They consulted among themselves. “As this other man may hear of what we are about, we will go away to-day, disguise ourselves, and to-morrow seek for his place.” So they all left.
Next day two or three came disguised, and found Ogula’snew house in the afternoon. He did not recognize their faces. He welcomed them as strangers and treated them politely. They asked, “Is this your house? Do you live alone?” He answered straightly, but did not mention his brother. But they felt they had enough proof of who he was, and left. But before they left they had observed the number and location of the rooms and the shape of the house. In the house was a large public reception and sitting room, and from it were doors leading to the servant’s room and to a little entry opening into Ogula’s room.
The next day Ogula and his servant were doing their work of refining the gum-copal they had gathered for trade; it was being boiled in an enormous kettle. When this copal was melted, the kettle was set, with its boiling-hot pitchy contents, in that little entry. In the afternoon came the whole company of thieves, all disguised. They said, “We have come to make your acquaintance, and to relieve your loneliness by an evening’s amusement.” Ogula began to prepare them food. They sat at the food, eating and drinking; had conversation, and spent the evening laughing and playing. At night most of them pretended to be drunk and sleepy, and stretched themselves on the floor of the large room as if in sleep.
Ogula also had been drinking, and said he was tired and would go to bed. But his servant was sober; he saw what the men were doing, and suspected evil. He thought: “Ah! my master is drunk, and these people are strangers. What will happen?” So when the lights were put out and he was going to bed, he left open the door of the little entry and locked the door of his master’s room. After midnight the thieves rose and consulted. “Let us go and kill him.” They arose and trod softly toward Ogula’s room. Not quite sober, they missed the proper way, stepped through the open door of the little entry, and stumbled into the caldron of copal. It was still hot, and stuck to their bodies like pitch. They were in agony, but did not dare to cry out. They all were crawling covered with the hot gum, except the last man, whohad jumped over the bodies of those who had fallen before him; and he ran away to their house.
But Ogula was sleeping, ignorant of what was going on.
In the morning the boy, who also had slept, on opening the house, found the kettle full of tarred limbs of dead human bodies. He knocked at Ogula’s door and waked him. But Ogula said, “Don’t disturb me, I am so tired from last night’s revel.” “Yes, but get up and see what has happened.” Ogula came and saw. Then he told the lad that but for him he would have been dead. Ogula thenceforth took him as a brother. Then he and the boy had a big work of throwing out the bodies of the thieves. Ogula was not afraid of a charge of murder, for the thieves had tumbled themselves into the scalding contents of the kettle. He had enough wealth, and did not go again to the thieves’ house.
But that one man who had escaped was wishing for revenge, yet was afraid to come to Ogula’s house by himself. Time went on. Ogula remained quiet. But his enemy still sought revenge, waiting for an opportunity.
Gradually, too, Ogula had forgotten his enemy’s face; for the thieves were many, and all disguised, and he would be unable to distinguish which one had escaped.
On a time it happened that this thief went far to another country; and while he was there, Ogula also happened to journey to that very town. The lad had said, being now a young man, “May I go too?” “Yes, you may, for you are like a brother. You must go wherever I do.” On the very second day in the town the two, Ogula and the thief, met. The thief recognized Ogula; but Ogula did not recognize him, and neither spoke; but the young man, with better memory, said to himself, “I have seen this man somewhere.” He looked closely, but said nothing.
The next day the thief made a feast. He met Ogula again on the street and saluted him, “Mbolo! I am making a feast. You seem a stranger. I would like you to come.” “Yes; where?” “At such-and-such a place.” “Yes, I will come. But this attendant of mine is good, and must be invited too.”“Yes, I have no objections.” Next evening the feast was held, and people came to it. The thief placed Ogula and his servant near himself. There was much eating and drinking. The thief became excited, and determined to kill Ogula at the table by sticking him with a knife.
All the while that the thief was watching Ogula, the servant was watching the thief. Presently the latter turned slightly and began to draw a knife. The servant watched him closely. The thief’s knife was out, and the servant’s knife was out too. But the thief was watching only Ogula, and did not know what the servant was doing. Just as the thief was about to thrust at Ogula, the servant jumped and thrust his knife into the thief’s neck. The man fell, blood flowing abundantly over the table. The guests were alarmed, and were about to seize the servant, who pointed at the drawn knife in the man’s hand that had been intended for his master; and then he told their whole story.
So the guests decided that there was no charge against Ogula and his servant, and scattered. The next day Ogula and his servant left. As he knew that that man was the last of the company of thieves, he said, in gladness, “Now! Glory!” Then he thought, “All that wealth is mine, since this last one who tried to take my life is dead.”
