except that one or two of the advanced boys sometimes taught the junior
classes. Then I engaged, as an assistant, a Mpongwe, named Nduna, a boy
of seventeen years, whose father, Rekwangi, was quite civilized and
an old friend of our mission. Poor Nduna’s life ended very tragically
less than two years later. He was a handsome boy, of quiet disposition
and kind-hearted. He was with me so much in the schoolroom and was so
faithful in his work that I came to know him well and to like him. At
the end of the year he told me that he had the offer of a better-paying
position in one of the bureaus of the government at Libreville and I
advised him to accept it. I understood that he gave good satisfaction to
his employer. After several months a sum of money was stolen from a safe
that had accidentally been left open. There were French clerks in the
same office, but Nduna was the only native. He was immediately arrested.
There was not a shred of evidence against him except that the money had
been stolen from that particular office and that he was the only native
there. It was hard for me to believe that he was guilty even before I had
heard the evidence, and when I supposed that it must be strongly against
him. But when upon inquiry I learned all that was known, I concluded with
a great many others that he was innocent. And the others did not know him
personally as I did.
A native may be capable of committing a very clever theft, but I never
knew a native who could cleverly conceal it. A certain workman, Ndinga,
stole a coat from me, and a few days later walked into the yard with it
on. Ndinga was not intelligent like Nduna. But I knew another boy who
about the same time stole a considerable amount of cash from a white man.
He was a very clever rascal, and proved himself so in the procuring of
the money. Yet he carried it in his pocket as long as it lasted (which
was only a few days) and treated all his friends with lavish generosity.
Among themselves the detective faculty is dull. And this is probably
because they so readily resort to supernatural means of discovering a
criminal, instead of following a natural clue, or weighing the evidence
of circumstances against a suspected person. While the white man racks
his brains with mere probabilities, the native goes to the witch-doctor,
who promises him certainty. The witch-doctor names several persons, often
personal enemies to himself, and they are forced to undergo some ordeal,
such as dipping their hands in boiling oil, which will burn only the
guilty. It is an easy and expeditious method, and especially remunerative
for the witch-doctor. But it involves none of those mental operations
whereby facts are weighed, comparisons made and conclusions reached. The
judgmatical faculty lies dormant. It would not therefore be expected that
the thief would be as careful of his tracks as if he lived in the land
of Sherlock Holmes.
In the case of Nduna no money was found either with him or his relations.
Neither had he spent an extra centime. The natives themselves never
believed Nduna guilty, and there were others also who thought him a
victim of foul play. The natives of Libreville and the immediate vicinity
are treated with humanity and justice, as a rule; but there have been
exceptions to the rule. Nduna was tried and sentenced to imprisonment.
I have forgotten the term of his sentence. He was not strong; his lungs
were weak, and after several months in the noisome prison he developed
tuberculosis. He failed rapidly, and when several more months had passed
it was very plain that he had not long to live. His father, Rekwangi, and
his mother, Aruwi, pleaded piteously for his release, but the request was
sternly refused. I shall never forget the grief of those unhappy parents,
grief mingled inevitably with bitterness against the white man; for they
had no doubt that their boy was innocent. The weeks passed and still the
same message came: “A little worse to-day.”
At length one night some one brought word to Rekwangi that Nduna was
dying. The father hurried to the prison, two miles away. But the guard
told him that the white man would not admit him. If I had only known it
in time I could probably have procured his admission. Or if not, I at
least might have afforded the parents some relief by going in myself and
staying with Nduna. For many of the officials who are bold in dealing
with defenseless black people are abjectly compliant when they confront
a white man. For hours that night the father walked outside the prison
wall crying aloud: “O Nduna, Nduna, my only son, how can I give you up!
It is not God, but the white man who has taken you from me. Is he still
living? Tell him that his poor old father is close to him, standing just
outside the prison wall. O Nduna, my son, my son!”
At last, towards morning, the guard cried out: “Your son is dead.”
Then the wretched man, overwhelmed with grief and frenzied with
bitterness, gave way to doubt of the Christian’s God, and running to the
house of a friend near by asked for rum. “Give me rum,” he cried, “lest I
kill myself.” The rum was given him and he drank till he was drunk.
