Good Reading: "The Eagle and the Arrow" by Aesop (translated into English)

An Eagle sat on a lofty rock, watching the movements of a Hare whom he sought to make his prey. An archer, who saw the Eagle from a place of concealment, took an accurate aim and wounded him mortally. The Eagle gave one look at the arrow that had entered his heart and saw in that single glance that its feathers had been furnished by himself. "It is a double grief to me," he exclaimed, "that I should perish by an arrow feathered from my own wings."

Friday's Sung Word: "Quem Não Quer Sou Eu" by Ismael Silva, Noel Rosa and Francisco Alves (in Portuguese)

Quando eu queria o teu amor
Não davas atenção ao  meu           
Pra mim tu não tens mais valor   
Agora quem não quer sou eu          

Observo que hoje em dia
Quem não quis diz que me quer
Cabe muita hipocrisia  num capricho de mulher
Vou viver disiludido
Sem amor, sem ideal
Pra não ser submetido  a desejo tão banal
                 
Ao ouvir tua proposta
Com tão falsas frases juntas
Achei uma só resposta que responde mil perguntas
Hás de ter em tua vida
Um destino igual ao meu
Podes ir desiludida, hoje quem não quer sou eu

 

You can listen "Quem Não Quer Sou Eu" sung by Ismael Silva and Conjunto Coisas Nossas here.

Thursday Serial: "My Kalulu, Prince, King and Slave - a story of Central Africa" by Henry M. Stanley (in English) - X

Chapter Ten - The burial Song—Kalulu becomes King—Long live King Kalulu—Kalulu’s Oration—Selim asks permission to depart—The dissatisfied Minority—Ferodia’s Ambition—Tifum the Wicked, and his Advice—Ferodia visits Kalulu—The treacherous Guests.

After a march of two weeks without a single incident, they arrived at Katalambula’s village, to hear the sad news that the King had died the day before, and that everybody was mourning for him.

This was a great shock for Kalulu, for the King had loved him dearly, and the young chief bore him great affection in return.

When at first the news was conveyed to him, he seemed to be suddenly stricken dumb, his face assumed a livid hue, and he trembled all over. Then, giving vent to his sorrows in a long, sad cry of sorrow, he hastened to the King’s house, where the doctors were found attending the corpse, and at once threw himself on the body, uttering the most doleful lamentations, crying, “Awake, thou King! thou chief of the Watuta, awake! Behold me, thy son, Kalulu, returned from the chase! Open thine ears, O Katalambula! Listen to the voice of thy son! Open thy eyes, O Katalambula! stretch out thine hand, and feel the form of him thou didst so love! Speak, Katalambula! Say, whither hast thou gone, that thy voice may no longer be heard, nor thy ears may longer hear Kalulu’s Voice? Kalulu, the child of thy brother Mostana, calls unto thee! Come out with me, O Katalambula! Come out under the tree! come and tell Kalulu of thy prowess when thou wert young! Ah! Katalambula, I shall die if thou wilt not wake up!” and thus he kept calling on the dead, until he found his cries and tears were of no avail. He rose then, and went to his hut, and closed the door, and on his rugged bed, his tears flowed silently and swiftly, until it seemed as if his soul would melt in tears.

When near sunset, the grave being ready, under a hut erected over it at the corner of the square, and the ceremony of burial was about to begin, Kalulu came out of his hut to do honour to the body of Katalambula. All the Wa-mganga (Wa-mganga—plural of mganga—magic doctors) from the neighbouring villages were gathered together; all the elders, the councillors, and principal men of the tribe were assembled, until the great square of the capital was crowded with warriors, women, and children. In order that the ceremony might be allowed to proceed in due form, they had arranged themselves around a large circle, having the great tree for its centre. In this circle were assembled the doctors of magio and the chief mourners, and near them were the fattest, finest bulls that could be procured, black in colour and without a single blemish, which were to be killed over Katalambula’s grave; near by, also, were enormous earthenware pots of pombe (beer) and plaintain wine, which were to be poured over the grave as a libation to his manes.

The drummers were in their places, the wa-mganga (doctors) were ready, painted and striped with white chalk all over, with the gourds, half-filled with pebbles, in their hands; and the chant began.

