Child Life
Child life! How immediately our minds linger over happy scenes of mirth
and innocent laughter, romping, rollicking games of mischief or of fun.
Bright, happy childhood! No cloud of care and trouble has arisen on
life’s horizon, and sin has not yet tainted the atmosphere of Heaven that
still lingers round its offspring.
But where can memory rest upon such a picture as that in darkest Africa?
Look upon a tree, the tender buds of which half fearfully peep through
the bare branches just to catch a glimpse of the outer world, when a cold
frost blast of winter strikes across the frail young life and withers
it for ever. That is child life in Africa. Innocence and purity were
withered just as they dared to step from infancy. Happy, careless mirth
was crushed with the weight of the burdens laid upon the shoulders of
childhood. Their mother’s home, as has been described, was their earliest
environment, their language was learned from her, and then lovelessness
was the children’s portion, as they were sent away as servants or slaves
to neighbouring chiefs. Parents scorned the idea of bringing up their own
children; they affirmed that a child would never listen to its parent and
would refuse to work, so they exchanged their children at the age of four
or five years for others who would be as slaves to them. Even at this
tender age they were taught to gather the sticks and twigs, and then sit
by and feed the fire while the food was cooking, or they carried the
gourds or pots on their little woolly pates down to the river to draw
the daily supply of water. They were generally fearfully neglected and
underfed; their dislike to water was accounted for by the fact that they
possessed no clothing and the dirt kept them warm. If anyone had been
born with a leaning towards cleanliness his mother would have effectually
crushed this by the cold water treatment administered during infantile
ablutions. It was the custom every morning between 4.0 and 5.0 a.m., when
the cold night air still clung in damp mists to the land, to hold the
babies naked out in the courtyards, throw cold water over them, and then
leave them out to dry.
Their little insides were treated with no greater consideration. One
morning a woman brought down to the dispensary a wee morsel of three
weeks: it was a pitiful little object of mere skin and bone. The mother
explained that it had either been poisoned out of spite, or it was
possessed of an evil spirit. “See,” said she, “I have done all I could to
let out the poison or devil.” Looking at its body I saw it was covered
with a number of small, deep cuts, and the blood had been left to dry.
Low moans and a tired cry came from the poor little helpless mite as the
flies tortured its mutilated body. After questioning the mother the “evil
spirit” took the form of bananas and mushrooms that she had been bringing
the three weeks’ infant up on! Feeding bottles were an unknown luxury,
and as no equivalent had been invented, babies were compelled to lap from
the hand, an art they never properly learned and thrived very poorly
on. Some three dozen india rubber “comforters” were sent out to me, and
these I managed to fix on empty ink bottles or medicine bottles, and so a
new-fashioned “Allenbury” feeder was introduced. The demand far exceeded
the supply, so they could only be lent out by the month. “Stephens’ Ink”
would have been immensely pleased could it have snapshotted the babies
being solemnly fed in church with its bottles held to their mouths.
Certainly it was a case of the survival of the fittest with the Toro
infants, and as the “fittest” were few and far between, mortality was
very great among them.
The first two dolls that arrived in Toro met with a very mixed welcome;
the children howled and fled in terror, but their mothers showed a most
profound admiration for them. At first they held the doll very gingerly
and at a distance, as if in fear of being bewitched, but finding that
nothing happened to either one or the other, and the doll still smiled
at them like the Cheshire cat, they became great friends and begged that
they might borrow it for a few days to play with.
Whether it was the large circulation that those two dolls got, or the
gradually increasing confidence of the Toro children in the white
ladies, the fact remains that in a few months all childish prejudice had
disappeared, and often a little voice was heard asking for “a child that
causes play.” When this was known in England over 100 dolls were sent to
me from two working parties. I never saw such a wonderful doll show as
they made. They were all displayed on our verandah, and the house was
literally besieged with men, women, and children for some days.
A bride, beautifully dressed in white satin and kid shoes, who, even in
her wedding attire, cried “Mama” and “Papa,” was sent to little Princess
Ruth, but the report reached me that King Kasagama had constituted
himself guardian, and kept it locked up in his study for slack moments!
The Mother Queen wrote an imploring letter to me for a dainty little
Parisienne who arrived with her travelling trunk; and Apolo, our faithful
native deacon—confirmed bachelor—asked me in secret if men ever played
with dolls, and beamed with satisfaction as he most triumphantly carried
one off, peacefully sleeping.
The others were given out to the little girls who had been most regular
at the school, and were noted for having come with clean faces and bodies.
When the boys saw that the dolls were only given to girls, some borrowed
their sisters’ garments to try and appear eligible! I did not know till
then they were versed in such cunning! It was so pretty to watch the
joy and even playfulness that those dolls brought into the lives of
so many little ones who had scarcely known what this meant till then.
Christianity has completely revolutionized child-life in Toro. No longer
are the new-born babes given over to the Devil by causing their blood
to flow as a dedicatory offering; the teeth are not now extracted to
propitiate the Evil One, and happy family circles are seen in place of
slavery.
I am sure in no Sunday School in England is there brighter singing than
among the Toro infants when about 200 of them, with very lusty lungs,
open their rather prominent mouths and sing “There’s a Friend for little
children above the bright blue sky.”
Certainly the girls and boys make very clever little domestics. I have
sometimes wondered whether the problem of the over-taxed English market
could not be solved by exporting some of these small people. I had a
little maid named Keturah, who was 12 years of age, and she could almost
manage the work of a housemaid and parlourmaid. She kept my room in
perfect order, carefully putting away anything left about, and cleaned it
regularly every Saturday. On Mondays she carried off the soiled linen,
washing, starching, and ironing it as well as I had been able to teach
her; and she could wait at table like a Gatti’s waiter! Was that not
splendid for a little girl who had come to us without ever having seen an
English bed, garment, knife, fork, or iron?
Of course, one has occasionally to put up with small inconveniences.
One day a pair of boots were sent out to be dried by the fire, with
strict injunctions not to leave or scorch them. In a few minutes they
were brought in with a big hole burnt out of the leather, and the
sole shrivelled up beyond repair—and these were a last pair! Pocket
handkerchiefs frequently find their way into the boiled starch, a white
muslin blouse sometimes loses its identity completely by a strong dose
of the blue-bag; if it is needed for a special occasion the quantity
is increased! A flannel nightgown was boiled for three hours on one
occasion; fortunately it was a very unattractive Jaeger, but even then
it did not surrender its colour. That shade of flannel is like the
Ethiopian’s skin—I could never even get it to fade. Take my advice, and
try white instead.
But, after all, these are mere details. They are faithful little people,
and would never refuse to follow their master as he travels up and down
the country, though they scarcely ever escape malaria when marching
through fever districts, in spite of strong doses of quinine. Often
concealing a high temperature from the European, they hurry on in front
to see that his tent and a refreshing cup of tea are ready when he comes
into camp. As we travelled down to Uganda, on our way home to England,
our staff of six boys started out with us; one after another knocked
over, and had to be carried back, till we were left with only two to do
everything for us, and in spite of their being ill, they insisted on
coming as far as Victoria Nyanza. As the big lake steamer weighed anchor
and cut through the water, two little white caps were waving at the end
of the pier until we disappeared from sight.