That morning Nduna’s body was carried home. All the family and many
friends were gathered together. They laid him on a pile of mats on the
floor of the room, with his feet towards the door, and covered him
completely with a coloured robe. As soon as I heard that the body had
come I went to the house. While I was yet a great way from the town I
heard the wail of their mourning dirge; that weird, unceasing cry of
hopeless grief, which I had heard so often, but never before under such
harrowing circumstances, and it smote upon my heart. As many as could
enter the house were sitting on the floor and many on the ground outside.
All the women who were in civilized dress had turned their clothes inside
out as a sign of grief. Aruwi sat on the floor at Nduna’s head, piteously
sobbing. As I entered the door they all stopped mourning and there was
a deep silence. For once, in Africa, I felt that I could not speak. No
words could do justice to that heartrending scene. I stood a long time
before the covered body, as silent as themselves. At last I said: “Aruwi,
I want to see Nduna’s face.”
She turned down the covering and when I had looked at him a while I said:
“It is a good face, Aruwi,—a beautiful face. Nduna was a good boy. You
will not forget, Aruwi, that there was one white man who knew him and
who loved him.”
They remained silent as I withdrew, until I reached the end of the
village street, and then again, they all began to chant the mourning
dirge.
When the members of the Gaboon Church die they are buried in the mission
graveyard on Baraka hill. The reason of this concession on the part of
the mission was probably to enable them to control the burial service
of Christians that it might be a Christian and not a heathen ceremony.
They regard it as a sacred privilege. Nduna was not a member in the
church, and none but members had ever been buried at Baraka. But I broke
the rule, and told Aruwi that, if she wished, Nduna would be buried at
Baraka. And there we buried him that evening. The civilized Mpongwe have
a funeral custom that I like. When the casket is lowered and immediately
after the benediction, coming forward, they drop a handful of earth into
the grave. It is a simple and affecting ceremony and has no superstitious
significance. But during all my years at Gaboon there was no other
funeral at which so many came forward in silence and dropped a handful
of earth into the grave as they seemed to say: “Good-bye, Nduna; you
suffered greatly; may you rest in peace.”
[Illustration: BOJEDI, TEACHER OF FANG SCHOOL.
_He frankly admits the superiority of the white man, but thinks that the
black man is far better-looking._]
But by far the best teacher I ever had in the school, and without doubt
the best native teacher in the entire mission, was Bojedi, a Kombi of
Benito, to which tribe Makuba also belonged. Bojedi was twenty years old
when I engaged him as a teacher and he stayed with me two years, until I
left Africa. He was so well qualified by education and so competent in
mind and disposition that I gradually put the whole work of the school
upon him, except the religious teaching, which left me more time for
itinerating and the oversight and care of the Christians scattered in
many towns. Bojedi had faults that I do not mean to pass by, but without
him the greatly enlarged work of those last two years could never have
been done; and there was probably not in West Africa a native who could
have taken his place. Of all the natives who taught or assisted in the
school he was the only one whom the schoolboys respected and obeyed as
they would a white man. His interest and his efforts far exceeded his
prescribed duties. He had charge of the seventy-five boys, both in the
schoolroom and out of it, twenty-four hours a day. He was there when they
rose and when they went to bed. He insisted upon cleanliness as to their
persons, their beds, their food and the manner of eating it. He oversaw
their work in the yard, chiefly that of cutting grass, and would not
allow any boy to shirk his work. Their most serious disputes he referred
to me, but most of them he settled himself, to my immense relief, and
they all recognized him as fair. Under his constant supervision these
boys, fresh from the worst heathenism, were compelled to live a civilized
life. And this he accomplished without force. I never knew him to strike
a boy, nor ever did I know him to lose his temper. If he kept a boy in
school after hours for not knowing his lesson he stayed with him himself
and helped him with his study. Without my asking it he gathered them into
the school in the evening for an hour’s study, himself helping the duller
boys. He had faults, as I have said, but there were none in his teaching
or his discipline of the boys.
