Satu visits the White Man
Bakula goes to the white man to have his wound dressed--White man puts
in a good word for the traders--Bakula is touched by the white man’s
kindness--A native dance--An exhibition of native pride--A long talk
with the white man--We gain many new ideas from our
conversation--Bakula has another interview with the white man, and
they become good friends.
The next morning the sun rose with clear-eyed brightness, oblivious of
all that had occurred during his absence through the night, for he and
the moon never approach near enough to each other to exchange
confidences. Notwithstanding the sun’s obliviousness, the results of the
night’s debauchery were evident in all who had taken part in it. Some
ate monkey peppers, others bits of kola-nuts as pick-me-ups, and others
took a plunge bath in the nearest stream; but headaches, wounds and
bruises were not easily removed by such means.
[Illustration: _Photo_] WATHEN: THE DISPENSARY. [_Rev. J. H.
Weeks._]
[Illustration:
WATHEN: THE BOYS’ QUARTERS.
_Bricks made by schoolboys and buildings erected by old school lads._
]
During the afternoon those who had smarting cuts went shamefacedly to
the white man to have them bandaged with his soothing ointments, and
among those who went was Bakula. He thought the white man would not know
him in his “dress costume”; but I saw that the white man recognized him
at once, though he said nothing at the time.
The white man carefully dressed the wounds, and then asked them how they
came by them.
“We don’t know,” they answered, “for we got madly drunk last night on
gin and rum, then we had a fight and cut each other. We were too
stupidly intoxicated to remember which one cut the other, and who
started the quarrel.”
“I am sorry the traders sell you such vile stuff. It maddens you when
you drink it, and it is the chief cause among you of a great amount of
sickness, and of a large number of the fights that occur between your
towns and villages,” quietly and sadly replied the white man.
“Yes,” they asserted in chorus, “the traders are all as bad as the
things they sell us.”
“No, they are not all bad,” sharply answered the white man, “and neither
are all the articles they sell bad. You can buy from them good cloth for
covering yourselves, blankets to keep you warm in the cold season, nails
and tools for building your houses, soap, candles, saucepans, tins of
provisions, and many other things that are good, and help to make your
lives comfortable.”
“That is so,” they assented, “but when our heads ache with the bad gin,
we forget the many good articles we can buy of them.”
“I know many of those traders,” continued the white man, “who hate
selling gin and rum to you, and wish a law[33] could be enforced to stop
all trade in them; but you are such fools, and will buy drink; and there
is so large a profit on it that their masters in Mputu make them sell it
to you.[34] Some of the traders are very good men, and perform many acts
of kindness to you black people. Do your wives throw away all the
pumpkins in their farms because a few have maggots in them?”
Footnote 33:
See note 28, p. 349.
Footnote 34:
See note 29, p. 350.
“No, of course not,” they sheepishly replied; “our wives throw only the
rotten ones away.”
“Well,” rejoined the white man, “do not speak ill of all the traders
because some cheat and rob you; nor condemn all their goods because they
sell these accursed fiery waters that turn your towns into pandemoniums,
and you into beasts and fiends. Buy the good articles they have, and let
the bad ones alone.”
Bakula was astonished that the white man had not accused him of striking
at his outstretched, friendly hand. He was in a quandary. Did the white
man recognize him or not? Or was he simply waiting his opportunity to
punish him for what he was now heartily ashamed? He was fearful lest the
latter was the explanation, and he had almost made up his mind to put
the matter to the test, and ask the white man; but just then the drums
began to beat, and hurriedly taking farewell of their friend who had so
patiently dressed their wounds and given them good counsel, they ran
back to the chief’s courtyard.
To the native there is something electrical, moving, exhilarating about
the beat of a native drum. Directly he hears it his body begins to
twitch and sway to and fro in rhythm to the beat, a smile spreads over
his face, weariness is forgotten, dull care is thrown to the winds, and
he is soon shuffling round the circle, or has taken his place in the
line, clapping his hands, and singing a chorus in admirable time.
Bakula and his townsmen were no exception, for even now in their running
they kept step to the beat of the drum. On their arrival they took their
place in the line of male dancers. The particular dance to the fore was
called “Sala.” A medium drum was used, and the formation was in two
lines, one of each sex. This dance was characterized by a rapid shaking
of the whole body; and during it they made up songs about one another,
causing endless amusement by their pointed remarks, innuendoes, and
by-play.
While the dance was in progress a member of Tonzeka’s town went over to
the drum, and by beating on it carried on a conversation such as the
following, asking questions and replying to them himself.
“Welcome to you, chief Satu. Are you quite well?”
“I am quite well,” replies the drummer.
“Have you come a long way?”