As he had seen enough of the world by travel, he decided to stay in one place. He would call people to live with him in a new town which he would build for them around that enchanted house of the thieves, which he took as his own with all its wealth. And he lived long in that house in great glory, with wife and children and retainers and slaves.
VI.Banga of the Five Faces.
Ra-Mborakinda lived in his town with his sons and daughters and his glory. One son was Nkombe, and another Ogula, whose full name was Ogula-keva-anlingo-n‘-ogĕndâ (Ogula-who-goes-faster-than-water); but they were not of the same mother.
Ogula grew up without taking any wife. He became agreat man, with knowledge of sorcery. One day his father said to him, “Ogula, as you are a big man now, I think it is time for you to have a wife. I think you had better choose from one of my young wives.” Ogula replied, “No, I will get a wife in my own way.” So one day he went to another osĕngĕ (clearing) of a town which belonged to a man of the awiri (spirits; plural of “ombwiri”),i. e., one who possessed magic power, and obtained one of his daughters. Her name was Ikâgu-ny‘-awiri.
He brought the girl home to his father’s house, where she was very much admired as “a fine woman! a fine woman!” She was indeed very pretty. Then Ogula said to her, “As you are now my wife, you must be orunda (set apart from) to other men, and I will be orunda to other women, even if I go to work at another place.” And she replied, “It is well.”
At another time Ogula said, “I think it better for us to move away from my father’s town, and put my house just a little way off.” After the new house was finished they moved to it, and lived by themselves. Ogula had business elsewhere that compelled him to be often absent, returning at times in the afternoons. Whenever Nkombe knew that Ogula was out, he would come and annoy Ikâgu with solicitation to leave her husband and marry him. Ogula knew of this, for he had a ngalo (a special fetich) that enabled him to know what was going on elsewhere. The wife would say, “Ah, Nkombe! No, I know that you are my husband’s brother; but I do not want you!” Then, when it was time for Ogula to return, Nkombe would go off. That went on for many days; Nkombe visiting Ikâgu whenever he had opportunity, and the wife refusing him every time. It went on so long that at last Ogula thought that he would speak to his wife about it.
So he began to ask her, “Is everything all right? Has any one been troubling you?” She answered, “No.” He asked her again, and again she said, “No.” Thus it went on,—Nkombe coming; Ogula asking questions; and the wife,unwilling to make trouble between the two brothers, denying. But one day the trouble that Nkombe made the wife was so great that Ogula, with the aid of his ngalo, thought surely she would acknowledge. But she did not; for that day, when he came and called his wife into their bedroom, and asked her, she only asserted weakly, “No trouble.” Then he said, “Do you think I do not know? You are a good wife to me. I know all that has passed between you and Nkombe.” And he added, “As Nkombe is making you all this trouble, I will have to remove again far from my father’s town, and go elsewhere.” So he went far away, and built a small village for himself and wife. They put it in good order, and made the pathway wide and clean.
But in his going far from his father’s town he had unknowingly come near to another town that belonged to another Ra-Mborakinda, who also had great power and many sons and daughters. One of the sons also was named Ogula, just as old and as large as this first Ogula. One day this Ogula went out hunting with his gun. He went far, leaving his town far away, going on and on till he saw it was late in the day and that it was time to go back.
Just as he was about returning he came to a nice clean pathway, and he wondered, “So here are people? This fine path! who cleans it? and where does it lead to?” So he thought he would go and see for himself; and he started on the path. He had not gone far before he came to the house of Ogula. There he stood, admiring the house and grounds. “A fine house! a fine house!”
When Ogula saw Ogula 2d standing in the street, he invited him up into the house. They asked each other a few questions, became acquainted, and made friendship; and Ogula kept Ogula 2d for two days as his guest. Then Ogula 2d said, “They may think me lost, in town, after these two days. Thanks for your kindness, but I had better go.” And he added, “Some day I will send for you, and you will come to visit me, that I may show you hospitality.”
Ogula 2d went back to his place. He had a sister whowas a very troublesome woman, assuming authority and giving orders like a man. Her name was Banga-yi-baganlo-tani (Banga-of-five-faces). Though her father, the king, and her brother were still living, she insisted on governing the town. When any one displeased her, or she was vexed with any one, she would order that person to lie down before a cannon and be shot to pieces. The father was wearied of her annoyances, but did not know what to do with her.
As Ogula 2d had left word with Ogula that he would invite him on another day, he did so. Ogula accepted; but as the invitation was only to himself, he did not take his wife, but went by himself, and was welcomed and entertained.