The author, in order to do something like justice to the pathetic death-song of the King, finds himself compelled to give as literal a translation as possible. The tune was most mournful, the chorus most pathetic, being drawn out into a long, sweet-toned wail; and the voices of the women and children, mingling with the deeper voices of the warriors, were effectively impressive:

 

    The son of Loralamba,

    The conqueror of Uwemba,

    The Sultan of Liemba,

        Is dead!

 

    The brother of Mostana,

    The wisest Manyapara,

    The King of the Watuta,

        Is dead!

    Chorus. Is dead!

        Oh, he is dead!

 

    He who fought Wa-marungu,

    The great lord of Kwikuru,

    The wise son of Malungu,

        Is dead!

 

        He who slew Tamaniro,

    Chief of the Wukhokoro,

    By the river Amhenuro,

        Is dead!

    Chorus. Is dead!

        Oh, he is dead!

 

    Who triumph’d o’er Kansala,

    Near the Mount Araboella,

    In the land of Kinyala,

        Is dead!

    Chorus. Is dead!

        Oh, he is dead!

 

    The uncle of Kalulu,

    The sire of Koranilu

    And pretty Imamulu,

        Is dead!

    He who married Lamoli,

    The daughter of Soltali,

    By the woman Zimbili,

        Is dead!

    Chorus. Is dead!

        Oh, he is dead!

 

    The lord of Mohilizi,

    And the land from Bonzi

    To the River Zambezi,

    Is dead!

    The bravest, wisest Mwenni,

    Of the tribe of Meroeni,

    The dauntless Simbamwenni,

        Is dead!

    Chorus. Is dead!

        Oh, he is dead!

 

    He was fear’d by Wagala,

    By the fierce Wazavila,

    Was great Katalambula,

        Who is dead!

    But the mighty Mtuta,

    Bravest of the Watuta,

    The Sultan of Ututa,

        Is dead!

    Chorus. He is dead!

        Oh, he is dead!

 

    Ah! the King we did adore,

    We shall see his face no more,

    And our hearts are sad and sore,

        For he is dead!

    Kindest, best, and wisest King,

    On thy head the dust we fling,

    And in sorrow do we sing.

        Our lord is dead!

    Chorus. Our lord is dead!

        Alas! our lord is dead!

 

    O King! why didst thou thus die?

    Deep in the grave thou must lie,

    While we will for ever cry,

        Our chief is dead!

    O’er him pour libative wine,

    O’er him slay the fattest kine,

    O’er him make the magic sign,

        For our King is dead!

    Chorus. For our King is dead!

        Alas! our King is dead!

 

When the chant was ended, the body was laid on a long, broad piece of stiff bark, and four wa-mganga (doctors) carried it to the grave, where it was laid on the right side, with the King’s shield, spears, bow, and quiver of arrows. A pot, full of millet-flour, mixed with water was placed, closely covered, by the head, and the stiff piece of bark, which served to convey the body to the grave, was placed over the body; then the plaintain wine was poured over this, the black bulls were brought up and slaughtered, the blood pouring into the grave; then the earth was scraped in and stamped close and hard; and, finally, ten potfuls of pombe were poured over the grave, and the ceremony was over.

Then the elders, the councillors, and the doctors gathered together under the great tree, and began to discuss the question who should be King. A large number proposed that Ferodia should be sent for, as he was a relative of the King; but the majority, though small, were for Kalulu, who, not only was nephew of Katalambula, but adopted son, and the choice of the old King. Besides, Kalulu was a brave lad, and would in time be a greater warrior than Ferodia, perhaps greater than Katalambula, and the equal of Loralamba. His youth was full of promise, and he had already won everybody’s regard for his amiability and good heart, said they. Whereupon the discussion grew fierce; those for Ferodia threatened to leave Katalambula’s tribe and go over to him, and would return with spear and sword to cut Kalulu’s head off. Finally, when all this was at its greatest height, and wordy dissension came near ending in bloodshed, Soltali rose, and, by his eloquence, succeeded in calming the turbulent and winning over to Kalulu’s side several of the adherents of Ferodia, until there remained but a email, contumacious minority for the latter.

