did not seem to matter much that during those first days we did not
understand a word they said. The women were more sociable than the men,
but the men were more dignified and self-respecting. Most sociable of
all was the head-wife of the principal chief. In the usual traveller’s
book he would be called a king and she a queen, but these titles are
misleading without explanation. This “queen” often used to come to Efulen
selling potatoes, half a bucketful at a time, for which she bought more
beads. She was getting along in years, but still maintained an air of
superannuated gaiety. Upon her back were several ugly scars where his
lordship, her husband, had struck her with a cutlass—an unpleasant habit
quite characteristic of African husbands. One day, wishing to strengthen
the bond of friendship, she presented us with a coil of snake for our
dinner, which we declined with profuse thanks. On another occasion,
after our house was built, she came with five junior wives of the same
chief, and asked that they be shown through our house. I escorted them
through the house, as one might escort a party through the White-house
in Washington. Shrieks of wonder accompanied their inspection of every
article. Finally this head-wife, in lively gratitude, insisted upon
dancing in the dining-room for our entertainment. The feet are the least
active members in this singular dance. Most of the time she stands
in one place; nor does she pirouette like the dervish of Egypt. The
dance has not the gladsome hop of the Bohemian dances, nor the swift
glide of the tarantella; and of course it is altogether unlike any
of our conventional dances. It is an amazing and rapid succession of
extravagant gestures, grotesque poses and outrageous contortions. The
shoulders and stomach and all the muscles of her seeming boneless body
are set in violent motion. If dancing is “the poetry of motion,” this
is downright doggerel. She accompanies it with a vocal imitation of
their several wooden instruments, as incongruous as the dance itself.
She seems to be imitating half a dozen instruments at once, while deaf
to either applause or remonstrance on our part she dances on heedless
of perspiration and decorum. Finally this lady came to me one day and,
offering to leave her husband, made me a proposal of marriage, to the
delight of Dr. Good and Mr. Kerr. Shortly after this she went crazy.
We came in contact with a belief regarding the white man’s origin which
is widely prevalent, namely, that their dead ancestors have gone over the
sea and have become white men. We, therefore, are their ancestors. Dr.
Good and I once entered a town where the white man had never been seen.
While the people were still standing back, afraid of us, a woman looking
intently in my face uttered a cry of recognition, mistaking me for her
dead grandfather, or grand-uncle, or something of that sort.
“Are you not so-and-so, of my family?” she asked.
Not being eager to claim relationship, I hastily assured her that I was
not.
“Are you a spirit, or are you flesh?” she asked.
I told her I was no spirit, but flesh and bones and as solid as herself;
and I invited her to come and put her hand on me.
“Will my hand not go through?” she asked; and I assured her that it would
not.
Then coming towards me gradually, taking a short step, then a fearful
breath, then another step, she at last put her hand upon my arm and then
not knowing what would happen to her she turned and ran down the street.
But soon recovering herself she cried out: “He is solid just like us. My
hand didn’t go through.” Then they all came, men, women and children, to
investigate for themselves. Some pinched me, some pushed, and some pulled
my hair, to the infinite amusement of Dr. Good. I made no protest against
the more delicate experiments of the women and children; but the sense
of touch on the part of the men was so obtuse that I turned on one of
them and by the vigorous use of my fists undertook to convince him that
my quality was more substantial than spirit, while the town shrieked with
laughter. The rest were willing to take that man’s word that I was solid.
“You’re flesh and bones,” they cried in a chorus.
“Yes,” said I, “I am flesh and bones and fists.”
