But no: the Jaqqas dined that night as we did, on roasted goat, and beef, and copious draughts of the palm-wine. With this was much loud harsh music of a very barbaric kind, made on drums and fifes and mpungas and a thing called a tavale, which is a board rising on two wooden sticks that they beat with their fingers. And there was dancing by the women, who wore nothing but masses of beads about their necks and arms and legs. They leaped across the fire like prancing witches, grinning widely to show their gap-toothed mouths, and laughing and screaming. And in the midst of all sat the king-demon Calandola on his stool, his oiled body glittering by firelight, his huge legs thrown far apart, his head back as he roared out his great cries of pleasure. And at all times there were three or four women about him, doing foul things to him, rubbing him and tonguing him and taking his giant yard into their straining mouths, whilst he idly stroked their woolly hair. I felt the powerful presence of that man as a real and heavy pressure on me.
