Classic Poem

I

I sat by the fig-tree,
Inkoos, in the sunlight,
And talked of the crops with my father, Makumbo.
And up to the fig-tree came slowly a stranger
And sat at some distance, and clapped, and gave greeting,
And said, " I would speak with Makumbo Rashumba."
A tall man and thin, with a face full of cunning
And covered with pock-marks. His youth was still on him,
A dandy was he, with his knife ivory-handled —
His teeth filed to points — with his comb and his wash-stick,
And over his loins was cloth white and sweeping,
Not goat-skin, like us who are sons of Matshanga.

My father gave greeting, and bade him come nearer,
And offered him snuff. For long while we were silent,
Then rapid and harshly — the way of his people —
The stranger gave tongue with strange words and much gesture:
" O Chief, I am Kwatza, the son of Makaia,
Makaia is chief on the low veld, the Pungwi

Flows over our lands when the rains are in season —
Gorongoza are we, of the land of Barui.
Makaia sends greeting to him of Matshanga,
Whose lands are a-ripe for the knives of a thousand —
Whose cattle are thick as impara in spring-time —
Whose kraal is the joy of the daughters of Wanu —
Whose path is the road of Indzoo at the river!
The lion is known by his slaying: the vulture
Has picked the dead beasts: the hyena has shattered
The bones where they lie ... and the son of Makaia
Has scraped his bare feet to Makumbo Rashumba."

He rose as he spoke, with his hands closed together,
His chin on his chest — stepping backwards a little
He scraped his bare feet in the dust as we watched him.
Then sudden he turned, and bent over towards me,
And opened his hands, and set down by my hatchet
A dozen grey quills full of gold of Manika.

" Makaia sends greeting. Guveia of Goa,
A Portuguese dog (but his mother a Kura —
Wa, zhi!), has been wasting the land of Barui.
The kraals on the Pungwi and Busi are vanished —
Their water is red: the Revui is crimson
With blood of the hillmen of Venga and Penga —
Old Tika grows fat on the path of Guveia!
So goes he to northward: the men of Inyanga
Are housed in the peaks with the apes and the dassies!
Makombe gave fight — he is fled to Mazoi!
The tribe called Matanga were pumpkins before him!
And now he returns bringing hundreds of cattle
And goats beyond count; and the kraal of my father

Lies straight in his path . . . . And Makaia, my father —
The price being cattle, full fifty, all heifers —
Craves aid of the shield of Makumbo Rashumba."

Rashumba spake not, and we sat in the sunshine —
We three, till the shadows were lengthy about us;
The children came in from the gardens, the herd-boys
Came back with the cattle, the old wives with bundles
Of faggots for fires, the young girls with water,
The old men and youths from their hoeing and hunting,
And none came anigh us. Till, mighty of stature,
My father stood up and gave answer to Kwatza:
" I spoke with the dead, and the ghosts of my fathers
Have shown me the death of Guveia of Goa.
He dies by the hand of a youth, and his slaying
Comes sudden and dark, and the spear shall go empty . . . .
Kusawa, go fetch me the gun of Dahamba."

II

Rashumba and I and the son of Makaia
Went forth from the kraal when the cocks were still crowing —
We came in five days to the kraal of Makaia:
Each evening would Kwatza put stones in the tree-forks
To stay but a little the light of Ilanga.
The gun of Dahamba I carried. Aforetime
Dahamba had bought it with powder in plenty
Beyond the Limpopo — the land of Mabunu.
Makaia had fled to the long grass: Guveia
Was camped to the north by a half-day. Rashumba
Came stamping and singing. The men of the low veld
Found heart in the songs of Makumbo Rashumba,
And gathered together ... Makaia and Kwatza
Divided the tribesmen; my father, Makumbo,
Sang songs and examined the spears of the fighters.

At dawn we were come to the camp of Guveia;
The tent of Guveia was pitched in the open —
The grass being burnt for a great space about it.
Around the grey tent slept the soldiers — not many,
Six hundred, perhaps; and beyond it a scherm
Of thorn-trees cut down, very spacious, for guarding
A great herd of cattle and goats without number.
The fires burnt low, for the dawn was upon us;
We crept to the edge of the clearing, and sudden
Makumbo Rashumba sped into the clearing
As light as the dawn-mist — as swift as an arrow;
The blows of his kerrie, ere Kwatza was with him,
Were dreams in the ears of the sleepers ... Magondo!
The men of Makaia were slaying or ever
The sleep-sodden dogs of Guveia had wakened!
I waited behind:
In the grey of the morning
The men of Guveia like ash from a fire
Were lost on the wind: for the women slept with them —
Their captives — and hampered them leaping to battle.
The ash was all gone, and the wind was gone with it,
But stayed yet the fire: the stint of Kusawa
To quench this same fire — Guveia of Goa.

Guveia stood forth from his tent, and the corpses
He dragged with his hands and he piled them together —
A circle he piled. In the grey of the dawning
I saw his fierce smile; and the gun that I carried
I feared was too weak for the death of Guveia.
Guveia lay down with his rifle before him;
Rashumba came back and danced into the clearing
And shouted and stamped, and the men of Makaia
Set up a great shout as if grouping for battle —
But kept them well hid on the fringe of the clearing.
Guveia took aim, but the bite of his rifle
Found never a grip in Makumbo Rashumba:
Three times did he shoot, but Makumbo Rashumba
Was heedless, and danced and kept shouting and singing.
Three times did he shoot at Makumbo, my father,
Then laughed; and the death that was hid in his rifle
Found out the warm heart of a man of Makaia —
He dropped and he screamed on the edge of the clearing.

Not far from Guveia — twelve paces, no farther —
Between him and me was an ant-heap, its summit
Was shaggy with shrubs ... In the grey of the morning
I crawled like a snake to the ant-heap; Guveia
Saw not and heard not for the sight of Makumbo —
His dancing and shouts and the shouts of the plainsmen.
I crawled to the ant-heap: the face of Guveia
Peered over the dead and his rifle was singing
The songs of the deaths of the men of Makaia.
I raised the big gun — the big gun of Dahamba —
(Full little it felt in my hands as I aimed it!)
The powder was thick in the pan, and I fired,
The powder flared up ... and so long was it flaring
I closed my hot eyes ... then it kicked and it thundered. . . .
I opened my eyes, and the face of Guveia
Was smiling and fierce and no change was upon it.
I breathed not for terror: I peered from the ant-heap,
The gun falling down ... and the hand of Guveia
Reached forth for a cartridge; and even in reaching
It drooped and drooped down ... and the mouth of Guveia
Grew livid and drawn ... from his mouth and his nostrils
Gushed blood, and he dropped ... and the men of Makaia
Rushed in and made end of Guveia of Goa.

Then stayed we four days at the kraal of Makaia,
And feasted and danced. On the fifth day Makumbo
Bade Kwatza remember his promise of cattle.
He, dog that he is, and Makaia, his father,
Made light of the promise; till wrathfull and sudden
My father took hold of the throat of Makaia
And swift would have slain him. But fearful of numbers,
I counselled my father to hold him as hostage
Until we were back in the land of Matshanga.
Thus did we. Of heifers full fifty we counted,
Of goats took a hundred; and slowly we journeyed,
The men of Makaia went with us to drive them;
By day and by night we took turns in our watching —
The life of Makaia we held on our kerries.
And thus in good time, sixteen days having journeyed,
We sighted the kraal of Makumbo Rashumba.