METHODS OF MISSION WORK
In this chapter, which must be the last, I want to let you see as well
as possible a little mission work in the various departments you read
about in the preceding chapter. Let me begin with the evangelistic. In
a missionary magazine I have come across a description which will suit
the purpose very well. Here it is, a visit to a village preaching.
“Our machila carriers are impatient to be off. They are not always so
anxious about an early start, but to-day we can sympathise with their
impatience, for the hot weather is upon us, and travelling during the
heat of the day is anything but comfortable. A start is made at last,
and we are now as eager as our ‘boys’ to see the end of the seven or
eight-mile journey. It will take us almost two hours to do this short
distance--two hours of as unpleasant travelling as one could wish to be
saved from, for machila travelling is at the best but a mild form of
being tossed in a blanket.
“The carriers keep up an incessant chatter all the way, varied at times
with a break into the chorus of one of their machila songs.
‘Gurr-r-r, Mwana wa mkango, Ine
Child of a lion, I am fierce
Fierce am I, child of a lion.
Gurr-r-r, Gurr-r-r.’
Such is the complaint of one of the carriers as he sweats at the
machila pole. He imitates, with wonderful skill, the deep growl of
the lion, and fondly compares himself for strength to the king of
beasts. The other boys with lusty chorus give him every support in his
contention, and even we agree, judging from his deep growls, that he
must really be what he says he is, and soon the chorus ends.
“But here we are at Chentambo’s village. Our machila men promptly
retire under the shade of the nearest tree and stretch themselves out
to rest.
“The service has already begun, and, if we want to be in time next
Sunday, we must leave very early. Che Bernard is giving an address,
the gist of which is the contrast between the old heathen life of
superstition and darkness and the new way of the cross, of truth and
light and life eternal, of the love of God for fallen mankind, and the
great sacrifice of Christ Jesus, our Saviour.
“It is skilfully placed before the audience, much better than could be
done by a white man. The people are interested; they understand, and
they KNOW that Bernard’s way is the right one. You can read it on their
faces. Old customs and superstitions, however, die hard, and to-morrow,
perhaps, even to-day many of those eager listeners will be the same
careless indifferent lot they were yesterday. But the seed is not
falling only in stony places; customs and superstitions cannot always
choke it. By and by will come the harvest and the triumph of the Word.
“While Bernard is speaking let us look around. That we are in the
school is evident, for there is the blackboard and there the easel.
Over on the other side hangs a syllable card. But on Sunday, it is the
‘Nyumba ya Mulungu’ (House of God), and here we are surrounded by such
a crowd as never enters school.
“Men, women, and children of all ages are sitting upon the poles which
do duty for seats. But when we run our eyes over the crowd we find that
the majority are women and children. Of grown men there are few. Where
may they be? They may, perhaps, be out of the district, on plantations,
at the railway, or down to the river for loads, but they may also be
somewhere not so far away, beer-drinking. There is, however, quite a
goodly number of youths among our hearers.
“The audience is happy, noisily so. There is no such quiet here as is
given to a home preacher. The little fat, brown, shining babies will
not be still; they insist upon making themselves heard all through the
address, and it is only when one has become most outrageous in his
conduct, that his mother thinks it necessary to let him see the trees
outside.
“But when the white man gets up to begin to speak, all these tiny brown
mortals seem by instinct to plot against him. No doubt his white face
is the cause of it, for he is always greeted as only black babies can
welcome a white speaker. Bernard however goes calmly on. He is used to
this kind of thing and he does not suffer from nerves. So, too with his
audience, not a word is lost.
“Crash! down goes a seat broken in two by the weight of some half-dozen
ponderous dames. But this is quietly ignored by the rest of the
audience, and the heavy ones proceed to accommodate themselves to a
seat on the floor, as if nothing out of the way had happened. Then two
dogs have disagreed and become unpleasant to one another, till a few
vigorous cuffs and a blow from a stick convince our canine friends that
to-day they must be on their best behaviour, fit and proper for dogs
admitted to such an assembly. But the babies have their own way and
perform an involuntary accompaniment all the time of the service.
“Bernard has finished now. He has urged the people to come to a
decision to-day, not to put off till the to-morrow which never comes.
Now is the time to take a stand on the side of truth and righteousness.
Who will take his stand now? And so he leaves his audience to answer
his final appeal.
