In both cases, the words when translated are simple enough:
(1) Seletu, seletu, the songo snake, bring it here and let us play, bring it here, the songo snake. (2) Seletu, seletu, the lion, bring him here—seletu, seletu, the lion is beautiful.
That is all. I think the admiration here expressed for two creatures very dangerous to the natives is to be explained as a kind of captatio benevolentiæ rather than as the outcome of any feeling for nature or of artistic delight in the bright colours of the serpent or the powerful frame of the lion. Both children and grown-up people are more concerned about the songo than about any other creature; it is said to live among the rocks, to have a comb like a cock and to produce sounds by which it entices its prey.[[28]] It darts down like lightning on its victim from a tree overhanging the path, strikes him on the neck, and he falls down dead. The natives have described the whole scene to me over and over again with the most expressive pantomime. It is quite comprehensible that this snake should be feared beyond everything, and, considering similar phenomena in other parts of the world, it seems quite natural that they should try to propitiate this terrible enemy by singing his praises as being eminently fitted to take part in the dance. Precisely the same may be said of the lion.
Now things become more lively. “Chindawi!” cries one, to be rendered approximately by “I’ll tell you something!”[[29]] and another answers “Ajise!” (“Let it come.”) The first speaker now says, “Aju, aji,” and passes her right hand in quick, bold curves through the air. I do not know what to make of the whole proceeding, nor the meaning of the answer, “Kyuwilili,” from the other side. The dumb shyness which at first characterized the women has now yielded to a mild hilarity not diminished by my perplexed looks. At last comes the solution, “Aju, aji,” merely means “this and that,”[[30]] and the passes of the hand are supposed to be made under a vertical sun when the shadow would pass as swiftly and silently over the ground as the hand itself does through the air. Kyuwilili (the shadow), then, is the answer to this very primitive African riddle.
“Chindawi!”—“Ajise!”—the game goes on afresh, and the question is, this time, “Gojo gojo kakuungwa?” (“What rattles in its house?”) I find the answer to this far less recondite than the first one—“Mbelemende” (the bazi pea), which of course is thought of as still in the pod growing on a shrub resembling our privet. The ripe seeds, in fact, produce a rattling noise in the fresh morning breeze.
But for the third time “Chindawi!”—“Ajise!” rings out, and this time the problem set is “Achiwanangu kulingana.” I am quite helpless, but Matola with his usual vivacity, springs into the circle, stoops down and points with outstretched hands to his knees, while a murmur of applause greets him. “My children are of equal size” is the enigma; its unexpected solution is, “Malungo” (the knees). We Europeans, with our coldly-calculating intellect, have long ago lost the enviable faculty of early childhood, which enabled us to personify a part as if it were the whole. A happy fate allows the African to keep it even in extreme old age.
By this time nothing more surprises me. A fourth woman’s voice chimes in with “Ambuje ajigele utandi” (“My master brings meal”). The whole circle of faces is turned as one on the European, who once more can do nothing but murmur an embarrassed “Sijui” (“I do not know”). The answer, triumphantly shouted at me—“Uuli!” (“White hair!”)—is, in fact, to our way of thinking so far-fetched that I should never have guessed it. Perhaps this riddle may have been suggested by the fact that an old white-headed native does in fact look as if his head had been powdered with flour.[[31]]
Now comes the last number of a programme quite full enough even for a blasé inquirer.
“Chindawi!”—“Ajise!” is heard for the last time. “Pita kupite akuno tusimane apa!”[[32]] The excitement in which everyone gazes at me is if possible greater than before; they are evidently enjoying the feeling of their superiority over the white man, who understands nothing of what is going on. But this time their excess of zeal betrayed them—their gestures showed me clearly what their language concealed, for all went through the movement of clasping a girdle with both hands. “Lupundu” (a girdle) is accordingly the answer to this riddle, which in its very cadence when translated,—“Goes round to the left, goes round to the right, and meets in the middle”—recalls that of similar nursery riddles at home, e.g., the well-known “Long legs, crooked thighs, little head, and no eyes.”
Matola himself came forward with an “extra” by way of winding up the evening. His contribution runs thus:—“Chikalakasa goje kung’anda, kung’anda yekwete umbo,” which is, being interpreted, “Skulls do not play” (or “dance”); “they only play who have hair (on their heads).”