While the majority waited for the messengers sent to inform Kalulu of the honour conferred on him, the minority rose and departed out of the village, muttering threats, and promising to return with Ferodia, who would punish all with a terrible vengeance.

Kalulu received the deputation, and when told its mission, rose at once and followed them to Soltali. This old man—the principal magic doctor of the tribe—was not only one of the chief councillors, or chief manyapara—to give the technical Kituta term—but had also had the honour of having Katalambula for his son-in-law, as the King had taken his daughter Lamoli for wife, and Moto’s wife, Lamoli, was granddaughter to Soltali. But, aside from this relationship to Kalulu, the old man dearly loved the amiable prince, and rejoiced that he was now permitted to inform Kalulu that he was elected King.

Some of the dowa, or uganga (the millet-flour mixed with water, a most potent medicine or charm), was placed near Soltali, and as Kalulu stood before them in the now bright moonlight, graceful as a dusky Ganymede, the magic doctor rose, while the elders and councillors sat around, and, taking some of the potent medicine in his hand, he touched the boy’s forehead, each cheek, nose, mouth, and chin, crying in a loud voice: “Be thou King! Be thou brave! Be thou strong! Be thou good! And let all thy enemies run before thee!”

In succession each elder rose, dipped his hand in the medicine, and touched Kalulu’s forehead with it, saying, “Be thou King! Be thou brave! Be thou strong! Be thou good! and let all thy enemies run before thee!”

Then the warriors were summoned by the drums to the square, and all the women and children gathered also, and old Soltali, the high priest and magic doctor, sang to them the new King’s good qualities, his birth, his troubles, his arrival at Katalambula’s village, the joy of the old King; how Kalulu became henceforth as his son to him; and how Katalambula had solemnly sworn that Kalulu was his choice for his successor to him, Soltali; what Kalulu had already done towards winning fame; ending with a solemn injunction to all that they should honour and serve Kalulu as they had served his father, so that the glory of the Watuta would become known to all nations, and their bravery be sung in all the corners of the earth.

The warriors gave a great shout, the drums thundered, and all the warriors, the women, the children, the doctors, the councillors, and elders cried “Long live King Kalulu!”

When silence prevailed, Kalulu stood up before the people, and while the body swayed and the hands made gestures, according as his emotions governed him, the young King might, by a stretch of fancy, have been taken for a demi-god visiting a favoured people, teaching them the ways of the wise, and urging them to abandon savage habits. While all listened intently and admiringly, the elected chief spoke as follows:—

“Warriors of the Watuta, and ye elders and councillors! Ye have elected me King, because I, the son of Mostana, was beloved by Katalambula, and because he, being heirless, said to Soltali, ‘Since I have no son, Kalulu shall reign in my stead, when I am laid in the ground.’ Katalambula has gone to his fathers; he was old, he was weighed down with the burden of years, and loaded with honours; he is no more; the cruel earth covers him. The King is dead, but ye have chosen me to fill his place. I am young, I have not seen many moons, and I am not yet a full warrior. How, then, shall I fill Katalambula’s place? I will tell you. Katalambula was good; he loved the good and hated the wrong. So do I love the good and hate wrong. Katalambula was just. As Katalambula was just, so shall I be. When Katalambula was young, he was strong, he was brave, he was a lion in war. When I shall be a full warrior, I shall be strong, I shall be brave, I shall be a lion in war. Katalambula was wise. Ah! I am young, I am not wise; but I have Soltali, Katalambula’s friend, with me. I have the same elders, the councillors, and the magic doctors; their wisdom they will give me when trouble comes, and by their wisdom shall I be wise. There is peace in the land to-day; the Watuta are rich and prosperous. There is no sickness amongst the people, neither is there disease in the herds, or in the flocks. But the dark days may come, when a strong enemy shall come upon the land; yet not before Kalulu shall know it. Sickness may come; but who can prevent the bad spirits that visit us with baleful disease and thin our warriors, and make us poor in flocks and herds? Yet Kalulu shall be ready with his sacrifices and his potent medicine to soften the hearts of the bad spirits. It is well. The Watuta love Kalulu; they have made him their King. When the time comes, and necessity demands, Kalulu will die for the Watuta. I have spoken.”

