A small plane over Eastern Congo by ALbert Russo (free ebooks for android TXT) 📕

of his land?
Twenty minutes later, after having driven through a forest of eucalyptus trees—I kept inhaling the strong vegetal smell with sensual pleasure, lest I should miss even the
slightest particle of its benefit—we reached Mwami Ndeze’s chiefdom.
I could hardly believe my eyes when I actually saw the man. He was of an indefi nable age and just a little taller than myself. He conjured up in my mind a character straight out of the Bible—wasn’t it claimed that Abraham reached the age of 120, or was it 150?—more than a chief from Central Africa.
In the shade of his royal hut he looked tiny. From his visage, so wrinkled and parched, two eyes emerged, sparkling like crystal marbles recently plucked from the depths of a pool. His head was covered with an ashen-tinted mane, which only added to his otherworldly appearance. In spite of his diminutive size, he bore that authority and dignity that one only associates with patriarchs, or at least that was what I had surmised from my favorite stories in the Old Testament.
Mwami Ndeze greeted us in turn, holding each person’s hand for a lengthy moment between his two bony palms. He cast us a benevolent, albeit weary, smile, as if hundreds of people had preceded us in a long and incessant fi le. He then began
to speak in a low, almost imperceptible voice, addressing no one in particular. It suddenly occurred to me that this was an exceptional human being, and even though, most of the time, he appeared haggard, his words rang like a blessing. It was the
first time in my short life that I had felt this kind of reverence for someone, especially for an African. In spite of his being so near, I seemed to be hearing whispers from the netherworld, and his muffl ed voice—murmurs interlaced with sighs—would reach me like a sprinkle of morning dew blown my way by the wind. You really had to lend a very attentive ear in order to follow the train of his thoughts, so jumbled and choppy the events of his life sounded. Within the same sentence, he would sometimes skip decades, then, without so much as a warning, he’d revert back to incidents that seemed totally disconnected or blatantly contradictory, for they appeared to belong to someone else’s past. Yet we all listened, entranced, utterly fascinated, and here I include our driver as well as Arnaud, whose intense stare couldn’t detach itself from the sage’s lips.
And thus did we learn of Ndeze’s very fi rst encounter with a white missionary, who had come to the region at the close of the 19th century accompanied by an explorer and a dozen African porters. I could just picture the meeting of these men, who were so different and hailed from such opposite horizons. The event must have been as moving as when Stanley and Livingstone met in 1871 at Ujiji on the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika. This now legendary village lay just a few hours away by boat from the port of Usumbura, which was, considering distances in Africa, quite near from our present travel point. Ndeze briefly alluded to the place, recalling the excitement the exceptional event had stirred among the folk in Rutshuru, even though he was still a toddler. He also reminded us how strategic Ujiji had been to the Arab slave trade, and how the sheiks would send whole gangs of mercenaries to this region of Central Africa, coming from as far east as the Arabian peninsula in order to raid the villages and drag along with them the most worthy young men and maidens they had kept in captivity. The prisoners would be hauled away on dhows, those small sailboats that still ply
the river Nile nowadays, and which tourists fi nd so quaint and romantic. But, initially, those wretched souls, shackled to one another like cattle, were led to Ujiji, where they were gathered with other slaves in long columns to be herded to Zanzibar on the coast of the Indian Ocean, whence they would sail for Arabia, their final destination. The sheiks had been organizing those caravans of slaves for centuries, even before the European
colonizers launched their horrific expeditions to the Americas following Christopher Columbus’s discovery.
A big game hunter, Rupert asked our host—always through the good services of Chrisostome who acted as our interpreter— whether he had hunted much in his youth. Ndeze paused for a while and looked the Rhodesian up and down, at fi rst seeming
incredulous, then slightly offended.
“Of course, I did a lot of hunting,” answered the Mwami. “That was part of our fare in the bush. Every male child, once he has successfully gone through the initiation rites, must prove that he has become a man, and hunting is a major element in this test. Throughout his life, a man’s duty towards his family is to bring home fresh meat and fish, as well as the product of his work, if he is a craftsman.”
