Angola and the River Congo, vol. 1

by Joachim John Monteiro

The kings and their people appeared, not in their best, but in the poorest and most ragged condition possible, whether according to custom, or from a fear that the Marquis might, in view of their riches, demand tribute from them as formerly, I know not. The Marquis was seated on a chair placed on a large mat, with his bare feet on a leopard skin;—behind his chair squatted the whole of his retinue.

The kings, with their people, not less than 100 blacks, on arriving at some little distance, dropped on their knees, bowed their heads to the ground, and then clapped their hands, to which the Marquis replied by moving the fingers of his right hand to them; one of his secretaries, a very tall, lanky negro, dressed in a quaker coat with a very high, straight collar, then knelt before him, and presented him with the sword of state, which the Marquis pulled out of the scabbard and returned to him.

The tall secretary now borrowed a red cloak from one of the retinue, which he secured round his waist with his left hand, allowing it to drag behind him like a long red tail, and commenced a series of most extraordinary antics, dancing about brandishing his sword, and pretending to cut off heads, to exemplify the fate in store for his majesty’s enemies.

Approaching the kneeling embassy, he shook his sword at them like a harlequin at a clown in a pantomime, when they all rose and followed him for a few paces, and then dropped on their knees whilst he went through the dance and sword exercise again; this performance repeated, brought them nearer the Marquis, and a third time brought the whole lot to his feet, where they all rubbed their foreheads and fingers in the dust, whilst the secretary knelt and placed the sword across his knees; then came a general clapping of hands, and the king of Matuta and several others made long speeches, to which the Marquis replied, not to them directly, but to his secretary, who repeated it, every twenty or thirty words being interrupted by a great blowing of the horns and beating of the drums, lasting for a couple of minutes.

After the speeches the kings presented their offering, which consisted only of a gourd of palm wine, of which, according to custom, the Marquis had to drink.

The Governor of Bembe had provided him with a couple of bottles of Lisbon wine for the ceremony, and also a tumbler; this last was filled with palm wine from the gourd, and given to the secretary, and he handed it to the Marquis, who made the sign of the cross over it with his hand, repeating at the same time some words in Latin: this they have learnt from the ceremonies of the mass in the old Roman Catholic missals still in their possession.

The Marquis, not feeling inclined to drink palm wine, availed himself of the custom of the kings of Congo not eating or drinking in public, to practise a little deception. Whilst two attendants held up a large mat before him, he passed the tumblerful of palm wine to his secretaries, who quickly swallowed its contents, and taking up one of the bottles of Lisbon wine from under his chair, put it to his mouth, and nearly emptied it at a draught. The curtain was then removed, and the nearly empty bottle of wine passed to the king of Matuta, who poured the contents into the tumbler, took a drink himself, and passed it to the rest, who had a sip each till it was drained dry. Speeches were again made, and the embassy, having once more rubbed their foreheads and fingers in the dust, got up and bent nearly double, then turned and walked away very slowly and carefully, reminding me most comically of cats after they have been fighting.

A singular custom of the kings of Congo is that of never expectorating on the ground in public, it being “fetish” to do so, and foretelling some calamity. When the Marquis wished to clear his throat, the lanky secretary would kneel before him, and taking a dirty rag out of a grass pouch suspended from his shoulder, would present it to him with both his hands, to spit into; the rag was then carefully doubled up, kissed, and replaced in the pouch.

I was told by the padre at Bembe, who went on a mission to Engoge, that the king there, the “Dembo Ambuilla,” also has the same custom, but performed in a much more disgusting manner, as, instead of spitting into a rag like the King of Congo, the “Dembo” expectorates into the palm of an attendant’s hand, who then rubs it on his head!

Having heard at Loanda that Dr. Bastian had passed through San Salvador, I inquired of the Marquis whether he had seen him. He replied that a white man, whose name he knew not, had lately been through his town (a little distance from San Salvador), and had given him a “mucanda” or letter, which he would show me: and, taking me into his hut, he took out of his box a parcel of rags, which he carefully undid till he came to a half-sheet of small paper, on which was engraved the portrait of some British worthy dressed in the high-collared coat in fashion some thirty or forty years ago. As the lower half of the sheet was torn off, there was no inscription on it by which I could identify the portrait, which seemed to have been taken from a small octavo volume. The Marquis would not show the portrait to the Governor or any Portuguese, as he was afraid that it might say something that would compromise him with them, and on my assuring him that there was no danger whatever in it, he seemed to be much easier in his mind.