Hare, not Rabbit
It is unfortunate that so many writers, no doubt influenced by "Uncle 
Remus," used the word 'rabbit' in translating African stories. There are, I 
believe, no rabbits, properly so called, in Africa, and Sungura, Kalulu, 
Sulwe,[1] and Mutlanyana[1] undoubtedly represent what we mean by a hare. 
Uncle Remus would naturally speak of the more familiar animal, just as he 
makes Brer Wolf and Brer Fox take the place of the hyena.

Jacottet, in his translation of a Sesuto tale, speaks of a 'rabbit' 
victimized by Little Hare. This animal (hlolo) is, according to Mabille and 
Dieterlen's dictionary, the red hare (Lepus crassicaudatus). Whether this is 
the same as the 'March Hare' of the Lalas and Lambas-the name literally

[1. The Shona and Sesuto names for the 'little hare.']

means the "Mad Big Hare"-it would be interesting to discover; but I have 
nowhere met with a description of this latter creature.

Animals which figure in the Tales
The hare, then, we may say, is really the most prominent figure in the tales 
we are considering. Next to him -indeed, in some ways more successful in 
triumphing over his enemies, and once, at least, getting the better of the 
hare himself-is the tortoise.

The lion, the elephant, and, more frequently, the hyena are the foils and 
dupes, whose strength and fierceness are no match for the nimble wits of the 
little hare and the slow, patient wisdom of the tortoise. More inoffensive 
creatures, sad to say-the bush-buck, the duiker, and the monitor lizard-
occasionally fall victims.

The crocodile is sometimes introduced, and not always in an evil aspect: for 
instance, a Tumbuka tale shows him helpful to the other animals and treated 
with gross ingratitude by the tortoise. The hippopotamus also makes an 
occasional appearance, and it would be possible to make a long list of 
animals and birds which are mentioned-some of them repeatedly-but play no 
very conspicuous parts.

The Animals and the Well
I will begin with the story of the Well, though I cannot pretend to arrange 
the hare's adventures (except for the final and fatal one) in chronological 
order. Some episodes are linked together in natural sequence, but such 
groups could, as a rule, be placed anywhere in the series without breaking 
the connexion.

It was a different matter when some unnamed Low German poet (or succession 
of poets) combined into the epic of Reynard the Fox (Reinke Vos) the 
scattered beast fables current in the Middle Ages. I have no doubt that one 
day a genius will arise in some Bantu tribe to perform the same service for 
Sungura.[1]

[1. It seems desirable to have a proper name for occasional use, and perhaps 
it is most convenient to keep to the Swahili form throughout.]

I am not forgetting that the Mosuto Azariel Sekese has done something of the 
kind in his prose story The Assembly of the Birds. But this is rather a 
satire than the kind of epic that I have in mind, though it is a very 
remarkable work in its own way.

Now for the story.

Once upon a time there was a terrible drought over all the country. No rain 
had fallen for many months, and the animals were like to die of thirst. All 
the pools and watercourses were dried up. So the lion called the beasts 
together to the dry bed of a river, and suggested that they should all stamp 
on the sand and see whether they could not bring out some water. The 
elephant began, and stamped his hardest, but produced no result, except a 
choking cloud of dust. Then the rhinoceros tried, with no better success; 
then the buffalo; then the rest in turn-still nothing but dust, dust! At the 
beginning of the proceedings the elephant had sent to call the hare, but he 
said, "I don't want to come."

Now there was no one left but the tortoise, whom they all had overlooked on 
account of his insignificance. He came forward and began to stamp; the 
onlookers laughed and jeered. But, behold I before long there appeared a 
damp spot in the river-bed. And the rhinoceros, enraged that a. little thing 
like that should succeed where he had failed, tossed him up and dashed him 
against a rock, so that his shell was broken into a hundred pieces. While he 
sat, picking up the fragments and painfully sticking them together, the 
rhinoceros went on stamping, but the damp sand quickly disappeared, and 
clouds of dust rose, as before. The others repeated their vain efforts, till 
at last the elephant said, Let the tortoise come and try." Before he had 
been at work more than a few minutes the water gushed out and filled the 
well, which had gradually been excavated by their combined efforts.

The animals then passed a unanimous resolution that the hare, who had 
refused to share in the work, should not be allowed to take any of the 
water. Knowing his character, they assumed that he would try to do so, and 
agreed to take turns in keeping watch over the well.

The-hyena took the first watch, and after an hour or two saw the hare coming 
along with two calabashes, one empty and one full of honey. He called out a 
greeting to the hyena, was answered, and asked him what he was doing there. 
The hyena replied, "I am guarding the well because of you, that you may not 
drink water here." "Oh," said the hare, "I don't want any of your water; it 
is muddy and bitter. I have much nicer water here." The hyena, his curiosity 
roused, asked to taste the wonderful water, and Sungura handed him a stalk 
of grass which he had dipped in the honey. "Oh, indeed, it is sweet! just 
let me have some more!" I can't do that unless you let me tie you up to the 
tree; this water is strong enough to knock you over if you are not tied." 
The hyena had so great a longing for the sweet drink that he readily 
consented; the hare tied him up so tightly that he could not move, went on 
to the well, and filled his calabash; then he jumped in, splashed about to 
his heart's content, and finally departed laughing.

In the morning the animals came and found the hyena tied to the tree. "Why, 
Hyena, who has done this to you?" "A great host of strong men came in the 
middle of the night, seized me, and tied me up." The lion said, "No such 
thing! Of course it was the hare, all by himself." The lion took his turn at 
watching that night; but, strange to say, he fell a victim to the same 
trick. Unable to resist the lure of the honey, he was ignominiously tied to 
the tree.

There they found him next morning, and the hyena, true to his currish 
nature, sneered: "So it was many men who tied you up, Lion? " The lion 
replied, with quiet dignity: "You need not talk; he would be too much for 
any of us."

The elephant then volunteered to keep watch, but with no better success; 
then the rest of the animals, each in his turn, only to be defeated by one 
trick or another.

At last the tortoise came forward, saying, "I am going to catch that one who 
is in the, habit of binding people!" The others began to jeer: "Nonsense! 
Seeing how he has outwitted us, the elders, what can you do-a little one 
like you? " But the elephant took his part, and said that he should be 
allowed to try.

The Tortoise is too sharp for the Hare
The tortoise then smeared his shell all over with bird-lime, plunged into 
the well, and sat quite still at the bottom. When the hare came along that 
night and saw no watcher he sang out, "Hallo! Hallo! the well! Is there no 
one here?" Receiving no answer, he said, "They're afraid of me! I've beaten 
them all! Now for the water!" He sat down beside the well, ate his honey, 
and filled both his gourds, before starting to bathe. Then he stepped into 
the water and found both his feet caught. He cried out, "Who are you? I 
don't want your water; mine is sweet. Let me go, and you can try it." But 
there was no answer. He struggled; he put down one hand[1] to free himself; 
he put down the other; he was caught fast. There was no help for it: there 
he had to stay till the animals came in the morning.[2] And when they saw 
him they said, "Now, indeed, the hare has been shown up!" So they carried 
him to the bwalo for judgment, and the lion said, "Why did you first disobey 
and afterwards steal the water?" The hare made no attempt to plead his 
cause, but said, "just tie me up, and I shall die!" The lion ordered him to 
be bound, but the hare made one more suggestion. "Don't tie me with coconut-
rope, but with green banana-fibre; then if you throw me out in the sun I 
shall die very quickly."

They did so, and after a while, when they heard the banana-bast cracking as 
it dried up in the heat, they began to get suspicious, and some one said to 
the lion that the hare

[1. It is quite common for Africans to speak of the forefeet of a quadruped 
as 'hands.' But, in any case, animals in the stories are often spoken of as 
if they had human form. We find the same thing again and again in "Uncle 
Remus."

2. In the Ila version he is killed on the spot; but I refuse to accept this. 
Even the tortoise, though more than once too much for the hare, could not 
bring him to his death; that had to come in the end from a quite unexpected 
quarter.]

would surely break his bonds. The hare heard him and groaned out, as though 
at his last gasp, "Let me alone. I'm just going to die!" So he lay still for 
another hour, and then suddenly stretched himself; the banana-fibre gave 
way, and he was off before they could recover from their astonishment. They 
started in pursuit, but he outran them all, and they were nearly giving up 
despair when they saw him on the top of a distant ant-hill, apparently 
waiting for them to come up. When they got within earshot he called out, 
"I'm off! You're fools, all of you!" and disappeared into a hole in the side 
of the ant-hill. The animals hastened up and formed a circle round the hill, 
while the elephant came forward and thrust his trunk into the hole. After 
groping about for a while he seized the hare by the ear, and the hare cried, 
"That's a leaf you've got hold of. You've not caught me!" The elephant let 
go and tried again, this time seizing the hare's leg. "O-o-o-o-o! He's got 
hold of a root."[1] Again the elephant let go, and Sungura slipped out of 
his reach into the depths of the burrow.

The animals grew tired of waiting, and, leaving the elephant to watch the 
ant-hill, went to fetch hoes, so that they might dig out the hare. While 
they were gone the hare, disguising his voice, called out to the elephant, 
"You who are watching the burrow open your eyes wide and keep them fixed on 
this hole, so that the hare may not get past without your seeing him!" The 
elephant unsuspectingly obeyed, and Sungura, sitting just inside the 
entrance, kicked up a cloud of sand into his eyes and dashed out past him. 
The elephant, blinded and in pain, was quite unaware of his escape, and kept 
on watching the hole till the other animals came back. They asked if Sungura 
was still there. "He may be, but he has thrown sand into my eyes." They fell 
to digging, and, of course, found nothing.

[1. Compare again Brer Tarrypin when caught by Brer Fox: "Tu'n loose dat 
stump-root an' ketch hold o' me!" This incident occurs in various 
connexions; it comes in quite appropriately here.]

The Hare's Disguises
Meanwhile the hare had gone away into the bush, plaited his hair in the 
latest fashion, plastered it with wax[1] taken from a wild bees' nest, and 
whitened his face with clay, so that he was quite unrecognizable. Then he 
strolled casually past the place where the animals were at work, asked what 
they were doing, and offered to help. He was given a hoe, which he used with 
such vigour that it soon came off the handle. He asked the giraffe for the 
loan of his leg, used it as the handle of his hoe, and speedily broke it, 
whereupon he shouted, "I'm the hare!" and, fled, taking refuge in another 
ant-hill, which had more than one entrance. They started to dig; he escaped 
through the second hole, which they had not noticed, disguised himself 
afresh, and came back as before. This time, when his hoe came off the 
handle, he asked the elephant to let him hammer it in on his head; and he 
did it with such good-will that he soon killed him. He ran away once more, 
shouting insults as he went, and the animals, having lost their two 
principal leaders, returned home, weary and discouraged.

The Hare nurses the Lioness's Cubs
The hare then went on his way quite happily, till, some time later, he met a 
lioness, who seized him and was about to kill him. But he pleaded so 
eloquently for his life, assuring her that he could make himself very useful 
if she would let him be her servant, that at last she relented and took him 
home to her den. Next day, when she went out to hunt, she left him in charge 
of her ten cubs.[2] While she

[1. Various disguises are mentioned as being used by the hare. At Delagoa 
Bay he makes himself a head-ring (like those worn by Zulu and Thonga men); 
elsewhere he plasters himself all over with mud, or shaves his head, or even 
takes off his skin (but I think this stratagem more properly belongs to 
another and clumsier character), or covers himself all over with leaves. In 
"Uncle Remus" Brer Rabbit, after spilling some honey over himself, rolls in 
the fallen leaves and becomes quite unrecognizable.

2 The number of cubs varies in different versions of the story, but several 
agree in making them ten. The Basuto make the jackal the hero (if so he can 
be called), and the Akamba the hyena, perhaps thinking a carnivorous bare 
too great a strain on the probabilities; but probabilities, as we have seen, 
count for nothing with the Bantu tale-teller.]

was gone Sungura took the cubs down to the stream to play, and suggested 
that they should wrestle. He wrestled with one of them, threw it, and 
twisted its neck as they lay on the ground. Returning to the cave with the 
others, he skinned and ate the dead one at the first convenient opportunity. 
In the evening the mother came home and, staying outside the cave, told the 
hare to bring the children out for her to nurse. He brought one, and when 
she told him to bring the rest he objected, saying it was better to bring 
them out one by one. Having suckled the first, she handed it back, and he 
brought her the remaining eight, taking the last twice over.

Next day he did the same, bringing out the last cub three times, and so 
deceived the mother into thinking she had suckled the whole ten. This went 
on until he had eaten all but one, which he brought out ten times; when it 
came to the tenth time the lioness noticed that the cub refused to suck. The 
hare explained that it had not been well all day, and the lioness was 
satisfied, and only told him to take good care of it.

The Hare and the Baboons
As soon as she was gone next day he killed, skinned, and ate the last cub, 
and, taking the other skins from the place where he had hidden them, set out 
on his travels. Towards evening he came to the village of the baboons, and 
found the 'men' playing with teetotums [1] in the 'forum.' He went and sat 
down in the usual place for strangers, and when some of them came to greet 
him said, "I have brought beautiful skins to sell. Does anyone want to buy 
them?" The baboons crowded round, admiring the skins, and all ten were soon 
disposed of. They then returned to their game, and the hare sat watching 
them. Presently he said, "You are not playing right. Shall I show you how?" 
They handed him a teetotum, and he began to spin it, singing all the time:

"We have eaten the lion's children on the quiet!"

[1. Called in Nyasaland nsika, but found in many other parts of Africa; made 
of a piece of gourd-shell, with a splinter of wood (the size of a match) 
stuck through it.]

They listened attentively, and then said, "Let us learn this song"; so he 
taught them the words, and they practised for the rest of the evening. After 
which he shared their meal, and was given a hut to sleep in.

In the morning he was off before it was light, and made .his way back to the 
lions' den, where he found the lioness distractedly searching for her 
missing cubs. On the way he had been careful to roll in the mud and get 
himself well scratched by the thorny bushes, so that he presented a most 
disorderly appearance. On seeing her he set up a dismal wail. "Oh! Oh! Some 
wild beasts came yesterday and carried off your children. They were too much 
for me; I could do nothing. See how they knocked me about and wounded me! 
But I followed them, and I can show you where they live. If you come with me 
you will be able to kill them all. But you had better let me tie you up in a 
bundle of grass and put some beans just inside, and I will carry you and 
tell them that I have brought a load of beans. They have the skins of your 
children, whom I saw them eating." The lioness agreed, and, having tied her 
up, the hare started with his load. Arriving at the village, he laid it down 
in the place for strangers. The baboons were so intent on their game that 
they hardly noticed him at first, and the lioness could hear them singing 
with all their might:

"We have eaten the lion's children on the quiet."

After a while they came up and greeted Sungura, and he said that he had 
brought them a load of beans in return for their hospitality of the day 
before. He loosened one end of the bundle, to show them the beans, and then 
eagerly accepted their invitation to join in the game. By the time it was 
once more in full swing the lioness had worked herself free, and sprang on 
the nearest baboon, bearing him to the ground. The others tried to escape, 
but the hare had run round to the gate of the enclosure, closed it, and 
fastened the bar. Then began "a murder grim and great"; not one of the 
baboons was left alive, and when the hare had brought out the skins of the 
poor cubs and laid them before the lioness she knew for a certainty that she 
had but done justice, and was duly grateful to the hare. He, however, 
thought it just as well not to remain in her neighbourhood, so took his 
leave and resumed his wanderings.