Bojedi was educated in our mission school at Benito. Among the
missionaries of that station there was a French teacher, Mr. Presset,
from whom Bojedi received much of his education. Unlike most Africans he
was a student by nature, and afterwards while he was so busy teaching in
my school he was also pursuing his studies in mathematics and astronomy.
The most that he got from me was music, which was always his pastime.
He had received some instruction in music from Mr. Presset, who gave
him access to his organ. When he came to Gaboon I placed in his house a
baby-organ of my own, and finding that he had unusual musical talent I
began to give him occasional lessons. He made much progress and played
so well that when I was leaving Africa I left the organ and most of my
organ music with him. He played for the singing in school and also in the
Mpongwe Sunday-school.
While Bojedi was still in the school at Benito he was brought into undue
prominence with the French government in a way that reflected credit
upon his scholarship and incidentally landed him in jail with hard
labour. France, it is said, rules for revenue, and this would seem to
be her policy in the Congo Français. A heavy duty is levied on imports
and exports for the purpose of revenue, resulting soon in commercial
stagnation—and no revenue. The Congo Français is a large and increasing
expense to France. The natives pay taxes upon their houses according to
the size and improvements. Each door and each window is taxed. A certain
native of Gaboon, an enterprising young man, who wished to live in
civilized fashion, put a floor in his house. But he was taxed so much for
it that he took it out and went back to the earth floor.
The taxes at Benito were heavy enough, but the local _chef de poste_ had
been collecting far more than was required. The man was probably full
of malaria and had become very irritable; like many of the government
officials he was in need of a long furlough home. Burning native towns
was a favourite pastime. If the people did not pay their taxes promptly
he burned their towns, leaving men, women and children without shelter.
If they paid promptly he required more and when it was not immediately
forthcoming he burned their towns. If he called them to him, and they
were afraid to come, he burned their towns. If for any reason, or no
reason, he doubted that they loved him dearly, he burned their towns. The
illumination was a superb entertainment for his friends. He burned towns
not in the execution of law, but of his own degenerate will, governed
only by a malarious temper.
At last a number of local chiefs addressed a complaint to the
administrator at Bata, who was superior to the _chef de poste_. Bojedi,
at the request of the chiefs, composed and wrote the letter, which I
believe they signed. The administrator sent the letter to the _chef de
poste_ who upon reading it did not think for a moment that any native
could have written it. There was only one white man in the region of
Benito to whom it could possibly be attributed; and that was Mr. Presset
of our mission at Benito. To make sure of the matter he compared the
writing with that of Mr. Presset, from whom he had received letters, and
found that it was the same. The result was that our mission at Benito
suffered considerable ill-treatment at his hands. At length, one day, he
referred to the letter in speaking to Mr. Presset, and was surprised and
almost affronted when the latter denied all knowledge of it. Mr. Presset
asked to see it, and upon looking at it immediately recognized Bojedi’s
writing. Bojedi was arrested and sent to jail, although he was only a boy
who had done what the chiefs had required of him; the letter was theirs,
not his. For months (or perhaps only one—I have forgotten the length of
time) he remained in jail and worked at hard labour carrying stone. When
at last one morning he was released he had scarcely a stitch of clothing
on him and he hid in a bush all day, and walked home to Benito, twenty
miles, during the night.
This latter story also has a sequel. While Bojedi was teaching school in
Gaboon, this same _chef de poste_ who had put him in jail, was there in
Gaboon a few days before sailing for France. Bojedi went to see him, and
did him several kindly services. The day he sailed (it happened to be
Saturday); Bojedi took charge of all his baggage and saw it safely placed
on the steamer, which took the whole afternoon. Thus easily does the
native forgive and forget.
Bojedi was very simple in manners and direct in speech. It never occurred
to him that the purpose of language was “to conceal thought.” One day
shortly before I left Gaboon he remarked that the schoolboys would miss
me greatly. I expressed a doubt on that subject. “O yes, Mr. Milligan,”
said he, “they will feel badly; for I remember that when I was a
schoolboy and Mr. X. left us, we all felt sorry and some of us cried,
although we had called him a beast every day.”