When we first went among them our safety was in their fetishism and this
we had counted upon. However kindly they may have felt, yet to them our
poor bundles of goods were fabulous wealth; and it was our opinion then
and afterwards that greed would have completely mastered them and they
would have killed us for our goods if they had dared. Dr. Good, as I
have said, had lived for years among the Fang, whose language is so much
like the Bulu that he could understand the Bulu from the first, although
he did not always let them know this. In the first Bulu town where we
stayed over night Dr. Good heard them discussing us. The younger men were
greatly excited and might have proved dangerous but for the counsel of
the older men, who are always held in high respect. These elders argued
that since we three strangers, with a few unarmed followers, had left
our own tribe and had come boldly among them we must surely have very
powerful fetishes—powerful enough to overcome theirs and inflict death on
our enemies. Our very goods which they coveted was evidence of this; for
it is only by fetishes that people acquire riches. Further evidence was
afforded by the fact that we had meat in tins which our boys told them
had been there for two years and it was not rotten. They had seen it, and
it smelled delicious. But the convincing proof was Mr. Kerr’s gun, the
most beautiful thing that ever had been seen, and which, according to the
report of the boys, was never known to miss aim (which indeed was a fact
when Mr. Kerr held it) and everybody knows that this depends entirely
upon a man’s fetishes. These sage counsels prevailed. And before this
belief in our fetishes and the fear of them was dissipated we had gained
their friendship, and were safe on that basis.
A month after our arrival at Efulen, Dr. Good, having occasion to go to
the coast, on the way bought something from a native to whom he gave a
note addressed to me in which he requested me to give the bearer a red
cap—a thing of yarn worth about five cents, much appreciated by the
native, but more becoming to a monkey than a man. Dr. Good explained to
him, as his eyes dilated with astonishment, that he would only need to
go to Efulen and hand the note to me without saying a word, whereupon I
would fetch out a red cap and give it to him. It was almost too great a
strain upon his credulity, but he agreed. His entire town accompanied
him to see this unheard-of miracle. It was a walk of half a day and
they passed through several towns on the way, in which they told what
was going to happen at Efulen. The population of each town, jerking
the dinner off the fire, snatching up the baby and leaving the dead
to bury their dead, joined in the procession. A great crowd presented
themselves before the house. They had agreed not to invalidate the
evidence of the miracle by letting me know what Dr. Good had said. The
note was the fetish that must effect the result. They stood with their
hands over their mouths for fear the secret would fly out. Despite
their extraordinary efforts to keep silence for a minute they were only
moderately successful. The leader handed me the note: I looked at it
and without a word went into the house and immediately returned with
the cap. They vented their astonishment in a great shout. Then each of
them, yelling as loud as possible, began to repeat the entire incident
from the beginning. They must have been telling the story to their dead
ancestors in Europe and America, if one might judge by their evident
distance, and by the fact that no one seemed to expect anybody else to
listen to him. This incident increased our prestige.
In a certain trading-house a similar incident once occurred. A native
presented a note to the trader who gave him a knife. Then all the young
enterprising natives appropriated paper wherever they could find it, and
cutting it into similar pieces presented it to the trader supposing that
he would automatically produce a knife and give it to them; but when
they witnessed his dumb ignorance they concluded that there were serious
limitations to the white man’s magic.
I have said that they regarded our meagre stock of goods as fabulous
wealth. They regarded us as we might regard a multi-millionaire. And,
strange enough, we gradually fell into their way of thinking, and
regarded their attitude as consonant with the facts. And why not? For,
to be rich is to have a little more than your neighbours, and to be poor
is to have less. There is no sense of privation in being compelled to
do without those things which nobody else has; but however much we may
have, we feel the pinch of poverty when there are additional comforts and
enjoyments immediately around us which we cannot procure. Our privations
were many and great, but they were for the most part inevitable. After
the first few months we had the best procurable in our situation, and far
more than those around us. So, every man in such a place will learn that
wealth, after all, is a sentiment more than a condition, a feeling rather
than a fact. But the return to civilization is like a sudden reversal
of fortune, and in dire contrast a man experiences a very painful and
oppressive sense of poverty when confronted with wealth so far beyond his
own.