“In other words,” exclaimed Rupert, clearing his throat, like an adolescent whose voice is breaking, “you caught elephants.”
“That is not given to everyone,” rebuffed the Mwami, “but with my background, and since I was destined to become a tribal chief, to prove my valor I killed my fi rst ‘tembo’ two rainy seasons after I had undergone the rites of circumcision.”
Ndeze then recounted how, with the help of two fellow hunters older than he and with more experience, he had trapped a young elephant after having lured it away from its mother. He also explained how determined he had been, while still an adolescent, to become ‘Fundi’, a man of exceptional aptitudes, a position that would cast him above ordinary mortals. Just like the wood and stone sculptors, the ironmongers, a Fundi didn’t have to pay the community any taxes. And so, very soon, Ndeze had earned the enviable title of elephant hunter, regularly providing the village folk with the coveted meat, while he entertained the artists with beautiful tusks.
His enthusiasm unabated, Rupert insisted that our host tell us in detail about his most memorable hunt.
“In this instance, we were after a male elephant who must have been over three years old. My partners and I were able to approach him without being spotted. We had covered ourselves in marsh mud, so that the herd we had been following couldn’t
smell us. And, above our camoufl age, we wore roebuck pelts to confuse the animals, in case they did hear something.
“We had cautiously waited for this individual, the last in line, to momentarily withdraw from the rest of the herd, for he had been attracted by a thicket on which he could munch. And so he did, without warning the others. I took advantage of the situtation and, having snuck in behind a tree, I pointed my spear between his hind legs and pierced his belly as far in as his rectum, causing the beast to hemorrhage abundantly, following which he emptied his guts.”
Ndeze recounted this feat with astounding equanimity, as if he were just telling you how to cook a plate of ‘bukari’ (manioc flour).
Arnaud and I glanced at each other, sharing the same distaste at the details elicited, whereas Rupert and Chrisostome hung on the Mwami’s every word, mesmerized, like schoolboys. Arnaud stared at his Rhodesian friend, still agape and goggly-eyed, then he lifted his gaze towards the ceiling as if to say, “Gosh, Rupert,
did you have to ask all those questions? Damn you hunters!”
Ndeze went on in the same monotone. “I knew that the wound I had infl icted on the beast was fatal, but being such a large animal he kept heaving and huffi ng for a long, long time, so my partners and I had to kill him off by plowing our three spears into different parts of his stomach until he was fi nally dead. This last stage was very dangerous, because we had to beware that the elephant didn’t fall and crush any one of us. We jumped aside as soon as we knew he was at the end of his tether and would
collapse. Once our prey lay competely still, we spread the news around with our tom-toms. Waiting for the village folk to come and share the spoils, we began the arduous chore of carving into the elephant’s flesh. The three best parts came fi rst: the tail, which I would hand over to my father, who was at the time our Mwami; the pair of ivory tusks, which would immortalize our feat; and, lastly, the trunk, which we allotted to ourselves, since we could now be considered to be the bravest hunters around. Once the villagers rejoined us, we designated the clans and told each which portion of the animal’s body they could cut out. They then had to build their own racks upon which to lay the pieces of meat to dry. In this, the women had an important role, for they had to chop wood from the nearby trees, assemble the timber, then carry the meat allotted to them all the way back to the village. Each clan was allowed fi ve basketfuls of meat. My father, the Mwami, got a special basket containing, as I mentioned earlier, the tail, but also the heart, liver, lungs, and intestines. The remainder of the trunk, as well as the choice parts, were
destined to the notables. As for the bones, they were hacked asunder, in order to extract the marrow, which would be used as cooking oil. The meat was then triumphantly carried to the village, where each clan had the task of dividing it among their own kin, and thus the festivities could commence. “You ought to know, however,” concluded the Mwami, “that we have great respect for the elephants, and we would never hunt them solely to get their tusks, as the poachers do. In fact, it is strictly prohibited to kill a female elephant who happens to be pregnant, or who is still nursing a calf.”
Mwami Ndeze sprinkled his memories with Bantu proverbs that were at once savory and fi lled with common sense and wisdom. Imprint

Publication Date: 11-18-2009

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