WOMEN’S DANCE AT DAR ES SALAM
My stay at Lindi has passed off less peacefully and agreeably than I had hoped. A day or two after landing here, I had to witness the execution of a rebel. Such a function can never be a pleasure to the chief performer, however callous; but if, after the reading of the long sentence in German and then in Swahili, the proceedings are lengthened by such bungling in the arrangements as was here the case, it can be nothing less than torture even to the most apathetic black. It is true that, as a precautionary measure, a second rope had been attached to the strong horizontal branch of the great tree which serves as a gallows at Lindi; but when the condemned man had reached the platform it appeared that neither of the two was long enough to reach his neck. The stoical calm with which the poor wretch awaited the dragging up of a ladder and the lengthening of one of the ropes was extremely significant as an illustration of native character, and the slight value these people set on their own lives.
Lindi forms a contrast to many other Coast towns, in that its interior keeps the promise of the first view from outside. It is true that the long winding street in which the Indians have their shops is just as ugly—though not without picturesque touches here and there—as the corresponding quarters in Mombasa, Tanga and Dar es Salam; but in the other parts of the straggling little town, the native huts are all embowered in the freshest of green. Two elements predominate in the life of the streets—the askari and the chain-gang—both being closely connected with the rising which is just over. The greater part of Company No. 3 of the Field Force is, it is true, just now stationed at strategic points in the interior—at Luagala on the Makonde Plateau, and at Ruangwa, the former seat of Sultan Seliman Mamba, far back in the Wamwera country. In spite of this, however, there is enough khaki left to keep up the numbers of the garrison. This colour is most conspicuous in the streets in connection with the numerous chain-gangs, each guarded by a soldier in front and another in the rear, which are to be met with everywhere in the neighbourhood of the old police Boma and the new barracks of the Field Force. I realize now what nonsense has been talked in the Reichstag about the barbarity of this method of punishment, and how superficial was the knowledge of the negro’s psychology and his sense of justice shown by the majority of the speakers. Though competent writers—men who, through a long residence in the country, have become thoroughly familiar with the people and their character—have again and again pointed out that mere imprisonment is no punishment for the black, but rather a direct recognition of the importance of his offence, their words have fallen on deaf ears. We Germans cannot get away from our stereotyped conceptions, and persist in meting out the same treatment to races so different in character and habit as black and white. Of course I do not mean to imply that a man can under any circumstances be comfortable when chained to a dozen fellow-sufferers (even though the chain, running through a large ring on one side of the neck, allows each one a certain freedom of movement), if only on account of the difficulties involved in the satisfaction of natural necessities. But then people are not sent to the chain-gang in order to be comfortable.
SELIMAN MAMBA
However, men guilty of particularly heinous crimes and those of prominent social position enjoy the distinction of solitary confinement. In the conversation of the few Europeans just now resident at Lindi, the name of Seliman Mamba is of frequent occurrence. This man was the leader of the rising in the coast region, but was ultimately captured, and is now awaiting in the Lindi hospital the execution of the sentence recently pronounced on him. As he has a number of human lives, including those of several Europeans on his conscience, he no doubt deserves his fate. As a historical personage who will probably long survive in the annals of our Colony, I considered Seliman Mamba worthy of having his features handed down to posterity, and therefore photographed him one day in the hospital compound. The man was obviously ill, and could only carry his heavy chain with the greatest difficulty. His execution, when it takes place, as it shortly must, will be a release in every sense of the word.
By far more agreeable than these “echoes of rebellion” are the results of my scientific inquiries among my own men and the Swahilis. My Wanyamwezi seem quite unable to endure inaction, and ever since our second day at Lindi, they have been besieging me from early morning till late at night with mute or even vocal entreaties to give them something to do. This request I granted with the greatest pleasure,—I made them draw to their heart’s content, and allowed them to sing into the phonograph as often as opportunity offered. I have already discovered one satisfactory result from our adventurous and—in one sense calamitous—voyage in the Rufiji. My men have wrought their sufferings, and their consequent treatment at the hands of the crew into a song which they now delight in singing with much energy and a really pleasing delivery. Here it is:—[[4]]
The general drift of it is something like the following:—“We were on board day and night, till the day dawned, and then cast anchor. The Baharia (sailors) on board said, ‘You Washenzi (pagans, bush people) from the interior, you will vomit yourselves to death.’ But we came safe to Lindi after all, and said (to the sailors): ‘You mocked at God (by saying that we should die), but we came safe to land.’”
This love of singing is characteristic of the Wanyamwezi. In the course of my enforced detention here, I have taken many a photographic stroll, in which my men are always eager to accompany me. On these occasions I have to divide the small amount of apparatus necessary to be taken with me among as many of them as possible, so that everyone may have something to carry. It is never very long before Pesa mbili the Mnyampara or caravan headman, lifts up his voice—a very good one too—whereupon the chorus promptly falls in in excellent time. I may here give a specimen of these little marching songs:—