To make you understand the terrible interest attaching to these women, I ought to explain to you here that it used to be the custom whenever anything went wrong, either politically or socially, among the Zulus and other tribes, to attribute the shortcomings to witch-agency. The next step to be taken, after coming to this resolution, was to seek out and destroy the witch or witches; and for this purpose a great meeting would be summoned by order of the king and under his superintendence, and a large ring of natives would sit trembling and in fear of their lives on the ground. In the centre of these danced the witch-finders or witch-doctors; and as they gradually lashed themselves up to a frantic state of frenzy—bordering, in fact, on demoniacal possession—they lightly switched with their quagga tail one or other of the quivering spectators. No sooner had the fatal brush passed over the victim than he was dragged away and butchered on the spot; and not only he, but all the live things in his hut—wives and children, dogs and cats—not a stick left standing or a living creature breathing. Sometimes a whole kraal was exterminated in this fashion; and it need not be told what a method it became of gratifying private revenge and paying off old scores. Of all the blessings, so unwillingly and grudgingly admitted, which ever so partial a civilization has brought to these difficult, lazy, and yet pugnacious Kafir people, none can be greater, surely, than the rule which strictly forbids this sort of Lynch law from being carried out anywhere, under any circumstances, by these priestesses of a cruel faith. Now, perhaps, you see why there was such a strong undercurrent of interest and excitement beneath the light laughter and frolic of our summer-afternoon tea-party.
Nozilwane was the name of this terrible little sorceress, who frightened more than one of us more thoroughly than we should like to acknowledge, peering up in our faces, as she hung about the group of guests, with a weird and wistful glance which was both uncanny and uncomfortable. She was really beautifully dressed for her part in lynx skins folded over and ever from waist to knee, and the upper part of her body covered by strings of wild beasts’ teeth and fangs, skeins of brilliantly-hued yarn, beads, strips of snake skin and fringes of Angora goat fleece. This was a singularly effective and graceful decoration, worn round the body and above each elbow, and falling in soft white flakes among the gay coloring and against the dusky skin. Lynx tails hung down like lappets on each side of her face, which was overshadowed, almost hidden, by the profusion of saka-bula feathers. This bird has a very beautiful plumage, and is sufficiently rare for the natives to attach a peculiar value and charm to the tail-feathers. They are like those of a young cock, curved and slender, and of a dark-chestnut color, with a white eye at the extreme tip of each feather. Among this floating, thick plumage small bladders were interspersed, and skewers and pins fashioned out of tusks. All the witch-finders wear their own hair (or rather wool) alike; that is, highly greased and twisted up with twine until it loses the appearance of hair completely, and hangs around their faces like a thick fringe dyed deep red.
Nozilwane stepped out with a creeping, cat-like gesture, bent double, as if she were seeking out a trail. Every movement of her undulating body kept time to the beat of the girls’ hands and the low, crooning chant. Presently, she affected to find the clew she sought, and sprang aloft with a series of wild pirouettes, shaking her spears and brandishing her little shield in a frenzied fashion. But Nomaruso, albeit much taller and in less good condition than the lady of the lynx skins, was determined that she should not remain the cynosure of our eyes; and she too, with a yell and a caper, cut into the dance to the sound of louder grunts and faster hand-claps. Nomaruso turned her back to us a good deal in her performances, conscious of a magnificent snake skin, studded besides in a regular pattern with brass-headed nails, which floated like a streamer down her back. She wore a magnificent jupon of leopard skins decorated with red rosettes, and her toilette was altogether more recherché and artistic than any of the others. Her bangles were brighter, her goat fringes whiter, and her face more carefully painted. Yet Nozilwane held her own gallantly in virtue of being a mere bag of bones, and also having youth and a firm belief in herself on her side. The others, though they all joined in hunting out a phantom foe, and triumphed over his discovery in turn, were soon breathless and exhausted, and glad to be led away by some of the attendant women to be anointed and to drink water. Besides which, they were all of a certain age, and less inclined to frisk about than the agile Nozilwane. As for great big Nozinyanga, she danced like Queen Elizabeth, “high and disposedly;” and no wonder, for I should think she weighed at least fifteen stone. Umgiteni, in a petticoat of white Angora skin and a corsage of bladders and teeth, beads and viper skins, was nothing remarkable; nor was Umànonjazzla, a melancholy-looking woman with an enormous wig-like coiffure of red woolen ringlets and white skewers. Her physiognomy, too, was a trifle more stolid and commonplace than that of her comrades; and altogether she gave me the impression of being a sensible, respectable woman who was very much ashamed of herself for playing such antics. However, she brandished her divining-brush with the rest, and cut in now and then to “keep the flure” with the untiring Nozilwane.