When it was late afternoon, he was about to go back, but Ogula 2d said, “You were so kind to me; do not go back to-day. Stay with me.” And Ogula consented.
In asking Ogula to stay, Ogula 2d thought, “As his wife is not here, perhaps he will want another woman. I have my sister here; but if I first offer her, it will be a shame, for he has not asked for any one” [an actual native African custom, to give a guest a temporary wife, as one of the usual hospitalities. The custom is not resented by the women].
All this while Ogula had not seen the sister. When they were ready for the evening meal, Ogula 2d thought it time to call his sister to see the guest. She fixed herself up finely, clean, and with ornaments. She came and sat in the house, and there were the usual salutations of “Mbolo!” “Ai, mbolo!” and some conversation.
While they were talking, Banga had her face cast down with eyes to the ground. And when she lifted her eyes to look at Ogula, her face changed. From the time she came in till meal-time, she made a succession of these changes of her face, thinking that Ogula would be surprised, and would admire the changes, and expecting that he would ask her brother for her.
She waited and waited; Ogula saw all these five changes of her face, but was not attracted. They went to their food,and ate and finished. And they talked on till bedtime; but Ogula had said nothing of love. Banga was annoyed and disappointed; she went to her bed piqued and with resentful thoughts.
The next morning Ogula said it was time to go back to his wife. When he was getting ready to go, Banga said to him, “Have you a wife?”
He answered, “Yes.” She said, “I want her to come and visit me some day.” And Ogula agreed. He went, and returning to his house, told his wife that Banga wanted to see her.
After Ogula was gone, Banga asked her brother about Ogula’s wife. “Is she pretty?” And he told her how finely the wife had looked. Banga was not pleased at that, was jealous, and waited till Ikâgu should come that she might see for herself. “I will see if she is more beautiful than I with my five countenances.” Subsequently Banga chose a day, and sent for Ikâgu. She dressed for the journey, and Ogula, not being invited, took her only half-way.
When Ogula’s wife arrived, Banga saw that it was true that she was pretty, and of graceful carriage in her walking, and she did not wonder that her husband was charmed with her. But she hid her jealousy, and pretended to be pleased with her visitor. Ogula’s wife did not spend the night there; when she thought it time to go, she said good-bye, and turned to leave.
When she had gone, Banga was planning for a contest with her. She said to herself, “Now I see why that man made me feel ashamed at his not asking for my love,—because his wife is so beautiful. She shall see that I will have her killed, and I shall have her husband.”
So after a few days she sent word to Ogula’s wife, “Prepare yourself for a fight, and come and meet me at my father’s house.”
But the wife said to Ogula, “I have done nothing. What is the fight for?” Nevertheless, she began to prepare a fighting-dress, and before it was finished another messenger came with word, “You are waited for.”
So she said, “As it is not a call for peace, I had better put on a dress that befits blood.” So she dressed in red. After she was dressed she started, and Ogula went with her, to hear what was the ground of the challenge.
As soon as they got to the town, they found Banga striding up and down the street. Her cannon was already loaded, waiting to be fired. When Ogula wanted to know what the “palaver” was, Banga said, “I do not want to talk with you; I only want you to obey my orders.”
But Ikâgu wanted to know what the trouble was, and began to ask, “What have I done?” Banga only repeated, “I don’t want any words from you; only, you come and lie down in front of this cannon.” Ikâgu obeyed, and lay down, and Banga ordered her men to fire the cannon.
By this time Ogula, by the power of his ngalo, had changed the places of the two women. When the cannon was fired, and the smoke had cleared away, the people who stood by saw Ikâgu standing safe by her husband, and Banga lying dead. All the assembled people began to wonder, “What is this? What is this?”
So Banga’s father called Ogula, and said, “Do not think I am displeased with you at the death of my daughter; I too was wearied at her doings. So, as you are justified, and Banga was wrong, it is no matter to be quarrelled about.”
And Ogula 2d said to Ogula, “I am not vexed at you. You had done nothing. She wanted to bring trouble on you, and it has come on herself. I have no fight with you. We will still be friends. But do not live off in your forest village by yourself; come you and your wife to live in this town.”
So Ogula and his wife consented, and agreed to remove, and live with Ogula 2d. And they did so without further trouble.
VII.The Two Brothers.
