FullReads

“Why not? Did not your great Prophet–every one of whose sayings all you white people believe so thoroughly and follow so carefully”–it will be seen that Numjala can be sarcastic–“believe in evil spirits, and even drive them forth? Is it not this that the witch-doctor claims to do? Did not the Prophet of the Wesleyans believe in witchcraft? Now, if you believe the words of your Prophets about some things, why not about others?”

I was surprised at these words, knowing Numjala to be a heathen, and I suppose I must have shown this, for he added:

“I have talked with the missionaries, or rather they have talked to me. Besides, my brother’s son is an evangelist, and he has told me a lot about what is taught in the schools.”

“But, surely, Numjala, your experience must have taught you that witchcraft is all humbug (imfeketu), and that before the English rule, the witch-doctor was simply the instrument of the chief for suppressing people who became too rich or too powerful.”

“The witch-doctor may often be a humbug (kohlisi), and yet it is possible that there may be such a thing as witchcraft. A missionary, to whom I pointed out that some who preached the gospel had been since proved evil men, once said much the same thing to me about religion. I am an old man, and I have learnt many things, and one is this: He who always says of the thing he does not understand, ‘This cannot be,’ is in danger of being put to shame.”

“Well, Numjala, tell me the story about the Ghoda bush, for I am sure there is a story.”

“I will tell it if you stay here to-night.”

“But I must go home.”

“Well then, I will make a bargain with you. You have already passed the Ghoda, and therefore you know the footpath leading to the drift.”

“Yes, I know it well. I traveled it only the day before yesterday.”

“Very well. You will take the pathway tonight, and if you can ride your horse past the Ghoda, well and good–you will go home to your wife. If not, you will return and sleep here. The kid will be roasted, and you shall hear the story. Do you agree?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Just one thing:–remember that you are to ride past. It is possible, although I think it unlikely, that you might reach the drift if you blind-folded the horse and led him.”

“I quite understand. Good-bye.”

“I will not say ‘Good-bye.’ You will return and hear the story.”

As I rode away laughing, I heard Numjala calling out to his son Tantiso, telling him to catch a certain kid, kill it, and prepare it for immediate roasting. My course led down the hillside, and then along the level bottom of the valley on the left-hand side of which is the Ghoda Bush. The stream was on my right, and the pathway on which I was riding ran parallel with it, distant about twenty yards.

As I drew near the Ghoda I felt somewhat creepy. My horse was a steady old stager, not at all given to shying. He went along at a quick amble, and as I neared the fateful spot, I freshened up my courage with the thought that in a few moments I would have crossed the drift, and then the Ghoda and its ghost would be well behind me. My horse was stepping out briskly and without showing the least sign of suspicion, when all at once he gave a loud snort and wheeled sharply to the right, completely unseating me, However, I did not fall off, as I managed to clutch hold of his mane. As I swung back into the saddle, I saw that we had narrowly escaped falling down the sleep bank into the stream.

To save my self-respect, I made another attempt to pass, but more or less the same thing happened, except that I kept my seat, and managed to avoid going so near the bank, I then left the horse to himself, and he ambled back to Numjala’s kraal. When I dismounted he was wet with perspiration, and trembling violently. I will not say how I felt, but my sensations were not comfortable.