I have said that to commiserate the African for his colour is a waste of
sympathy. One day when I was talking to Bojedi something in the course
of the conversation prompted me to ask him whether he would like to be a
white man. He replied respectfully but emphatically in the negative. I
wished to know his reason; for he acknowledged and fully appreciated the
white man’s superiority. He hesitated to tell me; but I was insistent,
and at length he replied: “Well, we think that we are better-looking.”
I gasped when I thought of some of the vastly ill-looking faces I had
seen in the jungles, and in apology for myself (and for my race, by
implication) I said: “But you have not seen us in our own country, where
there is no malaria, and where we are not yellow and green.”
He quietly asked what colour we were in our own country; to which I
promptly replied: “Pink and white.”
Looking at me steadily for a moment he remarked: “Mr. Milligan, if I
should see you in your own country I am doubtful whether I should know
you.”
The moral weaknesses of the black race are salient and uniform and Bojedi
was far from being an exception to the rule. An imperious sexual impulse
is the racial characteristic; and their surroundings are such that they
cannot escape the temptation. One might think that African society, with
all its tyranny of social law and custom, were contrived with the sole
purpose of immoral indulgence. Many wives is much wealth. Courage, which
is held in highest esteem, is displayed chiefly in stealing other men’s
wives. And under certain circumstances this immorality is even a part of
hospitality. The women are more licentious than the men. A woman boasts
of her elopements. To become the mistress of a white man is a matter of
honour and gives social prestige. The wife of an elder in the Gaboon
Church, speaking of a certain young woman, the daughter of a friend,
said: “Iga is so ‘stuck up’ that she scarcely speaks to me now because
she is living with a white man.” The more glory therefore to missions,
that it is able to establish purity and honour in all the social and
domestic relations of native converts! Even in half-Christian communities
those heathen standards do not entirely prevail.
The Mpongwe women of Gaboon who have long been in contact with the
French are without comparison the most cultivated, best-looking, most
artful, and most dissolute women of the entire coast. The story of their
licentiousness, as Tertullian once said of the women of the ancient
stage, had best remain hid in its own darkness lest it pollute the day.
Most young men of other tribes coming among them as Bojedi did are
like country boys arriving in the city, and are easy quarry. He was
especially an object of pursuit because, having a good position, he had
money; and their need of money is equal to their love of it.
It was during Bojedi’s second year as teacher that I found that he was
living in illicit relations with a certain woman. It was a grief to
me. He was a lovable boy; excepting Ndong Koni and Amvama, none were
nearer to me than Bojedi. I had come to expect almost as much of him
as a white man. Moreover the matter was fraught not only with possible
ruin to himself but also with evil influence for the school. For
although it was only lately that he had made any profession of being a
Christian, he stood before the boys as a Christian in a marked way; had
offered a prayer each morning in opening the school; had talked with
them personally; and had exercised an influence for good that was the
more profound because of their love of him. I wailed until night, after
hearing this report, and then called him into the schoolhouse, where we
would not be disturbed, and there we talked for hours.
I said: “Bojedi, is it true that you are living with Antyandi?”
He replied: “It is true that I am _married_ to Antyandi.”—So he had tried
to make himself believe.
Antyandi would be regarded by any native as a very attractive woman.
Although she looked younger than Bojedi she was really several years
older and was artful according to her years. She had some education and
spoke and wrote French. She could boast of having lived with several
white men, one of them at least of high rank in the government, and from
these associations she had acquired a manner that was decidedly smart
and foreign, not to speak of trunks filled with fine clothes. She was
girlish in form and light in motion and had the reputation of being a
great dancer. It happened once that she danced before King Adandi; not
however for the head of a missionary on a charger, although afterwards
she would doubtless have been glad to have had my head thus presented
to her. A bottle of champagne was all she asked. Adandi was head of the
whole Mpongwe tribe. He was dressed when I saw him last in white shoes,
white flannel trousers and shirt, black velvet coat with a heavy gold
chain suspended from his neck, and a white hat. He had received part
of his education in France. He claimed the dignified distinction of
martyrdom, having been twice imprisoned by the French and once exiled. He
was a convert of the Jesuits and was profoundly religious—barring such
discrepancies as drunkenness, gambling and adultery. King Adandi saw
Antyandi dance and he declared that he would die if he could not add her
to the number of his wives. She refused him however on the ground that
Adandi being a king the relation would involve a degree of constancy on
her part to which she was not accustomed. Then he organized a band of
young men to seize the lady and carry her off, as they do in books. This
had a fine flavour of romance about it. But the chocolate heroine had two
invisible leopards, according to her claim, which attended her day and
night, and with these she dispersed the brigands.
