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.
