OLD WIVES’ TALES
In addition to the many beliefs amongst the Zulus, of which I have given some examples, which may be properly called superstitious, there are a large number of curious half-beliefs and traditions, something of the nature of “old wives’ tales,” to which allusion is made more or less seriously in the ordinary course of Zulu conversation, and which often come as a surprise to the uninitiated European. I remember being much struck with some of these many years ago (as far back as in 1872), when my father took me as a child for a journey through Zululand on a visit to the great kraal of the celebrated King Mpande. On the way, as I was getting somewhat tired, a friendly Zulu told me to press my foot on an aloe (icena), and I should not be tired any longer. I saw no particular harm in obeying the injunction, and whether it was from the effect of the “icena,” or a thought cure wrought by the friendly Zulu, I certainly managed to get on.
On the same journey I was struck by a curious idea the Zulus have (somewhat akin to our “watched pot never boils”) as to disturbing the ordinary processes of the vegetable kingdom. I noticed some fine varieties of pumpkins, melons, and marrows, and, being curious to know their names, I pointed my finger at them. “Musa, musa” (don’t, don’t), shouted my native conductor, “they will never ripen if you point at them. You ought always to bend your fingers and point with your knuckles towards vegetables.” “Oh,” said I, “you might perhaps pick me that pumpkin (indicating one of the best), as it is the only one I pointed at, and it will prevent its rotting,” and he at once fell in with my suggestion, adding a few marrows growing near the pumpkin, which had also been in peril. Some of our mistakes in dealing with the Zulus might at times lead to serious consequences; but fortunately, as a rule they take them good naturedly, and attribute them to our ignorance.
It is rather curious, and perhaps a little humiliating, to civilized and superior people, to find one of their favourite nursery tactics—the threat of the black man coming down the chimney—in vogue (mutatis mutandis) among the Zulus. Fond Zulu mothers used to reduce their refractory offspring to order by the threat, “I’ll take you away to be eaten up by the white men,” and in the old times of which I am now speaking the threat always had the desired effect, though, let us hope in the present day, the notion of our being cannibals, if not bogies, no longer exists, even among the Zulus.
I well remember the day when we were graciously admitted to an audience with King Mpande, and the curious kind of awe with which the monarch and his attendants regarded us. The King spoke to us through his chief official, and courteously welcomed us to his Place, hoping we had not been disturbed by a big fight which had taken place in connection with some festivities among the Zulus near to us. It was a way his subjects had when their blood was heated, and he had done his best to stop it. He then noticed my long brown hair, which hung down to my waist, and observed, “What nice tails you have adorned yourself with! where did you get them? I should like some like that.” I said I had a private store from which I got them, and should not like anyone else to know. King Mpande smiled, and took it all in good part. I was the first white girl he had seen, and he looked therefore upon me as a curiosity.
“Come nearer,” he said, “and take off your hat, so that I can have a good look at you. How do you manage to tie the tails so neatly that no strings are seen?” He pulled and tugged at my hair, to see whether it would come off.
“Why, this is wonderful!” said he. “These are the tails they make under the sea. There’s nothing on land equal to this.”
“I glue them on,” said I.
“Wow! It is well done! Do show us how you do it.”