98 THE BONDS OF AFRICA 



With the first crimson flush of the tropical 

 dawn I saw N'Tanta bring out a burning ember 

 from his hut and kindle a small fire. A dirty 

 piece of calico was wrapped round his shrivelled- 

 up body, and he crouched over the little flames 

 and waited for the warmth of the African sun. 

 Year after year he has stretched himself out on 

 a cleverly woven grass mat and basked in the 

 heat of the day. He has no cares, no thought 

 for the morrow, no regrets for the past. His 

 grandchildren work for him in the gardens, and 

 his great-grandchildren play round in the soil 

 of his own little piece of the earth. In our 

 acceptance of the word he is not rich, but he 

 has no need of work. We may regard him as a 

 poor ignorant heathen, but he has more know- 

 ledge of that great jewel of life called contentment 

 than we who live in the strenuous highways of 

 this world can ever have. Perhaps you will 

 marvel at the absolute inaction of his life, but 

 remember that monotony, like pleasure and 

 sorrow, is wholly relative. 



One day old N'Tanta will lie stark and still 

 under the grass roofs of his home. There will 

 be weeping and wailing amongst his people, and 

 presently his aged body will be reverently carried 

 to the confines of the village and laid to rest in 

 a shallow grave. Over this will be built a dwarf 

 hut, and inside its walls will be placed an earthen- 

 ware pot full of water, and perhaps some food, 

 drink and meat for the departed spirit. When 

 night falls there will be a big beer drink in the 

 village, and the monotonous beat of the drums 

 will mingle with the queer laughing grunts of 

 the hippopotamus disporting himself in the 

 waters of the Luangwa. Not until dawn will 

 the drummers stay their hands, and with the 



