In the first place, the corpse is wrapped in the family burying-cloth, which is an intrinsic feature of every Bunu household. It is a large cloth quilt, sewn and embroidered with yarns of every imaginable hue—the wealthier the family, the more elaborate and gorgeous the burying sheet, the value frequently running up to several pounds. As soon as one is devoted to its special purpose, the bereaved relations immediately set to work to provide another according to their means, against a future death. Nature appears to be very much the same all the world over, and feeling in Kabba, on the subject of a proper burying-sheet, runs just as high as it does in the Mile End Road over the momentous question of coaches and plumes!
When thus suitably arrayed, the corpse is kept in the house for three days, while four maidens of tender years are selected, and, being placed in strictest seclusion in a house set apart, are not permitted to speak a single word during these days. As soon as the lying-in-state is accomplished, a great number of people from the neighbouring villages arrive, in obedience to the Sariki’s summons; not necessarily out of friendship for the dead man, but merely as a matter of religious ceremonial. Each guest brings a certain proportion of gifts in cloth, food-stuffs and cowries—especially the last-named. The whole party having assembled, they start forth for the Ju-ju Hill, the corpse borne in the midst, drums beating, horns hooting, women uttering mournful cries, and general excitement prevailing. The grave has been previously dug in a chosen spot on the hill-side (which is practically one large and over-crowded cemetery), and is of a curious shape. After the ordinary grave has been prepared to a depth of four feet or thereabouts, a tunnel is dug at one end of it, and continued into the earth for a distance of about twelve feet, the passage being wide enough to admit a man, creeping on hands and knees.
The party at the foot of the hill seat themselves in a wide circle, and the four silent girls, coming forward, and raising the body, bear it away up the hill. It is lowered by them into the grave, and carefully pushed up the tunnel, the idea being that no earth shall fall on it. Then, in solemn silence, they return and collect the various offerings of food, cloth, and cowries from the assemblage, and deposit them beside and around the corpse; finally, the outer grave is filled in. I have been told that several pounds’ worth of cowries are thus buried at each funeral. Meantime, the folks below are holding high revel, dancing, singing, capering, banging tom-toms, and shouting a most enthusiastic send-off to their departed fellow-countryman, while he sleeps, all unconscious of the fun he is missing, lying just where he would choose to lie, on the slopes of his beloved Ju-ju Hill. Is it very different from an Irish wake? And is it really much more ‘heathenish?’
The Emir’s Band, Bida. ([p. 124])
My ‘Palm’ Cat. ([p. 137])
(Nandinia binotata.)
Local funerals remind me of another Kabba story, which, though startling, I know to be absolutely true. It is as follows—An English Police Officer, while conducting an inquiry there, had a number of witnesses brought before him (natives), amongst them a woman, with, as usual, a child strapped to her back. While the inquiry was proceeding, the Police Officer became conscious of a horrible smell, and, when he could endure it no longer, inquired the cause among his interpreters and the people collected around him. All sniffed incredulously, and declared that, to their consciousness, there was no smell whatever. They could detect nothing, and evidently put it down, in their own minds, as one more of the imbecile fads that Englishmen are prone to! The day was warm, the court-house crowded, the flies seemed more numerous and more maddening in their buzzing than usual, and, the terrible odour becoming intolerable, the Police Officer, feeling slightly sick, called for brandy and soda, and, springing up, declared his intention of discovering the cause. One turn round the court-house decided him that the horror was in the neighbourhood of the female witness. He peered closer, and saw at once that the baby on her back was dead! He announced his discovery in horrified amazement, and was informed quite tranquilly, and as a matter of course, that the child had been dead for ‘many days,’ but that, as the mother had come from a distant village to give evidence, she must, of course, wait till her return before she could give the body burial! There are many minor ceremonies and festivals, connected with matters agricultural, the ultimate success of the crops, the coming of the new yams, etc., but there is little variety in the proceedings, the main point being, apparently, the making of a ‘cheerful noise’ and the sacrifice of nothing more dreadful than a few fowls!
Some distance to the south of Kabba there exists a tiny town of the name of Semolika, curiously situated on the summit of a steep hill, below which runs the winding bush path—the traveller’s highway. The Semolikas are not nice characters; most of their time is spent in squatting on the rocks, watching the road below, till they can spy a string of traders, or a small caravan, when they swoop down like hawks, robbing and murdering these unfortunate passers-by! At other times they amuse themselves and ‘keep their hands in’ by attacking their neighbours, who hold them in the lowest estimation, describing them as having ‘hearts of stone,’ which means, roughly, that they are insensible to sentiments of friendship, honour, family ties and common humanity. No Semolika youth can claim to be considered a man, until he is the proud possessor of a drinking-cup, consisting of a human skull, taken with his own hand from some poor wretch he himself has murdered!