Having finished his Oration, Kalulu retired from amongst the people, and went into his own hut, where he found Selim and Abdullah, Simba and Moto, conversing upon the events of the last two days.

The four rose to receive him courteously, and offered him a clean ox-hide to sit upon, and began to condole with him upon the loss of the King who loved him so much.

“Ah! yes, he was a dear, good man. My going out and coming in he watched like a lioness her whelps. He was proud of me, too; for he said I had the eyes of Loralamba, his father, and carried my head like him. He often said that I should make the Watuta a great nation, greater than it was in the time of Loralamba. He told me, a little before I went away after the elephants, how to behave myself when I should become King, and advised me to travel with a great many warriors all around Ututa, and see for myself how great my country is, and who pay the tribute and who do not; because, he said, when Kings forget their people their people forget who is their King, and set up for themselves. Then quarrels begin, and war follows, and tribes rise against one another, and a nation becomes weak. I mean to follow his advice; and when the next moon is full, begin the journey. Say, Selim, how wouldst thou like it?”

“Oh, Kalulu! thou art King now of all this great nation, thou art rich and powerful; there is none like unto thee in all the lands of Africa. Thousands of warriors are ready to do thy bidding; armies of great, strong, fierce men are under thy feet. If thou wilt but more that little tongue of thine, there is war everywhere; men will begin to hate one another and to lust for each other’s blood; Tillages will be destroyed, and whole tribes shall be known no more. Thou, who art but a boy like me, art dreadful in thy sudden power. But a few days ago, under the tree where the dead elephant lay, thou didst embrace me, thou didst say all manner of kind things unto me. Wilt thou do Selim a favour, Kalulu?”

“Will I do thee a favour? Oh, Selim! dost thou think that, because I am King of the Watuta, I can forget our brotherhood? Dost thou think that Kalulu’s friendship changes like the antelope, which roameth about for the sweet grass, now here, now there? No; Kalulu’s friendship is like the water of a river, always flowing in the same direction, true and constant. Ask me anything thou wilt, and I will give it thee! Dost thou want a wife? Take pretty Imamalu, and if she is not enough, take Koranilu; and if thou wouldst like another, ask for her, and thou shalt have her. Dost thou need a gun? Ask for as many as thou wilt. What is it thou wouldst ask?”

“I would ask,” answered Selim, “that, now thou art King, thou wilt permit Abdullah, Simba, and Moto, and myself to depart to our own land.”

“Depart!” echoed Kalulu, “and leave me alone! What has Kalulu done unto thee or thy friends, that thou wouldst leave him?”

“Nay, my brother—if thou wilt permit me to call thee by that name still—thou hast done nothing of wrong unto us,” replied Selim. “Thou hast been too good, if anything. What should we have done without thy friendship? But thou must remember, Kalulu, we left our own land to trade for ivory and slaves. We came as far as Urori, intending to go to Rua, on the other side of Lake Tanganika; but at Ewikuru of Olimali the caravan was destroyed, our fathers and friends were killed, others were made slaves along with ourselves. But we were happy in finding a friend in thee. We were released from slavery, and in my master I found a brother. But, Kalulu, at Zanzibar, Abdullah and I have mothers, who are sorrowing for us. I have a rich estate, and plenty of money waiting for me; Simba and Moto have wives and children. If Kalulu permits us to go, would it be well for us to remain here?”

“Ah! poor Katalambula is dead, he has been but just buried; and now Selim wants to go away, and leave me. What evil spirit is this, that makes me suffer so? What have I done, that all should leave me? Why should I suffer, when all other men are happy? I wish I were in Katalambula’s place, and he in mine. Thou wilt not want to go at once, Selim, wilt thou? Surely, thou wilt have pity upon me, and remain a few moons longer; then I myself—though I know I shall die—will take thee with a thousand warriors to where thou wilt find thyself safe, and among thy friends.”

“Oh, Kalulu, I did not mean to go away at once. I meant after one moon. Wilt thou not let me go after one moon, my brother? Think of my poor mother, what she must suffer all this time! It is this that makes me wish I had the wings of an eagle, to fly to her, and tell her how safe and happy I have been with thee. It is this only which could make me wish to leave thee so soon after thy great loss.”