Ra-Mborakinda has his great town, and his wives, and his children, and the glory of his kingdom. All his womenhad no children, except the loved head-wife, Ngwe-nkonde (Mother of Queens), and the unloved Ngwe-vazya (Mother of Skin-Disease). Each of these two had children, sons, at the same time. The father gave them their names. Ngwe-nkonde’s was Nkombe, and Ngwe-vazya’s was Ogula. Again these two women became mothers. This time both of them had daughters. Ngwe-nkonde’s was named Ngwanga, and Ngwe-vazya’s was Ilâmbe. A third time these two bore children, sons, on the same day. These two sons grew up without names till they began to talk, for the father had delayed to give them names. But one day he called them to announce to them their names. What he had selected they refused, saying that they had already named themselves. Ngwe-nkonde’s child named himself Osongo, and Ngwe-vazya’s Obĕngi. And the father agreed.
These two children grew and loved each other very much. No one would have thought that they belonged to different mothers, so great was the love they had for each other. They were always seen together, and always ate at the same place. When one happened to be out at mealtime, the other would not eat, and would begin to cry till the absent one returned. Both were handsome in form and feature.
When Ngwe-vazya’s people heard about her nice-looking little boy, they sent word to her, “We have heard about your children, but we have not seen you for a long time. Come and visit us, and bring your youngest son, for we have heard of him and want to see him.”
So she went and asked permission of Ra-Mborakinda, saying that she wanted to go and see her people. He was willing. Then she made herself ready to start. As soon as Osongo knew that his brother Obĕngi was going away, he began to cry at the thought of separation. He said, “I am not going to stay alone. I have to go too, for I am not willing to be separated from my brother.” And Obĕngi said the same: “If Osongo does not go with us, then I will not go at all.” Then Ngwe-vazya thought to herself, “No, it will not do for me to take Osongo along with me, for hismother and I are not friendly.” And she told Osongo that he must stay. But both the boys persisted, “No, we both must go.” So Ngwe-vazya said, “Well, let it be so. I will take care of Osongo as if he were my own son.” And Ra-Mborakinda and Ngwe-nkonde were willing that Osongo should go.
So they started and went; and when they reached the town of Ngwe-vazya’s family the people were very glad to receive them. She was very attentive to both the boys, watching them wherever they went, for they were the beloved sons of Ra-Mborakinda. She was there at her people’s town about two months. Then she told them that it was time to return home with the two boys. Her people assented, and began to load her and the boys with parting presents.
They went back to Ra-Mborakinda’s town, and there also their people were glad to see them return, for the children had grown, and looked well. The people, and even Ra-Mborakinda, praised Ngwe-vazya for having so well cared for the children, especially the one who was not her own.
This made Ngwe-nkonde more jealous, because of the praise that Ra-Mborakinda gave, and because of the boys’ fine report of their visit and the abundance of gifts with which Ngwe-vazya had returned. So Ngwe-nkonde made up her mind that some day she would do the same, that she might receive similar praise. She waited some time before she attempted to carry out her plan. By the time that she got ready to ask leave to go the boys had grown to be lads. One day she thought proper to ask Ra-Mborakinda permission to go visiting with her son. Ra-Mborakinda was willing, and she commenced her preparations.
And again confusion came because of the two lads refusing to be separated. Osongo refused to go alone. But afterward he, knowing of his mother’s jealous disposition, changed his mind, and said to Obĕngi, “No, I think you better stay.” But Obĕngi refused, saying, “No, I have to go too.” Osongo then told him the true reason for his objecting. “I said this because I know that my mother is not like yours. So pleasestay; I will be gone only two days, and will then come and meet you.” But Obĕngi insisted, “If you go, I go.” And Ngwe-nkonde said, “Well, let it be so; I will take care of you both.”
So they went. When they reached the town of Ngwe-nkonde’s family, the people were glad to see them. She also was apparently kind and attentive to the lads for the first two days. On the third day she began to think the care was troublesome. “These lads are big enough to take care of themselves like men.”
She did indeed feel kindly toward Obĕngi, liking his looks, and she said to herself, “I think I will try to win his affections from his mother to myself.” She tried to do so, but the lad was not influenced by her. When she noticed that he did not seem to care for her attentions, she was displeased, began to hate him, and made up her mind to kill him.
All the days that the lads were there at the town they went out on excursions to the forest, hunting animals. As soon as they came back they would sit down together to chat and to eat sugar-cane [with African children a substitute for candy].
Ngwe-nkonde knew of this habit. After she had decided to kill Obĕngi, on the next day she had the sugar-cane ready for them. She rubbed poison on one of the stalks, and arranged that that very piece should be the first one that Obĕngi would take. He had taken only two bites, and was chewing, when he exclaimed, “Brother, I begin to feel giddy, and my eyes see double! Please give me some water quickly!” Water was brought to him. He took a little of it. Others, spectators, became excited, and began to dash water over his face. But soon he fell down dead.
