Black Ivory

by R. M. Ballantyne

Before that night was far advanced, Disco was constrained to acknowledge himself in error, for a veritable lion did actually prowl down to the camp, and salute them with a roar which had a wonderfully awe-inspiring effect on every member of the party, especially on those who heard it for the first time in their lives.

Just before the arrival of this nocturnal visitor, one of the men had been engaged in some poetic effusions, which claim preliminary notice here, because they were rudely terminated by the lion.

This man was one of Kambira’s people, and had joined the party by permission. He was one of those beings who, gifted with something like genius, or with superior powers of some sort, have sprung up in Africa, as elsewhere, no doubt from time immemorial, to dazzle their fellows for a little, and then pass away, leaving a trail of tradition behind them. The existence there, in time past, of men of mind far in advance of their fellows, as well as of heroes whose physical powers were marvellous, may be assumed from the fact that some such exist at the present time, as well as from tradition. Some of these heroes have excited the admiration of large districts by their wisdom, others by their courage or their superior dexterity with the spear and bow, like William Tell and Robin Hood, but the memory of these must soon have been obliterated for want of literature. The man who had joined Harold was a poet and a musician. He was an improvvisatore, composed verses on the incidents that occurred as they travelled along, and sang them with an accompaniment on an instrument called the sansa, which had nine iron keys and a calabash for a sounding-board.

The poet’s name was Mokompa. With the free and easy disposition of his race, he allowed his fancy to play round the facts of which he sang, and was never at a loss, for, if the right word did not come readily, he spun out the measure with musical sounds which meant nothing at all.

After supper was over, or rather when the first interval of repose occurred, Mokompa, who was an obliging and hearty little fellow, was called on for a song. Nothing loath, he seized his sansa and began a ditty, of which the following, given by Antonio, may be regarded as a remarkably free, not to say easy, translation:—

Mokompa’s Song.
Kambira goes to hunt,
Yo ho!
Him’s spear am nebber blunt,
Yo ho!
Him kill de buff’lo quick,
An’ lub de porridge thick;
Him chase de lion too,
An’ stick um troo an’ troo.
De ’potimus as well,
An’ more dan me can tell,
Hab down before um fell,
Yo ho!
De English come to see,
Yo ho!
Dat werry good for we,
Yo ho!
No’ take us ’way for slaves,
Nor put us in our graves,
But set de black mans free,
W’en cotch um on de sea.
Dem splendid shooters, too,
We knows what dey can do
Wid boil an’ roast an’ stew,
Yo ho!
One makes um’s gun go crack,
Yo ho!
An elephant on um’s back,
Yo ho!
De drefful lion roar,
De gun goes crack once more,
De bullet fly an’ splits
One monkey into bits,
Yo ho!
De glow-worm next arise,
De Englishman likewise
Wid werry much surprise,
An’ hit um ’tween de eyes,
“Hooray! hooray!” um cries,
An’ run to fetch um’s prize—
Yo ho!

The last “Yo ho!” was given with tremendous energy, and followed by peals of laughter.

It was at this point that the veritable lion thought proper to join in, which he did, as we have said, with a roar so tremendous that it not only put a sudden stop to the music, but filled the party with so much alarm that they sprang to their arms with surprising agility.

Mindful of Chimbolo’s previous warning, neither Harold nor Disco sought to advance, but both looked at their savage friend for advice.

Now, in some parts of Africa there exists a popular belief that the souls of departed chiefs enter into lions and render them sacred, and several members of Harold Seadrift’s party entertained this notion. Chimbolo was one of these. From the sounds of growling and rending which issued from the thicket, he knew that the lion in question was devouring part of their buffalo-meat which had been hung on the branch of a neighbouring tree, not, however, near enough to the fires to be visible. Believing that the beast was a chief in disguise, Chimbolo advanced a little towards the place where he was, and, much to our traveller’s amusement, gave him a good scolding.