Chapter Nine.
A Kaffir Wedding—The Chief Metilulu Makes me a Present, which I Refuse.
The unusual exertions of the previous day had so much fatigued me, that I did not awaken till my hut was invaded by a Kaffir, bearing a portion of the game we had killed at the kloof, ready cooked, for my breakfast. This was an additional proof of the chief’s hospitality and friendliness towards me; and I knew from it that, if I chose to conduct myself honourably towards them, they would do their best in their way to make me comfortable. Before I quitted the kraal, however, I was destined to learn what a little may change a Kaffir’s feelings; but at the time of which I now write I was quite ignorant of the power of witch-doctors, droughts, rain-makers, etc, so felt most easy in my mind respecting my position.
Having rolled up my bed, or mat, as I had seen the “boys” do, I took my breakfast near to the door; for though no native had slept there, yet the atmosphere was most close and oppressive.
It was a beautiful morning, and, as I regaled myself upon the portion of koodoo allotted to my share, I could not help recalling my own dear, simple, quiet, little nook of a home in Devonshire, and comparing it to the strange, wild African scenery and people about me. My appearance had now grown too familiar to the Kaffirs to be much remarked, so as I sat they continued their occupations without heeding me.
The time seemed to be that of milking, for several cows stood within a short distance, going through that operation. Most took it kindly enough; but one or two, like our own brindles, which kick over Sukey’s pail, were extremely restive, and no doubt would have given much trouble but for the method their masters had of quieting them. A stick placed through the animals’ nostrils was held at each end by a man, who, on the slightest show of temper on the creatures’ part, turned it sharply, thus occasioning considerable pain, to avoid which the cow wisely lets herself be milked in peace. The milker sits on his haunches, his knees up to his chin, and the roughly-constructed narrow jar pressed between them.
To an European taste the pure warm fluid would have been thought a refreshing morning draught; but the Kaffir never takes it fresh, regarding it as indigestible. The new milk is poured into large jars where, perhaps, some sour milk still remains; there it is left to ferment, when the thick part separates from the whey, and is highly prized by the natives under the name of amasi, a species of clotted cream.
My meal being finished, I amused myself by watching a party of women, all similarly attired—that is, with the short skirt, reaching from the waist barely to the knee, and most with a child slung on their back, proceeding with various implements of husbandry to the fields; for all this kind of labour is performed by the females, who yet have to be home in time to attend to their lord and master’s meals; and woe betide them if they are not ready, though, perhaps, the men have spent all the day in idleness, smoking, or sleeping. No wonder the feminine portion of these people grow absolutely haggish and hideous when but a few years over twenty.