Then Ngwe-Nkonde exclaimed to herself, “So I’ve been here only five days, and now the lad is dead. I don’t care! Let him die!”
By this time Osongo had become greatly excited, crying out, and repeating over and over, “My brother! Oh, my brother! Oh, my same age!” His mother said to him,“To-morrow I will have him buried, and we will start back to our town.” Osongo replied to her, “That shall not be. He shall not be buried here. We both came together, and though he is dead, we both will go back together.” The next morning Osongo said to his mother, “I know that you are at the bottom of this trouble. You know something about it. You brought him. And now he is dead. I charge you with killing him.” She only replied, “I know nothing of that. We will wait, and we shall know.”
They began to get ready for the return journey, and some of the people said, “Let a coffin be made, and the body be placed there.” But Osongo said, “No, I don’t want that; I have a hammock, and he shall be carried in it.” So they prepared the hammock, and placed in it the dead body.
As to Ngwe-Nkonde, Osongo had her arrested, and held as a prisoner, with her hands tied behind her, and he took a long whip with which to drive her. And they started on their journey.
On the way Osongo was wailing a mourning-song, and cursing his mother, and weeping, saying, “Oh, we both came together, and he is dead! Oh, my brother! Oh, my same age! Obĕngi gone! Osongo left! Oh, the children of one father! Osongo, who belongs to Ngwe-Nkonde, left, and Obĕngi, who belongs to Ngwe-Vazya, gone!” And thus they went, he repeating these impromptu words of his song, and weeping as he went. As they were going thus, while they were still only half-way on their route, a man, Esĕrĕngila (tale-bearer), one of his father’s servants, was out in the forest hunting. He heard the song. Listening, he said to himself, “Those words! What do they mean?” Listening still, he thought he recognized Osongo’s voice, and understood that one was living and the other dead.
So he ran ahead to carry the news to the town before the corpse should arrive there. When he reached the town, he first told his wife about it. She advised him, “If that is so, don’t go and tell this bad news to the king; a servant like you should not be the bearer of ill news.” But he still said,“No, but I’m going to tell the father.” His wife insisted, “Do not do it! With those two beloved children, if the news be not true, the parents will make trouble for you!” But Esĕrĕngila started to tell, and by the time he had finished his story the company with the corpse were near enough for the people of the town to hear all the words of Osongo’s song of mourning.
Obĕngi’s father and mother were so excited with grief that their people had to hold them fast as if they were prisoners, to prevent them injuring themselves. The funeral company all went up to the king’s house, and laid down the body of his son; and Osongo’s mother, still tied, was led into the house.
The townspeople were all excited, shouting and weeping. Some began to give directions about the making of a fine coffin. But Osongo said, “No, I don’t want him to be put into a coffin yet, because when my brother was alive we had many confidences and secrets, and now that he is dead, I have somewhat of a work to do before he is buried. Let the corpse wait awhile.” So he asked them all to leave the corpse alone while he went out of the town for a short time.
Then he went away to the village of Ra-Marânge, and said to him, “I’m in great trouble, and indeed I need your help.” The prophet replied, “Child, I am too old; I am not making medicine now. Go to Ogula-y‘-impazya-vazya, and repeat your story to him; he will help you.”
Ra-Marânge showed him the way to Ogula-y‘-impazya-vazya’s place. He went, and had not gone far when he found it. Going to the magician, Osongo said, “I’m in trouble, and have come to you.” As soon as he had said this, Ogula-y‘-impazya-vazya made his magic fire, and stepped into it. Osongo was frightened, thinking, “I’ve come to this man, and he is about to kill himself for me”; and he ran away. But he had not gone far, when he heard the magician’s nkendo (a witchcraft bell) ringing, and his voice calling to him, “If you have come for medicine, come back; but if for anything else, then run away.” So Osongo returnedquickly, and found that the old magician had emerged from his fire and was waiting for him. Osongo told his story of his brother’s death, and said he wanted direction what to do. Ogula-y‘-impazya-vazya gave him medicine for a certain purpose, and told him what to do and how to do it.
When Osongo came back with the medicine, he entered his father’s house, into the room where his brother’s corpse was lying, and ordered every one to leave him alone for a while. They all left the room. He closed the door, and following the directions given him by Ogula-y‘-impazya-vazya, he brought Obĕngi to life again.
Now came a question what was to be done with Ngwe-nkonde, the attempted murderess. It was demanded that her throat should be cut, and that her body, weighted with stones, should be flung into the river. “For,” said Osongo, “I will not own such a mother; she is very bad. Obĕngi’s mother shall be my mother.” It was decided so. And Ra-Mborakinda said to Ngwe-vazya, “You step up to the queen’s seat with your two sons” (meaning Osongo and Obĕngi).