“Then, Selim, let it be as thou wilt. Kalulu has not the bad heart to keep a son from a mother; sooner would his own heart burst in his own body, than my brother should suffer. Thou hast said thou hadst intended to have gone to Rua for ivory and slaves. No need to go so far. I have here two hundred of the Arabs’ people Ferodia took at Ewikuru. They shall be thine, and each man shall be loaded with ivory, one hundred of which shall be thy portion, and the other hundred for Moto, and Simba, and Abdullah. Art thou satisfied?”

“Satisfied!” said Selim, in a wondering tone.—“Satisfied! I should be worse than dead clay, if I were not. Nay, thy kindness must have some reward; for the same Sky-spirit which has touched thy heart with soft kindness towards me, has now touched mine: I shall stay two moons with thee, and I then shall ask thee to let me go. But thou art so good, Kalulu; I shall never meet thy like again, when I depart from thee,” and Selim wept grateful tears, as he threw himself upon the neck of the noble young savage, while Abdullah, in a transport of joy, kissed the generous chief’s feet; nor was Simba or Moto backward in expressing their admiration of Kalulu’s generosity.

They spent many hours together, until late in the night, consulting about what should be done in the meantime, and how a new amusement should be furnished for almost every day; after which they retired, each to his bed to sleep, with their hearts full of peace and love towards one another.

We will now leave the young King and his friends to their pleasures, while we note what became of the minority who expressed themselves so strongly against the election of Katalambula’s choice for King, and who departed before the ceremony of election and appointment began, muttering threats.

These threats were by no means idle. They were made by men who had accompanied Ferodia to Urori, and fought at Kwikuru, and who were rewarded so handsomely by him during the distribution of cloth. They were warriors who paid respect to courage and success, and to them Ferodia was a hero far more deserving of the chief authority over the tribe than a boy, who, however promising he might be, had not yet distinguished himself more than any other boy would have done, placed in the same position.

Ferodia was a chief, who, were he King, might be able to make each warrior rich in cloth, in ivory, in slaves, and cattle; while with Kalulu as King, many years must elapse before he would think of venturing upon a war unprovoked.

When they left the village, and were safe outside, these feelings found expression, and, consulting and advising with each other, they were not long in coming to the conclusion that their interest lay in proceeding at once to Ferodia’s country, a week’s march south-west, and acquaint him with their hopes and desires, and invite him to proclaim himself King, with the aid of all malcontents, and friends, and to march upon Kalulu’s village and depose the boy-king. This duty of self-interest they at once set about executing, by commencing their march for Ferodia’s country.

Within a week they made their appearance before Ferodia’s village, and when they told their errand, they were at once introduced before the chief, who sat under a tree, similar to the one at Katalambula’s, obsequious and villainous-faced Tifum the Wicked standing by his side.

“Peace be unto ye, my brothers,” said Ferodia, rising, and hurrying to embrace each one in succession, and, as is the custom in Ututa and in all the lands adjoining Lake Tanganika, rubbing their elbows first, then their arms, then their shoulders, and then falling on their necks, slapping them on the back gently with the disengaged right hand, muttering continually as he rubbed each part, “Wake, wake, wake, waky”—Health, health, health, and peace.

Finally, after going through the ceremony of greeting, like an assiduous old diplomat that he was, he asked:

“Whence come ye, my brothers? and what is your purpose?”

The chief of the party of chiefs, who was the spokesman, answered, “Why should we come thus far, O Ferodia, if it were not to greet thee as King of all the Watuta? Katalambula, the great King, is dead. He is no more. There is nothing left of him. He is in the ground. The Watuta tribes have now no leader, no chief, no king; they are like unto the flocks on the plain, bleating for the shepherd that cannot be found. They are going astray after one who is not old enough to be their shepherd. They have elected the boy Kalulu, who is but a child, and is not yet a warrior. He is like unto an infant just weaned, who seeketh the pap refused him. Katalambula being dead, Kalulu is drowned in tears; verily, he has lost his head from sorrow, for he is but a child, and has lost his friend and father, and knoweth not what to do. Wherefore, we came unto thee, O Ferodia, to ask thee to be our shepherd, our leader, our king. Say, what is thy answer?”

