No drumming could drown the heart-rending cries of the sufferer. The people of Sesheke could hear him, in the midst of his torture, calling out, “Ra, ra, kame, ra, ra!” (Father, O my father!) and “umu umu bulaya” (they are killing me!); but though a large crowd was thus made aware of what was going on, no one dared to raise a hand to rescue the miserable sufferer.
When the doctors had finished their cruel operation, the hapless boy was strangled, and knocked on the head with a kiri. The whole party then returned to their boats, which were pushed off into midstream, where, as if by accident, they were formed into a circle; but, in reality, with the design of concealing the corpse as it was dropped into the water. Meanwhile the weeping mother had made her way down to the bank, and regardless alike of the crocodiles and of the displeasure of the tyrant, waded into the stream and demanded her son—her darling Mushemani. But to Sepopo a mother’s grief was nothing; he landed quite unconcerned, and proceeded with his myrmidons to enjoy his pots of butshuala, while the doctors stored away the dismembered toes and fingers in a war-drum.
This narrative I give as related to me in its general outline on my second return to Sesheke by two of the resident chiefs, the details being filled in by Blockley, whose quarters were just opposite to the scene of the murder.
Before crossing the Zambesi I had been told about the industrial skill of Sepopo’s people, and had been given to understand that amongst the southern tribes the Mashonas particularly excelled. Prevented as I was from visiting the country, I