“Yes, my town is very far away.”
“Are you very rich?”
“Yes, I have plenty of wives, slaves, pigs, goats, cloth and money. I am
so wealthy that I really don’t know how rich I am. I don’t know what to
do with my money. It fills my bags, boxes and houses.”
“Have you much with you?”
“Yes, my pouches and bundles are full.”
“Give me some of it, as you are so rich.”
And foolish Satu, flattered by this pretended conversation out of his
usual caution, and in the vanity and pride of the moment, handed over
some thirty shillings’ worth of brass rods. Gratified by the largesse
the drummer beat away and sang a recitative in praise of Satu’s
generosity, and the object of all this by-play sat swelling with
self-complacency.
No sooner did the first drummer drop the drum than Bakula darted
forward, and with laughing eyes and skilful hands beat out a
conversation in fulsome praise of Tonzeka; his riches, his prowess in
war, his unstinted hospitality--all received their full meed of
wheedling adulation, and at last came the expected request: “As you are
so rich, so great, so generous a man, give me some of your money.”
And poor, cajoled Tonzeka had to pass over thirty-five shillings’ worth
of brass rods, for it would never have done not to surpass his visitor,
Satu.
Bakula went to share his spoils with some friends; and another man took
the drum and tapped out flatteries about the different head men with
varying success, until he received what he considered a very mean
present.
Then the disappointed drummer rapped out a song on stinginess so
bitingly sarcastic that sharp words were bandied about from side to
side, and what began as an amusing dance ended in a _mêlée_ that
engendered bad blood between the persons concerned for many a day.
As soon as the noise had quieted down, Tonzeka offered to take his
visitor to see the white man, but through an indefinable fear Satu
shrank from going in the broad daylight, and promised to accept the
invitation after the evening meal. So at the appointed time Tonzeka
called Satu, and together they walked over to the white man’s quarters,
followed by a large number of people.
The white man had heard of the proposed visit, and with the help of
boxes and rugs had prepared seats for the coming visitors.
Satu, however, before trusting himself to the improvised chair, lifted
the rug, shook the box to test its stability, and then gingerly took his
seat. There was more than a rumour afloat that the King of Congo had
murdered his mother by inviting her to sit on a mat which gave way
beneath her. It had precipitated her, it was said, into a carefully
prepared hole, and directly the wretched woman disappeared, the
unnatural son ordered her to be buried alive.
The white man was fully conscious of Satu’s implied distrust, but said
nothing; and Tonzeka pompously introduced Satu and some of the head men
who had accompanied him.
During the speech Satu sat uneasily on his seat, casting furtive glances
at the slim, kindly-faced white man before him. After all he did not
look so terrible that a whole town should go frantic with fear of him.
When Tonzeka had concluded his speech the white man replied: “I am so
glad to see Satu, for I have often heard of him, and a few weeks ago I
went to visit him, but through some silly prejudice he would not give me
hospitality, and sent me and my people to sleep in the damp with the
mosquitoes at the bottom of his hill. Since then I have heard that some
of his people wanted to kill me, but he would not let them;” and leaning
forward he took Satu’s hand in his, and said: “I thank you very much for
not only saving my life, but the lives of those who were with me. There
was a lad who struck at my outstretched hand. This afternoon he came for
medicine for a bad cut on his arm, thinking I did not know him. There he
is, standing with the firelight full on his face. Will he not shake
hands and be friends?”
And, rising, the white man went with outstretched hand to Bakula, who
with much trepidation put his hand nervously into the very hand at which
he had so cruelly aimed a heavy blow. In broken sentences Bakula begged
forgiveness, which was freely given.
Everybody now felt thoroughly at home with each other, especially when
Satu had cordially invited the white man to visit him, promising better
hospitality next time; and the white man heartily accepted the
invitation, promising, on his part, to come soon. Then came a long
series of questions about Mputu (the countries of the white man); and
while the white man told them of the great houses with many rooms, the
innumerable streets, the broad roads, the trams, horses, and the size of
the cities and towns, the audience sat with wide-eyed astonishment,
broken only by the snapping of fingers and exclamations of surprise.
At last one boy put their thoughts into words by asking if the white man
was speaking the truth; because, said he: “We have always believed that
you white folk live underneath the sea.”
“Why do you think that?” laughingly asked the white man.
“For two very good reasons,” asserted the boy, rather aggressively. He
did not like being laughed at before all the others, for he was only
stating what they all believed.
“State your reasons,” said the white man kindly, for he saw that the boy
was hurt by his laughter.
