When near sunset, the grave being ready, under a hut erected over it at the corner of the square, and the ceremony of burial was about to begin, Kalulu came out of his hut to do honour to the body of Katalambula. All the Wa-mganga (Wa-mganga—plural of mganga—magic doctors) from the neighbouring villages were gathered together; all the elders, the councillors, and principal men of the tribe were assembled, until the great square of the capital was crowded with warriors, women, and children. In order that the ceremony might be allowed to proceed in due form, they had arranged themselves around a large circle, having the great tree for its centre. In this circle were assembled the doctors of magio and the chief mourners, and near them were the fattest, finest bulls that could be procured, black in colour and without a single blemish, which were to be killed over Katalambula’s grave; near by, also, were enormous earthenware pots of pombe (beer) and plaintain wine, which were to be poured over the grave as a libation to his manes.
The drummers were in their places, the wa-mganga (doctors) were ready, painted and striped with white chalk all over, with the gourds, half-filled with pebbles, in their hands; and the chant began.
The author, in order to do something like justice to the pathetic death-song of the King, finds himself compelled to give as literal a translation as possible. The tune was most mournful, the chorus most pathetic, being drawn out into a long, sweet-toned wail; and the voices of the women and children, mingling with the deeper voices of the warriors, were effectively impressive:
The son of Loralamba,
The conqueror of Uwemba,
The Sultan of Liemba,
Is dead!
The brother of Mostana,
The wisest Manyapara,
The King of the Watuta,
Is dead!
Chorus. Is dead!
Oh, he is dead!
He who fought Wa-marungu,
The great lord of Kwikuru,
The wise son of Malungu,
Is dead!
He who slew Tamaniro,
Chief of the Wukhokoro,
By the river Amhenuro,
Is dead!
Chorus. Is dead!
Oh, he is dead!
Who triumph’d o’er Kansala,
Near the Mount Araboella,
In the land of Kinyala,
Is dead!
Chorus. Is dead!
Oh, he is dead!
The uncle of Kalulu,
The sire of Koranilu
And pretty Imamulu,
Is dead!
He who married Lamoli,
The daughter of Soltali,
By the woman Zimbili,
Is dead!
Chorus. Is dead!
Oh, he is dead!
The lord of Mohilizi,
And the land from Bonzi
To the River Zambezi,
Is dead!
The bravest, wisest Mwenni,
Of the tribe of Meroeni,
The dauntless Simbamwenni,
Is dead!
Chorus. Is dead!
Oh, he is dead!
He was fear’d by Wagala,
By the fierce Wazavila,
Was great Katalambula,
Who is dead!
But the mighty Mtuta,
Bravest of the Watuta,
The Sultan of Ututa,
Is dead!
Chorus. He is dead!
Oh, he is dead!
Ah! the King we did adore,
We shall see his face no more,
And our hearts are sad and sore,
For he is dead!
Kindest, best, and wisest King,
On thy head the dust we fling,
And in sorrow do we sing.
Our lord is dead!
Chorus. Our lord is dead!
Alas! our lord is dead!
O King! why didst thou thus die?
Deep in the grave thou must lie,
While we will for ever cry,
Our chief is dead!
O’er him pour libative wine,
O’er him slay the fattest kine,
O’er him make the magic sign,
For our King is dead!
Chorus. For our King is dead!
Alas! our King is dead!
When the chant was ended, the body was laid on a long, broad piece of stiff bark, and four wa-mganga (doctors) carried it to the grave, where it was laid on the right side, with the King’s shield, spears, bow, and quiver of arrows. A pot, full of millet-flour, mixed with water was placed, closely covered, by the head, and the stiff piece of bark, which served to convey the body to the grave, was placed over the body; then the plaintain wine was poured over this, the black bulls were brought up and slaughtered, the blood pouring into the grave; then the earth was scraped in and stamped close and hard; and, finally, ten potfuls of pombe were poured over the grave, and the ceremony was over.
Then the elders, the councillors, and the doctors gathered together under the great tree, and began to discuss the question who should be King. A large number proposed that Ferodia should be sent for, as he was a relative of the King; but the majority, though small, were for Kalulu, who, not only was nephew of Katalambula, but adopted son, and the choice of the old King. Besides, Kalulu was a brave lad, and would in time be a greater warrior than Ferodia, perhaps greater than Katalambula, and the equal of Loralamba. His youth was full of promise, and he had already won everybody’s regard for his amiability and good heart, said they. Whereupon the discussion grew fierce; those for Ferodia threatened to leave Katalambula’s tribe and go over to him, and would return with spear and sword to cut Kalulu’s head off. Finally, when all this was at its greatest height, and wordy dissension came near ending in bloodshed, Soltali rose, and, by his eloquence, succeeded in calming the turbulent and winning over to Kalulu’s side several of the adherents of Ferodia, until there remained but a email, contumacious minority for the latter.
While the majority waited for the messengers sent to inform Kalulu of the honour conferred on him, the minority rose and departed out of the village, muttering threats, and promising to return with Ferodia, who would punish all with a terrible vengeance.
Kalulu received the deputation, and when told its mission, rose at once and followed them to Soltali. This old man—the principal magic doctor of the tribe—was not only one of the chief councillors, or chief manyapara—to give the technical Kituta term—but had also had the honour of having Katalambula for his son-in-law, as the King had taken his daughter Lamoli for wife, and Moto’s wife, Lamoli, was granddaughter to Soltali. But, aside from this relationship to Kalulu, the old man dearly loved the amiable prince, and rejoiced that he was now permitted to inform Kalulu that he was elected King.
Some of the dowa, or uganga (the millet-flour mixed with water, a most potent medicine or charm), was placed near Soltali, and as Kalulu stood before them in the now bright moonlight, graceful as a dusky Ganymede, the magic doctor rose, while the elders and councillors sat around, and, taking some of the potent medicine in his hand, he touched the boy’s forehead, each cheek, nose, mouth, and chin, crying in a loud voice: “Be thou King! Be thou brave! Be thou strong! Be thou good! And let all thy enemies run before thee!”
In succession each elder rose, dipped his hand in the medicine, and touched Kalulu’s forehead with it, saying, “Be thou King! Be thou brave! Be thou strong! Be thou good! and let all thy enemies run before thee!”