The Hare and the Hyena
We may pass over two or three more of the exploits commonly attributed to 
him: how he treated an unoffending antelope as Hlakanyana treated the ogre's 
mother; how, again like Hlakanyana, he got a lion to help him thatch a hut 
and fastened his tall into the thatch; and how he killed another lion by 
getting him to swallow a red-hot stone wrapped in a quantity of fat. The 
Galla and, I think, the Hottentots attribute this exploit to the jackal.

Some of the most popular incidents arise out of his friendship with the 
hyena. How this friendship originated and why he should have chosen to ally 
himself with this most unattractive beast is not clear: the stories are apt 
to begin baldly with the statement that "the hare and the hyena (or the 
tortoise and the monitor, or various other pairs, as the case may be) made 
friendship with each other" (anapalana ubwenzi, in Nyanja), no explanation 
being offered. It will be seen that for any tricks played on the hyena the 
hare had ample provocation, and the final injury he suffered could by no 
means be condoned.

One very popular story tells how, being in want of food, they went to the 
chief of a certain village and offered to cultivate his garden. He agreed, 
and gave them a pot of beans as their food-supply for the day. When they 
reached the garden they made a fire and put the beans on to boil. By the 
time they knocked off for the midday rest the beans were done, and the 
hyena, saying that he wanted to wash before eating, went to the stream and 
left the hare to watch the pot. No sooner was he out of sight than he 
stripped off his skin and ran back. The hare, thinking this was some strange 
and terrible beast, lost his head and ran away; the hyena sat down by the 
fire, finished the whole pot full of beans, returned to the stream, resumed 
his skin, and came back at his leisure. The hare, as all seemed quiet, 
ventured back, found the pot empty and the hyena clamorously demanding his 
food. The hare explained that he had been frightened away by an unknown 
monster, which had evidently eaten up the beans. The hyena refused to accept 
this excuse, and accused the hare of having eaten the beans himself. The 
unfortunate hare had to go hungry; but, finding denial useless, contented 
himself with remarking that if that beast came again he meant to shoot it; 
so he set to work making a bow. The hyena watched him till the bow was 
finished, and then said. "You have not made it right. Give it here!" And, 
taking it from him, he pretended to trim it into shape, but all the while he 
was cutting away the wood so as to weaken it in one spot. The hare so far 
suspected nothing, and kept his bow handy against the lunch-hour on the 
following day. When the 'wild beast' appeared he fitted an arrow to the 
string and bent the bow, but it broke in his hand, and once more he fled.

By this time his suspicions were awakened, and when he had made himself a 
new bow he hid it in the grass when the hyena was not looking. On the next 
occasion when the hyena appeared he shot at him and wounded him, but not 
seriously, so that he ran back to get into his skin and returned to find the 
hare calmly eating beans.

In one Nyasaland version of this tale it was not the hyena but the elephant 
or the dzimwe (zimwi, izimu), a kind of bogy of whom it was difficult to get 
a clear account, who tricked the hare and was shot dead by him in the end; 
but the hyena fits in better (the poor, good elephant is more usually the 
dupe). And, according to some accounts, his end was to come otherwise.

The Roasted Guinea-fowl
Another time the hare and the hyena went into the bush together after game. 
They found a guinea-fowl's nest full of eggs,[1] and soon after trapped a 
guinea-fowl. They carried their spoils home, and the hare said to his 
friend, "You roast the fowl and the eggs. I'm tired; I want to go to sleep." 
The hyena made up the fire, spitted the bird on a stick, and put the eggs 
into the hot ashes. When the savoury steam filled the hut his mouth began to 
water, and when he had made sure that the guinea-fowl was done he ate it up, 
all but the legs, which he put into the fire. He then ate the eggs, 
carefully cleaned the shell of one and put it aside, together with one 
quill, threw the rest of the feathers into the fire, and lay down to sleep.

The smell of the burning feathers awakened Sungura, who started up, called 
the hyena, and then noticed that the guinea-fowl was missing. When asked 
where it was the hyena said he had fallen asleep while it was roasting, and 
it had got burned. The hare suspected the truth, but said nothing at the 
time. A little later he suggested that they should go to their respective 
relations and get some food; so they separated. The hyena went a little way, 
and as soon as he was out of sight lay down in the grass and slept. The 
hare, too, did not go far, but hid himself and waited awhile; then he 
gathered some banana-leaves and stealthily followed his partner. He tied him 
up and gave him a good beating, which effectually wakened him, so that he 
cried for mercy, though he could not see who was attacking him. The hare 
then went away, and a little later pretended to come upon his victim 
unexpectedly, kicked the supposedly unknown object in his path, and said, 
"What's this?"

"I'm here, your friend!"

"What's the matter?"

"Some man came along and tied me up and beat me."

"Do you know who it was?

"No, I don't."

The hare condoled with the hyena, and they remained quiet for a few days, 
when the hyena heard that there was

[1. The Central and Southern Africans, as a rule, do not eat eggs (with some 
tribes they are tabu to young people only). If they ever do they do not seem 
to care whether, or how long, they have been sat on.]

to be a dance at his village, and invited the hare to go with him. The hare 
accepted, but said he wanted to go home first: he would come in the 
afternoon.

The hyena went and had a bath, got himself up in his best clothes, complete 
with beads, for the dance, and, as a finishing-touch, put the egg-shell on 
his head and stuck the feather into it. When the hare arrived he welcomed 
him warmly, asked him to sit down, and thereupon took his zomari (a kind of 
clarinet) and played:

"The guinea-fowl and all! Put the blame on the fire! ti! ti! ti!"

These are supposed to be ' riddling words,' maneno ya fumbo. They are 
explained to mean: "I've eaten up the guinea-fowl and all, though I 
pretended it had got burned!" The hare understood them well enough; he 
sprang up, seized a big drum, and fell to beating it and singing:

"I took him and bound him with banana-leaves and beat him! pu! pu! pu!"

Then ensued a free fight, which, strange to say, did not dissolve the 
partnership.[2]

The Hyena kills the Hare's Mother
There is a story, very variously told, of a visit paid by the two to the 
hyena's wife's relations, in which the hare defeats the hyena's tricks and 
finally turns the tables on him, but I hasten on to the final break.

In a time of famine, having exhausted every possible food-supply, the hyena 
proposed that he should kill and eat his mother, and the hare should do the 
same. The hare agreed, but kept his reflections to himself. The hyena went 
away, killed his mother, and ate her; the hare went, ostensibly for the same 
purpose, but hid his mother in a cave which could be reached only by 
climbing up the face of the

[1. In the original: Kanga pia, singizia moto, ti! ti! ti! As it is 
impossible to play a wind instrument and sing at the same time, it is 
perhaps implied that the notes conveyed the words, after the manner of the 
Ashanti drums.

2. One Swahili version (Blittner, Anthologie, p. 95), which has in the main 
been followed here, as giving more detail, makes the greedy beast the 
mungoose (cheche), but the hyena, whom we find elsewhere, is the more 
probable.]

cliff, and left with her a supply of wild herbs and roots, having first 
agreed on a signal to make his presence known. Next day, when the hyena had 
departed on his own business, the hare went to the cave and uttered the 
password. On hearing his mother's answer he called out to her to let down a 
rope, by which he climbed up into the cave. She had cooked sufficient food 
for herself and him, and after a hearty meal he returned to the place where 
he had left his friend. And this he did day by day.

The hyena, in the meantime, had finished his meat by the second day, and 
could not make out why the hare never seemed in want of food. So one day he 
followed him, and, hiding in the bushes, heard him give the password and the 
mother answer, and saw him drawn up into the cave. Next day he watched his 
opportunity, went to the cave, and called out the word, but there was no 
answer, the hare having warned his mother to take no notice should anyone 
else come. He saw that the hare had deceived him, and went away nursing his 
grievance, but at a loss what to do about it. He decided to consult the 
leopard, but got no help from him, only the suggestion that he had better go 
to the ant-eater.

The ant-eater, on hearing his story, said that there was no hope for him 
unless he could imitate the hare's voice so skilfully as to deceive his 
mother; and to make this possible he advised him to go to a nest of soldier-
ants and put his tongue in among them; if he got it well stung his voice 
would be softened.[1] He did this, but was unable to endure the pain for 
more than a short time. He returned to the ant-eater, who desired him to try 
his voice, and found that it was not much improved. The ant-eater said, "My 
friend, you're a coward. If you want to cat the hare's mother you will have 
to go back and let the ants bite your tongue till it is half its present 
size!"

The hyena's greed and resentment were stronger than his

[1. The ogre in the story of Tselane (and similar ones) softens his voice by 
swallowing red-hot iron. He does this on the advice of the witch-doctor. 
Brer Wolf, in like case, goes to the blacksmith.]

dread of pain, so he went back and let the ants work their will on him till 
the desired result was obtained. In fact, when he went back to the cave the 
hare's mother was completely taken in and let down the rope at once-to her 
undoing.

The Hare's Revenge
When the hare went as usual on the following day he got no answer to his 
call, and, looking round, saw traces of blood on the grass. Then he guessed 
what had happened, and thought how he might be revenged. When he met the 
hyena again he said nothing, but went away and made his preparations.

He came forth in the evening most splendidly adorned the details, of course, 
vary locally, from a wealth of brass and copper chains, pendants, rings, and 
ear-ornaments to the white shirt, embroidered coat, silver-mounted sword, 
and jewelled dagger of the coast men. Having thoroughly excited the hyena's 
admiration and envy, he showed him a mark on the top of his head, and told 
him that he had had a red-hot nail driven in there, and that if he, the 
hyena, would submit to the same operation he might be similarly adorned. The 
foolish beast was quite willing-the hare had the red-hot iron ready-and 
that, of course, was the end of Hyena.

In Nights with Uncle Remus this story is told (under the curious title 
"Cutta Cord-La") by an old man who, unlike Remus himself, had been brought 
from Africa in his youth. The hyena has become Brer Wolf, and Brer Rabbit 
hides his grandmother "in da top one big coconut-tree"-an African touch 
which puzzles the child listener. Brer Wolf has a red-hot poker thrust down 
his throat by the blacksmith, to soften his voice, or "mekky him talk easy."

The story is found in many different parts of Africa, though the actors in 
it are not always the same. This is also the case with the "Tar-baby" story, 
which is so well known that I need do no more than refer to it.

In spite of Sungura's pranks (some of them cruel enough, especially when 
played on the elephant, who, somewhat surprisingly, is not credited with 
much sense), he is always regarded with a certain affection. And it is only 
fair to recall one or two incidents which show him in a more amiable light 
than those hitherto given.

The Hare overcomes both Rhino and Hippo
The famous'tug-of-war' story sometimes (as in "Uncle Remus") belongs to the 
tortoise, but quite as often the hero is the hare. So it is told by the 
Anyanja, the Baila, the Wawemba, the Ansenga (Northern Rhodesia), and 
probably many others.

The hare challenged the hippopotamus and the rhinoceros to a trial of 
strength,[1] going to each in turn and saying, "Take hold of this rope, and 
let us pull against each other. I am going to the bank yonder." He then 
disappeared into the bushes, carrying what purported to be his end of the 
rope, and calling out as he went, "Wait till you feel me pull at my end, and 
then begin." He had stationed the two on opposite sides of a bush-covered 
island, and when he reached a point midway between them he pulled the rope 
in both directions. Rhino and hippo both pulled with all their might; their 
strength being about equal, neither gave way to any extent, though the 
former, after a while, was dragged forward a little, and when he recovered 
himself went back with such a rush that he dragged the hippo out on to the 
bank, whereat they both ejaculated, "Stupendous!" and Hippo called, "Hare! 
Hare!" but without receiving any answer. They went on pulling till they were 
both exhausted, and the rhino said, I will go and see that man who is 
pulling me," and just then the hippo put his head out of the water, and 
said, "Who is that pulling me?" And Chipembele (the rhino) said, "Why, 
Shinakambeza (one of Hippo's 'praise-names'), is it you pulling me?" "It is 
I. Why, who was he that brought you the rope, Chipembele?" "It was the hare. 
Was it he who gave it to you, Hippo?" "Yes, it was he."

[1. The Ila version has in the main been followed. See Smith and Dale, The 
Ila speaking Peoples, vol. ii, p. 377.]

It seems that these two had previously been at enmity, and the rhino had 
vowed never to set foot in the river. But the fact that both had equally 
been made fools of disposed them more favourably towards each other.

Thus they became reconciled, and that is why Rhinoceros drinks water to-day. 
Rhinoceros and Hippopotamus, when they do not see each other in the flesh, 
Rhinoceros will drink water in the river where Hippo lives, and Hippopotamus 
comes out to go grazing where Rhinoceros has his home.

This is the conclusion given by the Baila to the story; other people end it 
differently: either the rope breaks and both competitors fall backward, or 
the hare (or the tortoise) cuts it asunder in the middle, with the same 
result. In a Nyanja version it is the elephant who pulls against the 
hippopotamus; both are tired out, and the hare goes to each in turn and 
claims a forfeit, which he gets.

It is obvious that after the story had reached America the characters had to 
be changed. Brer Tarrypin challenged the bear, and, as no other animal of 
equal size was available, he fastened the other end of the rope to a tree.

The Hare decides a Case[1]
There is a very popular tale in which the hare shows himself both wise and 
helpful. There was a man who lived by hunting. One day, just as he was about 
to take a pig and an antelope out of his traps, a lion sprang upon him, and 
threatened to kill him unless he gave him a share of the meat. In fear of 
his life, he agreed, and allowed the lion to take out the hearts, livers, 
and such other titbits as he chose, while he himself carried the rest home. 
This happened every day, and the man's wife was consumed with curiosity, 
when she found that there was neither heart nor liver in any of the animals 
he brought home. She insisted, in spite of his denial, that he had given 
these to

[1. One version of this is to be found in Mr Posselt's Fables of the Veld 
(p. 51); another, which I have chiefly followed, I took down, in Pokomo, on 
the Tana river, in 1912. There is a similar story (Yao) in Duff Macdonald's 
Africana (vol. ii, p. 346), where the hare decides between a man and a 
crocodile.]

some other woman, and so, one day, started early to look at his traps, and 
was herself caught in one of them. Presently the man and the lion arrived on 
the scene, and the latter demanded his share of the game. The man refused to 
kill his wife; the lion insisted on holding him to his bargain. The wretched 
man, driven to desperation, was about to give in, and the woman would have 
paid dearly for her suspicions, had the hare not happened to pass by. The 
husband saw him, and called on him to help; Mwakatsoo[1] said at first that 
it was no business of his, but, yielding at last to the man's entreaties, he 
stopped, and heard both sides of the story. He then ordered the man to 
release his wife, and set the trap again. This having been done, he asked 
the lion to show him how the woman had got into it. The lion fell into the 
trap, both figuratively and literally, "and got caught by the hand and 
foot."So, this is the way it caught her. Now let me go I" But Mwakatsoo 
turned to the man and said, "You were a great fool to make such a promise. 
Now be off, you and your wife!" They did not wait to be told so twice, but 
hastened, home, while the lion called on Mwakatsoo to release him, and 
received for answer: "I shall do no such thing. You are the enemy!" [2]

A Giryama story-teller remarks (but this was on a different occasion, when 
the hare had been supplying the lion with meat):

"So the Little Hare was on good terms with his neighbours and was a nice 
person in the Lion's opinion, and in the opinion of his neighbours also was 
he a nice person!" [3]

[1. So the hare is familiarly called by the Wapokomo.