Ferodia answered softly: “The words thou hast spoken are words of truth, my brother. Katalambula being dead, the Watuta have lost their leader. Kalulu, in truth, is but a child—but a child completely spoiled. Any of my boy-slaves were fitter to be king of the warlike Watuta than he. Who is Kalulu? He is not a matuta, he is not a warrior, he is not the son of Katalambula, he has not won the right to carry a spear, save as a burden. He is a Mrori, the son of Mostana, one of a stranger tribe. Katalambula being dead, the Watuta have no leader. But who has a better right to fill his place than I, Ferodia? Who won his battles for him, but I, Ferodia? Who conquered the Wabona, the Wumarungu, the Wakonongo, the Wanyamwezi, the Wasowa, the Wakawendi, and the Warimba, but I, Forodia? By my fame I have won the right to succeed him who is dead. By my courage in the field, there is none fitter to take his place. By my victories, I have deserved the honour. Verily, thy words are words of truth, my brother, and thou makest me glad with thy wise remarks.”

“Speak, Ferodia, O chief, when wilt thou that we go and punish Soltali, and those who have chosen another in thy place?” asked the spokesman of his visitors.

Whereupon a council was called, to which all the chiefs and all the great warriors, the doctors, the councillors, even all those who had authority were invited.

The discussion was lively, and had a newspaper reporter who understood Kituta polysyllables been there, I doubt not he would have been as much edified as he would be elsewhere amongst councils. “How is Katalambula’s village to be taken? How is Kalulu to be ousted out of his right? How are the warriors in the village to be brought to submission to Ferodia, if they have made Kalulu king?” were the questions to be answered.

One chief suggested that Ferodia should visit Kalulu, and offer him the hand of friendship, and in the night rise up and slay; another, that Kalulu should be invited for a grand elephant hunt: when in the woods the young King might be easily disposed of; another, that he should be invited to Ferodia’s country, to celebrate his coming to power, when he could be poisoned by the doctors—in short, all things were suggested to aid the daring conspirators to deprive Kalulu of his rights.

“Tifum, what dost thou advise? Thou art cunning as a phizi (hyaena), chary of thy speech as the flying-cat is of its form, wise as a lord of an elephant herd, but cruel as the sable leopard; which letteth not go whatever it seizes upon. Thou art invaluable to me, O Tifum; therefore speak, and give thy chief counsel,” said Ferodia.

Being commanded to speak, Tifum the Wicked rose and said:

“Words, words! Who is like unto Forodia in wisdom? He searches the heart, and penetrates to the hidden and unspoken thoughts. Ferodia knows that Tifum the Wicked can give him counsel, and he forthwith commands him to speak. Who is like unto Ferodia in the battle? He rages about the war-field, seeking the strong arm and the brave with whom he may measure his strength. His feet lift him from point to point, swift as the swiftest quagga in the forest. He springs aloft with his ever-thirsty spear, seeking to drink the blood of the strongest. When his voice is heard his foes stand abashed, as if the roaring lion had come into the fight. I, Tifum the Wicked, have seen him oft in the war, and Tifum knows whereof he speaks. Ferodia the chief commands Tifum to give him counsel. My counsel is this, O chief. Katalambula’s village is strong—the warriors are many—the palisade is lofty and close, and the villages round about are more than can be counted. Ferodia’s tribe is small and weak; it is like a handful of sand compared to the sand of all the plain. Alone, we may not venture on a war with all the Watuta. Let us, then, send messengers to the people of Kinyala, whose chief Katalambula killed, and who are yet resentful. To the chiefs of Marungu, and to those of Itawa by the lake. Let us send good words to Mohilizi and to the band of Wazavila, who live but a few days’ off, and with all these together, and with the aid of these discontented chiefs of the Meroeni tribe, we may hope to make a successful war. The is this: Let Ferodia take with him all the warriors of his own tribe, and with them proceed to Kalulu, and if he asks why we have come, say, ‘We are come to offer thee our congratulations. Art thou not our King? Wherefore we have come to serve thee.’ Then Ferodia, with one hundred of his best warriors, shall go in unto the village and make friends with all, and be assiduous to please Kalulu, while the rest shall remain outside until the tenth night, when the hillmen from Amboella, the men from the soft pasture lands, the leas, and the meadows of the lake-land Itawa, when those of the fierce tribe of the Wazavila, the strong men of Urungu, and the tall men of Mohilizi, shall have been gathered together—then on the tenth night, while the warriors of Ferodia shall seize on Kalulu and some upon Soltali and other elders, some shall come to the gates, and stand there until it is time for those outside to act; then, when all is ready, let all rush in and slaughter and kill. In the morning, when the Watuta shall hear that Ferodia has conquered, they will be afraid, and will come to him in a body, as one man, and be faithful to him, as they were to Katalambula. But Kalulu must die—there can be no peace while he lives; and if it pleases Ferodia, let it be my task to wring off that young cock’s head. O chief, these are the words of Tifum the Wicked.”