And Ngwe-vazya became head-wife, and was very kind and attentive to both sons.
And the matter ended.
VIII.Jĕki and his Ozâzi.
Ra-Mborakinda had his town where he lived with his wives, his sons, his daughters, and his glory.
Lord Mborakinda had his loved head-wife, Ngwe-nkonde, and the unloved one, Ngwe-lĕgĕ. Both of these, with other of his wives, had sons and daughters. Ngwe-nkonde’s first son was Nkombe, and she had two others. Ngwe-lĕgĕ also had three sons, but the eldest of these, Jĕki, was a thief. He stole everything he came across,—food, fish, and all. This became so notorious that when people saw him approach their houses they would begin to hide their food and goods, saying, “There comes that thief!”
Jĕki’s grandfather, the father of his mother, was dead. One night, in a dream, that grandfather came to him, andsaid to him, “Jĕki, my son, when will you leave off that stealing, and try to work and do other things as others do? To-morrow morning come to me early; I have a word to say to you.” Jĕki replied, “But where do you live, and how can I know the way to that town?” He answered, “You just start at your town entrance, and go on, and you will see the way to my place before you reach it.”
So the next morning Jĕki, remembering his dream, said to his mother, “Please fix me up some food.” [He did not tell her that the purpose of the food was not simply for his breakfast, but as an extra supply for a journey.] The food that was prepared for him was five rolls made of boiled plantains mashed into a kind of pudding called “nkima,” and tied up with dried fish. When these were ready, he put them inside his travelling-bag. Then he dressed himself for his journey.
His mother said, “Where are you going?” He evaded, and said, “I will be back again.” So he went away.
After he had been gone a little while, he came to a fork of the road, and without hesitation his feet took the one leading to the right. After going on for a while he met two people named Isakiliya, fighting, whose forms were like sticks. [These sticks were abambo, or ghosts. In all native folk-lore, where spirits embody themselves, they take an absurd or singular form, that they may test the amiability or severity, as the case may be, of human beings with whom they may meet. They bless the kind, and curse the unkind.] He went to them to make peace, and parted them; took out one of his rolls of nkima and fish, gave to them, and passed on. They thanked him, and gave him a blessing, “Peace be on you, both going and coming!” He went on and on, and then he met two Antyâ (eyes) fighting. In the same way as with the Isakiliya, he went to them, separated them, gave them food, was blessed, and went on his way.
Again he met in the same way two Kumu (stumps) fighting, and in the same way he interfered between them, made peace, gave food, was blessed, and went on his journey. He went on and on, and met with a fourth fight. This time it wasbetween two Poti (heads), and in the same way he made peace between them, gave a gift, was blessed, and went on.
He journeyed and journeyed. And he came to a dividing of the way, and was puzzled which to take. Suddenly an old woman appeared. He saluted her, “Mbolo!” took out his last roll of nkima, and gave it to her. The old woman thanked him, and asked him, “Where are you going?” He replied, “I’m on my way to an old man, but am a little uncertain as to my way.” She said, “Oh, joy! I know him. I know the way. His name is Rĕ-vĕ-nla-gâ-li.” She showed him the way, pronounced a blessing on him, and he passed on. He had not gone much farther when he came to the place.
When the old grandfather saw him, he greeted him, “Have you come, son?” He answered, “Yes.”
“Well,” said the grandfather, “I just live here by myself, and do my work myself.” And the old man made food for him. Then next day this grandfather began to have a talk with Jĕki. He rebuked him for his habit of stealing. Jĕki replied, “But, grandfather, what can I do? I have no work nor any money. Even if I try to leave off stealing, I cannot. I do not know what medicine will cause me to leave it off.” Then said the grandfather, “Well, child, I will make the medicine for you before you go back to your mother.” So Jĕki remained a few days with his grandfather, and then said, “I wish to go back.” The grandfather said, “Yes, but I have some little work for you to do before you leave.” So Jĕki said, “Good! let me have the work.”
The grandfather gave him an axe, and told him to go and cut firewood sufficient to fill the small woodshed. Jĕki did so, filling the shed in that one day. The regular occupation of the old man was the twisting of ropes for the lines of seines. So the next day he told Jĕki to go and get the inner barks, whose fibre was used in his rope-making. Jĕki went to the forest, gathered this material, and returned with it to the old man.
The next day the grandfather said to Jĕki, “Now I am ready to start you off on your journey.” And he added, “Asyou gave as reasons for stealing that you had neither money nor the means of getting it, I will provide that.” Then the old man called him, took him to a brook-side, and reminded him that he had promised that he could make a medicine to cure him of his desire to steal.