Encouraged thus, the boy said: "When we stand on the shore at
Ambrezette, or at any other of the trading-stations on the sea-coast, we
see the ships come in, and what do we notice first? Not the big part of
the ship at the bottom (the hull), but the stick at the top (the mast),
and when the ship has discharged all its goods on the beach, and filled
up again with palm-oil, rubber, ivory, palm-kernels and peanuts, it goes
away, and the part that we see last is the topmost post. Of course it
comes up out of the sea. That is why we first notice the top of the
‘stick,’ and it goes down into the sea; that is why the top of the
‘stick’ is last seen."
“Yes, that is very good! What is your second reason?” asked the white
man.
“The second reason is this: all we people who live on the earth have
curly hair; but all you white folk, because you live under the sea, have
straight hair. That is because the action of the water has taken all the
curl out of your hair.”
The white man with much difficulty suppressed his laughter, and
proceeded to give them a simple lesson on the rotundity of the earth.
They had all seen eclipses of the moon, and starting from that fact, and
using his candle and various articles on the table as his apparatus, he
tried to show them that only round objects threw round shadows on the
wall of the adjacent house. They were interested, and pretended to be
convinced, but how many of them went to bed that night still believing
in the flatness of the earth he never knew.
Then came a series of questions, not prompted by impertinence, but by a
healthy and natural curiosity. Questions such as: “Is there plenty of
food in your country? How many wives have you in Mputu? Were you once as
little as our babies? Have you a mother, father, brothers and sisters?
Did they turn you out of your country because you are a bad man? How do
you make matches? Who makes the cloth and the different articles we see
in the traders’ stores? How do you make candles, soap, boots, and from
what are they made? Why are you white and we black?” The white man
patiently answered these questions to the best of his ability; but I
noticed that whenever possible he worked his answers round to God’s
palaver--he told them how a thing was made, that they themselves could
make it, and would, by this time, have found out how to make it, only
their witch-doctors taught them that anything new, anything out of the
ordinary, anything that showed skill, was the result of witchcraft, and
hence they killed off their wise and clever men; and lastly, "God’s
palaver, when it enters the heart, sets them free from all their
superstitious fear of the _ngangas_, and gives true wisdom and
guidance."
It was now far into the night, and Satu was about to rise when the white
man said: “It is very late, and I have attempted to answer your many
questions. Now I am going to ask you all as a favour to stay while we
have prayers.”
Satu very courteously thanked the white man for taking so much trouble
and for telling them so many wonderful things. They would willingly stay
to prayers and listen while the white man talked to God; but “Excuse us
now, we are tired, and must go to sleep.” The white man looked sadly
disappointed, but bade us “to go and sleep well.”
As we were returning to our quarters some one asked Satu: “Why did you
not stay for prayers?”
“I was afraid the white man’s God would bewitch me; or that the white
man himself might do so,” answered Satu. That night Bakula could not
sleep, but frequently I heard him murmur: “He dressed my wound with the
same hand I tried to strike.”
During the next morning Bakula and a few of the young men went to greet
the white man, whom they found busy washing and dressing sores, and
dispensing medicine to the sick. Bakula shyly went forward to have his
wound dressed, and when it was finished the white man asked his name;
but Bakula, filled with fear, gave his Santu name[35]--Dom Pedro. “No, I
don’t want your Santu,” said the white man, “but your proper name. Do
you still distrust me? Never mind, tell me when you know me better.”
Footnote 35:
See note 30, p. 350.
“I will tell you now,” he replied. “I will not doubt you any more. My
name is Bakula.”
When the white man had finished his medical work we all sat down for
another talk, and I noticed that Bakula sat very close to his white
friend’s chair, and hesitatingly he put the following question: “You
tell us your country is very beautiful; that there is plenty to eat;
that your parents and brothers and sisters are living there; that you
were not turned out for being a bad man. Why, therefore, have you come
to this country, with its rough roads, its swamps, and its fevers?”
Then the white man unfolded before Bakula and his companions the
wonderful story of Jesus Christ, from the time He left heaven on His
mission of Redemption, until He returned to heaven the Author of eternal
salvation. The audience listened attentively to this delightfully
strange story, and Bakula, looking up, exclaimed in surprised tones--
“Why, Jesus Christ was just like you! He left all for us, the same as
you have done.”
The white man was strangely and deeply moved as he replied--
“No, Jesus Christ did not copy me, but I try day by day to imitate Him.
It is for His sake, Bakula, that I forgave you, and have tried to return
good for evil, love for hate, and am willing to die that you all may
hear and believe in His great salvation.”
After a little more conversation they separated, Bakula and his friends
returning to their huts solemnized, for a time, by what they had seen
and heard; and the white man, calling a few of his lads, went, with his
medicines and his message of God’s love, to spend a few hours in a
neighbouring village.