2. The Rhodesian hare was more ingenious. First he said he could not hear 
what they were saying for the wind, and they had better all come into a 
cave, the woman being released for the purpose. Then be called out that the 
cave was about to fall in, and they must hold up the roof. All four being so 
engaged, he sent off the man and his wife to get logs for propping it: he 
and the lion would hold it up till their return. The couple, of course, took 
the hint and made their escape. The hare ran away, and the lion, in terror 
lest the rock should fall, went on supporting it till he was tired, and then 
made a desperate leap to the mouth of the cave, hit his head against a rock, 
and crawled away half stunned. "Since that day lions. have hunted their own 
game."

3 Taylor, Giryama Vocabulary, p. 127]

The Hare's End
And now for Sungura's sad end, which was due not to force or fraud of an 
enemy, but to a friend's misplaced sense of humour.

He went one day to call on his friend the cock, and found him asleep, with 
his head under his wing. The hare had never seen him in this position 
before, and never thought of doubting the hens' word when they informed him 
(as previously instructed) that their husband was in the habit of taking off 
his head and giving it to the herd-boys to carry with them to the pasture. 
"Since you were born have you ever seen a man have his head cut off and for 
it to go to pasture, while the man himself stayed at home in the village?" 
And the hare said, "Never! But when those herd-boys come, will he get up 
again?" And those women said, "Just wait and see!" At last, when the herd-
boys arrived, their mother said, "Just rouse your father there where he is 
sleeping." The cock, when aroused, welcomed his guest, and they sat talking 
till dinner was ready, and still conversed during the meal. The hare was 
anxious to know "how it was done," and the cock told him it was quite easy-
"if you think you would like to do it." The hare confidently accepted the 
explanation, and they parted, having agreed that the cock should return the 
visit next day.

He was so greatly excited that he began to talk of his wonderful experience 
as soon as he reached his home. "That person the fowl is a clever fellow; he 
has just shown me his clever device of cutting off the head till, on your 
being hit, you see, you become alive again. Well, to-morrow I intend to show 
you all this device!"

Next morning he told his boys what to do. They hesitated, but he insisted, 
and when they were ready to go out with the cattle they cut off his head, 
bored the ears, and put a string through them, to carry it more 
conveniently. The women picked up the body and laid it on the bed, trusting, 
in spite of appearances, to his assurance that he was not dead.

By and by his friend arrived, and, not seeing him, inquired for him; the 
women showed him the body lying on the bed. He was struck with 
consternation, and, let us hope, with remorse. "But my friend is a simpleton 
indeed!" They said, "Is not this device derived from you? " but he turned a 
deaf ear to this hint, and only insisted that the hare was a simpleton. He 
thought, however, he would wait and see whether, after all, he did get up. 
The boys came home when the sun declined; they struck their father, as he 
had told them, "but he did not get up. And the children burst out crying. 
And the mothers of the family cried. And folks sat a-mourning. And all the 
people that heard of it were amazed at his death: 'Such a clever man! And 
for him to have met with his death through such a trifling thing!'"[1]

That was 'Harey's' epitaph.

[1. Taylor, Giryama Vocabulary, p. 133.]

CHAPTER XVIII: LEGENDS OF THE TORTOISE
NEXT to the hare the tortoise is the most conspicuous figure in Bantu 
folklore. In some parts, indeed, he is more so: of the sixty-one stories 
collected by Dr Nassau in the Corisco Bay district twenty have the tortoise 
as the principal character. There seem to be no hares in this part of the 
country; the animal who most frequently measures his strength and his wits 
against the tortoise is the leopard, and he is invariably defeated, though 
on one occasion his son avenges his death by killing the tortoise.

The African tortoise in the tales is usually of the land variety, though in 
one of the Benga stories [1] he is represented as taking to the water with 
his family, to escape the vengeance of the leopard. In Angola [2] they tell 
of a man who found a turtle (mbashi) and tried to drown him, as Brer Fox did 
"ole man Tarrypin," with the same result. The American terrapin is 
distinctly a water-tortoise, or turtle: there are various kinds of these in 
the African rivers and swamps, but, as might be expected from the immense 
extent of desert and forest country, the land ones are the commoner.

Uncle Remus's "Brer Tarrypin"
"Brer Tarrypin " figures in six of the earlier " Uncle Remus stories; [3] 
one of these has already been mentioned of the others the best are the "Tug 
of War" (the 'hare' version of which was given in the last chapter) and the 
famous race with Brer Rabbit) which he won, not (as in the later, moralized 
fable) through his own perseverance and the other's careless self-
confidence, but by planting out his relatives at intervals all along the 
track.

In the later collection [4] we have him tricking the buzzard

[1. Nassau, Where Animals Talk, p. 158: "The Deceptions of Tortoise."

2. Chatelain, Folk-tales of Angola, p. 153.

3. The stories referred to are Nos. X, XII, XIV, XVIII, XXVI, and XXX.

4. Nights with Uncle Remus, Nos. XIV, XV, and XLVI.]

into getting burned to death, and then making the quills of his wing-
feathers into a musical instrument, which is stolen from him by Brer Fox and 
recovered with difficulty. This recalls Hlakanyana killing a hare (not the 
hare!) and making a whistle out of one of his bones, which the 'iguana' 
subsequently steals from him, and the Ronga hare, with his pipes made from 
the little horns of the gazelle he has treacherously done to death. Out of 
seventy stories in this book eleven introduce Brer Tarrypin; the only one 
that need be noticed just now is where he rescues Brer Rabbit from the 
ungrateful wolf. Mr Wolf had got pinned under a falling rock; Brer Rabbit, 
passing by, raised up the rock enough to release him, whereupon he found 
himself caught, and was about to be eaten when he suggests that they might 
"leave the whole case with Brer Tarrypin." His decision is the same as that 
of the hare against the crocodile in the Yao story, and Brer Rabbit escapes.

Character of the Tortoise
This, like some African examples one has met with, shows the tortoise in a 
kindly light; but in general he appears to be less lovable than, with all 
his wicked tricks, we cannot help feeling the hare to be. The tortoise is 
slow, patient, vindictive, and, sometimes, cruel in his revenge; but he 
never shows the inveterate and occasionally motiveless malignancy of the 
West African spider, the hero of the Anansi tales.

It is easy to see why the tortoise should get a reputation for uncanny 
wisdom. There is something mysterious about him. As Major Leonard says: [1]

Absolutely harmless and inoffensive in himself, the tortoise does not prey 
on even the smallest of insects, but subsists entirely on the fallen fruits 
of the forest. In the gloomy forests of the Niger Delta there are only two 
enemies capable of doing him any serious harm. The one is man, who is able 
to lift him up and carry him bodily away, which, however, he does not do, 
unless the creature is required in connection with certain religious

[1. The Lower Niger and its Tribes, pp. 314 and 315 (here somewhat 
condensed).]

ceremonies. His other and most dangerous enemy is the python, who, having 
first crushed him, swallows him alive, shell and all. But pythons large 
enough to do this, unless the tortoise happens to be young and small, are 
very scarce. Thus the tortoise has been practically immune from attack-a 
fact that in a great measure explains his longevity. [His reputation has 
been enhanced by] the fact that he can exist longer without food than 
perhaps any other animal. . . . In process of time, the word which stood for 
'tortoise' became a synonym for cunning and craft, and a man of exceptional 
intelligence was in this way known among the Ibo as Mbai and among the Ibani 
as Ekake,[l] meaning a tortoise. Although slow, he was sure, and this 
sureness, in the native mind, implied doggedness and a fixed determination, 
while silence and secrecy implied mystery and a veiled purpose, behind which 
it is impossible to get.

The Race won by the Tortoise

The 'Race' story is known in Africa to the Kamba, Konde, [2] Lamba, Ila, 
Duala, Bakwiri,[3] and, I believe, to many others. I have come across only 
two in which the one challenged is the hare, and one of these (the Ila) is 
curiously mixed up with the story of the Animals and the Well. The race is 
run by all the animals to the river, to get water in time of drought, and 
the youngest tortoise, who has been buried close to the bank, brings them a 
supply as they lie exhausted. In most cases it is an antelope who runs and 
loses-the duiker, the harnessed antelope, or some other kind-but the Kamba 
make the tortoise and the fish-eagle the competitors, and the Bondei the 
tortoise and the falcon; this last tortoise, strangely enough, turns into a 
fine young man.[4] And, finally, in Kondeland

[1. Cf. Mpongwe ekaga, 'tortoise.'

2. Better, Ngonde, but their proper name appears to be Nyakyusa; they 
inhabit the northern end of Lake Nyasa, on its western side.

3 Between the Wuri and Sanaga rivers, in the Cameroons. Their nearest 
neighbours are the Duala and the Isubu.

4. See Woodward, "Bondei Folk-tales," p. 182. Here and in the Kamba story 
referred to the two are contending for the hand of the chief's daughter; but 
in general there is no inducement to the contest beyond the trial of 
strength, This Kamba story is given in Mr Hobley's book (The Akamba), but Dr 
Lindblom has another version; in which the tortoise races a young man.]

the match is between the tortoise and the elephant.[1] This is as follows:

The tortoise one day met the elephant, and said, "Do you think you are the 
greatest of all the beasts?" The conversation continued:

"Haven't you seen me, then?"

"Did you ever see your own head?"

"What of that?"

"Why, if I were to jump I could jump over it!"

"What, you?"

"Yes, I!"

"Well, try it, then!"

"Not to-day. I'm tired. I have come a long way."

The elephant thought this was a mere excuse, and told the tortoise he was a 
liar; but it was agreed that the trial should take place next day. The 
tortoise hastened away, fetched his wife, and hid her in the bushes close to 
the spot they had fixed on.

With daybreak the elephant arrived, and found the tortoise already there. He 
got the elephant to stand in the middle of a clear space, and then took up 
his position on one side of him, opposite to the point where his wife was 
hidden in the grass. The elephant said, "Jump away, Tortoise!" The tortoise 
cried, "Hi-i!" took off for the high jump, and crept into the grass, while 
his wife, on the other side, cried "Ehe!" The elephant looked and found the 
tortoise (as he thought) on the farther side, though he had not seen the 
actual leap. "Joko!" [2] Try it again, for I couldn't see you doing it! This 
time the wife cried, "Hi-i!" and the tortoise "Ehe!" and the elephant 
suspected nothing, thinking that the leap had been too swift for his eye to 
catch, and acknowledged himself beaten, but was sure that he would be the 
better in a foot-race. The tortoise was willing to try, "but not to-day, for 
my legs are tired with the jumping. But could you come to-morrow?" The 
elephant agreed, and the same place was fixed for

[1. Schumann, Grundriss einer Grammatik der Kondesprache, p. 82.

2. An exclamation expressive of surprise.]

the starting-point of the course-the race to begin at sunrise.

The tortoise went home, called his children together, and spent the night in 
collecting the rest of the clan, stationing them at convenient intervals 
along the course and instructing them what to do.

The elephant appeared punctually in the morning, and after greetings started 
off at a trot-ndi! ndi! ndi! [1] When he had been running for some time he 
called out, "Tortoise!" thinking he must have left him far behind, but, to 
his consternation, he heard a voice in front of him: "Yuba! Why, I'm here!" 
This happened again and again, till he reached the goal and found the 
original tortoise awaiting him there. "And so it befell that the elephant 
was defeated." (The original expresses this in three words.) The Benga wind 
up the story by saying, "So the council decided that, of all the tribes of 
animals Tortoise was to be held as greatest; for that it had outrun 
Antelope. And the animals gave Tortoise the power to rule."

The Baboon invites the Tortoise to dine
Another favourite story is that of the friendship between the tortoise and 
the baboon, which ended (as in the case of Æsop's fox and crane) in 
consequence of their mutual invitations to dinner. The baboon, having brewed 
his millet-beer (moa, pombe, or utshwala), placed the pots up in a tree, and 
the tortoise, being, of course, unable to climb up, while his host offered 
no other accommodation, had to return home hungry and thirsty. The tortoise 
paid his friend out by inviting him at the end of the dry season (the time 
of the grass-fires) and preparing his feast on a spot which could be reached 
only by crossing a patch of burnt ground. When the baboon arrived he was 
politely requested to wash his hands. As he had to cross the burnt grass 
again to reach the stream in order to do so he came back with them as black 
as ever .[2]

[1. This is one of the famous 'descriptive adverbs,' or 'onomatopceias,' 
which abound in the Bantu languages. Cf. kuputu kuputu, of a horse 
galloping, etc.

2 Baboons, of course, do not as a rule walk upright.]

This went on so long-for the tortoise would not let him sit down till his 
hands were clean-that he was tired out, and went home in disgust.

The Tortoise and the Monitor
Still more spitefully vindictive is the character given to the tortoise in 
the Nyanja story which associates him with the ng'anzi, a large lizard, 
probably a species of Varanus (monitor). It opens, like many other tales of 
this kind, with the statement that these two "made friendship," by which we 
are to understand that they went through the ceremonies of the blood-
covenant, binding themselves to help each other whenever called upon. One 
day the tortoise was in need of salt-well known to be a very precious 
commodity in certain parts of Africa-and set out to beg some from his 
friend. Having reached the ng'anzi's abode and got his salt, he next asked 
to have it tied up with string in a piece of bark-cloth. (Such bundles, each 
a man's load, used to be brought in to Blantyre by people who had been 
making salt on the shores of Lake Chilwa.) He passed the string over his 
shoulder, so that the parcel hung under his other arm, and started for home, 
dragging the salt after him-gubudugubudu![1] The ng'anzi came up behind him 
and seized the salt; the tortoise, pulled up short, njutu njutu! turned back 
to see what had caught his load. He found that the ng'anzi had seized the 
bundle of salt in the middle, and said to him, "Don't seize my salt. I have 
just brought it from my friend's house." The ng'anzi replied, "I've just 
picked it up in the path." "But you can see the string passing round my neck 
as we tied it. I, the tortoise, am the owner." But the ng'anzi insisted that 
he had found the parcel, and, as the tortoise would not give in, said, "Let 
us go to the smithy [this being the local gossip-shop or men's club of the 
village], that the elders may decide our case." The tortoise agreed, and 
they went to the smithy, where

[1. Intended to express the bumping of the parcel along the path as the 
tortoise makes his slow progress. When he is pulled up, njutu njutu! 
expresses the sudden stop which almost jerks him off his feet.]

they found eight old men. The ng'anzi opened the case in proper form: "I 
have a suit against the tortoise." The elders said, "What is your suit with 
which you have come hither to us?" He stated his case, and they asked, "How 
did you pick up the tortoise's salt?" The tortoise replied, "Because I am 
short as to the legs I tied the salt round my neck, and it went bumping 
along, and then the ng'anzi took hold of it, and I turned back to see what 
had caught it, and there was my friend the ng'anzi, and he said, 'Let us go 
to the smithy,' and therefore we have come here." The elders suggested that 
they should compromise the case by cutting the bag of salt in two. The 
tortoise consented, though unwillingly, seeing that he had no chance, since 
the judges were all relatives of the ng'anzi, as he perceived too late. 
"Perhaps I have been wrong in taking to the road alone," was his reflection 
on finding that he had fallen among thieves. The bag was cut, and, of 
course, a great deal of salt fell out on the ground. The tortoise gathered 
up what he could, but it was only a little, "because his fingers were so 
short," and he failed to tie it up satisfactorily in the piece of bark-cloth 
left to him. The ng'anzi, on the contrary, had his full half, and the elders 
scraped up what had been spilt, earth and all. So the tortoise went away, 
crying, "because my salt is spoilt," and reached his home with one or two 
tiny screws done up in leaves. His wife asked him what had become of the 
salt, and he told her the whole story, adding that he would go again to his 
friend and get a fresh supply. He rested four days, and then started once 
more.

