Financial Institutions Instruments and Markets 8th Edition Viney Test Bank
Financial Institutions Instruments and Markets 8th Edition Viney Test Bank
Financial Institutions Instruments and Markets 8th Edition Viney Test Bank
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Chapter 01 Testbank
Student: ___________________________________________________________________________
A. barters.
B. money.
C. governments.
D. some combination of government transfer and barter.
2. The term ‘medium of exchange' for money refers to its use as:
A. coinage.
B. currency.
C. something that is widely accepted as payment for goods and services.
D. any standard of value that prices can be expressed in.
A. the value of money falling only when the money supply falls.
B. the value of money falling only when the money supply increases.
C. the fact that money allows worth to be stored readily.
D. the fact that money never loses its value compared with other assets.
A. consumers to investors.
B. savers to borrowers.
C. businesses to consumers.
D. borrowers to investors.
A. A store of value
B. A medium of exchange for settling economic transactions
C. A claim to future cash flows
D. Short-term protection against inflation
9. The process of facilitating the flow of funds between borrowers and lenders performed by the financial
system:
A. I, II, III, IV
B. I, III, IV, V
C. I, III, IV, VI
D. II, III, IV, V
12. A financial institution that obtains most of its funds from deposits is a/an:
A. investment bank.
B. unit trust.
C. commercial bank.
D. general insurer.
Boys and girls, as a rule, reach the age of eight or nine, perhaps
ten, before any event of importance interrupts the even tenor of their
lives. Then the assembly of the men, which when the harvest is over,
meets daily in the baraza, decides where the unyago is to be
celebrated in the current year. Since all the adjacent districts have
now taken their turn in bearing the expense of the ceremony, it is a
point of honour that our village should invite them this time. The
resolution is soon carried into effect; the moon is already on the
wane, and the celebration must take place before the new moon. The
unyago presents exactly the same features in all the tribes of this
region. The men erect a circle—larger or smaller as circumstances
may require—of simple grass huts in an open space near the village.
In this space the opening and closing ceremonies are performed; the
huts are intended for the candidates to live and sleep in. Such an
arena, with all its appurtenances in excellent preservation, was the
circle of something over fifty yards’ diameter which I was enabled to
photograph when visiting the echiputu at Akuchikomu. The charred
remains of a similar lisakasa, as the system of huts is called in Yao,
were to be seen near the road on this side of Akundonde’s—the relics
of a former festival.
In the male sex the transition from childhood to the status of fully-
qualified maturity is a single, definite process, though extending over
a long period. The memory of rejoicings and sufferings experienced
in common is preserved henceforth among the men by means of a
free, voluntary association known as the “age-class.” All those who
have passed through the unyago in the same year stand by each
other till death severs the connection. This connection, however,
must be thought of in terms of African conditions; there is no society
or club, or the like, and the sole obligation incurred by the old friends
is that every one of them is bound to offer hospitality to any of the
others who may come to his village. Secret societies no longer
consciously influence the character of the age-classes here in the
East, though the reverse is the case in West Africa where the two
things go hand in hand, acting and reacting on each other as cause
and effect, and both finding their common outward expression in
great festivals with masked dances and other mysterious accessories
calculated to terrify the women and the uninitiated men. Here on the
Makonde plateau, the three phenomena—the age-classes, the
festivals and the masked dances—are at the present day not very
closely connected together; yet everything leads to the conclusion
that the masked dance now in use among the Makonde was
originally the outcome of a long-forgotten system of secret societies,
similar to the quite analogous institutions of Kamerun, Upper
Guinea, and Loango. There is many a knotty problem yet to be solved
in this department of African ethnography.
The girls’ unyago is a graduated series of courses of instruction. I
have purposely emphasized the word instruction, as there is nothing
here in the nature of a surgical operation, with a single exception in
the case of the Makua. In all the tribes each girl is given for the whole
period of the unyago into the charge of a special teacher, who
remains her friend through life. Under the guidance of these older
women, the novices in the first place go through a curriculum very
much resembling that of the boys. The children are unreservedly
enlightened as to all sexual relations, and have to learn everything
connected with married life. They are also taught all the rules which
govern intercourse between members of the same tribe, and above all
of the same family.
There is an opening and a closing ceremony for this first course of
the girls’ initiation. I was able personally to observe the revels which
take place on such occasions, at all three of the places where I had
the opportunity of making the chiputu (or echiputu) illustrious by my
presence. The phenomenal thirst shown is quite explained by the
amount of dancing gone through.
After the mysteries, both boys and girls in due course become
marriageable, but I have not succeeded in ascertaining, even
approximately, the age at which this is the case. Individuals are
always out of measure astonished when asked their age, and their
relatives are profoundly indifferent on the subject. In general,
marriage takes place very early, as is proved by the very young
mothers who may be seen in any large assemblage of people, and
who are mostly no further developed than German girls at their
confirmation. Matola tells me that the form of marriage known as
masange was formerly very prevalent, in which young children of
from five to seven were united, huts being built for them to live in.
