It is not easy to get phonographic records of the voice, even from natives who can see. You place the singer in front of the apparatus, and explain how he has to hold his head, and that he must sing right into the centre of the funnel. “Do you understand?” you ask him on the conclusion of the lecture. “Ndio” (“Yes”), he answers, as a matter of course. Cautious, as one has to be, once for all, in Africa, you make a trial by letting him sing without winding up the apparatus. The man is still shy and sings too low, and has to be encouraged with a “Kwimba sana!” (“Sing louder!”). After a second trial—sometimes a third and fourth—the right pitch is found. I set the apparatus, give the signal agreed on, and singer and machine start off together. For a time all goes well—the man stands like a column. Then something disturbs his balance. He turns his head uneasily from side to side, and there is just time to disconnect the apparatus and begin instructions again from the beginning. This is what usually happens; in many cases undoubtedly it was vanity which induced the singer coquettishly to turn his head to right and left, saying as plainly as words could have done, “See what a fine fellow I am!”
With Sulila the case is much worse. He is so in the habit of moving his head about that he cannot stop it when standing before the phonograph, and the first records made of his voice are terribly metallic. With the swift impulsiveness which distinguishes me, and which, though I have often found cause to regret it, has repeatedly done me good service in this country, I now make a practice of seizing the blind minstrel by the scruff of the neck the moment he lifts up his leonine voice, and holding his woolly head fast as in a vice, regardless of all his struggles; till he has roared out his rhapsody to the end. Most of the songs I have hitherto heard from Yao performers are of a martial character. Here is one which Sulila sang into the phonograph at Masasi on July 24:—
Tulīmbe, achakulungwa! Wausyaga ngondo, nichichi? Watigi: Kunsulila(1) kanapagwe. Jaiche ja Masito; u ti toakukwimi. Wa gwasite(?) Nambo Wandachi pajaiche, kogopa kuona: msitu watiniche; mbamba syatiniche; mbusi syatiniche; nguku syatiniche; kumala wandu putepute; nokodi papopu; kupeleka mbia syakalume. Gakuūnda(?) Mtima wasupwiche: Ngawile pesipo Luja. Kunsulila ngomba sim yaule kwa Bwana mkubwa: Nam(u)no anduwedye atayeye mapesa gao. Sambano yo nonembesile.[[32a]]
The meaning of this is:—
“Let us be brave, we elders. They asked: What is a war? They say: ‘Mr. Sulila is not yet born.’ Then comes (the war) of the Mazitu; guns are fired; then they ran away. But the Germans came; it was dangerous to see; the bush was burnt, the ants were burnt, the goats were burnt, the fowls were burnt—the people were finished up altogether; the tax came up (they had) to bring a hundred jars (of rupees). They were not satisfied. (Their) heart was frightened. Mr. Sulila telegraphed to the District Commissioner: ‘He may skin me to make a bag for his money.’ Now I am tired.”
The tribes in the south-eastern part of our colony are very backward as regards music; they have nothing that can be called tune, and their execution never gets beyond a rapid recitative. In both respects, all of them, Yaos, Makua and Wanyasa alike, are far behind my Wanyamwezi, who excel in both. Only in one point the advantage rests with the southern tribes—the words of their songs have some connected meaning, and even occasional touches of dramatic force. This is remarkably illustrated by Sulila’s song.
The Mazitu have made one of their usual raids on the unsuspecting inhabitants of the Central Rovuma district. Which of the many sanguinary raids on record is meant cannot be gathered from the words of the song, it may be one of those which took place in the eighties and nineties, or the recent rising—probably the latter, since, so far as I am aware, there was never any question of taxes in the previous disturbances. In this case, moreover, it is not so much a war-tax that is referred to, as the payment of the hut-tax introduced some years ago, which has during the last few months been paid in at Lindi with surprising willingness by people who had been more or less openly disaffected. This may be looked on as a direct consequence of the prompt and vigorous action taken by the authorities.
The interference of the Germans marks a turning point in the fighting of the natives among themselves. The feeling that more serious evils are coming upon them is expressed in terms of their thought by speaking of the destruction of all property. First the bush is burnt, and all the ants in it destroyed, then comes the turn of the goats, which here in the south are not very numerous, though the fowls, which are the next to perish, are. Finally, many people are killed—Sulila in his ecstasy says all. Now come the conditions of peace imposed by the victorious Germans: a heavy tax in rupees, which must be paid whether they like it or not. In the eyes of those immediately affected the sum assumes gigantic proportions, they become uneasy and contemplate the step which, here in the south may be said to be always in the air—that of escaping the consequences of the war by an emigration en masse. Then appears the hero and deliverer—no other than Sulila himself. In the consciousness of his high calling, he, the poor blind man, proudly calls himself “Mr. Sulila”[[33]] He sees his country already traversed by one of the most wonderful inventions of the white strangers—the telegraph wire. He telegraphs at once to the Bwana mkubwa, that his countrymen are ready to submit unconditionally,—they have no thought of resistance, but they have no money. And they are so terrified that the Bwana might if he chose skin them to make a bag for the rupees—they would not think of resisting. This is the end of the song proper—the last sentence, “Now I am tired,” is a personal utterance on the part of the performer himself, fatigued by the unwonted mental effort of dictation.
Here at Chingulungulu there are several such minstrels. The most famous of them is Che Likoswe, “Mr. Rat,” who, at every appearance is greeted with a universal murmur of applause. Salanga has a still more powerful voice, but is so stupid that he has not yet succeeded in dictating the words of one song. If I could venture to reproduce my records I could at once obtain an accurate text, with the help of the more intelligent among the audience; but I dare not attempt this at the present temperature, usually about 88°. I will, however, at least, give two songs of Che Likoswe’s. One of them is short and instructive, and remains well within the sphere of African thought, that is to say, it only contains one idea, repeated ad infinitum by solo and chorus alternately.
Solo:—“Ulendo u Che Kandangu imasile. Imanga kukaranga” (“Mr. Kandangu’s journey is ended. The maize is roasted”).