72 THE BONDS OF AFRICA 



pass a score of Awisa from the Luangwa Valley 

 carrying bales of cotton on their heads. A 

 white official, flanneled and warm, hurries across 

 to the Boma, or Government offices, above which 

 the Union Jack hangs drowsily, now and then 

 stirred by a faint breeze. A smart khaki-clad 

 askari (native policeman) hurries across to the 

 Administrator's residence — the manor-house of 

 the village — bent on some official errand. 



When the fiery sun sinks behind the Kapata- 

 moyo hills, and red shafts of its departing glory 

 pierce the darkening sky, the ceremony of saluting 

 and hauling down the flag in front of the Boma 

 is performed with all due pomp and circumstance 

 by the stalwart blacks of the North-Eastern 

 Rhodesia Constabulary. The bugles blow out 

 a blast, and then the fife and drum band plays 

 " God save the King." You uncover your head 

 and ponder on the might of the Empire and the 

 strength of that rule which can call forth the hymn 

 of loyalty to a monarch 6,000 miles away from 

 his blackest subjects in remotest Central Africa. 



Down the main street marches the band, and 

 as they swing along, the fifes merrily break forth 

 into one of Harry Lauder's songs. Rat-tat-tat 

 go the kettle-drums, and a crowd of natives run 

 along with the constabulary as children follow 

 a circus in country England. One great fellow 

 with a magnificent leopard skin — drum-major 

 of the band — attracts your attention immediately. 

 He thumps the big drum with prodigious strength 

 and throws out his chest with conscious pride. 

 Many a dusky glance of admiration and affection 

 is thrown his way, but mindful only of his duty 

 he takes no notice of the thick lips parted in a 

 coquettish smile, or the pearl-white teeth — not 

 until afterwards, that is. 