All this time the chanting and hand-beating never ceased, the babies dozed placidly behind their mothers’ backs, and we all began to think fondly of a second cup of tea. The sun had now quite dropped behind the high hills to the west, and was sending long rays right up across the tranquil sky. We felt we had enough of imaginary witch-finding, and looked about for some means of ending the affair. “Let us test their powers of finding things,” said one of the party: “I have lost a silver pipe-stem, which I value much.” So the five wise women were bidden to discover what was lost, and where it was to be found. They set about this in a curious and interesting way, which reminded one of the children’s game of “magic music.” In the first place, it was a relief to know there were not any ghastly recollections attached to this performance; and in the next, one could better understand by the pantomime what they were about. In front of us squatted on heels and haunches a semicircle of about a dozen men, who were supposed to have invoked the aid of the sisterhood to find some lost property. These men, however, did not in the least know what was asked for, and were told to go on with their part until a signal was given that the article had been named. They were all highly respectable head-men—“indunas,” in fact—each worth a good herd of cows at least, and much portable property. In every-day life it would have been hard to beat them for shrewd common sense. Yet it was easy to perceive that the old savage instincts and beliefs were there strong as ever, and that though they affected to take it all, as we did, as an afternoon’s frolic, they were firm believers in the mystic power of the Abangoma, else they never could have played their parts so well, so eagerly and with such vivid interest.
“What is it the inkosi has lost?” they cried. “Discover, reveal, make plain to us.”
It was a good moment in which to try the experiment, because all the singing and dancing had worked the Izinyanga up to a high pitch of enthusiasm and excitement, and the inspiration was held to be complete; so, without hesitation, Nomaruso accepted the men’s challenge and cried, “Sing for me: make a cadence for me.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she went on in rapid, broken utterance, “Is this real? is it a test? is it but a show? do the white chiefs want to laugh at our pretensions? Has the white lady called us only to show other white people that we can do nothing? Is anything really lost? is it not hidden? No, it is lost. Is it lost by a black person? No, a white person has lost it. Is it lost by the great white chief?” (meaning their own King of Hearts, their native minister). “No, it is lost by an ordinary white man. Let me see what it is that is lost. Is it money? No. Is it a weighty thing? No, it can be always carried about: it is not heavy. All people like to carry it, especially the white inkosi. It is made of the same metal as money. I could tell you more, but there is no earnestness in all this: it is only a spectacle.”
Between each of these short sentences the seeress made a pause and eagerly scanned the faces of the men before her. For safe reply they gave a loud, simultaneous snap of their finger and thumb, pointing toward the ground as they did so and shouting but one word, “Y-i-z-wa!” (the first syllable tremendously accented and drawn out), “discover—reveal.” That is all they can say to urge her on, for in this case they know not themselves; but the priestesses watch their countenances eagerly to see if happily there may be, consciously or unconsciously, some sign or token whether, as children say in their games, they are “hot” or not.
Nomaruso will say no more—she suspects a trick—but Nozilwane rushes about like one possessed, sobbing and quivering with excitement. “It is this—it is that.” Gigantic Nozinyanga strikes her lance firmly into the ground and cries haughtily, in her own tongue, “It is his watch,” looking round as though she dared us to contradict her. The other three join hands and gallopade round and round, making the most impossible suggestions; but the “inquirers,” as the kneeling men are called, give them no clew or help, nothing but the rapid finger-snap, the hand pointed sternly down to the ground, as though they were to seek it there, and the fast-following cry, “Yizwa, yizwa!”
At last Nozilwane has it: “His pipe.” (“Yizwa, yizwa!”) “A thing which has come off his pipe;” and so it is. Nozilwane’s pluck and perseverance and cunning watching of our faces at each hit she made have brought her off triumphantly. A grunt and a murmur of admiration go round. The indunas jump up and subside into ebony images of impassive respectability; the chorus, sorely weary by this time, breaks up into knots, and the weird sisterhood drop as if by one accord on their knees, sitting back on their heels, before me, raise their right hands in salutation and deliver themselves of a little speech, of which this is as close a translation as it is possible to get of so dissimilar a language: “Messages were sent to us at our kraals that an English lady wished to see us and witness our customs. When we heard these messages our hearts said, ‘Go to the English lady.’ So we have come, and now our hearts are filled with pleasure at having seen this lady, and ourselves heard her express her thanks to us. We would also, on our part, thank the lady for her kindness and her presents. White people do not believe in our powers, and think that we are mad; but still we know it is not so, and that we really have the powers we profess. So it comes that we are proud this day at being allowed to show ourselves before our great white chief and so many great white people. We thank the lady again; and say for us, O son of Mr. F——! that we wish her ever to dwell in peace, and we desire for her that her path may have light.” It was not easy to find anything equally pretty to say in return for this, but I, in my turn, invoked the ready wit and fluent tongue of the “son of Mr. F——,” and I dare say he turned out, as if from me, something very neat and creditable.
So we were all mutually pleased with each other; only I was haunted all the time of this pretty speech-making by the recollection of a quaint saying, often used by a funny old Scotch nurse we had when we were children: I don’t think I have ever heard it since, but it darted into my mind with my first platitude: “When gentlefolks meet compliments pass.” We were all anxious to outdo each other in politeness, but unless my niaiseries gained a good deal by being changed into Zulu, I fear the witch-finders did the best in that line.