He answered that during our absence Anzutu had been taken much worse, and was not expected to recover. He told me this in a round-about way, for the Kaffir avoids the word “death” as an Englishman might the plague, and it is not considered etiquette to mention it ever in a chief’s presence. Though a Kaffir has no idea of time, and regards his life as not his own, but his chief’s, who may order his execution at, any moment he please yet they, greatly dread death when it comes naturally, and would give anything, to conceal those precursors to old age—grey hairs.
When I heard that Anzutu would probably die after all, I could not help thinking that the death of the wretched wizard had not done much good. Whether Tugela had divined my thoughts I do not know, but when he spoke again he certainly answered them.
“Had Metilulu applied to the witch-doctor sooner,” he said, “this might not have been; the wizard had got too much power before he was stopped.”
We had now entered the kraal, where I found both men and women attired in their oldest aprons, without ornament, and all betraying the deepest signs of grief. Metilulu, attended only by his chief warriors, had hurried to his own hut to await further bulletins, which soon came, for we had not returned an hour before the news spread through the community that Anzutu was dead.
Never shall I forget the tremendous noise that then arose. Shriek after shriek—howl after howl—groan after groan. Had Pandemonium broken loose it could not have been worse. Work was suspended entirely, and, stranger still for a Kaffir, eating and drinking also. There they sat howling. Feeling myself, as a spectator, rather out of place in such a scene, I retired to my hut, and watched proceedings from the entrance.
Soon the news that Metilulu’s favourite wife had ceased to exist travelled to other kraals, and, to my consternation—for I was almost deafened by the noise already—fresh parties kept arriving all day, and, taking their places, added their voices to the rest; for it appeared Metilulu was a powerful chief among the tribes. The whole day and night they still kept coming, and the noise continued, while never did I see one of the people seek refreshment. Fortunately for myself, I had some dried eland flesh in my hut, with which I stayed my hunger, and so the most miserable twenty-four hours I had yet spent in Caffraria.
In the morning the cries had not ceased; but I went forth, feeling sure that some ceremony—perhaps the burial—would take place after such an uproar, as they could scarcely support it longer. I had seen a wedding—I had seen a Kaffir baby just after birth, and found it to be almost as white as an European’s, the skin darkening rapidly afterwards,—and now I desired to witness a funeral.
Proceeding towards Metilulu’s huts—that is, his own and those of his wives—I found him outside, dressed in full warrior costume, as were those who stood about him. They were engaged in singing a wild native song; then the chief issued some orders. I had no need to understand the language to learn what they were, as they were instantly followed by the execution of several of the tribe, this evidently being a custom. The poor fellows received their fate without a murmur; for, as before stated, in Caffraria the chief’s word is law, and one which his people obey even on some occasions with rejoicing. Indeed, as the miserable beings were now being executed, I perceived by the expression of their faces that they were uttering praises of the fat despot.
Since I saw this, I have read that, upon the death of persons of rank, frequently a general massacre will take place, not only by the chief’s direct orders, but rather as if by it the people wish to show their sympathy with him.
When the executions were over, the cries continued, till I beheld many fall down insensible from exhaustion; and glad enough I was when that day and night also came to an end, for I hoped it would be the last of it, as the following morning the remains of Anzutu were to be consigned to the earth; for it is a singular fact that the custom of burying the dead is prevalent all over the world, save in India with the Parsees, where the funeral pyre is raised and the body consumed by fire.