This custom is said still to be practised occasionally.[58] The same
informant states that it is very common for one woman, who has just
had a child to say to a neighbour expecting a like event, “I have a son
—if you have a daughter, let him marry her”; and this, in due course,
is done.
The African native is a peasant, not only in his avocation, but in
the way in which he sets about his courting. In no other department
is his mental kinship with our own rustics so startlingly shown. To
express it briefly: the native youth in love is too shy to venture a bold
stroke for his happiness in person; he requires a go-between quite in
the style of our own rural candidates for matrimony. This office is
usually undertaken by his own father, who, under some pretext or
other, calls on the parents of the bride-elect, and in the course of
conversation touches on his son’s projects. If the other side are
willing to entertain the proposition, the negotiations are soon
brought to a satisfactory conclusion—that is to say, if the maid, too,
is willing. Girls are not in reality so passive in the matter as we are
apt to assume, but most certainly expect to have their wishes
consulted; and many a carefully-planned match has come to nothing
merely because the girl loved another man. In this respect there is
not the slightest difference between white and black. Of course, not
every native girl is a heroine of constancy and steadfastness; here
and there one lets herself be persuaded to accept, instead of the
young man she loves in secret, an elderly wooer who is indifferent to
her, but in that case she runs the risk of incurring—as happens
elsewhere—the ridicule of her companions. The old bridegroom,
moreover, may be pretty certain that he will not enjoy a monopoly of
his young wife’s society.
Marriage is a matter of business, thinks the African, quite
consistently with his general character, and the contract is only
looked upon as concluded when the two fathers have come to an
agreement as to the amount of the present to be paid by the
bridegroom. The people here in the south are poor—they have
neither large herds of horned cattle, nor abundance of sheep and
goats; the whole purchase—were it correct, which it is not, to call the
transaction by that name—is effected by handing over a moderate
quantity of calico.
Much more interesting from an ethnographic point of view than
the Yao wooing just sketched, are the customs of the Makua and
Makonde. In their case, too, negotiations are opened by the fathers;
but this is, in reality, only a skirmish of outposts,—the main action is
afterwards fought by the mothers, each supported by her eldest
brother, or perhaps by all her brothers. The fact that the
matriarchate is still flourishing here explains the part they take in
the matter.
Nils Knudsen, by the way, can tell a pretty story—of which he is
himself the hero—illustrating the constancy of native girls. During
the years of his lonely life at Luisenfelde, he so completely adapted
himself to native ways as to take a wife from among the Wayao. Even
now, after the lapse of years, he never grew tired of praising the
virtues of this chipini wearer;—she was pretty, and domestic, and a
first-rate cook—she could make excellent ugali, and had all the other
good qualities which go to make up a good housewife in the bush.
One day he went off to the Rovuma on a hunting expedition; he was
only absent a few days, but on his return she had disappeared. On
the table lay a knotted piece of bark-string. He counted the knots and
found that there were seventy; the meaning of the token, according
to the explanation given by the wise men of the tribe being this:
—“My kinsfolk have taken me away; they do not like me to live with
the white man, and want me to marry a black man who lives far away
on the other side of the Rovuma. But even if I should live as many
years as there are knots on this string, I will not take him, but remain
faithful to you, the white man.” This was Knudsen’s story, and he
added, with emotion not untouched by the pride of a man who feels
himself to be greatly sought after, the further statement that the girl
was in fact keeping her vow. She was living far away, in the heart of
the Portuguese territory, and near the man for whom she was
destined, but even the strongest pressure brought to bear by her
family could not make her give way. After all, there is such a thing as
faithfulness in love.
The native wedding is a very tame affair—one might almost say
that there is no such thing. Betrothal and marriage, if we may say so,
coincide in point of time. When once the wooer has obtained the
approval of the rightful authorities, there is no further hindrance to
the union of the couple than the delay necessary for erecting a new
hut for them. When this is done and they have taken up their abode
in it, the young husband begins to work for his mother-in-law, in the
manner aforesaid, which appears so strange to our European ideas,
though we cannot deny that there is room for improvement in our
manners in this respect.
Now, however, we have to consider the question of who may marry
whom, or, in other words, the table of forbidden degrees. This
question has its importance even in Europe—how much more among
people so much nearer the primitive conditions of society. If it is for
the wise men of an Australian tribe one of the highest problems of
social science to determine with absolute correctness which girl
among the surrounding families the young man A may marry, and
who is eligible for the young man B, so neither are the matrimonially
disposed in the Rovuma valley free to indulge their inclination in any
direction they may choose.