On reaching the ng'anzi's burrow he found that the owner had entered it and 
was enjoying a meal of lumwe (the winged males of the termites, which are 
about an inch long and accounted a great delicacy). The tortoise came 
walking very softly, nyang'anyang'a, looked carefully about him, spied the 
ng'anzi, crept up to him without being seen, and seized him by the middle of 
his body. Thereupon he cried out, "Who has seized me by the waist? As for 
me, I am just eating white ants." The tortoise replied, "I have picked up. 
Yes, I have picked up. The other day you picked up my salt, and to-day I 
have picked you up! Well, let us go to the smithy, as we did the other day." 
The ng'anzi said, " Do you insist? " The tortoise answered, "Yes." So they 
came out of the burrow and went to the smithy, where they found nine old 
men. Having heard the case stated, these elders said, "You should do what 
you did the other day: you cut the salt in two." The tortoise cried in 
triumph, "Ha! ha! ha! ha!-it is good so," and rejoiced with his whole heart; 
but the ng'anzi said, "Are you absolutely resolved on killing me?" "You 
formerly destroyed my salt, and I, for my part, am going to do the same to 
you!" "Ha! This is the end of me! To want to cut me in half! . . . Well, do 
what you want to do. It's all over with me, the ng'anzi!" The tortoise leapt 
up, tu! I and took a knife and cut the ng'anzi through the middle, and he 
cried, "Mother! Mother! I am dead to-day through picking up!" and. died.

The tortoise took the tail and two legs and went on his way, and when he 
came to his wife's house he said, "We have settled the score: the ng'anzi 
ate that salt of mine, and to-day I have paid him back in his own coin, and 
he is dead."[1]

Perhaps he deserved it; but the tortoise reminds one of Shylock in his 
determination to get his pound of flesh.

This story may seem to have been related at unnecessary length (though in 
the original the speeches are repeated verbatim, over and over again); but 
it makes such a quaint picture of African life as it is, or was not so very 
long ago in Nyasaland, that the temptation to paraphrase it was 
irresistible: the journey for the salt, the covenant of friendship (in this 
instance basely betrayed), the old men talking over the case at the village 
blacksmith's forge.

The Name of the Tree
There is a very curious story, found in places as far apart as Corisco Bay 
in the north and Transvaal in the south, in which the tortoise, as a rule, 
plays the principal part, though this is sometimes given to the hare. It may 
have a mythological

[1. From a manuscript taken down by me at Blantyre in 1893]

background now partly or completely forgotten: this is suggested by the fact 
that God (Leza, Maweza) is introduced in some versions as the owner of the 
mysterious tree.

On occasions it opens with the statement that there was a famine in the 
land. The animals, searching for food (or sometimes accidentally, while 
hunting), come across a tree previously unknown to them, full of ripe and 
tempting fruit. They send messenger after messenger to the tree's owner, in 
order to ask its name, or sometimes, simply, "what sort of a tree it is, 
that we may know whether the fruit can be eaten or not." But the exact name 
is so often insisted on that it would seem to have some magical 
significance. The "owner of the tree" is in two cases (Sublya, Bena Kanioka 
[1]) said to be 'God'; the Bapedi and Baila speak of "an old woman"; the 
Basuto say, "The owner of the tree is called Koko." As this word means 
'grandmother,' it would seem as if the old woman were the tribal ancestress. 
Other versions do not specify the owner more particularly, or call him, or 
her, simply "the chief."

The messengers (in some instances a whole series is enumerated in others, 
after the first, only "all the rest of the animals" are mentioned) 
invariably forget the name on the way back. At last an insignificant and 
despised member of the community-usually the tortoise, but sometimes the 
hare, and in one case the gazelle-is successful. Here the story should end, 
and does so in, I think, the best versions, with the triumph of the 
tortoise. But in some the animals turn on their benefactor and refuse him a 
share in the fruit. The Bapedi make him revenge himself by a trick which 
properly belongs to the hare, and several subsequent incidents are identical 
with those in a Ronga hare story, in which that of the tree follows on one 
of an entirely different character. This, like the Suto and Pedi versions of 
our tortoise story, makes it an essential point that the fruit on the 
topmost branch is not to be touched, but left for the chief. The Ronga hare 
gets at the fruit and eats it out of

[1. On the Upper Sankuru, in the Belgian Congo.]

mere mischief (afterwards putting the blame on the elephant); the tortoise 
to revenge himself for ill-usage.

Here follows the Lamba tale:[1]

In a time of famine all the animals gathered near a tree full of wonderful 
fruit, which could not be gathered unless the right name of the tree was 
mentioned, and built their huts there. When the fruit ripened W'akalulu ("Mr 
Little Hare") went to the chief of the tree and asked him its name. The 
chief answered, "When you arrive just stand still and say Uwungelema." The 
hare started on his way back, but when he had reached the outskirts of his 
village he tripped,[2] and the name went out of his head. Trying to recover 
it, he kept saying to himself, "Uwungelenyense, Uwuntuluntumba, Uwu-what?"

When he arrived the animals asked, "What is the name, Little Hare, of these 
things?" But he could only stammer the wrong words, and not a fruit fell. 
Next morning two buffaloes arose and tried their luck-it seems to have been 
considered safer to send two-but on their return both tripped and forgot the 
word. In answer to their eager questioners they said, "He said, 
Uwumbilakanwa, Uwuntuluntumba, or what? "-which, of course, could not help 
matters.

Then two elands were sent, with the same result.

Then the lion went, and, though he took care to repeat the word over and 
over again on the way home, he too tripped against the obstacle and forgot 
it. "Then all the animals, the roans and the sables, and the mungooses,[3] 
all came to an end going there. They all just returned in vain."

[1. Doke, Lamba Folklore, p. 61.

2 Some versions have it that the messengers, one after another, stumbled 
against an ant-hill in the path. The Benga makes them go to the chief's 
place by sea, and forget the name when the canoe is upset. (Also the 
successful one is warned not to eat or drink while on the water, and is 
careful to observe this.) In the Luba story they forget the name if they 
look back; and with the Bena Kanioka Maweza gives the tortoise a little 
bell, which reminds him of the name by ringing.

3 It may be worth noting that the two kinds of antelope mentioned have in 
the original the honorific prefix Wa. The mungooses (mapulu) are presumably 
considered too insignificant.]

Then the tortoise went to the chief and asked for the name. He had it 
repeated more than once, to make sure, and then set out on his slow and 
cautious journey.

He travelled a great distance and then said, "Uwungelema." Again he reached 
the outskirts of the village, again he said, "Uwungelema." Then he arrived 
in the village and reached his house and had a smoke. When he had finished 
smoking, the people arrived and said, " What is it, Tortoise? " Mr Tortoise 
went out and said, "Uwungelema!" The fruit pelted down. The people just 
covered the place, all the animals picking up. They sat down again: in the 
morning they said, " Go to Mr Tortoise." And Mr Tortoise came out and said, 
"Uwungelema!" Again numberless fruits pelted down. Then they began praising 
Mr Tortoise, saying, " Mr Tortoise is chief, because he knows the name of 
these fruits."

This happened again and again, till the fruit came to an end, and the 
animals dispersed, to seek subsistence elsewhere.

So in the Benga country the grateful beasts proclaimed Kudu, the tortoise, 
as their second chief, the python, Mbama, having been their sole ruler 
hitherto. "We shall have two kings, Kudu and Mbama, each at his end of the 
country. For the one, with his wisdom, told what was fit to be eaten, and 
the other, with his skill, brought the news."

The Luba Version'
This has an entirely different opening. The animals, discussing who was to 
be their chief, decided to settle the point by seeing who could throw a lump 
of earth across the river. One after another tried, but their missiles all 
fell short, till it came to the turn of the little 'gazelle' (kabuluku), who 
was thereupon unanimously elected.[2]

Some time after this the animals, wearied out with hunting,

[1. De Clercq, "Vingt-deux Contes," No. 9.

2 Sir Harry Johnston said that there are no true gazelles in the Congo 
region, unless in the far north. I do not know the proper designation of the 
kabuluku, translated 'gazelle' by P. De Clercq; it may possibly be the water 
chevrotain, Dorcatherium. The Luba country is on the upper reaches of the 
Kasai.]

came across a tree bearing large fruits, of which they did not know the 
name. They sent the elephant to Mvidi Mukulu, the High God, who told him it 
was Mpumpunyamampumpu, but he must never look behind him on the way back or 
he would be sure to forget it. He did look behind him, and had to confess 
his failure, at which the animals were greatly annoyed, and told him he was 
no good. (In the original udi chintuntu, which P. De Clercq translates "Tu 
es un homme méprisable!")

Then the buffalo was sent, but did no better; then all the other animals, 
except the gazelle, and they also failed.

The gazelle kept her instructions in mind, never looked back, and returned 
successfully with the name. The ovation with which they received her is 
described by saying that "they all stood up, and the gazelle skipped about 
on their backs"-one supposes that they carried her in triumph.

Some Further Variations
The Bena Kanioka version, while beginning in much the same way, ends very 
differently. After the various animals have failed in their quest the 
tortoise comes to Maweza, who tells him the name of the tree and gives him a 
little bell, saying, " If you forget the name the bell will put you in mind 
of it." (It is not said why none of the other animals had been thus 
favoured.) The tortoise did, in fact, forget the name on the way, but the 
bell, ringing in his car, recalled it to him. He reached the tree in safety, 
and told the name to the animals, who joyfully climbed the tree and ate the 
fruit, but refused to give him a share of it. When they had eaten their fill 
they killed him. But the little ants took his body away, and sang:

"Knead the sand and mould the clay
Till he comes whom God has made."

It is not explained who this person is or how he appeared, but the ants 
handed over the dead tortoise to him, and he rcstored him to life. The 
animals killed him again, smashing his shell to pieces;[1] the ants put the 
pieces together, and he again revived. As soon as he had regained his 
strength he uprooted the tree, with all the animals in its branches, and 
they perished in its fall.

The Pedi version, which is, I think, mixed with a hare story, contains one 
or two points not found elsewhere: the old woman, when telling the name 
(which, by the by, has not been asked for: they only say, "May we eat of 
this tree?"), adds, "You may eat, but leave the great branch of the chief's 
kraal alone!" (Elsewhere one gathers that this is the topmost branch of the 
tree.) The tortoise, deprived of his share in the fruit and shut up in a hut 
(a variant says buried by order of the chief), gets out during the night and 
eats all the fruit off the forbidden bough. Before returning to his prison 
he disposes the kernels about the body of the sleeping elephant. This and 
the sequel, with which we need not concern ourselves, do not, as already 
pointed out, belong to the tortoise.

Another incidental touch is that the tortoise-no doubt as an aid to memory-
kept playing on his umqangala while crooning over his message to himself-
strangely enough, if he is correctly reported, not the old woman's words, 
but the following song:

"They say they bumped
    On the way back.
There is an obstacle in the way."

The nature of the obstacle is not specified, but what appears to be the same 
story (told to Jacottet by a girl at Morija [2]) mentions an ant-hill. In 
this story the lion is said to be the chief of the animals who sends the 
messengers to Koko, and then goes himself. Angered that so insignificant a 
creature as the tortoise should have succeeded where he failed he has a pit 
dug, and orders the tortoise to be

[1. A point of contact with numerous stories which profess to explain the 
formation of the tortoise's shell. See, e.g., ante, p. 255.

2 Contes populaires, p. 42. Probably from North Transvaal. None of the 
Basuto seemed to be acquainted with it. Jacottet obtained another version 
from a Transvaal native, but this appears to be very imperfect.]

buried in it. The tortoise burrows his way out in the night, eats the fruit 
on the top branch, and returns to the hole. The animals, of course, when 
questioned, deny all knowledge of the theft. The tortoise is then dug up, 
and asks, "How could I have eaten the fruit when you had buried me so well?"

This ends the story.

The name of the fruit is in every case different; usually it seems to be a 
nonsense-word (or perhaps an old forgotten one), of which no one knows the 
meaning. But in Pedi it is Matlatladiane, which the aged guardian of the 
tree explains to mean: "He will come presently." It is not stated who will 
come-perhaps the successful messenger.

In some stories in which children escape from an ogre it is the tortoise who 
saves them by swallowing and afterwards producing them uninjured. The Ronga 
version[1] of this tale, however, makes the deliverer a frog.

How the Leopard got his Spots
Another incident showing the tortoise in a kindly aspect comes from the 
Tumbuka, [2] in Northern Nyasaland. The hyena, for no apparent reason beyond 
ingrained ill-nature, put the tortoise up into the fork of a tree, where he 
could not get down. A leopard passed by and saw him: "Do you also climb 
trees, Tortoise?" "The hyena is the person who put me there, and now I can't 
get down if I try." The leopard remarked, "Hyena is a bad lot," and took the 
tortoise out of the tree.

We are not told what the leopard looked like at this time, but he would seem 
to have been 'self-coloured,' for the tortoise, offering out of gratitude 
for his rescue to "make him beautiful, did so by painting him with spots, 
saying, as he worked, Where your neighbour is all right, be you also all 
right [makora]." The leopard, when he went off, met a zebra, who admired him 
so much that he wanted to know "who had made him beautiful, and himself went 
to

[1. "L'Homme-au -Grand-Coutelas "; see ante, p. 221.

2. Cullen Young, Tumbuka-Kamanga Peoples, p. 229.]

the tortoise. In this way he got his stripes. This "Just-so" story accounts 
not only for the markings of the leopard and the zebra, but for their being 
creatures of the wild, for when the people, hoeing their gardens, saw them 
they exclaimed, "Oh! the big beauty! Catch it and let us domesticate it!" or 
words to that effect, so both of them fled into the bush, where they have 
remained ever since. The hyena too met with his deserts, as follows.

"The zebra met a hyena, who asked, 'Who beautified you?' He said, 'It was 
the tortoise.' So the hyena said, 'Let him beautify me too,' and went away 
to the tortoise with the words, 'Make me beautiful!' 'Come,' said the 
tortoise, and began [the work], saying, 'Where your neighbour is a bad lot 
[uhene], be you too a bad lot!' and then said, 'Go to the place where the 
people are hoeing.' But at the sight 'That's an evil thing!' said they. 
'Kill! kill! kill!' And the hyena turned tail and fled, dashing into the 
bushes, kweche! and saying, 'I will smash him to-day where I find the little 
beast 1 Previously I only stuck him up in a tree-fork.' And he burst out 
upon the spot, but found no sign of the tortoise, who had gone down a hole."

