AN AFRICAN HOUSE
You must be wondering when you are going to hear about the children of
Africa, for I am sure you want to know about them now, the little sons
and daughters of the big black people I have so far written about.
Well, it so happens that I am sitting writing this story in a native
hut in Africa, many thousands of miles away from you; and if any of you
wanted to come and join me here and see for yourselves, you would have
to travel a good many weeks to reach me. Will you let me first try to
describe this house I am in, and the village of which it is part, as
being what most African huts and villages are like, and in which black
boys and girls are born and play.
This hut is a square one, and a good deal larger than you would
imagine. It is the size of a small cottage at home. Long ago most of
the huts were round, I believe, and indeed many of them are so yet. But
square ones have come into fashion here, for even in far-off Africa
there is such a thing as fashion, and it can change too. This hut is
divided into three rooms. The middle one is provided with a door to the
front and another to the back. The rooms on each side have very small
windows like spy holes looking out to each end. All round the house
runs a verandah which prevents the fierce rays of the sun from beating
against the walls of the house and throws off the heavy showers of rain
of the wet season clear of the house. The whole house is built of grass
and bamboos, and is smeared over with mud inside and out. The roof,
supported by stout cross beams in the middle of the partition walls in
which other forked beams stand, slopes not very steeply down to the
verandah posts which hold up its lower edges. It is heavily thatched
with fine long grass. The owner knows by experience what a tropical
thunder-shower means, so he leaves nothing to chance in thatching his
house.
In the middle of the floor in the room with the doors a small hole
has been scooped. It is surrounded with stones and forms the cooking
hearth, although there is also attached to this house a very small
grass shed about a dozen yards away at the back of the house, which is
used as a kitchen on most occasions. The doors are made of grass and
bamboos, and at night are put in place and held firm by a wooden cross
bar. Such is the house of a well-off native of Africa. It takes but a
few weeks to build and lasts but a few years.
Of course in a house with such small windows it is always more or less
dark. In the end rooms with the spy holes it is always dark to me. But
black boys and girls do not seem to mind this. In fact I believe they
are like owls and cats, and can see in the dark. I am certain though of
this that they can see ever so much better than white children can.
[Illustration: A VILLAGE HUT]
There is not much to look at in the way of furniture in a black man’s
house. Here is a table made in imitation of a European one and some
chairs too, whose backs look forbiddingly straight, a few cooking pots,
some sleeping mats, a hoe or two, some baskets, and some odds and ends
complete the list. What surprises a white man is the number of
things the black people can do without. For instance, if a white man
wants to travel in this country, he must first of all gather together a
crowd of natives to carry him and his belongings. He must have a tent
and a bed, pots and pans, boxes of provisions, a cook, and servants,
before he can travel in comfort. But if a black man goes on a journey
he simply takes a pot and some food with him, and maybe a mat and
blanket, takes his stick in his hand and his bundle on his shoulder and
off he goes, it may be to walk hundreds of miles before he comes to his
destination.
To-day there is no fire in the hearth. There is no chimney in this
house so I could not have a fire and enjoy my stay. The owner, however,
would not mind the smoke from the firewood. He is used to crouching
over a fire and his eyes get hardened. I see in one corner there is a
heap of grain called millet, and in another a white ant-heap. It has
risen in the night for I did not notice it before, and I am glad that
none of my belongings were in that corner of the room. Nothing but iron
seems amiss to the white ant. His appetite is terrible and he can play
sad havoc with one’s property in a single night. There is grain in one
corner I have said, and consequently there are rats.
The Pied Piper of Hamlin of whom you have all heard would find plenty
of rats to charm in any African village. Then in the houses there are
many kinds of biting insects, and some that don’t bite, but look ugly.
The mosquito is calling ping! ping! everywhere, and night is made
endurable only by retiring under a mosquito net. The mosquito is the
most dangerous insect in Africa, for it has been found out by clever
doctors that it is the mosquito bite that causes the dreaded malaria
fever.
In tropical Africa nearly all the insects bite or sting, even
innocent-looking caterpillars, if touched, give one itch. Nor may
you pull every flower you see, for some of them are more stinging
than nettles. To-day I came across two boys hoeing a road. One was a
bright fellow who kept things lively by singing snatches of songs and
whistling at his work. When I came near I spied a fine large glossy
black beetle hurrying away after having been thrown up by the hoe. I
asked the lively youth what kind of insect it was. In reply he dropped
his hoe and pounced upon the unfortunate beetle and held it up to me
for inspection. “Does it bite?” I asked, astonished. “Oh! yes,” he
said, “look.” So saying he stuck the point of one of his fingers close
to the head of the angry creature, which promptly seized it with its
pincers.
But one gets used to these pests, and even the sight of a spider the
size of a two-shilling piece running up the wall does not disturb one.
There is one insect, however, you may not despise, and which you can
never get accustomed to, the red ant. He comes in millions, and if he
deigns to pay your house a visit while on his journey, you had better
leave him in possession of the place. Unless you happen to head him off
early with burning grass and red hot ashes you need not stay to argue
with him. Everything living disappears before him, rats, mice, lizards,
cats, dogs, boys and girls, men and women give way before his majesty,
the red ant.
I remember watching for half an hour an army of red ants on the march.
They were streaming out from a small hole in the grass, crossing
over a hoed road, and disappearing into another hole in the grass
on the other side. Each was carrying a tiny load that looked like a
small grain of rice, and was hurrying after his neighbour as if the
whole world depended on his speed. Here and there on each side of the
hurrying companies were scouts and officers without loads evidently
engaged in keeping the others in order and in watching for enemies.
What I thought were grains of rice, the boys told me were “ana a
chiswe,” that is white ant’s children. Somewhere underground there must
have been dreadful war and the red ants were carrying off the spoils of
victory.
Next there came along a poor little lizard home by eager and willing--I
had almost said hands--pincers. Here a pair were fixed in, there
another pair. Everywhere that a pair of pincers could find a grip
there was the pair. I pulled the lizard out but it was quite dead. So
I pushed it back into the excited line and it was soon on the march
again. After a little there came past a curious round little object
into which dozens of ants were sticking and which with ants swarming
atop was being carried along with the stream. I rescued this strange
thing too, because I was anxious to find out what it was--the thing
inside this living ball of ants. One of the boys got a basin of water
and plumped the ball into it, and with a piece of wood scraped the
angry insects and frothy-looking stuff off. Then there was revealed a
tiny toad which the boys called “Nantuzi.” It was just like a little
bag with four legs, one at each corner. When annoyed it swells itself
up like a ball and refuses to budge. When seized by the ants it had
promptly covered itself with a frothy, sticky spittle, and so was
little hurt. Had I not rescued it, however, it would have been eaten
at last overcome by numbers. Then I got tired watching, and left the
never-ending ant army still on the march.