1889.
Aug. 12.
Mutara.
From Kavari we journeyed along the lake shore to Mutara. No sooner had we arrived than native men, women, and children visited us to barter their surplus provisions of grain, honey, fish, malwa, fowls, and bananas. The hard-headed Soudanese proceeded to the village of Mutara, a mile off, and, unduly oblivious of the orders given the day before when the beads were distributed, commenced to loot the village, more especially for malwa and beans. In a country where not the least obstacle is placed in the way of travellers, and where they might purchase anything of the product of the land for cash value, as much surprise would be manifested as in Cairo or London at the sight of a mob of men looting stores and markets. Consequently the natives expostulated, and demanded to know what this conduct implied. For answer, a Soudanese, Fathel Mullah, loaded his Remington and shot one man dead, another in the jaw, and another in the leg. As this was perfectly inexplicable to the natives, instead of avenging themselves there and then, a body of fifty of them came to the camp as an orderly deputation, to demand an explanation of me. The story appeared so incredible that I sent an officer with them to see the dead man and wounded, and the officer on his return reported that the story was true. Then every man in the Expedition was mustered, the rolls were called, Zanzibaris, Soudanese, Manyuema, Egyptians, and their followers, and the natives were requested to walk all round the rude square, and point out the man who had entered their village to run amuck while the women were bartering in the camp, and after going searchingly about, five of them pointed at Fathel Mullah. As this was not sufficient evidence even, the question was addressed to the Soudanese, and his comrade Sururu stepped out and described the circumstance that a native had tried to prevent him taking a pot of malwa, whereupon, calling him Abid and Kelb—slave and dog—he shot him dead, and fired three or four times at others indiscriminately.
“The man is yours—you can take him; but if you will sell him for cattle, cloth, wire, beads, or anything else, I will buy him.”
“No, no, no, no; we don’t sell our people; not for a hundred cattle would we part with him.”
“But what good will his blood be to you? You can’t eat him; he will not work for you. Take five cattle for him.”
1889.
Aug. 13.
Ngoti.
“No, no, no, no. We want him, for he has slain a chief man in our village, and perhaps the others will die also. We will take him.”
“Take him, then; he does not belong to me, and has no right in my camp.”
He was marched away, and we never knew what became of him.
On the next day we struck away more easterly from Lake Urigi, over rough stony ground, which was waterless and uninhabited, with numerous ant-hills covered with sickly and dwarfed bush, a thin forest of miserable acacia spreading out on either hand, leafless, decaying, and dead. Within two hours we reached the base of Unya-Matundu plateau, and, as the morning was yet early, we ascended to the summit, 1,200 feet above Lake Urigi, travelled an hour over a rolling surface of pasture land, through prosperous fields and scattered settlements, and halted at Ngoti after four and a half hours’ march.