We gave out various goods in pay to workmen engaged upon our premises. We
bought food for the workmen and some for ourselves. The staple article
of exchange was salt: one might almost call it the currency. There is
so little of it that there is a chronic hunger for it. Children like it
better than sugar. A teaspoonful of salt is the price of an egg. We also
gave in exchange beads, shirt-buttons, brass rods, red-caps, knives,
gun-flints, and later in the year we began to sell a little cloth. We
bought bananas, plantains, cassava (that which Stanley calls “manioc,”
which is their principal food) and building-material. All exchange is
by barter, and it is a very tedious and trying process, a long palaver
being regarded as almost essential to propriety even in the purchase of
the smallest article. In trading among themselves the man who can talk
longest and loudest usually gets the best of the bargain. The maintaining
of a fixed price is new to the African and is hateful to him, even if the
price be good, for it tends to deprive him of the palaver, which is the
joy of his life. He makes the best of the fixed price however and even
discovers that it still has some dramatic and histrionic possibilities.
He lays down his bamboo, or his thatch, before me, telling me in a
neighbourly manner how far he has had to go for it and how exceedingly
scarce it is becoming, how unusually good this particular material is and
what lavish offers he received for it along the way, and how friendship
for the white man prevailed over baser considerations. For, what were he
and his people before the white man came? But now, as for himself, he
has left behind all his vices, and that very morning has decided to be a
Christian.
I interrupt this fine flow of sentiment by asking him what he wants in
exchange for his thatch. He thinks he will take a little salt. I measure
out with a spoon the exact amount—which he knew before he left his town.
The dramatic moment is when I put away the spoon. He glances from the
salt to myself several times with a fine simulation of disappointment and
contempt, calculated to reduce me to pulp. He is no child in his art,
but such an adept that my moral fortitude almost surrenders before that
look. I seek to relieve the strain by saying with affected carelessness:
“That’s all. Take your salt and get out.”
The reply to this delicate suggestion is a prolonged yell of many mingled
emotions: and then he grabs,—not the salt, but his thatch and starts down
the hill cursing the white man. I have not so much affronted his judgment
as I have wounded his feelings, and perhaps have put a stumbling-block
in the way of his salvation. He thinks better of it, however, and comes
back, takes the salt and goes away blessing me.
It was hard to procure eggs. The natives do not eat eggs but always set
them. At first they asked the price of a chicken for an egg, because,
they said, the egg would become a chicken, with proper treatment. The
time element is always eliminated in every consideration. But most of
the eggs that they brought us would never have become chickens under any
circumstances; and this they knew, for they had given them a thorough
trial. When I pronounce an egg to be bad a man always wants it back; for
he or his friend will try to sell it to me again, watching an opportunity
when I am very busy and have not time to examine it closely. I have
probably refused the same egg half a dozen times in one morning, and then
perhaps have bought it, and the successful vender has amused the people
of his town by relating the transaction at my expense.
The women bring their garden produce in heavy loads carried on their
backs in large baskets. I stand on the porch as I buy and they on the
ground, their produce lying on the porch at my feet. They always rise
very early, and they usually reach the hill about daylight. We cannot buy
more than half of the food they bring; so there is a noisy and animated
scramble for first place. They are there before we are up in the morning
and they wait in a shed occupied by our men a little way down the hill
and in front of our house. There they indulge in chatter and laughter,
and one might think they had forgotten their errand. But the moment I
open the door and step outside (for it fell to me to do the buying) every
woman, with a yell, snatches her basket and pitches it on her back, or
perhaps comes dragging it along the ground, thinking in this way to gain
a moment over her sisters, and pushing and pulling each other, some of
them laughing, more of them cursing, and all of them yelling, the whole
fanfare sweeps up to the door. Not having been accustomed to rise so
early, my sense of humour is still dormant at that hour; life is always a
serious matter to me and a doubtful boon until after breakfast. I yawn,
and yawn again, and heave a weary sigh, as I reflect that the clamorous
noise which has thus ushered in the day will continue through the long
hours until its close.