It is late in the afternoon. In the baraza at Newala fifteen natives of
respectable age are squatting, as they have done for some weeks past,
on the big mat. From time to time one of these seniors rises, and
leaves the building to stretch his cramped legs, but always returns
after a short time. The place is hot, a fetid vapour hangs over the
assembly, so that the European in khaki, writing so assiduously at his
folding table, presses his hands again and again to his aching
forehead. The company are obviously tired, but they have to-day
been occupied with a very exhausting subject. Hour after hour, I—for
I am the man with the headache—have been trying, in the first place,
to make clear to Nils Knudsen the principles of human marriage
customs, of the various tribal divisions, of totemism, of father-right
and mother-right—in short, a whole series of points in sociology, but
with no very satisfactory result, as is clearly shown by every question
I put. Now the task before me is to elicit from the fifteen wise elders,
with his help and that of the usually acute Sefu, everything they know
on these subjects. All my small failures have made me quite savage,
besides wearying me to the point of exhaustion; and it costs me an
appreciable effort to fling a question into the midst of the learned
assembly.
“Well, old Dambwala, lazy one, you have a son, have you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you, Nantiaka, you have a daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Now, Dambwala, can your son marry Nantiaka’s
daughter?”
“No.”
“And why not?” I must have been very tired, indeed, for even the
surprise audible in this decided negative raised no particular
expectations in my mind. I only began to listen more attentively
when, among the reasons for the negative then alleged, my ear
caught the word litawa. “Nini litawa? What is a litawa?” I ask, now
quite fresh and lively. Well, it appears, a litawa is a litawa. Then
comes a long shauri, in which the wits of the natives, who, like us
have been half asleep, awaken to full activity, and all three languages
—Makonde, Yao, and Makua—are heard at once with a clatter of
tongues like that conventionally attributed to a woman’s tea-party.
At last the definition is found. Translated into technical language
litawa means the matriarchal exogamic kin, including all descended
from one common ancestress. A man’s inheritance does not descend
to his son, but to the son of his sister, and a young Makonde takes his
wife, not from his own litawa, but in one of the numerous matawa
outside his own. The Makua have exactly the same arrangement, but
the word they use instead of litawa is nihimu.
The evening of this day—the twenty-first of September—was
cheered by the feeling that it had been among the most successful of
my whole journey. In order to celebrate it in a worthy fashion,
Knudsen and I, instead of the one bottle of beer which we had been
in the habit of sharing between us, shared two.
The reader, especially after my declaration in Chapter II, will
wonder how we suddenly became possessed of this beverage. It is
true that, in the heat of the plains the mere thought of it was
intolerable, but, up here, close to the clouds, especially when the east
wind blows cold of an evening, a glass of German beer is very
welcome. A few weeks ago I had occasion to send a dozen cases of
specimens down to Lindi. The twelve carriers left early one morning,
and were expected back in a fortnight. On all previous occasions of
this sort, their absence had left me cold; this time, to be honest, we
two white men counted the days of that fortnight, and, when, on a
Sunday morning, the unmistakable sound of Wanyamwezi porters
approaching their journey’s end was heard far out in the bush, we
hurried to meet the great case containing many long-forgotten
comforts—not only the heavy German stout from the Dar es Salam
brewery, but above all, the milk we had so greatly missed, and which
in our present state of emaciation was an absolute necessity.
On that memorable afternoon, however, the close of which I have
thus been anticipating, I had no leisure to think of such material
delights as these.
“So your son, friend Dambwala, cannot marry Nantiaka’s
daughter, because both belong to the same litawa—what is the name
of your litawa?”
“Waniuchi.”
“And where do you live?”
“In and around Niuchi.”
“And you, Kumidachi,” I went on, turning to another old man, in a
new embroidered fez, which marked him as a headman, “to what
litawa do you belong?”
“Nanyanga,” was the prompt reply. Instantly the name is written
down, and my eye rests questioningly on the next wise man. He, one
of the quickest, already knows what is wanted, and does not wait to
be asked, but calls out, “Wamhwidia.”
But I cannot go on in this way—I must find out, not only the names
but their meanings. I have already discovered, in my study of
personal names, how fond the natives are of discussing etymologies,
and here, too, only a slight hint is needed to get the meaning of the
clan-name as well as the name itself. I had translated Waniuchi as
“the people of Niuchi;” but this interpretation did not satisfy these
black philologists,—niuchi was “a bee,” they said, and the Waniuchi
were people who sought honey in hollow trees. The Nanyanga were
flute players in time of war, nanyanga being the name of the
Makonde flute. The Wamhidia, they said, had their name derived
from the verb muhidia, “to strike down,” from their warlike
ancestors, who were continually fighting, and had beaten down
everything before them.
That afternoon, the old men, in spite of their weariness, had to
keep on much longer than usual: I had tasted blood and pumped
them, till, about sunset, their poor brains, unaccustomed to such
continued exertion, could do no more. They, however, received an
extra tip, in return for their self-sacrificing help in this difficult