The grandfather began to cut open Jĕki’s chest, and took out his heart, washed it all clean, and put it back again. Then they went back to the grandfather’s house. There he gave Jĕki an ozâzi (wooden pestle), and said, “Now, son, take this. This is your wealth. Everything that you wish, this will bring to you. Hold it up, express your wish, and you will get it. But there is one orunda (taboo) connected with it: no one must pronounce the word ‘salt’ in your hearing. You may see and use salt, but may not speak its name nor hear it spoken, for if you do things will turn out bad for you.” “But,” the old man added, “if that happens, I will now tell you what to do.” And he revealed to him a secret, and gave him full directions. When the grandfather had finished, he led him a short distance on the way, and returned to his house. He had not prepared any food for Jĕki for the journey, for he with the ozâzi would himself be able to supply all his own wishes.
Jĕki goes on and on, and then exclaims doubtfully, “Ah, only this ozâzi is to furnish me with everything! I’m getting hungry; so, soon I’ll try its power.” He went on a little farther, and then decided that he would try whether he could get anything by means of the ozâzi. So he held it up, and said, “I wish a table of food to be spread for me, with two white men to eat with me.” Instantly there was seen a tent, and table covered with food, and two white men sitting. He sat down with these two companions. After they had eaten, he spoke to the ozâzi to cause the tent and its contents to disappear. They did so. This proved for him the power of his ozâzi, and he was glad, and went on his way satisfied.
Finally he reached his father’s town, whose people saw him coming, but gave him no welcome, except his mother, who was glad to see him. But most of the people only said,“There! there is that thief coming again. We must begin to hide our things.” After Jĕki’s arrival, in a few days, the townspeople noticed a change in him, and inquired of each other, “Has he been stealing, or has he really changed?” for shortly after his return he had told his mother and brothers all the news, and had warned the people of the town about the orunda of “salt.” In the course of a few days Jĕki did many wonderful things with his ozâzi. He wished for nice little premises of his own with houses and conveniences, near his father’s town, supplied with servants and clothing and furniture. These appeared. Soon, by the wealth that he possessed, he became master of the town, and ruled over the other children of his father. He obtained from that same ozâzi, created by its power, two wives,—Ngwanga and Ilâmbe, who were loving and obedient. He also bought three other wives from the village, who were like servants to the two chief ones. He confided his plans and everything to the two favored ones who had come out of the ozâzi.
In the course of time he thought he would display his power before the people, and for their benefit, by causing ships to come with wealth. So he held up the ozâzi, and said, “I want to see a ship come full of merchandise!”
Presently the townspeople began to shout, “A ship! a ship!” It anchored. Jĕki called his own brothers and half-brothers, and directed, “You all get ready and go out to the ship, and tell the captain that I will follow you.” They made ready, and went on board, and asked, “What goods have you brought?” The captain told them, “Mostly cloth, and a few other things.” They informed him, “Soon the chief of the town will come.” And they returned ashore, and reported to Jĕki what was on board. He made himself ready and went, leaving word for them to follow soon and discharge the cargo. The ship lay there a few days, and then sailed away. Then Jĕki divided the goods among his brothers and parents, keeping only a small share for himself.
Thus it went on: every few months Jĕki ordering a shipto come with goods. As usual, he would send his brothers first, they would bring a report, and then he would go on board. Sometimes he would eat with the ship’s company, sometimes he would invite them ashore to eat in his own house.
All this time no one had broken the orunda of “salt.” But, to prove things, Jĕki thought he would try his half-brothers, and see what were their real feelings toward him. So the next time he caused ships to come with a cargo of salt only. At sight of the ships there was the usual shout of “A ship! a ship!” The brothers went aboard as usual, and found what the cargo was. The half-brothers returned ashore immediately, and began to shout when they neared Jĕki’s house, “The ships are full of salt!” He heard the word, and said to his mother and to his two chief wives, “Do you hear that?”
The half-brothers came close to him, and exclaimed, “Dâgula [Sir], the ships are loaded with nothing but salt, salt, salt, and the captain is waiting for you.” Jĕki asked again, as if he had not heard, “What is it the captains have brought?” And they said, “Salt.” So he said, “Let it be so. To-day is the day. Good! You go and get ready, and I will get ready, and we shall all go together.”
Then the two chief wives looked very sorrowful, for they felt sure by his look and tone that something bad was about to happen.
