BASUTOLAND: Horn of Trouble

Basutoland is a tiny (11,716 sq. mi.) British crown colony, entirely surrounded by the Union of South Africa. In theory, Basutoland is two-thirds Christian, but the real source of ultimate power, in the minds of most Basuto, is a gory brew called the diretlo. It is boiled up from human flesh, blood, fat, and herbs pounded into paste. To be really potent, the flesh must be stripped from a still living human body, which explains why 140 people have died since 1945—and 51 were accused of killings last year—to provide raw materials for diretlo.

The wise chief keeps a supply stuffed in a hidden lenaka, the hollowed horn of an antelope or ram, to smear on himself or members of his family when good fortune is most needed. Among the 650,000 Basuto, he who holds the lenaka holds power. Everyone agrees that no one has had more powerful medicine than Mantsebo Amelia Seeiso, Basutoland’s portly, domineering Paramount Chieftainess.

Under the Blanket. Two decades ago, Mantsebo took over in a bitter family quarrel that sorely split the Sons of Mo-shesh, the elite 1,000-odd living descendants of the fabled 19th century ruler who fought off the Zulus, founded the Basuto nation, and asked that his people be taken “under the great Queen Victoria’s blanket.” Over the years, Mantsebo successfully parried each attempt to edge her out, but last week a new, more dangerous threat was on the scene: a tall, natty young Oxford student just back from England. He was Constantinus Bereng Seeiso, Mantsebo’s stepson and legitimate claimant to the paramount chieftaincy. Bereng was only two years old when his father, Paramount Chief, died in 1940, and Mantsebo, the senior wife, took over as regent. Now he had come of age, and was demanding his throne immediately so that he could be in power in time for this week’s elections, Basutoland’s first step toward limited self-government.

Calling a Council. Bereng found two of the country’s four political parties and nine of the 22 Basuto principal chiefs on his side, but Mantsebo stubbornly stuck to her argument: Bereng could not become Paramount Chief until he finished his education and married. One of her fears: he might marry a white woman, as a London report had it (“That story about my having a fair gel—sheer nonsense,” answered Bereng).

Bereng said that he would not return to his Oxford classes (where his marks have dropped to near failing, anyway) until a family council was called to consider his demands. Mantsebo gave in, but it would be weeks before the conclave could be arranged, and meanwhile the old woman would be running things and able to control the nominations for Basutoland’s new National Council.

Mantsebo’s harsh treatment of Bereng —the rightful heir to the throne—was certain to arouse old hatreds, and all the Basuto could only hope it did not provoke another wave of medicine murder.

Basutoland’s existence is precarious enough as it is. Its economy is dependent on the remittances sent home by the 150,000 Basuto who work in South African mines and farms, and on food imported from the Union. For years South African governments have demanded that Britain hand over Basutoland. But the Basuto, who enjoy racial freedom in their own country where white ownership of land is forbidden, dread the thought of falling under South Africa’s apartheid rules, and long ago extracted a promise from Britain that British rule will remain until the Basuto themselves consent to a change.