Soon after our arrival at Efulen Dr. Good and I visited the town of an
old chief of some fame, named Abesula. Abesula’s claim to greatness was
based upon the possession of thirty-five wives and any man who could
endure life with thirty-five African wives must be made of uncommon
stuff. He was old and most of them were young and unruly, and each one
seemed disposed to do her full duty in reconciling him to death by
making his present life intolerable. As we entered the town an old woman
who knew Dr. Good and was very glad to see him came forward to salute
him, calling him his usual name, _Ngoot_. She was covered thick with
redwood powder, like red oxide, from head to feet, and he was dressed
in light-coloured clothes and was quite trim, for we had travelled by
a good road. In a salutation of “linked sweetness long drawn out”—“Ay!
Ngoo-t, Ngoo-t, Ngoo-t,” she threw her arms around him and embraced him
affectionately, leaving him covered with redwood powder. Other women,
evidently thinking that this was the proper way to receive a white
man, followed her example. Now, one of Dr. Good’s peculiarities was an
insuperable aversion to effusions of emotion. But he always considered
the effect of his actions upon the mind or the feelings of the natives;
so he submitted to this tender ceremony, but he looked as miserable as
ever Abesula did with his thirty-five wives all calling him names at
once. Then the old woman, not wishing to show partiality, approached me
with an amiable, toothless smile and all the redwood that was not on Dr.
Good’s clothes; but regardless of consequences I took to my heels and
bestowed myself at a safe distance down the street, feeling that I had
made sacrifices enough for the black race to be morally excusable for
declining this unsavoury embrace.
In the evening we sang several hymns to draw the people together. They
all came and Abesula sat in the midst. Then Dr. Good preached to them,
and some paid close attention. But after a while Abesula, interrupting,
said: “Ngoot, won’t you soon be through preaching? For I wish that you
two white men would sing and dance for the people; I don’t care for
singing without dancing, and I don’t like preaching at all.” But we did
not resort to this sensational method of holding a congregation.
That same evening a score of Abesula’s wives engaged in a general quarrel
with each other. An African family has no skeletons in the closet. They
all hang outside the front door. The quarrel began with two of them,
who, earlier in the evening, sat each within the door of her own house,
on opposite sides of the street, reviling each other in language of
loathsome indecency, until at last, when their intellectual resources of
warfare were exhausted, the other women told them to come out into the
street and fight it out. Whereupon the two women came out into the street
and throwing off even their scant apparel of leaves, began to fight.
To our surprise they did not scratch nor pull each other’s hair, as we
had heard that women do when they fight. It was more like wrestling,
although blows were delivered according to opportunity. They were fairly
matched; but at last one was thrown to the ground, the other falling
on top, and then clasping each other and fighting they rolled over and
over in the street. When one of them was beaten the other women began
to take sides and a large number became involved. Then the indiscreet
Abesula interfered and they all joined together against him. To say that
this large and unhappy family washed the dirty linen of their domestic
infelicity in the street is putting it too mildly. The linen was foul and
fit only for the fire. The women sought to shame the old savage out of
countenance by the revelation of filthy secrets—but there are no secrets
in Africa. Abesula replied with a shocking history of their immoralities
which I fear was too true. He raged like an infuriated beast. He asked
for a stick. Some one brought him one about ten feet long. As he talked
he beat the ground with the stick and when it broke in his hands he
called for another. He cursed them and threatened them with the hostility
of supernatural powers by which they would die various sudden deaths
in surprising forms, and suffer frightful penalties in another world.
All this while he was pounding the ground, in which performance it was
supposed that his wives were beaten by proxy. It was a very forcible
way of expressing his opinion of them, and of showing them what their
conduct deserved, while it was safer for himself and more conducive to
good health and a long life, than a personal attack upon them, seeing
that it was one against thirty-five.
