Wild life under the equator

by Paul B. Du Chaillu

APPEARANCE OF THE KING AND HIS COURT.

The palaver-house was a large shed built in the middle of the street, and there we seated ourselves. A few men braver than the rest came to look at what they thought the strange being, “the Spirit,” that had come among them.

His Majesty headed the party, followed by his head-man. He wore an old red English coat and no other garments. He was a short, thick-built negro, and wore an immense pair of iron ear-rings. He was followed by what I supposed to be the second head-man, or prime minister. This one had for his costume an old shirt which had only one sleeve and no sign of a button to be seen anywhere, a shirt that formerly must have been white but had never been washed since he got it, which was several years before. This prime minister had nothing else on. The third man, who of course formed part of his Majesty’s suite, had on an old beaver hat and nothing else. Another that followed him had one of those old-fashioned black neck-ties (as tight as the neck itself, and attached with a buckle) which were worn some thirty years ago, and nothing else. How the deuce did that fellow get that cravat? I asked myself. I learned afterward that he had inherited it. Then came a fellow who by hook or by crook had possession of an old pair of shoes; how he had got them I was unable to find out. His father had perhaps left them to him. How steady, how grave they looked, as they passed one after another before me. These were the leading men of this Mbisho village. They thought themselves splendid, and their people thought the same. They came out in state.

I had seen before so much of the same kind of African court costumes that I tried to look sober, as they made their appearance in the midst of the shouts of their people, who praised their good looks.

They looked at me and I looked at them, and at last with one voice they asked me to notice how handsome they were, each at the same time in one way or another making the most of what he wore. I said they were very fine.

The houses of that village had no windows or doors, except on the side toward the street; and when the gates of the streets at each end were locked the village was indeed a fortress. As an additional protection trees had been cut down, and all the surrounding approaches had been thus blocked up. This village was situated on the top of a high hill.

Interiorly the houses were divided by a bark partition into two rooms; one the kitchen, where every body sits or lies down on the ground about the fire, smokes his pipe, and goes to sleep, while listening to the others. There also in the evening the harp is played.

The other is the sleeping apartment. This one is perfectly dark, and here are stored all their provisions, all their riches. To ascertain how large a family any householder has, you have only to count the little doors which open into the various sleeping apartments: “So many doors, so many wives.” These houses, like all the houses I had seen in the interior, were made of the bark of trees.

There is nothing more disgusting than the toilet of one of these Mbondemo fellows, except it be the toilet of his wife. The women seem to lay on the oil and red earth thicker than their husbands.