The old man who told the story added this moral for the benefit of the 
young: "So nowadays they laugh at a hyena in the villages. You see that one 
evil follows upon another."

The Great Tortoise of the Zulus
The Zulus have a rather vague tradition about a Great Tortoise (Ufudu 
olukulu), who has nothing to do with our friend of the adventures related 
above, but seems to be a mythical being, possibly akin to the kraken, who 
may not, after all, be entirely mythical. Perhaps it is not out of place, 
when mentioning the kraken, to relate, in passing, the experience-whether we 
take it as fact or as folklore of an East African native who had served as a 
fireman on British ships in many waters. Somewhere between Australia and New 
Zealand the steamer's anchor-chain was seized by a giant octopus (pweza: 
"The pweza is an evil person,"[1] say the Swahili). The body of the creature 
was out of sight, but the tentacle which held the chain was-so Ali declared-
the width of the table at which we were seated-say, three to four feet. The 
ship's company stabbed the tentacle with a boathook till it let go, and the 
pweza sank and was seen no more. Otherwise, one was given to understand, the 
vessel would have gone down with all on board.

As to the Great Tortoise, Umpondo Kambule told Bishop Callaway [2] that it 
had taken his grandmother as she, with her three daughters, was crossing the 
river Umtshezi. It was "as big as the skin of an ox"-not merely "as an ox," 
being equal to the diameter of the spread-out skin. At any rate, it was big 
enough to dam up the current: "the river filled, because it had obstructed 
the water." The three younger women crossed in safety: the grandmother lost 
her footing, was seized by the tortoise, and dragged into deep water. Her 
children-the rest of them hastened, to the spot on the alarm being given-
just caught sight of her as she was raised for a moment above the surface; 
then she sank, and was never seen again.

The monster seemingly came out sometimes to sun itself, and on one occasion 
was seen by some herd-boys, who took it for a rock and played about on it, 
not heeding the warning of a little brother, who declared that "this rock 
has eyes." Nothing happened that time, but on another day the tortoise 
turned over with the boys who were on it and drowned them.

The Fatal Magic of the Waters
In another aspect this Great Tortoise recalls the European nixies, who 
entice people into the depths of rivers and pools. This is explained by 
Umpengula Mbanda as follows:

It is said there is a beast in the water which can seize the shadow of a 
man; when he looks into the water, it takes his shadow; the

[1. Mtu (muntu) properly speaking means a human being, but one often hears 
animals referred to as watu. "There are bad people in the sea," said 
Muhamadi Kijuma of Lamu, meaning, no doubt, sharks and such.

2. Nursery Tales, p. 339]

man no longer wishes to turn back, but has a great wish to enter the pool; 
it seems to him that there is not death in the water; it is as if he were 
going to real happiness[1] where there is no harm; and he dies through being 
eaten by the beast, which was not seen at first, but is seen when it catches 
hold of him. . . . And people are forbidden to lean over and look into a 
dark pool, it being feared that their shadow should be taken away.[2]

This is given by way of comment on a story told by the bishop's other 
informant, about a boy who threw a stone into a pool (it is not said that he 
looked at his reflection, but this must surely be understood), and, on going 
home, refused his food and could not be kept from returning to the place. 
His father followed him, but was only in time to see the boy's head in the 
middle of the pool, though he did not actually sink till after sunset. just 
as he disappeared he cried out, "I am held by the foot." His father, who had 
been forcibly restrained from throwing himself into the pool, had offered a 
reward to anyone who should save his son; but it seems to have been accepted 
as a fact that nothing could be done: "the child is already dead." And after 
he had sunk they said, "He has been devoured by the tortoise."

The rivers of Africa, not to mention lakes and pools, merit a chapter to 
themselves, which cannot here be given. The subject has scarcely been 
touched: we have only a few scattered hints from Zulu and Xosa sources. 
There is Tikoloshe,[3] or Hili, the water-sprite, who comes out to make 
unlawful love to women, and Isitshakamana, who scares fishermen to death, 
and when on land 'hirsels ' about in a sitting position (though provided 
with legs), like Kitunusi of the Pokomo.

Some of the stories (eg., that of Tangalimlibo, included

[1. Du stiegst hinunterwie du bist, Und würdest erst gesund!-GORTHE, Der 
Fischer

2. Callaway, Nursery Tales, p. 342.

3. Or Tokolotshe. I have never heard what this being looks like, beyond the 
fact that a Natal Zulu, on my showing him the picture of a chimpanzee in 
Lydekker's Natural History, exclaimed, unexpectedly, "Tokolotshe!"]

in several collections) describe cattle being driven into a river in the 
hope of saving the drowning, by inducing the water-spirits to accept life 
for life.[1] And it is said that the Umsunduzi (which rises in the Natal 
Table Mountain Umkambati-near Pietermaritzburg) claims a human life every 
year-like the Tweed (the Till takes three and the Lancashire Ribble one 
every seventh year)-unless some other living creature is sacrificed. But 
this is to digress too far from our subject.

[1. See Theal, People of Africa, p. 192.]

CHAPTER XIX: STORIES OF SOME OTHER ANIMALS
THE stories about the more important animals, the lion, the elephant, the 
antelopes, and the hyena, usually introduce the hare as the principal 
character; the rhinoceros, the hippopotamus, the python, and the zebra are 
less often found in conjunction with him. This chapter will contain a few in 
which he does not figure.

The first is that of "The Horned Animals and the Hyena." A great beer-
drinking was arranged, to which no animals were admitted but those having 
horns. Every kind of horned beast assembled at the meeting-place in the 
forest, and the feast went on for many days. The hyena heard of it, and 
wished to take part, but knew, of course, that he was disqualified. He did 
not, however, lose heart, but wandered about till he came across a dead buck 
of some kind. He detached its horns, and then searched for a deserted bees' 
nest, where he found a sufficient quantity of wax to stick the horns on his 
head. Thereupon he made his way to the meeting-place, and joined the 
revellers without exciting remark.

The feast had gone on all night, and the hyena arrived in the early morning, 
so for a time all went well. But as the sun grew hot the wax began to melt. 
As he felt the horns getting loose he held them on with his hands, calling 
on all the other animals to do the same: "Quickly! Quickly! because some of 
us have horns which come off! The stupid hyena seems to have thought that 
some of the others might be in like case with himself, and that he might 
escape detection along with them. But the animals were not to be taken in; 
they saw through the trick (which, indeed, soon became impossible to carry 
on): they cried, "He is cheating us, and drove him away in disgrace."[1]

Curiously enough, in at least three variants (Ila, Lamba, and Nsenga) this 
exploit is credited to the hare; but it seems to me to fit the hyena much 
better. The Ila story,

[1. Told in Swahili by C. Velten, Märchen und Erzeihlungen, p. 2.]

however, has one or two additional touches which it is a to lose. The hare 
was accompanied by the ground hornbill (any sort of horn was allowed to 
count), who sat near the door (this beer-drinking took place under cover), 
while the hare imprudently (and quite out of character) chose a place near 
the fire. When the wax began to melt the hornbill indiscreetly (or 
maliciously?) announced the fact, but the guests could not hear what he 
said, and asked the hare, who answered "Hornbill is asking for the sediment 
of the beer." But he could not keep up the deception when the hot wax ran 
down his face, and the story ends as above.

A story from Tete [1] containing a similar incident is not a parallel: the 
invitation is issued to "all creatures wearing fur or feathers," and the 
hare assumes a pair of horns only as a disguise, the host being his deadly 
enemy, the lion.

Brother Wolf and the Horned Cattle
Uncle Remus,[2] I am sure, is much nearer the true tradition, though, to be 
precise, the story in question is not related by him, but by Aunt Tempy. It 
is too delicious to be paraphrased in its entirety: some of it, at any rate, 
must be given in her own words.

"Hit come 'bout one time dat all de creeturs what got hawns tuck a notion 
dat dey got ter meet terge'er an have a confab ter see how dey gwine take 
keer deyself, kaze dem t'er creeturs what got tush an claw, dey wuz des a-
snatchin' um furn roun' every corrider."

Accordingly, they held a meeting in the woods.

"Ole Brer Wolf, he tuck'n year 'bout de muster, an he sech a smarty dat 
nothin' aint gwine do but he mus' go an see what dey doin'. . . . He went 
out in de timber an cut 'im two crooked sticks an tie urn on his head an 
start off ter whar de hawn creeturs meet at."

When challenged by Mr Bull he announced himself as

[1. Tete is on the Zambezi; the language spoken there is a form of Nyanja.

2 Nights, No. LXII. This is followed by the incident of the wolf feigning 
death and being exposed by Brer Rabbit.]

little sucking calf," and, though Bull was somewhat suspicious, -he got in. 
After a while, forgetting himself, he snapped at a horse-fly, and Brer 
Rabbit, hiding in the bushes, burst out laughing.

"Brer Bull, he tuck'n holler out, he did:

"'Who dat laughin' an showin' der manners?'

"Nobody aint make no answer, an terreckerly Brer Rabbit holler out:

O kittle-cattle, kittle-cattle, whar yo' eyes?
Whoever see a Sook Calf snappin' at flies?'"

The assembled animals did not know what to make of this voice from -the 
unseen, and presently another slip on the part of Mr Wolf caused Brer Rabbit 
to exclaim:

"Scritchum-scratchum, lawsy, my laws!
Look at dat Sook Calf scratchin' wid claws!"

He gave the unfortunate intruder no rest, and when at last he burst out with

One an one never kin make six;
Sticks aint hawns an hawns aint sticks

Brer Wolf turned to flee, and none too soon, for Mr Bull charged him, and 
would have "natally tore him in two" if he had not "des scooted away from 
dar."

The Wart-hog's Wife comes to the Rescue
A lion story, in which the hare does not figure, is based on the same 
general idea as that of the man whose wife was caught in his trap and 
claimed as his share by the lion. In this story the case is decided by a 
different animal, and the details are so divergent that it seems quite worth 
while to reproduce it here.[1]

A lion, while hunting, got caught by the leg in the noose of a spring-
trap.[2] The more he struggled the more tightly,

[1. Doke, Lamba Folklore, p. 99. The wart-hog is ngidi in Lamba, njiri in 
Nyanja.

2. In the original mwando, which means 'a rope'; the particular kind of trap 
meant appears to be called ichinsala. A rope, with a noose at the end, is 
laid along the path and carefully covered up; this is connected with a 
strong, flexible pole, of which one end is planted firmly in the ground and 
the other bent over. An animal stepping on the noose releases the pole, and 
the jerk tightens the cord round its foot.]

of course, he was held, and so he remained for some days, till quite 
famished and like to die. Then, as it befell, there passed by a wart-hog-
that strangely ugly beast, so grotesque in his ugliness that he might well 
be called "jist bonnie wi' ill-fauredness." He was accompanied by his wife 
and his numerous family, the children trotting behind him in single file 
along the path. As they were searching for food they came upon the trap, and 
saw the lion fast in it, a mere bag of bones. He called out, "My dear Mr 
Wart-hog [Mwe wame Wangidij], loose me, your friend! I'm in trouble! I'm 
dying!" The good-natured wart-hog loosened the rope and freed the lion, 
saying, "All right. Let us be off!" As they were going away the lion 
happened to turn round, and, catching sight of the procession of little 
pigs, said, " Friend Wart-hog, what a crowd of children are yours! Do give 
me one of your children to eat! See how thin I have got with hunger!" The 
wart-hog answered, "Would you eat a child of mine? And it was I who loosed 
you to save you!" The lion still insisted, but now the wart-hog's wife 
interposed, saying-while at the same time conveying some private hint to her 
husband-"Listen, husband. We have loosed a wild beast on us, and he is 
demanding one of our children. There is nothing for it but to give way." So 
they ostensibly gave way (literally, "were weak towards him"), and promised 
that he should have one when they arrived "where we are going." But "first 
let us return to that thing that caught you and see what it is like." The 
lion agreed, and they went back to the trap. They asked, "How did it catch 
you? Where was it?" and the lion answered, "It was like this. just take hold 
of it and bend it down." The couple did so, and, holding the end of the pole 
close to the ground, asked, "But how did it catch you in this way, sir?" The 
lion, as always, absurdly confiding, put his foot in, the wart-hogs let go, 
and he was caught once more. The family scattered in all directions, the 
lion piteously calling after them, "O my dear Wart-hog, are you going? Won't 
you undo me?" The parents hardened their hearts, and called back, "No! We, 
your friends, loosed you, and then you begged a child of us! You are a 
beast: stay where you are, and free yourself as best you can!"

So he had to stay there in torment till he died. And consequently there is 
enmity between lions and wart-hogs to this day. "If they meet," says the 
narrator, "Mr Lion at once eats Mr Wart-hog." Yet one fancies in such a case 
the latter would be quite able to give a good account of himself.

The Wart-hog and the Elephant
The Baila make out a relationship between the wart-hog and the elephant, 
grounding it on the fact that both have tusks which are white (though 
differing in size) and "hair which is alike"-a less obvious resemblance. But 
originally, it would seem, the wart-hog had the large tusks and the elephant 
the small ones. The two were supposed to be uncle and nephew, and at one 
time had a serious quarrel, because, as the wart-hog said to his relative, 
"One day you said you would destroy things for me"-to supply him with food, 
no doubt-"but you broke your word." However, they made it up, the elephant's 
real motive being his desire to get hold of the wart-hog's tusks. He began 
by admiring them, and then proposed that they should exchange for a short 
time, so that he could show himself creditably turned out at a dance.[1] He 
promised to return them on a certain day; but that day came and passed, and 
the wart-hog waited in vain. At last he went to look for the elephant, and 
demanded his tusks, only to be told that the exchange was a permanent one, 
and not a temporary loan. Finding his expostulations all in vain, he said, 
"From to-day I am going to sleep in a burrow; as for you, you shall travel 
about the whole day and go far; we shall not be friends again, because you 
have deceived me so." He then went to consult the ant-bear, feeling so 
unclothed and disreputable without his great tusks that there was nothing 
for it but to take refuge underground. The ant-bear

[1. This is not expressly stated in the text (Smith and Dale, The Ila-
speaking Peoples, vol. ii, p. 365), but must be assumed as the reason for 
'dressing up.']

received him hospitably, and therefore, to this day, "Ant-bear's custom is 
to dig burrows, and Wart-hog enters one and sleeps. When he has had enough 
of one he looks out for another. On his arrival he enters the burrow dug by 
Ant-bear."

The exchange of tusks in this "Just-so" story recalls one told by the 
Swahili to account for the fact that the snake has no legs and the millepede 
(popularly supposed to be blind) an excessive number. The snake borrowed the 
millepede's eyes, so that he could look on at a wedding dance, and lent his 
legs in return; but he afterwards refused to restore the eyes to their 
owner, and has kept them ever since.

The Varanus in the Tree
The monitor lizard[1] has already been met with in a tortoise story, but 
also occurs in other connexions-for instance, in the story of Hlakanyana, 
whose whistle is borrowed-and kept-by an uxamu,[2] and also in a good many 
tales from Nyasaland.

One of these is very curious, and seems to be widely distributed. I follow, 
in the main, a Swahili version, contributed by Mateo Vundala bin Tendwa to 
Mambo Leo [3] for January1927. I have seen at least two others in manuscript 
(Nyanja), and Mr Cullen Young gives a Tumbuka one in the work from which I 
have already quoted.[4]

Once upon a time there was a man who had a beautiful daughter and looked 
after her very carefully. One day there arrived a young man who wanted to 
marry her; her father did not refuse, but told him to wait five days and 
come back on the sixth. When he returned at the appointed time he was told: 
"Go away and come again to-morrow."