First he ordered a bath to be prepared for himself. It was made ready, and he bathed, and went to dress himself in the other room, where his goods were stored. When he had entered, he called his own two brothers and the two wives, and closed the door. He began to examine a few of his boxes. Opening a certain one, he said, “Of all my wealth, this was one of the first. Now I am going to die. But as it is always the custom, a few days after the funeral, to decide who shall be the successor and inheritor, when that day arrives, come and open this particular box. Do not forget to take the cloth for covering the throne of my successor from this box.”
Inside of that box was a small casket, holding a large black silk handkerchief. He kept the secret received from his grandfather, and did not tell them what would happen when they should come to get cloth from the box. They understood only that on the throne-day they were to open the big box and the little casket it contained. Then he told them, “Now you may go out.” They went out. Jĕki shut the door, and began to dress for the ships. But, before dressing, he took out the black silk handkerchief from the small box, and rubbed it over his entire body; and, carefully folding it, put it back again in the casket and closed it. Then he was ready to start. And they all went off to the ships, he with the ozâzi in hand. He, with his own brothers, was in a boat following the boat of his half-brothers.
He raised a death-song, “Ilendo! Ilendo! give me skill for a dance! Ilendo! Ilendo! give me skill for a play!” This he sang on the way, jumping from boat to boat. He said he would go on board the ships, but ordered all his brothers not to come. His plan was that they were to be only witnesses of his death. He boarded one of the ships, and went over the deck singing and dancing with that same Ilendo song. Then he jumped to the deck of the next vessel.
As he did so, the first one sank instantly. On the second ship he sang and danced, and jumped thence to the third, the second sinking as the first. On the third ship he continued the song and dance; he remained on it a long while, for he caused it to sink slowly. When the water reached the vessel’s deck, the brothers in the boats were looking on with fear. His own brothers began to cry, seeing the ship sinking, for they knew that Jĕki would die with it. When it sank, the boats went ashore wailing, and took the news to the town.
But the half-brothers were not really mourning; they were planning the division of Jĕki’s property. All the town held the kwedi (mourning); but after the fifth day the half-brothers told their father that it was time for the exaltation of a successor to Jĕki, the ceremony of ampenda (glories). Ngwe-nkonde’s first-born son, Nkombe, said, “I will be thefirst to stand on the throne, and my two brothers will be next.” Jĕki’s two brothers refused to have anything to say about the division. They determined they would remain quiet and see what would be done. And the two wives of Jĕki said the same.
When the half-brothers came to the house of mourning, they began to discuss which of these two women they would inherit. Then one of the two wives said, “Oh, Ngwanga, we must not forget what Jĕki told us about the box, now that the people are fixing for the ampenda!”
So the two brothers of Jĕki and the two women went inside the room, shut the door, and began to open the big box to take out the little casket. By this time the people outside had everything ready for the ceremony of the ampenda. The two women now opened the casket, took out the black handkerchief, and unfolded it. And Jĕki stood in the middle of the room, with his ozâzi in his hand. Their surprise was great; their joy extreme. In their joy they ran to embrace him.
The people outside were very busy with their arrangements. Nkombe already had taken the throne, having painted his face with the little white mark of rule, and given orders to have the signal-drum beaten; and the crowd began to dance and sing to his praise.
Jĕki sent his youngest brother, Oraniga (last-born), saying, “Just go privately and tell my father about me, that I have come to life. And I want him to have the whole town swept, and to lay bars of iron along the streets for me to step on from this house to his. Say also that Ntyĕgĕ (monkey) must continue his firing of guns and cannon; then I will come and meet my father.”
Oraniga did so; and the father said, “Good!” and Oraniga returned. The father gave the desired orders about the sweeping and the iron bars and the firing of cannon; but the people at the throne-house did not know of all this.
Then Jĕki and his two wives and two brothers dressed themselves finely to walk to the father’s house, and marchedin procession through the street. A few of the people saw them, wondered, and asked the drums to stop, exclaiming, “Where did they come from?” The procession went on to the father’s house, and Ntyĕgĕ kept on with the cannon firing.
On reaching his father’s house, Jĕki told him he had something to say, and the father ordered the drum to cease. All the people were summoned to the father’s house to hear Jĕki’s words. He said, “Father, I know that I am your son, and Nkombe is your son. You all know what Nkombe has done, for he was at the bottom of this matter; so now choose between him and me. If you love him more, I will go far away and stay by myself; but if you love me, Nkombe must be removed from this town.”
So the father asked the opinion of others. (For himself, he wanted to have Jĕki.) Nkombe’s own brothers said he ought to be killed, “for he is not so good to us as Jĕki was.” So they bound Nkombe, and tied a stone about his neck, and drowned him in the sea.
And everything went on well, Jĕki governing, and providing for the town.