Among the Manyika, a dead infant is buried by its Mother without a ceremony.
Yowe, yowe, mwanango duku!I bury you here by the edge of the lands.
Under the scrub and the weeds I bury you,Here in the clay where the bracken grows.
Here on the hill the wind blows cold,And the creepers are wet with the driving mist.
The grain-huts stand like ghosts in the mist,And the water drips from their sodden thatch.
And the rain-drops drip in the forest yonderWhen the hill-wind shakes the heavy boughs.
Alas! I am old, and you are the last --Mwanango, the last of me, here on the hillside.
The dust where you play'd by the edge of the kraalIs sodden with rain, and is trodden to mud.
The hoe that I use to fashion your dwellingIs caked with the earth that is taking you from me.
Where now is Dzua who ripes the rukweza?And where now are you, O mwanango kaduku?
Alas! Alas! My little child!I bury you here by the edge of the lands.