[1. Nyanja ng'anzi, Tumbuka kawawa, Swahili kenge, Zulu uxama. I am not 
certain whether the Nyanja gondwa is the same or another species.

2 See ante, p. x64-

3 The Swahili monthly, published at Dar-es-Salaam. It is unfortunate that 
the writer gives no indication as to the part of Tanganyika Territory where 
the story was obtained. It is entitled "The Story of a Man and a Youth and a 
Kenge."

4 Tumbuka-Kamanga People, p. 217]

Next morning the girl went to the well [1] with her water-jar as usual, and 
when she got there saw a kenge drinking. As soon as it saw her it darted off 
and ran up a tree. She stood gazing at it for some time, never having seen 
such a creature before, and then filled her jar and hastened home, calling 
out to her father on arriving, "Father, I've seen a beast with a long tail 
which ran away up a tree!" He answered, "Let us go, so that I can look at 
it." They went together, and he recognized it at once, but it had gone up to 
the topmost branches, where no human climber could reach it. The father 
reflected for a while, and then made up his mind that when the young wooer 
came back he would say to him, "If you want to marry my daughter you must go 
and catch that kenge on the top of the tree."

It is not stated why he wanted it caught, but it seems, from other sources, 
that it is considered good eating-at any rate, by some people. The chief in 
the Tumbuka version of the story "was extremely fond of eating the flesh of 
the monitor lizard in preference to all other meats."

The young man was somewhat startled by this declaration, but only asked to 
be shown the tree. When he had looked at it he was filled with despair, and 
went away sorrowful.

When he reached the village the girl's father asked him,

Well, have you brought the kenge? He answered, "I am beaten as to climbing 
that tree!" The father said to him, "Well, then, you cannot marry my 
daughter." So the young man started for his own village "full of grief."

When he arrived he found some men sitting in the baraza, and one ancient 
asked him, "Is it all settled about your wedding?" The young man answered, 
"Much trouble over there! Much trouble over there!" "What sort of trouble is 
there yonder?" asked the old man. The youth told his story, and the old man 
called him aside and gave him this advice: "Go and get hold of a goat; also

[1. does not necessarily mean a well in the sense of a deep pit into which 
buckets have to Kisima be lowered, but may be a water-hole or reservoir 
where animals can drink at the edge.]

catch a dog; then take a bowl of porridge and a bundle of grass and go back. 
When you get to the foot of the tree tie up the goat on one side and the dog 
on the other; then give the porridge to the goat and the grass to the dog 
and sit down, and you will see the kenge come down at once."

He did as the old man had told him, and went back to the tree. Having tied 
up the goat and the dog as directed, he sought out the girl's father and 
told him that he was going to try again. The man said, "You were beaten the 
first time; the second time you will succeed, so go on and try again!"

The young man went once more to the tree, and held out the porridge to the 
goat and the grass to the dog. No sooner had he done so than he heard a 
laugh up in the tree, and the lizard spoke with a human voice, "Young man, 
you have no sense! How is it you are giving porridge to the goat and grass 
to the, dog?" The young man answered, "Come down and show me the right way! 
Please do come down and show me the right way!" Then the kenge came down, 
and the young man at once seized it and ran off to the village, and the 
people, when they caught sight of him, even before he arrived, raised cries 
of rejoicing. And the girl's father hurried out to meet him and carried off 
his kenge in triumph. The wedding took place on the same day, and, of 
course, " they lived happy ever after."

It may be of interest to give, in Mr Cullen Young's translation, the 
conclusion of the Tumbuka story. In this after the lizard had called out to 
the young man he paid no heed, but did the same as before. Then:

The monitor said, "Oh! what a fool that so-called human is! Goodness me! 
Take the porridge and give it to the dog, and take the grass and give it to 
the goat. Listen, can't you? and keep your ears open!" But still porridge to 
the goat and grass to the dog. Down came the lizard. "I tell you, take the 
porridge and give it to the dog take the grass and give it to the goat, and 
you'll see they'll eat Stand back and watch me!" Then, while the lizard was 
stretching out its arm to take the porridge-basket, the young fellow 
snatched his axe and hit the lizard on the head twice and killed it. When he 
had killed it, he went with it into the presence of the chief, where . . . 
he marvelled, saying, " You are a lad of parts, young fellow! That beast 
defeated a lot of people with their plans." And then he began to summon all 
his people and said, " It is he who is second in the chiefship; anyone 
making light of him as good as makes light of me."

Mateo Vundala does not say what was done with the kenge which the young man 
brought in alive. I have never heard of their being kept as pets.

The incident of "porridge for the groat and grass for the dog" is found in a 
Lamba story (Doke, Lamba Folklore, p. 151: "The Chief and his Councillors"), 
the opening of which is nearly identical with that of the Tumbuka "The 
Children and their Parents" (Cullen Young, The Tumbuka Kamanga Peoples, p. 
243). All the young men of a certain tribe were ordered by the chief to kill 
their parents, but one disobeyed and hid his father and mother in a cave. 
The land was ravaged by an ogre who swallowed people and then retreated to 
an inaccessible chasm. When this had gone on for some time the chief called 
the young men together and, as no one had anything helpful to suggest, said, 
"Friends, who has his father here, that he may give me advice?" They 
answered, "No, sir, we have none, because you said, 'All of you bring your 
fathers and let us kill them.'" But at last the youth who had saved his 
parents brought forward his father; and the old man enticed the ogre out of 
his lair in the way already described. The monster was immediately killed by 
the people, who then, following the directions of the Kawandami lizard, got 
out of him those already swallowed. In the Tumbuka story the rescued parents 
help the chief in another kind of difficulty.

It is somewhat remarkable that the same number of Mambo Leo in which Mateo's 
story appears contains a report of what purports to be an actual occurrence, 
sent in by a correspondent from the Kilwa district. This man states that on 
October 23, 1926, he went to wash some clothes in the river, and was warned 
by two boys whom he met "to be careful in spreading out washing there, 
because there is a large lizard which carries off people's clothes." He did 
not believe them, and, having finished his work and spread the things out to 
dry, went to bathe, when he heard a rustling in the grass, and was startled 
to see a kenge making off with one of the sheets just washed. His shouts 
brought some men to his help, and by throwing stones at the reptile they 
induced it to drop the sheet.

Whether this be taken as fact or as fiction, it is at any rate sufficiently 
curious.

Frogs and Snakes
Frogs of various kinds abound in Africa, from the large bullfrog, whose 
voice is so often heard in the land, to the little shinana,[1] which figures 
conspicuously in the folklore of the Baronga. It rivals the hare in 
astuteness; in fact, some of its exploits are those elsewhere attributed to 
him, and in one Ronga version of the well story it is the shinana, and not 
the tortoise, who traps the hare at last. Wonderful to relate, it is this 
same little frog who rescues the girls enticed by the honey-guide into the 
ogre's hut, in the story already alluded to.[2]

In a Lamba tale the great water-snake (funkwe) is said to have changed 
himself into a man and married a woman from a certain village. In accordance 
with the usual custom he settled there and worked in the gardens, but he 
would never eat porridge. He would go to the river in the early morning, and 
there, unseen by the people, assume his proper form and feed on fish. After 
some time he told his wife that he wished to go home, and they set out, 
accompanied by her brother. On the second day they reached an enclosure 
which he said was his home. The wife was surprised to see no people about, 
and asked where were his relations. Though he had previously said that they 
were

[1. Breeviceps mossambicus, called haswentne at Blantyre. It is not much 
larger than a shilling, but can blow itself out to twice the size.

2. See ante, pp. 221 and 286.]

farther on, he now merely remarked, "No, I am left alone." He departed, 
saying he would go to the river and fetch water, and when out of sight 
changed into a water-snake and ate fish and frogs as usual, returning at 
night. This happened every day, and at last the brother grew suspicious, 
followed him to the river, and found out the truth. He came back and told 
his sister, and she said, "At night you kill him!" which he did by heating a 
knife red-hot in the fire and cutting off the snake-man's head.

Then they saw multitudes of snakes, and the snakes said, "Let us kill these 
people." Mr Black-mamba refused, saying, "No, first let the chief come." All 
the time many snakes kept coming.

During this interval a frog arrived, and asked the man and woman, "If I save 
you, what will you give me?"

They answered, "We are your slaves!" Then he swallowed them, and immediately 
after took a great drink of water. The snakes did not see him do it, but 
presently missed the people and asked where they were. The frog said, "They 
have gone to drink water," and set off for their village. On the way he met 
many snakes, who noticed that he seemed unusually corpulent, and asked, 
"What are you filled with?" He said, "Water that I have just drunk." They 
were suspicious, however, and would not be satisfied till he had brought up 
some water to prove the truth of his words. This happened more than once, 
but he reached his destination in safety, and the people exclaimed, "What a 
huge frog!" He said, "I am not a frog; I am a man.[1] Did not some people 
leave here?" Explanations followed, and the woman's mother began to cry. The 
frog said, "If I bring your children, what will you give me?" She offered 
him slaves, but he said he did not want them. "What do you want, then?" "I 
want beans." So they gave him two granaries full. And,

[1. This is not a usual touch. More commonly animals are simply taken for 
granted as being what they appear to be. But the man transformed by 
witchcraft into the shape of a beast (usually a snake) appears in several 
Zulu stories, and is disenchanted (like Tamlane) by fearless true love.]

making a great effort, he produced the brother and sister safe and sound.[1]

The Frog and his Wife
Another story about a frog, heard in Nyasaland, was at first extremely 
puzzling; but with the help of parallel versions it becomes quite coherent.

A frog who had some difficulty in finding a wife at last carved the trunk of 
a tree into the shape of a woman, and fixed a mpande shell [2] in the place 
where her heart should be. This, we are to understand, brought her to life; 
he then married her. Her name was Njali, and she was very beautiful. They 
lived happily enough in his hut in the depths of the forest, till one day in 
his absence some of the chief's men happened to pass by and saw her sitting 
outside. They asked for fire and water, which she gave them, and on their 
return told the chief about her. He shortly afterwards sent the men back to 
the same place, and they, finding the husband again absent, carried her off. 
She cried out, "Mother! I am being taken away!" but there was none to hear, 
and when the husband came back he found her gone.

Here the tale, as I took it down, becomes difficult to follow, and there is 
evidently a gap, but the variants (in some ways hard to reconcile with this 
and with each other) suggest that he made ineffectual efforts to get her 
back. When these had failed he sent a pigeon, and told her to bring back the 
mpande shell, but she could not get it. He sent the pigeon again, and this 
time she brought it back; but as soon as it was taken out the wife died and 
was

[1. Doke, Lamba Folklore, P. 247. The Mpongwe tortoise (Nasdau, Where 
Animals Talk, P. 33) swallows. his wife and servants to save them from the 
leopard, and eats some mushrooms after them.

2. A disk cut from the base of a particular kind of white spiral shell. It 
is highly valued by many tribes, and in some is the emblem of chieftainship, 
or (as among the Pokomo) the badge worn by the highest order of elders: 
Father Torrend, who gives the Mukuni (Lenje) version of this story, says "he 
put a cowry on the head of his block of wood," but the word in his original 
text is mpande. See a note by Major Orde-Browne in the Journal of the 
African Society for April 1930, P. 285.]

changed back to a block of wood. In Father Torrend's version[1] the husband 
takes the shell off her head, and

she is already transformed into a simple block of wood, no, she has become 
but a bush standing at the door. . . . Then the little husband comes home 
humming his own tune, while the king and those who had seized the woman 
remain there with their shame.

Late Developments of this Story
Both this and a Swahili version recorded by Velten [2] make the husband a 
human being-indeed, the Swahili title is "The Carpenter and the Amulet." 
Father Torrend comments in a note: " Another version, in which the hero is a 
hare, has been published by Jacottet in 'Textes Louyi,' pp. 8-11. The 
substitution of a hare for a man seems hardly to improve the story." But it 
appears to me that the learned writer has entirely missed the point in 
supposing that the hare has been substituted for the man. Surely both hare 
and frog belong to the more primitive form.

The Luyi variant is interesting, but, as we have already had sufficient hare 
stories, I have preferred the frog for this chapter. The Lenje and Swahili 
ones, not being in any sense animal stories, are hardly in place here; but 
it may be noted that the Lenje husband, instead of sending the pigeon, 
carves himself some drums and goes about beating them and singing, till he 
finds the place where his wife is detained. Both here and in the Nyanja 
version it seems to be implied that in the end (though at first carried off 
against her will) she was unwilling to come back to him.

The Bird Messengers
Among birds introduced into folk-tales the cock, the fish-eagle, the guinea-
fowl, and doves or pigeons are perhaps the most frequently mentioned, apart 
from the unnamed birds which reveal the secret of a murder. A favourite 
incident is the sending of birds with messages, as the pigeon was sent by 
the frog in the story just given. It will be remembered that Murile, when 
about to return home from

[1 Bantu Folklore, p. 44.

2. Märchen und Erzälungen, p. 149.]

the Moon country, sent the mocking-bird to announce his coming, after 
questioning several other birds and finding their replies unsatisfactory.[1]

Gutmann [2] gives the same story with less detail, mentioning of birds only 
the eagle (whose cry of Kurui! Kurui! is nearly the same as that attributed 
in Raum's version to the raven), the raven (who here says Na! Na!), and the 
mocking-bird, though "all the birds" are said to have been called upon. The 
mocking-bird's note is rendered as Chiri! Chiri! which she amplifies into a 
song of ten or twelve lines.

So, too, Mlilua, in the Iramba [3] story, called the birds. "Crow, if I send 
you to my mother's, what will you say? " "Gwe! Gwe!" The crow was rejected. 
None of the birds he called up pleased him, till at last came one known as 
the shunta. "If I send you home, what will you go and say?" "We shall say, 
Chetu! Chetu! I have seen Mlilua and his cattle."

La Sagesse des Petits
It will have been noticed how important is the part assigned in these 
stories to small and insignificant creatures, such as the hare, the 
tortoise, the frog, the chameleon,[4] mice, and others. I do not think this 
fact is fully accounted for by McCall Theal,[5] who writes:

There was nothing that led to elevation of thought in any of these stories, 
though one idea, that might easily be mistaken on a first view for a good 
one, pervaded many of them: the superiority of brain power to physical 
force. But on looking deeper the brain power was always interpreted as low 
cunning: it was wiliness, not greatness of mind, that won in the strife 
against the stupid strong.

To my mind, it is nearer the mark to say that much of African folklore is 
inspired by sympathy with the underdog,

[1. Ante, p. 74.

2 Volksbuch, p. 155.

3 Johnson, Kiniramba, P. 343.

4 The chameleon, quite apart from the legend related in Chapter II, often 
plays a part resembling that of the hare. The Pokomo, for instance, tell how 
he beat the dog in a race, by holding on to his tail and getting carried to 
the goal.

5. People of Africa, p. 275.]

arising from a true, if crude and confused, feeling that "the weak things of 
the world" have been chosen "to confound the things which are mighty."