“Good, good!” all shouted enthusiastically; and even Ferodia was as loud as any in his approbation. The excellent advice of Tifum was acted upon; and the messengers were at once despatched in all directions, to rouse the subdued tribes and to enlist all the discontented to rally to Ferodia’s standard, and to bid them all march by way of the great forest, and by night through the corn-fields as near as possible to Katalambula’s village, and to be outside the village near the morning after the tenth night.

Ferodia, selecting his warriors, out of which he again selected a chosen hundred—men of mettle and might, unscrupulous, and quick with their spears—proceeded the next morning for Katalambula’s village, the Kwikuru of Ututa, while the discontented of the tribe of Meroeni hastened, by day and by night, to make ready their men for the great and momentous struggle. Tifum had with him as bearers several of the boy-slaves which were captured at Kwikuru of Urori, and who had endured the fatigues of the march with Selim and Abdullah; and among these was found the little negro boy Niani, who had so mysteriously disappeared from our view and our knowledge. These were not in bonds now; they had come to be entrusted by their new masters for their docility and weakness; and Niani had come to be quite a favourite with Tifum, who recognised the little fellow’s shrewdness and deftness of hands.

Ferodia, as he drew near Kwikuru, left the larger number of his warriors, and all the slaves and servants behind; and, taking with him only the choice hundred warriors, advanced upon the capital of the Watuta, and made his appearance before the gates, where, coming in the guise of friendship to congratulate the new King, he was heartily received, and admitted to the great square.

Kalulu was disposed at first, when he was informed of Ferodia’s arrival, to be resentful, and his mind was crowded with suspicious thoughts; but Ferodia’s excessive courtesy and amiability, the warmth of his greeting and congratulations, soon disarmed the mind of the ingenuous youth, and, as well as he was able, he replied kindly, and tendered the hospitalities of the village.

To Tifum’s greeting Kalulu gave a cold and haughty nod; but Tifum was a diplomat of the first water, and, as needs must when needs drive, Tifum excelled Tifum’s self in deceptive cordiality and genuflective graciosities. He was smiling and chatting now with Kalulu, and anon with Selim, who he declared had wonderfully improved; that he was now but a little less handsome and but a little shorter in height than Kalulu the new King, who was sure, by-and-by, to become a greater King than his grandfather Loralamba.

He went up also to Simba, who had so bruised his body some time ago, and so purred and fondled that giant that Simba’s repugnance became so strong that he told him to desist, that Arabs were not accustomed to carry their greetings with strangers in such a familiar way. But nothing could upset Wicked Tifum’s equanimity and plans; he roared with laughter, and slapped his thighs so loudly that Moto began to think Tifum had lost his mind.

Tifum, however, while Moto made the remark, caught sight of the sweet, pale face of Abdullah, and at once darted upon him; and, despite Abdullah’s struggles, embraced the lad as if in him Tifum had found a lost son; but when he released him finally, Abdullah, while his face blushed crimson at this indignity, slapped Tifum full on the cheek; but the heroic Tifum did not mind that in the least; he only laughed louder than ever, though Abdullah thought he detected a fierce blaze of anger in his eyes.

However, Ferodia and Tifum were inside Kwikuru, and the time intervening between their entrance into it and the night appointed for the consummation of their enterprise passed quickly and quietly enough. On the tenth morning Tifum communicated to Ferodia the gratifying intelligence that their friends were in the neighbourhood distributed among the villages of the tribe of Meroeni, three hours’ distance.

