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Updated: May 11, 2025
Now, if you believe the words of your Prophets about some things, why not about others?" I was surprised at these words, knowing Numjala to be a heathen, and I suppose I must have shown this, for he added: "I have talked with the missionaries, or rather they have talked to me. Besides, my brother's son is an evangelist, and he has told me a lot about what is taught in the schools."
The mounted policeman who had accompanied me let his tired horse fall in a particularly bad drift, thus laming the animal, and had had to remain behind in consequence. Thus I was alone, but this circumstance did not trouble me, because my horse was fresh, and I knew the country well. Numjala is a roan of parts; he must be well over sixty years of age, but his eye is bright and his wit is keen.
Numjala evinced no surprise, nor did he attempt to triumph over me in any way. He took my return, quite as a matter of course. We sat down to supper. The kid was excellent, and the foaming koumis from the big calabash equal to champagne. After supper I spread my rug at one side of the fireplace Numjala unrolled his mat at the other.
I had been for two days endeavouring to frame a workable quarantine scheme in respect of an outbreak of lung sickness amongst the natives' cattle in several of those deep valleys which cleave the Xomlenzi range from the Northern bank of the Tina River, and it was late in afternoon when I reached the kraal of my friend Numjala, Headman over a section of the Baca tribe of Kafirs.
It is possible, although I think it unlikely, that you might reach the drift if you blind-folded the horse and led him." "I quite understand. Good-bye." "I will not say 'Good-bye. You will return and hear the story." As I rode away laughing, I heard Numjala calling out to his son Tantiso, telling him to catch a certain kid, kill it, and prepare it for immediate roasting.
"Well, Numjala, tell me the story about the Ghoda bush, for I am sure there is a story." "I will tell it if you stay here to-night." "But I must go home." "Well then, I will make a bargain with you. You have already passed the Ghoda, and therefore you know the footpath leading to the drift." "Yes, I know it well. I traveled it only the day before yesterday." "Very well.
We lay down and smoked our pipes in silence for some time, and then Numjala told me the following story. It is many years since I first came to live on this spot. I was then a poor man, although the 'great son' of my father, who was a chief of some importance.
The Ghoda is about a mile from Numjala's kraal, and just beyond it is the drift over the stream. "What has the Moon to do with it?" I asked. "That is a hard question. I only know that no horse can be ridden past the Ghoda after sundown when the Moon is new." "Look here, Numjala," I said reprovingly, "a man of your intelligence ought to be ashamed of even pretending to believe such a thing.
Numjala was very anxious that I should spend the night at his kraal, and offered, would I agree to remain, to kill a juicy looking kid and roast it for supper. I had, however, promised my wife to return by midnight, and I feared she might be uneasy were I not to do so; I therefore declined the invitation. "Does your horse lead well?" asked Numjala. "Not particularly," I replied; "why do you ask?"
Fearing that it would be useless to attempt demonstrating to Numjala that, logically, no one is bound to prove a negative, I evaded his question, and said: "You told me the other day that you believed in witchcraft. Surely you did not mean that?" "Why not?
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