Choragus. While Singiri has kept us, oh, very long
From our homes very long, oh-oh-oh.!
Choir From our homes, oh-oh-oh!
Oh-oh-oh!
Choragus. And we have had no food for very long -
We are half-starved, oh, for so long!
Bana Singiri!
Choir. For so very long, oh-oh-oh!
Bana Singiri-Singiri!
Singiri! oh, Singiri
Choragus. Mirambo has gone to war
To fight against the Arabs;
The Arabs and Wangwana
Have gone to fight Mirambo!
Choir Oh-oh-oh! to fight Mirambo!
Oh, Mirambo! Mirambo
Oh, to fight Mirambo!
Choragus. But the white man will make us glad,
He is going home! For he is going home,
And he will make us glad! Sh-sh-sh!
Choir. The white man will make us glad! Sh-sh-sh
Sh - - -sh-h-h - - -sh-h-h-h-h-h!
Um-m - mu - -um-m-m - - sh!
This is the singular farewell which I received from the Wanyamwezi
of Singiri, and for its remarkable epic beauty(?), rhythmic
excellence(?), and impassioned force(?), I have immortalised it in
the pages of this book, as one of the most wonderful productions of
the chorus-loving children of Unyamwezi.
March 13th. - The last day of my stay with Livingstone has come
and gone, and the last night we shall be together is present, and
I cannot evade the morrow! I feel as though I would rebel against
the fate which drives me away from him. The minutes beat fast,
and grow into hours.
Our door is closed, and we are both of us busy with our own
thoughts. What his thoughts are I know not. Mine are sad. My
days seem to have been spent in an Elysian field; otherwise, why
should I so keenly regret the near approach of the parting hour?
Have I not been battered by successive fevers, prostrate with
agony day after day lately? Have I not raved and stormed in
madness? Have I not clenched my fists in fury, and fought with
the wild strength of despair when in delirium? Yet, I regret to
surrender the pleasure I have felt in this man's society, though
so dearly purchased.
I cannot resist the sure advance of time, which flies this night
as if it mocked me, and gloated on the misery it created!
Be it so!
How many times have I not suffered the pang of parting with
friends! I wished to linger longer, but the inevitable would
come - Fate sundered us. This is the same regretful feeling, only
it is more poignant, and the farewell may be forever! FOREVER?
And "FOR EVER," echo the reverberations of a woful whisper.
I have noted down all he has said to-night; but the reader shall
not share it with me. It is mine!
I am as jealous as he is himself of his Journal; and I have
written in German text, and in round hand, on either side of it,
on the waterproof canvas cover, "POSITTVELY NOT TO BE OPENED;"
to which he has affixed his signature. I have stenographed every
word he has said to me respecting the equable distribution of
certain curiosities among his friends and children, and his last
wish about "his" dear old friend, Sir Roderick Murchison, because
he has been getting anxious about him ever since we received the
newspapers at Ugunda, when we read that the old man was suffering
from a paralytic stroke. I must be sure to send him the news, as
soon as I get to Aden; and I have promised that he will receive
the message from me quicker than anything was ever received in
Central Africa.
"To-morrow night, Doctor, you will be alone!"
"Yes; the house will look as though a death had taken place.
You had better stop until the rains, which are now near,
are over."
"I would to God I could, my dear Doctor; but every day I stop
here, now that there is no necessity for me to stay longer, keeps
you from your work and home."
"I know; but consider your health - you are not fit to travel.
What is it? Only a few weeks longer. You will travel to the
coast just as quickly when the rains are over as you will by
going now. The plains will be inundated between here and the
coast."
"You think so; but I will reach the coast in forty days; if
not in forty, I will in fifty - certain. The thought that I
am doing you an important service will spur me on."
March 14th. - At dawn we were up, the bales and baggage were taken
outside of the building, and the men prepared themselves for the
first march towards home.
We had a sad breakfast together. I could not eat, my heart was
too full; neither did my companion seem to have an appetite. We
found something to do which kept us longer together. At 8 o'clock
I was not gone, and I had thought to have been off at 5 A.M.
"Doctor," said I, "I will leave two men with you, who will stop
to-day and to-morrow with you, for it may be that you have
forgotten something in the hurry of my departure. I will halt a
day at Tura, on the frontier of Unyamwezi, for your last word,
and your last wish; and now we must part - there is no help for it.
Good-bye."
"Oh, I am coming with you a little way. I must see you off on
the road."
"Thank you. Now, my men, Home! Kirangozi, lift the flag, and
MARCH!"
The house looked desolate - it faded from our view. Old times,
and the memories of my aspirations and kindling hopes, came strong
on me. The old hills round about, that I once thought tame and
uninteresting, had become invested with histories and reminiscences
for me. On that burzani I have sat hour after hour, dreaming, and
hoping, and sighing.