The tenth day passed tranquilly, and the night came. Not a single breath of suspicion had been uttered, though among themselves Kalulu and his friends expressed strong misgivings; but this was set down to their dislike to the ambitious Ferodia, and his cunning, intriguing, cruel parasite, Tifum the Wicked. Ah! could Kalulu have but known what devilish plans were lurking unseen in his village—what plot was hatching—what evil hung over him, how quickly had he sounded the cry of alarm, how different would he have acted; how he would have sprung as a leopard into their midst, and torn the conspirators into pieces! But neither Kalulu nor his friends dreamed of anything of all this evil, and drowsiness stole over their bodies, and gentle, unsuspicious slumber pressed their eyelids, and stilled their minds into unconsciousness.

 

Notes: The author extracts such portions of the chant as he deems most interesting; but refuses positively to disfigure any more of his chapters with the uncouth Kituta polysyllables; and refuses, furthermore, to touch upon such ceremonies as have verse or chorus in them, however interesting they may be; for he finds his patience sadly exhausted with being compelled continually to render into barbarous rhyme words which grate on his sensitive ears:

     The hero and lion chief, Loralamba,

    King of Liemba and the streamy Wemba,

    Lord of all the pasture lands of broad Usango

    From West Urori to far Ukonongo,

    Whom the unnumber’d tribes of Tuta and Sowa,

    From hilly Lobisa to the lake-land Itawa,

    Obey’d without scruple, him who in each campaign

    Had slain his foes by hundreds on each hill and plain,

    When dying, bequeathed his youngest son Mostana

    The lands of Rori from Wiwa to Kantana,

    While to his eldest son, our King, Katalambula,

    He gave all wide Ututa, including Kinyala.

    Our King died heirless, but in Rori’s Kwikuru

    His brother Mostana was blest with Kalulu.

    When, years ago, the Arabs fell ’pon Kantana,

    Destroyed Kwikuru, and slew brave Mostana,

    Young Kalulu came, and sought his father’s brother,

    And in our King, his uncle, he found a father.

    Ye recall the day when the King this orphan met;

    How on his head our King’s infirmed hands were set;

    How fondly he clasp’d the youth to his aged breast.

    And, in endearing accents, bade him there find rest.

    Ye know what delight this boy has since to him been,

    And the King’s paternal love ye have also seen.

    Oft have ye heard the King make mention of his name,

    As one born to win a hero’s long-enduring fame.

    ’Tis needless to rehearse the deeds already done

    By the stout arm of dead Mostana’s princely son;

    They are known to all the Watuta tribes around,

    And all our most ambitious youths his praises sound.

    Morula, King of Ubena, fell by his hand,

    So died the false and cruel chief of Bemba land.

    The rebel Bongo, tribal chief on Chuma plain,

    Fell by Kalulu’s spear, was by Kalulu slain.

    When the Arab boy sank in the deep waters brown,

    Gripped by the greedy crocodile, and sank deep down,

    Who div’d to rescue him? Who but young Kalulu?

    Who but the noblest, bravest son of Malungu!

    The King swore to me, - the Mganga Soltali,

    I, - who to him wedded my daughter Lamoli,

    “None shall rule as King over Tuta’s Kwikuru

    But brave Mostana’s son, my princely Kalulu!”

    Now in council, your priests and elders do maintain

    That o’er the Tuta tribes none may aspire to reign

    Save brave Mostana’s son, and the choice of Malungu.

    We now proclaim him King. Long live King Kalulu!

***

Loralamba, father of Katalambula and Mostana.

Uwemba, a country bordering Lake Tanganika.

Liemba, the river which sometimes gives its name to a portion of Ututa.

Manyapara is a Kituta term for councillor, wise elder.

Wa-marungu: people of Marungu.

Kwikuru: the capital.

Malungu: sky-spirit.

Wakhokoro: a tribe north of Urori.

Kinyala: a small country south-west of Ututa.

Rufizi: a river.

Zambesi: known as Chambezi.

Mwenni: Lord.

Simbamwenni: Lion lord, or Lion king.

Wagala: people of Ugala.

Wazvila: people of Uzavila—a scattered tribe north of Ututa.

Mtuta: a man of Ututa.

Watuta: the people of Ututa.