Being now on the subject of magic, the three ethnographic specialists, Knudsen, Akundonde and Akumapanje, keep to it, and speak of the tying of knots. Akundonde relates how a man in this country, if he has designs on any particular girl, takes a strip of bark, makes a knot in it, without drawing it tight, and says to it, “You tree, your name is sangalasa (joy)—you are to fetch me that girl, and as a sign that it shall come to pass, I shut my words up in you.” He then holds the open knot in front of his mouth, puts his tongue through it and draws it tight. He afterwards wears the knotted piece of bark-string tied round his wrist. This proceeding, though simple enough, is connected with a long and important chapter in racial psychology. The tying of a knot in fact, in many strata of mankind, has an occult meaning; the binding power of the knot is supposed to be transferred to certain persons, and, so long as the knot itself cannot be untied, those persons are indissolubly attached to him or her who has tied it according to certain rules and with the proper ceremonies.
Interesting as these matters were, and glad as I should have been to know more of them, I was just now still more eager to hear about the much-discussed unyago. I brought up the subject, but both natives cleverly evaded it. After a while, I noticed the old chief’s eye roaming wistfully about our study, saw that he was tired and thirsty, and remembered that Daudi, the native clergyman, had sent us a large pot of pombe whose quality precluded our drinking it ourselves. “I suppose it will be quite good enough for these two old sinners,” I remarked to Knudsen, who must have been revolving similar cogitations; for he at once seized the import of my words, fetched a huge tin mug from his tent, filled it with the yellow, fermenting liquor, and handed it to Akundonde. The latter took it, but did not drink, handing it to his companion instead. “There’s a polite chief for you!” I thought to myself—but, seeing how very cautiously Akumapanje touched the beer with his lips, it became clear to me that I was witnessing an ancient traditional custom, arising from the innate suspiciousness of the negro, who scents—not indeed poison, but certainly witchcraft—everywhere, and dreads it accordingly. The precaution is intended to divert the risk from the superior to the subordinate.
Akumapanje, after tasting, handed the cup back to Akundonde, who thereupon emptied it at a draught. A few seconds later it was again at the lips of the prime minister, who faithfully copied his master. Drink and counter-drink succeeded each other at the same rapid rate, and we Europeans looked on with mixed feelings of envy and admiration. This did not prevent me from remembering our ethnographical purpose, and I found that what had previously seemed impossible was now child’s play. The two old men, by turns completing each other’s statements, gave a fluent description of the general features of the boys’ unyago: the arrangement for holding the festival at different villages every year (which was not new to me); the introductory ceremony, held in an open square surrounded by the huts erected for the candidates; and the operation itself, which takes place in a special hut in the depths of the forest. I had heard something of all this from Knudsen, who, in the course of his many years’ residence among the Wayao, has acquired a wonderful knowledge of their life and customs, and whom I have been pumping at every spare minute with such persistency that the good fellow has no doubt often wished one of us elsewhere.
At last, however, our two visitors, becoming more loquacious as the pombe diminished, reached a part of the subject of which Knudsen knows very little, but which attracts me most of all. This is the instruction given to the boys during the months spent in the bush by their teachers (anamungwi). These instructors, of whom every boy has one from the time of his initiation into manhood, are indisputably one of the most sympathetic features in the life of the people. They watch over their pupils through the painful weeks of the unyago, teach them what is fitting and unfitting, and remain responsible for their welfare even after they have left their boyhood far behind. I was anxious, above all, to ascertain the gist of the moral teaching given in the bush hut, and, though I only partly succeeded in doing this, it is a great satisfaction to have taken down verbatim a fragment of a speech delivered on such an occasion.
Some extra well-filled cups having removed the last scruples of our two jovial informants, Akundonde, with a little more encouragement from Knudsen, began in a didactic tone:—
“Mwe mari, sambano mumbēle. Atati na achikuluwēno mnyōgopĕ́. Nyumba mkasayinjila tinyisimana chimtumbánăgá. Wakongwe mkasayogopa; mkagononawo, mesi akayasináwo. Imālagắ akamtikĭté; imālagắ akamila muchisiḗ; masakam. Munyitikisie: marhaba. Mkuona mwesi sumyógopé, ngakawa kuulala. Kusimana timchiŭá; Miasi jili kogoya. Chilwele winyi.”[[34]]
The translation is as follows:—“You, my pupil, now you are initiated. Your father and your mother, fear (respect) them. See that you do not enter the house (unannounced), lest you should find them embracing. Do not be afraid of women, but sleep with them, bathe with them, when you have finished let her rub (knead) you; when you have finished she should salute you (saying) ‘Masakam,’ and you must answer, ‘Marhaba.’ You must be afraid (= take care) when you see the (new) moon, you might get hurt. Beware of women during their courses, this is dangerous, (it causes) many diseases.”
My notes were scarcely as complete and connected as the above when first written down. The native is incapable even when sober of taking his sentences to pieces, as it were, and dictating them bit by bit; but taking down the words of these two jovial old sinners was a difficult task, which, however, we accomplished successfully up to the point when the inevitable catastrophe set in.
The two had invariably paused for refreshment at the end of every sentence till they reached the point above indicated, when they suddenly found the pombe jar empty. They had drunk at least five gallons at a sitting, but with the strange logic of the intoxicated, they considered themselves entitled to a further supply, and, when none proved to be forthcoming, they indignantly broke off their lecture and left in a huff. This is the reward of being hospitable overmuch.
The address here reproduced, which I have translated with the help of Knudsen, Daudi, Matola and some others, is said to be the same, both as to matter and form, at all unyago ceremonies. No doubt this is correct, for I know nothing which could more exactly express the feelings of the native than just these precepts. They are a strange mixture of hygienic rules and moral instruction, and at the same time contain a good deal of primitive tradition which still forms part of daily life. I mean by this the fact that the youth, once recognised as a member of the adult community, is forbidden to enter his mother’s house unannounced. Here, in East Africa, we are still in the matriarchal stage, where the husband is nothing, so to speak, but a connection by marriage. He is his children’s father, but is not related to them, in fact he belongs to a different clan. This clan, as so often happens among primitive peoples, is exogamous—that is to say that there is no impediment to a young man marrying a girl of any clan but his own. This prohibition goes so far that the young Yao has, as far as possible, to avoid his nearest female relations who, of course, are his mother and sisters, and hence the injunction at least to give warning of his approach when entering his mother’s house.