Of the many curios which I acquired during my twenty-five years'
residence in Africa, there is one which I value above all others. I
bought it a few weeks before I left the country. It is a round wooden
pot with a lid to it. On the lid is the seated figure of a little old
man with his shoulders hunched up, his chin resting in his two hands,
his elbows on his knees. There is a mildly amused expression on the
rudely carved face; whether this is there by accident or design I cannot
say. On one side of the pot is a snake in relief; on the other, a
tortoise.
I bought this pot from a very old native. So old was he that his scanty
knots of hair were quite white and his eyes were very dim. He must have
been a fine enough man once, but now his dull, greyish-black skin clung
in folds about his gaunt frame. I paid the old man the modest price he
named, and asked him the meaning of the figures on the lid and sides of
the pot.
The following is his explanation, given in short, jerky sentences, done
into English as literally as our language will permit:
"Yes, it was a long time ago. So long ago was it that no white man had
then come to this country. It was before my father's day. Before that
even of his father. Both died old men. Yes, so long ago was it, that
only the old people now speak of those past times. It was when men did
not grow old and die. There was no death then; all men lived on, and
happily.
"One day all this was changed. God became angry--that is God on the lid
of the pot. What foolish things men did to make God angry, I do not
know. He must have been very angry. In his anger God sent His messenger
of death to men. He sent His messenger, the snake. Then people began to
die--that is the snake on the side of the pot.
"So many people died that all became frightened. They thought all would
soon be dead. In their fear they cried to God. They said they were sorry
for their foolish act, whatever that might have been. They promised they
would anger Him no more. They begged Him to recall His messenger, the
snake.
"After a while God agreed. He said He would recall His messenger, the
snake. He would send another messenger--that is the second messenger on
the other side of the pot. God sent the tortoise to recall the snake."
The old man paused and mused for a little while, and then resumed:
"When I was a young man I thought to myself, perhaps the tortoise will
overtake the snake; that some day he will deliver God's message. I am an
old man now. I do not think the tortoise will ever overtake the
snake--at least, not in my time."
He said all this without a trace of emotion. He was too much of a
philosopher, it seemed, to indulge in anything so profitless as
self-pity.
"Do you kill snakes when you see them?" I asked.
"No," said he. "Why should I? But I do kill tortoises. The tortoise is
very lazy. He runs with his message so slowly. Moreover, a tortoise is
good meat."
Having told his story and pouched the price of his pot, the old man rose
painfully and hobbled away. Just outside my compound gate he paused and
made a vicious stab at something in a patch of grass.
* * * * *
Shouldering his assegai, he passed on his way, a writhing tortoise
impaled upon the blade.