But finding at length that this bloodless flogging even when accompanied
with awful language produced no other result than self-exhaustion and
violent perspiration, he resolved to kill himself without actually
dying—a simple paradox to the African mind. He brought out of his house
a long knife and a lighted torch, and carefully arranging a seat in
the middle of the street where all could witness the shedding of his
blood, he sharpened the knife, made his last speech, in which he told
his wives how he would haunt them after death, then raised the knife
above him, threw back his head, and pointed the knife towards his
breast. This tragical performance requires that at this interesting
moment some one, preferably a wife, should rush towards him in terrible
alarm and excitement and wrench the knife from his hand just in time to
save his life. This touching evidence of regard is a first measure of
reconciliation and is usually followed by a truce of hostilities. But
Abesula had made life so bitter for these women that their contempt was
unbounded and they desired no armistice. Not one of them moved to save
his life. He still held the knife above him, as if to say: “Is no one
going to interfere? Is it possible that you would allow a great man like
me to take his own life when you could so easily prevent it? At least
think of the trouble it will entail, the grave-digging, the burial, a
month of mourning, and perhaps charges of witchcraft.” Still no one
moved. Abesula suddenly resolved to sharpen his knife again so as to make
death quite certain. This being done he again raised it and pointed it
towards his heart. A native man said to Dr. Good: “Stop him! white man,
stop him! Take the knife from him!” And it may be that the women had
been expecting a white man to perform this obliging duty. But neither of
us moved. At last the knife descended, and with such terrible force that
it would have been driven into his heart and clean through his back if it
had not been that his arm was trembling with excessive determination, and
the descending knife, missing aim, struck the ground, penetrating nearly
to the hilt. Poor Abesula, inconsolable at finding himself still alive,
and feeling that his dignity, if not his life, was gone forever, rose
from the ground and sneaked away. But he cast a baleful look backward, as
if to say, “For two beads I’d destroy this world and make another where
great men could be appreciated. As for you black creatures, you don’t
know a great man when you see him.”
Later that night when all had retired to sleep, Dr. Good and I were still
discussing polygamy, that some white people assert is right and necessary
for Africa.
Mr. E. D. Morel points to the triumphs of Mohammedanism in Africa as
a proof of its better adaptation to the moral and material welfare of
the people than Christianity, attributing its success to its allowance
of polygamy. But Mr. Morel’s friend, Sir Harry Johnston, than whom
perhaps no man living knows more about Central Africa and its people,
accounts for the rapid spread of Mohammedanism in a very simple and
obvious manner, when he says: “Mohammedanism, as taught to the negro,
demands no sacrifice of his bodily lusts.” Mohammedanism does improve
the African—there is nothing gained by denying it. But, at best, it only
“moves the masses to a cleaner stye,” which, though cleaner, is still a
“stye”; while the aim of Christianity is a _household_, in which the law
is _love_, not lust. It is natural that it should take the negro longer
to learn this lesson and that he should be slow in making the sacrifices
that it demands.
In the morning Abesula seemed to have forgotten all about the palaver,
as if it were a very ordinary occurrence, as I presume it really was. We
rewarded him for the house that we had occupied by a gift of a red-cap
(cost, five cents), the remains of our tallow candle and six lumps of
white sugar.
VIII
AFTER A YEAR
My progress in acquiring the language was greatly retarded by my long
sickness, and by more than one prolonged stay at the coast. But the
language is easy. At the end of a year I was conducting Sabbath services
in Dr. Good’s absence and preaching in a stammering way. Mr. Kerr was
speaking the language much better than I; and Dr. Good had actually
translated the Gospels, though it was a tentative translation that he
knew would soon need revision. We were also penetrating a little beneath
the surface of native life, seeing with other eyes and beginning to
realize its degradation and to feel deeply its misery and sadness.
When we three white men, on our way to Efulen, entered the first Bulu
town, the old chief asked Dr. Good whether we were brothers. When Dr.
Good replied that we were not, the old man, turning slowly towards his
people, with an incredulous laugh exclaimed: “What a lie!” It seemed
impossible that three men who were not brothers could travel together in
the forest and not kill each other.