M. Junod expresses much the same thought:[1]

Why does this theme of the triumph of wisdom over strength reappear so 
frequently and under so many aspects in this popular literature? Doubtless 
because the thought is natural and eminently satisfying to the mind of man.

It is also brought out very fully in the chapter of his earlier work which 
is entitled "La Sagesse des Petits."

The Shrew-mouse helps the Man
The idea is well illustrated by a little story from the northern part of 
Nyasaland,[2] which may fitly conclude this chapter. Incidentally, it shows 
a curious coincidence of thought between primitive Africa and rural England, 
in the belief that a shrew must die if it crosses a road.

A Namwanga man one day went hunting with his dogs, and came upon a shrew 
(umulumba) by the roadside. It said to him, "Master, help me across this 
swollen stream" (i.e., the path, which for him was just as impassable). He 
refused, and was going on, but the little creature entreated him again: "Do 
help me across this swollen stream, and I will help you across yours." The 
man turned back, picked it up, and carried it across, "very reluctantly." 
(Why? Is there a feeling against touching a shrew, as Africans certainly 
shrink from touching a chameleon or some kinds of lizards?) It then 
disappeared from his sight, and he went on with his dogs and killed some 
guinea-fowl. Then, as it came on to rain, he took refuge in one of the 
little watch-huts put up in the gardens for those whose business it is to 
drive away monkeys by day and wild pigs by night. The shrew, which had 
followed him unseen, was hidden in the thatch. Presently a lion came along, 
and thus addressed the

[1. Life of a South African Tribe, vol. ii, p. 223; Chants et contes, p. 
143.

2. Chinamwanga Stories, p. 19.]

hunter: "Give your guinea-fowl to the dogs, let them eat them, you eat the 
dogs, and then I'll eat you!"

The man was terrified, and could neither speak nor move. The lion roared out 
the same words a second time. Then came a little voice out of the thatch.

"Just so. Give the guinea-fowl to the dogs, let them eat them, you eat the 
dogs, the lion will eat you, and I'll eat the lion."

The lion ran away without looking behind him.

The Lamba have a somewhat similar story, in which the hunter is saved from 
two ogres by a lizard in the wall of the house and the white ants. They seem 
to have acted out of pure good-nature, as there is no hint of his having 
rendered them a service.[1]

[1. Doke, Lamba Folklore, p. 143: " The Story of the Man, the Lizard, and 
the Termites." Compare, outside the Bantu area, the story of the caterpillar 
who frightened away all the animals except the frog, who in the end "called 
his bluff" (Hollis, The Masai, p. 184).]

CHAPTER XX.- SOME STORIES WHICH HAVE TRAVELLED
I HAVE, more than once, in previous chapters expressed my inability to 
accept in its entirety what is known as the Diffusionist hypothesis. I see 
no reason to suppose that the stories about the hare, for instance, were 
imported from India, even though some of them are almost exactly the same as 
those told of Mahdeo and the jackal, or that the tribes of the Amazon valley 
borrowed their tales of the Jabuti tortoise and his wiles from the imported 
Negroes.

But this is not to say that there are no stories which can be traced as 
having been introduced from outside, and we may conclude with a few of the 
most interesting specimens. Those chosen for the purpose must have come in 
long ago, so long as to have taken on a distinctly African colouring, even 
more thoroughly than Uncle Remus's stories have become American. I am 
leaving out of account such recent introductions as Æsop's fables, which 
circulate extensively in vernacular translations, or stories manifestly 
taken from Grimm or similar European collections. In a manuscript collection 
written by a Nyanja native I found not long ago, among a great deal of 
genuine local folklore, "The Story of the King's Daughter and the Frog," 
which the writer must have read or heard, probably in English. Again, in 
Kibaraka we find "The Story of Siyalela and her Sisters," which the compiler 
either failed to recognize as Cinderella, or thought sufficiently 
naturalized to pass muster with the rest. Contributors to Mambo Leo have 
even begun translating "Uncle Remus" into Swahili, and, though he is, in a 
way, only coming back to the country of his origin, there may be a danger of 
confusing these tales with the genuine local growth. In any case, 
considering the spread of reading and the circulation of extraneous matter, 
it behoves all interested in folklore to rescue the aboriginal stories as 
far as possible before it is too late.

From Assam to Nyasaland
In Captain Rattray's little book [1] "The Blind Man and the Hunchback" at 
once strikes one as having a distinctive character of its own; in fact, when 
I first read it I could recall no African parallel. Since then I find in Mr 
Posselt's Fables of the Feld (p. 6) a version-to my mind not nearly so good-
entitled "The Man and his Blind Brother." And, more recently, it is included 
in the manuscript collection of Walters Saukila.

Many years after the publication of Captain Rattray's book I was surprised 
by coming across the identical story in volume xxxi of Folk-Lore (1920), 
with, of course, considerable differences of local colouring. It was told to 
J. D. Anderson by a Kachari in Assam. This is such a far cry from Central 
Angoniland, where the people were, at the beginning of this century, 
comparatively untouched by European influence, that there might seem to be 
difficulties in the way of supposing this to be a case of transference. But, 
though I have so far been unable to hear of an Indian or Persian analogue, 
it may be orally current among those populations of Indiawhose folklore is 
as yet but imperfectly recorded. Indian traders have frequented the East 
African coast from very early times,[2] and a tale like this, told to the 
coast-dwellers and speedily becoming popular, would be passed on from tribe 
to tribe along with the trade-goods which in this way reached the far 
interior. The differences between the Kachari and the Nyanja versions are 
sufficient to show that it must have been a long time on the way.

The Nyanja version begins by saying that a certain village was plagued by a 
pair of man-eating lions (this passage is entirely wanting in the other), 
and the chief, by the advice of his people, opened negotiations with them: 
"Why are you seizing people every day?" The lions answered, "We say, if you 
give us your two daughters whom you love we will not come again to seize 
people." So the chief took his two daughters and built a grass hut for them 
on the hill where the lions were wont to show themselves.

[1. Chinyanja Folklore, p. 149.

2 See Ingrams, Zanzibar, p. 33]

Now, in another country there were two men, one was blind and the other 
humpbacked, and they set out for this chief s village. On the way the 
hunchback saw a tortoise on the path, and told the blind man, who said, 
"Pick it up." He refused, but his companion said, "just pick it up for me," 
and he did so, and the blind man put it into his bag. A little farther on 
they came to a dead porcupine, and the blind man asked his friend to pick up 
one quill, which, again, he did, after refusing at first. Some time later 
they came upon a dead elephant, and the man who had shot it was also lying 
dead, with his gun beside him. The blind man, again with some difficulty, 
persuaded the other to pick up the gun and one tusk, and they went on their 
way.

When it was growing dark they climbed a hill, and the hunchback saw smoke 
rising from a hut on the top. They went up to it, and, finding two girls 
there, said that, as they had been overtaken by night, they wanted a place 
to sleep in. The girls said, "You cannot sleep here; our father has built 
this house for us, so that the lions may come and eat us." But they would 
not listen, and said, "This is where we are going to sleep." While they were 
still speaking the lions arrived; they heard them roaring, and one of the 
lions asked, "Who is talking in the house? Whoever you are, we are going to 
eat you along with the rest."

The blind man said, "You can't eat us; we are only strangers seeking shelter 
for the night." The lion said, "I am going to throw one of my lice at you, 
and see if that won't frighten you!" The girls and the hunchback fainted 
with terror, but the blind man kept his head, and when the lion threw his 
louse he groped about till he caught it, and said, "That tiny little thing! 
Look at that now! I'm going to throw it into the fire!" And he did so, and 
it burst with a loud crack. Then he said, "Now I'm going to throw my louse," 
and he threw the tortoise. The lion picked it up and looked at it in 
astonishment, but, not to be beaten, he said, "I am not afraid of you. I 
shall throw you one of my hairs," and he pulled one from his mane and threw 
it. The blind man retaliated by throwing the porcupine's quill. Then the 
lion threw one of his teeth, and the blind man answered with the elephant's 
tusk, whereat the lion was so startled that he jumped and said, "Ha! Truly 
this person has a terrible tooth!" But he was not prepared to give in. "Now 
I am going to let you hear my voice," and he gave a tremendous roar. And the 
blind man, who had been loading his gun and getting it into position, said, 
"Let another of you roar, that I may hear his voice also." The other lion 
having done so, he said, "I have heard you. Now come close that you may hear 
mine." When they had done so: "Where are you?" "We are here." "Stick your 
heads close together." And he fired and killed them both. When the echo had 
died away he asked, "Have you heard my voice?" but all was silence, and he 
set to work to revive his companions. They would not believe his news, but 
he persuaded them to open the door, and they went out and found the lion and 
lioness both dead.

When morning dawned the grateful girls picked up their two deliverers and 
carried them on their backs to their father's village. When he saw them he 
was very angry with them for deserting their post and, as he supposed, 
endangering the whole village; but they soon placated him: "These men have 
killed those wild beasts." He was incredulous, but they swore most solemnly 
that it was true, and he sent some young men to see. These soon found the 
lions and cut off their tails. When they came back with the trophies the 
chief asked the people, "Now, as to these men who have killed the lions, 
what shall we do for them?" They replied that he ought to give them his 
daughters in marriage, which he did on the spot, and showed them where to 
build their village. He also gave them six mpande shells, to be divided 
equally between them. But the hunchback tried to cheat his friend, saying 
they had received only five, and giving him two. In the resulting quarrel 
the hunchback hit the blind man over the eyes, and the blind man struck him 
with a stick. And, behold I the one recovered his sight and the other was 
able to stand up straight. So they were reconciled.

In the Kachari story the men pass the night in a granary, used by a gang of 
robbers as a storehouse for their plunder; and, instead of the lions, a 
"terrible, man-eating demon" comes after them, and is scared away much after 
the manner described. Mr Posselt's version omits the girls, the brothers 
take shelter in a cave which is the lions' den, and the quarrel takes place 
over the sale of the lions' skins.

The Washerman's Donkey and the Pardoner's Tale
The Buddhist Jâtakas, which, I understand, are really folk-tales fitted into 
a religious framework by being represented as the adventures of the Buddha 
in his various incarnations, might appear to be quite remote from our theme; 
but some of them, in one form or another, have certainly reached the African 
coast. One of the best known among these is "The Washerman's Donkey," [1] 
which is really the Sumsumara Jâtaka, and is also found in the Sanskrit 
collection of stories called Panchatantra, under the title of "The Monkey 
and the Porpoise." The Swahili title is only indirectly applicable to the 
story, or, rather, belongs to a story within the story, told by the monkey 
to the shark; "The Monkey who left his Heart in a Tree" describes it much 
better.

Another Jâtaka (the Vedabbha) has had the strangest fortunes, finally coming 
down to us in the shape of Chaucer's "Pardoner's Tale." It was probably 
brought back from the East by some returned pilgrim or crusading soldier, 
and embodied in that queer compilation the Gesta Romanorum. The Swahili 
version, entitled "The Heaps of Gold," [2] would seem to have come through 
Persia, perhaps subjected to Christian influence on the way. This, however, 
is doubtful, as Moslem literature abounds in elements taken from the 
Apocryphal Gospels or the floating traditions which furnished the materials 
for these.

The story opens by saying that Christ (here called Isa, as always by 
Moslems) while on a journey was joined by a

[1. Steere, Swahili Tales, p. 1.

2 Kibaraka, p. 89.]

man, who, though not encouraged to do so, insisted on accompanying him.[1] 
When they were approaching a town Isa gave the man some money and told him 
to buy three loaves, "one for thee, one for me, and the third we will keep 
in reserve." He did so, and they sat down to rest. When they had eaten, each 
his loaf, they went on, the man carrying the third loaf. When they had gone 
some distance, thinking himself unobserved, he ate it. Next day they came to 
a spring and sat down there. When asked to produce the loaf the man said it 
had been stolen. Isa said nothing at the time, and they went on. They walked 
till they were both weary, and sat down to rest in a place where there was 
much sand. Isa made three heaps of sand, and at his prayer they were changed 
into gold. Then he said, "Friend, take one of these heaps to thyself, one is 
for me, and the third is for him who stole the loaf." The man, forgetting 
all else in his greed, exclaimed, "It was I who stole the loaf-I who am 
here!" The Master told him to take them all, and left him there.

The wretched man could neither carry the gold nor bring himself to leave it, 
so remained on the spot till three horsemen came by, who, seeing the 
treasure, stopped and murdered him. Two of them stayed to guard it, while 
the third rode on to the town to buy provisions. On the way it occurred to 
him that he might have the gold all to himself, so he poisoned the wine 
which he meant to give the other two. This part of the story is so well 
known that it is scarcely necessary to add that the two killed him on his 
return, and shortly died of the poison. "So all these four men died, because 
of that sand which had been changed into gold."

Not long afterwards Christ passed that way with his disciples, and they 
marvelled at seeing the heaps of gold and the four dead men. Then he told 
them the story, and said, "This is not gold, but sand," and at their request 
he prayed to God, and what had been gold then became sand once more.

[1. This opening does not come into the "Pardoner's Tale."]

The Ingratitude of Man
Another story in the Gesta Romanorum, which must originally have come from 
India, is extant in at least three Swahili versions, all of which have the 
same moral, equivalent to the Latin of the Gesta: Quod omnium viventium in 
mundo de beneficiis acceptis est ingratissimus homo: "Of all things living 
in the world man is the most ungrateful for benefits received."

This story should be well known to all students of Swahili, as it is 
contained in the elementary reader generally used (a selection reprinted 
from Kibaraka). This version, though much shorter than that given by Dr 
Velten,[1] contains several important points omitted by the latter. The 
following is an attempt to combine the two.

A king's son who wished to see the world set out alone on his travels. In 
course of time he found himself in a vast desert, in the midst of which he 
spied one solitary tree, to which, when he had reached it, he tied his 
horse, leaving his weapons on the ground beside it. Not far off was a well, 
and, being very thirsty, he hastened to let down the bucket which he found 
there. On drawing it up he saw that, instead of being filled with water, it 
contained a snake. He was about to kill it, but it said, "Don't kill me; 
some day I may be able to help you." So he spared it, and let down the 
bucket again, drawing it up with difficulty, as it was very heavy. When he 
got it to the top he found in it a lion, who addressed him in the same way 
as the snake, and both added this warning: "Never do good to any child of 
Adam: the son of Adam, if you do good to him, will only repay you evil." 
Then they thanked him and took themselves off.

The youth let down the bucket a third time, and brought up a man, who, so 
far from behaving like the snake and the lion, knocked him down, tied him up 
with the well-rope, took his weapons, and rode off on his horse. The lion, 
however, who had not gone far, came back and released him. He took him along 
to his den, and provided him

[1. Märchen und Erzälungen, p. 144.]

with food by lying up near the path to a village and, when he saw a man 
passing with a load of rice or beans, frightening him, so that he dropped 
it.

One day the lion ventured as far as the town, and, seeing the sultan's 
daughter walking in the garden attended by her slaves, sprang over the fence 
and seized her. The slave-girls scattered in terror, and the lion brought 
the princess back to the young man, saying, "Take her jewels, but give me 
the girl, that I may eat her." He answered, " f you want to give me anything 
give me the girl as well." So he took her for his wife, and built a hut for 
her in the forest, and they lived there happily for a time. One day the 
snake appeared, and handed the young man two of his teeth, saying, "If ever 
you get into trouble take a stone and beat these teeth with it, and I will 
come to you at once."

