Congo life and folklore

by John H. Weeks

The discovery of the cloth was hailed with screams of laughter, shouts of derision, and whistles of contempt. And if Satu had not been there, my poor owner, Bakula, would have been torn to pieces by the infuriated crowd, not because stealing was such a heinous crime in their eyes--there was not an honest man, woman or youth among the whole mob of screamers and shouters; but the discovery of the cloth in the house was taken as a proof of his witchcraft and utter stupidity.

In a very short time Satu was seated with his head men ready to judge the case. Old Plaited-Beard sat there with a snigger of triumph on his evil face, and Bakula, crestfallen, confused, but undaunted, stood, the centre of all eyes, the object of ridicule and contempt.

“Why did he not hide the cloth in the bush? Why was he such a fool as to leave the cloth in his own house?” were questions everybody was asking. The crowd derided Bakula for being a fool, rather than blamed him as a thief.

The court was held on an open space in the centre of the town, beneath the wide-spreading branches of a wild fig-tree. In a simple case like this there were no advocates, and no sides taken as in a big law-suit. Old Plaited-Beard told of the loss of the cloth, of his charging Bakula with the theft, and the discovery of the cloth by himself in the accused person’s house.

Bakula strenuously denied the theft, and gave a very clear account of all that he had done and the people with whom he had been since his return a few days ago. He appealed to Satu to state how he had accounted for every yard of cloth he had used when trading on the markets for him, and finished by saying that for some reason the Nenkondo (the new title of Old Plaited-Beard) hated him, and had more than once threatened to do him some harm.

Old Plaited-Beard scornfully asked: “Do you think I should steal my own cloth and put it in your house?”

Just then a lad, by name Tumbu, asked Satu for permission to speak, and, trembling with excitement, said: “The other day, when the town was nearly empty of people, I was lying down in my house, being too ill to go with Bakula and the other lads to bathe in the river; and while I was lying there I saw Nenkondo come along, and, after looking around on every side, enter Bakula’s house, which is right opposite mine. I watched him, and saw that he had something under his cloth; but when he came out the something was gone, for his cloth was flat on his thighs. Why did he go into Bakula’s house? and what did he leave there?”

Old Plaited-Beard was furious, and, choking with rage, he snapped out the question: “Is Bakula a friend of yours?”

“Yes,” bravely answered the lad. “I am, as you know, a slave, and Bakula has always been kind to me. He has given me food when I have been hungry, and defended me from the taunts of the other boys and girls of the town.”

Bakula, as soon as his friend had finished speaking, instantly sprang forward, and said: “I accuse Nenkondo of stealing his own cloth and putting it in my house. Tumbu is my witness to that; but there is no witness to show that I have been in his house. He is the thief, not I!”