But Bojedi is still in the schoolhouse making a passionate but sorry
defense. He really loved the woman with a fatuous regard, and I believe
she was in love with him. He had first asked her uncle if he could marry
her, and the uncle, the head of her family, although he was supposed to
have absolute authority over her, replied that he had nothing to say in
the matter, for Antyandi would do as she pleased anyway. Others of her
relations had said that no Mpongwe woman would ever be allowed to marry
a Kombi (to which tribe Bojedi belonged) and that the whole Mpongwe tribe
would rise to prevent it. An open marriage was therefore impossible. And,
on the other hand, mere publicity is the only marriage ceremony there is
among Christians of Gaboon, and to forego publicity was to dispense with
all ceremony. But how could a public announcement be called a ceremony?
And how could mere publicity constitute a marriage bond?
This latter is in need of some explanation. Everybody knows that in
France only those marriages are legal which are made by the state. The
Roman Catholic Church insists upon a church marriage also, but it must
follow that of the state, and cannot precede it, the one being a legal
and the other a religious ceremony. In the colonies this same law is
enforced, and the church is not allowed to perform a marriage ceremony
until after the legal ceremony of the state. It happens also that there
are serious impediments to the legal ceremony and sometimes deplorable
consequences. The contracting parties must know their ages—which the
African never knows; must know where they were born—which they have never
thought of asking and everybody has forgotten; must know their parents,
both father and mother. The African knows his mother; but as for his
father, he may never have asked his mother that personal question. They
could easily have recourse to lies and invent a father, but unfortunately
they are required to produce the parents that their verbal consent to the
marriage may be obtained. If the parents are not in the country a written
consent is required; and if they are dead the proofs of their death must
be produced in the form of a burial certificate.
These and other requirements may be good for France, but in Africa they
are puerile nonsense. Moreover, these legal bonds are very hard to break;
and that were well enough if only the moral bonds were strengthened
thereby, but they are not, and in the case of marital infidelity the
law binds only the innocent. For instance two of the very best women in
Gaboon, or in West Africa for that matter, were thus bound to husbands
who deserted them. One of those men took six other wives in utter
disregard of the legal marriage, but that outraged woman could not get a
divorce from him without a difficult and expensive process of law; nor,
being a Christian, was she willing to marry without a divorce. We could
not therefore advise, still less insist, that the Christians be married
by the state, though of course we did not advise to the contrary. And
without the legal marriage we were not allowed to perform the religious
ceremony.
I performed a few such ceremonies for those who had already been married
by the state official. On one occasion the young couple had decided to
be married with a ring. But I knew nothing of their intention, and I was
surprised when the groom, after the ceremony was entirely ended, produced
the ring and asked me what he was supposed to do with it. The bride on
that occasion was dressed in a Mother Hubbard of bright blue calico
decorated with white lobsters. But I officiated at another marriage in
which the bride was beautifully attired, and in good taste that would
have done credit to any white woman.
As the natives objected to the legal form of marriage, and we could
not conscientiously urge it upon them, there was no recognized or
satisfactory form. Of course there are heathen ceremonies, but some of
them are drunken orgies which the Christian conscience cannot allow;
and others are so silly that the civilized natives would regard with
abhorrence any suggestion of their observance. It is said that in some of
the tribes far east of us the bride and groom are required to climb two
young saplings, which are then swayed back and forth until their heads
knock together, whereby the marriage is constituted. One wonders what the
form for divorce would be like!