"I-yo-li-o! I-yo-li-o-o!"
And the long-drawn hail of Lianza is broken in upon by the roar of his companions. "Yo!" shout eighty men as one. And out of the forest spring the dusky band, laden with their spoils, which with an exultant shout they set down before the chief, amid cries and hand-clapping and slapping of the thighs by the women and children welcoming their return. The flesh is cut up, the fish divided: the women return to their huts to cook the supper; the children cling about their fathers' legs and recount the little adventures of the day. The meal is eaten: the whole population form a wide circle in the street, and, squatting on their hams, give themselves up to the joy of watching the gyrations of the dancing women, who, in their aprons of long grass, decorated with tinkling bells, whirl around to the barbaric music of drums and castanets, as the day darkens and the moon throws her silvery beams upon the scene.
Such were the daily scenes amid which Samba passed his happy boyhood, in the village of Banonga, whither he was now leading the white stranger.
The village came in sight, nestling in a glade. The laughing children ceased their play, and stood finger in mouth shyly contemplating the new comers. The women, busily grinding manioc with pestle and mortar in the open, looked up with startled glance and fled into their huts, where they stood peeping from behind the posts of palm. Mirambo, the chief, rose from his seat and awaited with dignity the approach of the white man. Ceremonious greetings were exchanged. Then ensued a long conversation, the white man speaking, his negroes translating to the chief. He listened intently, and replied in brief phrases, most often contenting himself with exclamations of assent—"Inde!" "Ng'oko!" or of dissent—"Lako!" "O nye!"
Botofé! Yes, he knew where botofé could be found. And the white man, the Son of Heaven, wanted botofé; it had some value for him? Well, he should have it. Who so hospitable as the men of Banonga? They were not as the men of Kinshassa, who met the white man with cries of anger, and spears, and knives. Had not he, Mirambo, seen Bula Matadi, the friend of the black man? "When my sons return from their hunting," said Mirambo, "they shall provide the stranger with all that he needs. They shall give him plantains, and fowls, and cakes of kwanga;[[5]] they shall make ready a hut for him; and botofé—yes, if he needs botofé, my young men shall go into the forest and fill their baskets with botofé for him. No one shall say but that the white man is welcome in Banonga."
[[1]] Are you there?
[[2]] I am here.
[[3]] Rubber.
[[4]] H. M. Stanley.
[[5]] A preparation of manioc.