Now the man who had been rescued from the well had come to this very town 
and, by making himself very agreeable, had so got into favour with the 
sultan that, in the end, he became his vizier. And it happened on a day 
that, going out with a hunting-party, he was separated from the rest of the 
company, and, wandering by himself in the forest, came to the little hut, 
where he saw the sultan's daughter. At once he hastened back to the town to 
give the alarm; soldiers were sent out, and the couple were speedily brought 
before the sultan. Then the vizier came forward, accused the young man, not 
only of carrying off the princess, but of turning himself into a lion in 
order to do so, and advised his being shut up in a dungeon without food or 
room to lie down, so that he might be induced to disclose his secret arts.

This was done, but he did not quite starve, for a compassionate slave-woman 
fed him secretly with scraps of bread. And then he suddenly remembered the 
snake's teeth, and beat them with a stone. The snake appeared at once, and 
told him, "To-day when the sultan goes to bathe I shall bite him, and 
nothing can cure him except these teeth of mine." So he went and coiled 
himself on the ledge of the tank in the palace bathroom, and when the sultan 
took up the ladle to pour the water over his head struck him on the lip, and 
he fell down. All possible remedies were tried, but to no purpose, till at 
last an old woman came forward who said she had heard that the only man who 
knew of a cure was the one chained in the prison. He was sent for, and 
ground the snake's teeth to powder, which was applied to the snake-bite and 
soon effected a cure. The sultan made inquiries, heard the whole story, and 
ordered the treacherous vizier to be sewn up in a sack and cast into the 
sea. His daughter's wedding was celebrated in proper fashion, and the pair 
lived happily to the end of their days.

This clearly belongs to the "Grateful Beasts" class of stories, of which 
numerous examples, variations on this and other themes, are well known in 
Europe. The third Swahili version must be derived from the same original as 
the other two, but varies so considerably that this is not at first sight 
obvious. An ape is introduced as well as the lion and the snake, and a poor 
youth finds them, not in a well, but in the traps which he has set to catch 
game. There are other important differences, which, however, need not detain 
us.

Part of this-the providing of the only effectual remedy by a despised 
stranger-is to be found in a Persian story: "The Colt Qéytas," [1] but this 
is much nearer to "Kibaraka," the tale which gives its title to the 
collection already mentioned more than once.

The Composite Tale of Kibaraka
This is made up of various elements. The opening I have not so far traced. 
The sultan's son and the vizier's son, born on the same day, go for a walk 
together, and the former treacherously forsakes his companion, who loses his 
way and wanders about till he comes to a house inhabited by a zimwi. This 
being receives him kindly, to all appearance, but soon departs to call his 
friends to a cannibal feast. Here comes in the well-known motif of the 
Forbidden

[1. D.L.R. and E.O. Lorimer, Persian Tales, pp. 38-42.]

Chamber.[1] The zimwi tells him he may go into every room but one. In the 
fifth, which is the forbidden one, he finds a gigantic horse, who speaks and 
tells him the true character of his host. The horse himself is being kept 
only till fat enough; then he and every other living thing in the house will 
be eaten by the ogre and his friends, who are due to arrive in two days' 
time. He directs the youth to let out all the animals shut up in the various 
apartments (a lion, a leopard, a donkey, and an ox) and to take out of a 
great chest seven bottles-containing the obstacles of the well-known "Magic 
Flight." The horse then swallows all the animals and a quantity of the 
ogre's treasure, directs the youth to saddle and mount him, and they escape 
in the usual way, throwing down the seven bottles, one after another, to 
produce thorns, fire, sea, and so on. This part comes into far too many 
stories to be repeated here; the flight, with much the same obstacles, is 
found, for instance, in the Persian "Orange and Citron Princess." [2]

They then build a house in the forest (one must understand that the horse 
produces it by magical means, but this is not stated in the Swahili), and 
Kibaraka ("Little Blessing" -this appears to be a name assumed for the 
occasion, though it has not hitherto been mentioned) strolls into the town, 
by the horse's advice, in the guise of a beggar. Here, one day, proclamation 
is made that the sultan is going to arrange the weddings of his seven 
daughters. All the people are ordered to assemble, and each girl is to throw 
a lime at the man of her choice. The eldest manages to hit the Grand 
Vizier's son, to the general satisfaction. Then the rest make their choice 
among the young nobles, up to the sixth; but the youngest aims her lime at 
the beggar-lad and hits him. This incident and similar ones are found in 
Persian and other stories-for instance, in " The Colt

[1. See The Folk-lore Journal, vol. iii (1885), pp. 193-242. The incident is 
found in several Swahili stories, in very different settings: e.g., 
"Hasseebu Kareem ed Din" and "The Spirit and the Sultan's Son," in Steere 
(Swahili Tales, pp. 353 and 379), and "Sultani Zuwera," in Kibaraka, p. 5.

2. D.L.R. and E.O. Lorimer, Persian Tales, p. 135]

Qéytas," of which the beginning is quite different. The conclusion of this 
is much the same as the end of "Kibaraka," with minor variations: the sultan 
is ill, and can only be cured, in one case by the flesh of a certain bird, 
in the other by leopard's milk. The six sons-in-law try in vain to procure 
the remedy: the seventh, who has been despised and kept at a distance, 
succeeds. For a time he allows the others to take the credit, on condition 
of letting him brand them as his slaves. But Kibaraka has previously, in 
disguise (or, rather, in his own proper form and riding on the magic horse), 
distinguished himself in battle and routed the sultan's enemies. This does 
not appear in the Persian tale, though it does elsewhere. Whatever the 
origin of this story, the hero's words when he finally reveals himself show 
whence it passed to the Swahili coast: "I am not Kibaraka: I am Hamed, the 
son of the Wazir in the land of Basra"-the last thirteen words being Arabic.

Parts of this story seem to have spread wherever the Arabs have carried 
their language and their traditions. The lime-throwing incident occurs both 
in Somali and in Fulfulde (the language of the Fulani, in West Africa). The 
Somali story of "Lame Habiyu" begins like "The Colt Qéytas," and goes on 
very much as "Kibaraka."

The Merry jests of Abu Nuwls
There was, in the reign of Harun-er-Rashid (765-809), a certain poet at 
Bagdad, named Abu Nuwis, whose work is highly praised by the best judges (it 
has been translated into German, if not into English), and whose name, 
twisted in various ways, is known up and down the Swahili coast but not for 
his poems. Whether or not any of the stories told of him are true, his 
legend has attracted to itself all the jests and practical jokes current 
before or during his time, or invented since. He has got mixed up with the 
hare, one of whose names in Swahili is Kibanawasi, which might be punningly 
turned into Kibwana wasi, "Little Master of Shifts." He is always being set 
impossible tasks by the caliph (sometimes Harun is mentioned by name), and 
always cleverly turns the tables on him. When told to build a house in the 
air he sends up a kite hung with little bells ("Don't you hear the 
carpenters at work?"), and then calls on the caliph to send up stones and 
lime, which, of course, he is unable to do. Some of his exploits have 
reached Delagoa Bay, where M. Junod, misled by the local colouring they had 
acquired by that time, concluded that "Bonawasi" was a corruption of the 
Portuguese Bonifacio. One of the most popular, here as elsewhere (it has 
been heard from Egyptian story-tellers), is the order to the whole 
population to produce eggs, by which it is hoped to entrap Abu Nuwâs. The 
charming illustration on p. 298 of Chants et contes des Baronga shows the 
Governor of Mozambique presiding at the performance in full uniform.

The Portuguese, who at one time made their name so much dreaded on the coast 
(even now "Proud as a Portuguese" and "Violent as a Portuguese" are current 
sayings in Pate), are represented as being pitiably duped by Abu Nuwâs. He 
burned his house down, loaded a ship with sacks full of the ashes, and put 
to sea. Meeting seven Portuguese vessels loaded with silver, he pretended 
that he was taking a cargo of treasure as a present to his sultan, and was 
so ostentatiously reluctant to part with it that they determined to buy it, 
and finally did so for a shipload of silver. Abu Nuwâs returned with this, 
and went to the sultan, asking him for some men, to unload his cargo of 
silver. This, of course, led to inquiries, which caused the sultan to burn 
down the whole town and load a fleet with the ashes. Result: a collision 
with the Portuguese at sea, in which ships were sunk and many of the 
sultan's men killed. Abu Nuwâs was sought for, but escaped as usual, and 
played further pranks in a fresh place.

The Three Words
There seem to be endless variations of the story in which a man received 
three pieces of advice from his father, or spent all the money left him by 
his father on three pieces of advice from a wise man. These are, in one 
case: "If you see a thing do not speak of it; if you speak of it something 
[unpleasant] will happen to you." [1] Secondly, "If the sun sets while you 
are on the road stay where you are till you can see where you are going." 
Thirdly, "If a friendly person hails you in passing never refuse to stop." 
Or, as sometimes found, if called three times you must turn aside, having 
returned a civil answer to the first and second summons. Other pieces of 
advice are: "Never tell a secret to a woman"; "A man does not betray one who 
trusts him"; "What is in your purse is your possession; what is in the field 
or in the box is no use to you." Some of these, in shortened form, are 
current as well-known proverbs and are frequently quoted.

The second of those enumerated above enables the hero to escape from 
robbers, while his companions, who insist on pressing on after dark, are 
attacked and murdered. The third saves him from a treacherous plot: he is 
sent by an enemy with a message intended to ensure his murder, but delays on 
the road when asked to stop-in one case by an old friend of his father's. 
This incident, or one very like it, is found in the Gesta Romanorum, as well 
as in some old French fabliaux, and was made use of by Schiller for his 
ballad Der Gang nach dem Eisenhammer. It also occurs, out of its proper 
setting, in a Swahili story called "The judge and the Boy," [2] where it is 
combined with parts of several other stories, imperfectly told.

There is a Persian story,[3] "The Man who bought Three Pieces of Advice", 
where the "three words" are of a somewhat different character, and the hero-
or, rather, his wife-comes to grief through disregarding the third, though 
they are enabled to escape from their troubles by following the second. 
These counsels are:

"Don't go out when there are clouds in the sky in winter-time."

[1. This is much neater in the original, owing to the fact that neno means 
both .word' and 'something,' 'anything.' Literally, "If you see something 
don't say anything; if you say anything something will get you."

2 Kibaraka, p. 35: "Kadhi na Mtoto."

3 D.L.R. and E.O. Lorimer, Persian Tales, p. 269.]

"Whenever you see a pigeon, a hound, and a cat for sale, buy them, whatever 
the price, and keep them with you and take good care of them."

"Never tell to anyone the advice you have got, and never let an outside 
woman enter your house."

In the old Cornish folk-tale "John of Chyanorth" [1] the three pieces of 
advice (or, in the original, "points of wit") are: "Take care that thou dost 
not leave the old road for the new road"; "Take care that thou dost not 
lodge in a house where may be an old man married to a young woman"; "Be thou 
struck twice ere strike once"-or, as it stands in another part of the text, 
"Be advised twice ere strike once."

The Magic Mirror, the Magic Carpet, and the Elixir of Life
Another story imported from the East-whether from Arabia, Persia, or India I 
am unable to say-is that published by M. Junod [2] under the title of "Les 
Trois Vaisseaux," It is found in the most unexpected places, even on the 
Congo and the Ivory Coast, though some of these Western versions may be of 
independent origin. Three brothers go on a trading expedition, and acquire a 
magic mirror, a magic carpet (usually described as a mat or basket), and a 
medicine for restoring the dead to life. These enable them to see the young 
woman with whom all three are in love dying, if not already dead, to reach 
her before she is buried, and to administer the medicine. The question now 
arises: who has done the most towards saving her and shall consequently 
marry her? It is variously decided. Sometimes, as in the Congo version,[3] 
the narrator stops short at this point, and leaves the decision to the 
audience.

Portuguese Influence
Some of the stories in Chatelain's Folk-tales of Angola must certainly have 
come from Portugal, while others are

[1. See J. Morton Nance, Cornish for All (Lanham, St Ives, n.d.), PP. 38-48 
- I am indebted to Mr Henry Jenner, of Bospowes, Hayle, for directing my 
attention to this book.

2. Chants et contes, p. 304.

3. Dennett, Folk-Lore of the Fjort, No. III.]

unmistakably of African growth, the latter being by far the more numerous. 
An interesting case of importation is the story of Fenda Madia:[1]-one of 
the "False Bride" class. She sets out to disenchant Fele Milanda (Felix 
Miranda) by weeping twelve jugs full of tears, but is cheated when just in 
sight of success by a slave-girl, who takes her place and marries him. Here, 
too, a part is played by a magic mirror-a distinctly non-African element. 
The story is current both in Portugal and in Italy, but in all probability 
originated farther east. Parts of it resemble the latter portion of the 
Persian "Orange and Citron Princess." [2]

A magic mirror-which might as well be a ring or any other object, since its 
function is not to reveal what is happening at a distance, but to procure 
for the possessor whatever he wishes-figures in a story collected by Father 
Torrend at Quilimane.[3] Here the African and European elements are 
curiously mixed. A childless couple are told by a diviner to eat a pair of 
small fish; in due course they have a son, who, when grown, goes to cut wood 
in the forest. He befriends a python in difficulties, and is rewarded by the 
gift of a mirror which gives him everything he wants, and enables him to 
marry the governor's daughter.

M. Junod[4] describes "La Fille du Roi" as a Portuguese story. It was told 
him by a Ronga woman, who had heard it from some young persons of her own 
tribe employed by Europeans in the town of Lourenço Marques. The first part 
is much the same as Grimm's "The Shoes that were danced to Pieces," except 
that there is only one princess, instead of twelve, and the place where she 
goes to dance is called "Satan's house." The rest of the story is quite 
unlike anything in Grimm, neither is it distinctively African. I have, so 
far, been unable to trace this part.

In conclusion I may mention, in passing, the curious fact that a story 
substantially the same as that of The Merchant of Venice was written out for 
me in Swahili by a native

[1. Folk-tales of Angola, pp. 29 and 43.

2. See ante, p. 316.

3 Seidel, in Zeitschrift für afrikanische und ozeanische Sprachen, vol. i, 
p. 247.

4 Chants et contes, p. 317.]

teacher at Ngao, who said he had heard it from an Indian at Kipini. The 
Indian, he supposed, "had got it out of some book of his." He may, of 
course, have read Shakespeare's play, or seen it acted, but it is quite 
possible that he had derived it from his own country. The story is found in 
the Gesta Romanorum, and can therefore, in all probability, be traced to an 
Oriental source.

It is sometimes said that "all the stories have been told"-also that there 
are only about a dozen plots in the whole world. But the old stories are 
perpetually fresh to the new generations who have not yet heard them, and 
the dozen plots-if that is the number-are susceptible of such infinite 
variation that neither the novelist nor the collector of folk-tales need be 
unduly discouraged.

The more fully the subject is studied the more clearly will it appear that 
the folklore of Bantu-speaking Africans is not inferior in variety and 
interest to that of Asia, Polynesia, or America-if differing from them in 
character.

There is much that still remains to be known, and of what has already been 
recorded I have been forced to leave a large amount untouched. I trust the 
specimens here given will be sufficient to show that the notion of Africa as 
a continent without history, poetry, or mythology worthy of the name is 
wholly erroneous.

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