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Updated: May 10, 2025
They were in the granite gorges of the waterfalls. He pointed toward where the floating mountains rose in a peak that was lightly silvered with snow. Parr, on the Muscat donkey, looking more haggard than ever in the sunshine, demanded: "Is it the white man who is called the Bwana Bangana?" That was the name that had accompanied the news.
Besides, it has been good to see you here every day; for you alone in these forests have really understood my heart and have stabbed it to death with your wisdom." He pondered dismally, while the councilors and chieftains wept out his unexpressed grief, so that the whole pavilion was filled with their full-throated sobbing. "Will you ever return, Bangana?" "Why not?
When they had passed beyond earshot for the mention of sacred things was not to be thought of while women sat within hearing the king continued: "What more can I do to show you that I love you, Bangana? I have initiated you into the mysteries of my people. You know the ceremonies of the dead, of those who become of age.
On the waterproof floor cloth squatted a Mambava warrior, a messenger from King Muene-Motapa. "Give the word, Bangana. Give the word, Brother of the King. We will carry you to the King's town on a litter as soft as the clouds. The wizards shall work their charms to make you well. The Dances of the Moon are about to begin: it is the time of answered prayers.
In the turmoil of the storm around the fort and in his breast he even seemed to see the king in apparition before him, and to hear the words: "Consent, Bangana. Consent." "Bah! as if anything in life were worth all this. All sound and fury; all pompous silliness like this storm. Presently there will not be an echo or a trace of it."
Strike them off, and let me go. Forget me, and free yourself from vain thoughts." "I should not forget you, Bangana," the king responded in a small, thin tone, as though the virile resonance of his voice had passed away with all his naïve and grandiose hopes. "All those tales! To whom shall I listen now at night?
Your medicines have failed; now try ours. One word, Bangana! Gladden the heart of the King!" The messenger's almost Semitic visage, upturned in the lamplight, was smeared with ambassadorial signs in yellow paint. On his head he wore a bonnet of marabout feathers that floated like a tiara of gossamer; his arms and legs were armored with copper bangles.
Those who survived, my forefathers pierced with their spears. Have I shown you the trophies, Bangana, the hats of steel, the corselets of steel, the guns that one fires by lighting a string? My forefathers gave those things to their children for toys, and grass grew through the bones of those white men.
In the crimson glow from the ashes the chieftains, the councilors, and the wizards raised their faces which were convulsed with rage. The wattled walls hurled back a deafening chorus of war cries. The king drank from a gourdful of cashew-brandy, wiped his lips, and shouted: "Consent, Bangana!
"Surely, Bangana, now is the time to renounce the old, to embrace the true! To cast the spear of scorn and come in behind our shields till you are strong again. We will make you forget! Give yourself up but once to our ancient mysteries! Have you forgotten the Dances of the Moon?"
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