“A hymn, one of the few which the school children have learned, has
been given out by Bernard. He reads the first verse:--
‘Mwamva mau a Mulungu
Mukabvomeranji ko?
Kodi musandula mtima
Ndi kumvera Yesu’yo.
Bvomerani, Bvomerani, Bvomerani msanga tu.’
‘You have heard the call of Jesus
And your answer now must give.
Turn to Him your heart so precious,
And obeying learn to live.
Oh believe Him: Oh believe Him: Oh believe Him: quickly do.’
“The singing is robust; there is no absence of sound, and the hymn is
enjoyed by all. It may not be the finest of music, but it is living,
real, earnest.
“Then follows a short prayer and the service is over. In a few minutes
men, women, babies, and dogs are out into the sunshine, and we are
enjoying, nay, gulping down the fresh air.
“The hearers’ class has now assembled, and we endeavour to teach a few
of the great truths of our faith to this little company of young men
and women. To this little class we look for the things of the future.
Here at least the ground is not stony. The seed is being sown in good
soil and by God’s blessing will bear fruit in the future and become the
foundation on which to build another church.
“When the lesson is over we have a few minutes talk with Bernard and
some of the boys, to give and to receive words of encouragement in
the work. Then once more to our machila and back home, our ‘Mwana wa
mkango’ being as fierce as ever.
‘Guwr-r-r. Mwana wa mkango, Ine.
Guwr-r-r; Mwana wa mkango, Ine.
Guwr-r-r; Guwr-r-r.’”
[Illustration: A MISSION SCHOOL CLASS]
Now let me send you along with a mission lady to visit a village
school, so that you may know a little about the educational work of an
African mission. But I am afraid you cannot go to the village so I must
let the lady tell of her visit herself. This is what she writes, and
had you gone with her you would have seen it all with your own eyes:
“‘Our Donna is coming! Our Donna is coming!’ Thus heralded, we approach
the village, a flock of small boys, who have come to meet us, dancing
along before the machila, shrieking at the pitch of their shrill young
voices.
“‘Our Donna has come!’ announces that we have reached the village
courtyard. There stands the school, a little grass shed, with forms
like bird perches; and the teacher, conspicuous by his clean white
clothes, and Kungauma, the headman, are waiting there to welcome me.
“After a little, a wheezy horn is blown by a stalwart young man, and
the scholars begin to assemble. Meantime I pay a visit to the women’s
quarters where the older women are busy pounding the maize and sifting
the flour. After a few words of friendly greeting, enquires about their
work and notice of their babies--for a black mother, as well as a white
one, likes to see ‘her bairns respeckit like the lave’--I return to the
school. It is full to overflowing.
“A hymn is sung and prayers are said by the teacher; then the classes
arrange themselves on their respective ‘perches.’ I begin to examine
Class 1, while an admiring circle of fond mothers and sympathising
friends squats outside. After going conscientiously through the lessons
of Class 1, we go on to Class 2, and I hear them their allotted task.
“But time is flying! I ask what other classes still remain to be
examined. ‘Class 3 and an Infant,’ replies the teacher, indicating
their whereabouts. I glance at the dozen or so of eager little faces
that compose Class 3 and then look towards the ‘Infant.’ He may be
such, legally so-called, but to my astonishment I see the stalwart
young man who performed upon the bronchitic horn! It turns out later
that he is the most advanced pupil in the school and is reading an
English book, called the ‘Infant Reader’; hence his name.
“Leaving him and Class 3 for another day, I call the young women and
girls to begin sewing. Forty are in my class, and more would like
to enter, but I cannot give proper attention to a larger number.
One is advanced to enough sew a child’s frock, several are hemming
sashes, most of them are at the elementary ‘patch’ stage. As I give
out the seams I glance at their hands. Some, conscious of cleanliness
and virtue, will voluntarily turn up their little pink palms for my
inspection. ‘Mine are clean, Adonna, look at mine!’ while others have
to be sent to wash.
“Soon the class is hard at work. Some learn very quickly, others find
the management of the needle almost beyond their powers; some need
words of praise and encouragement to help them to persevere, while
others require judicious fault-finding and criticism to nip incipient
vanity in the bud. A few words about the use of the words ‘Please’ and
‘Thank you,’ a few lessons in the elements of gentle bearing to each
other--courtesy to my self is never lacking--are taken in very good
part, and remembered and put into practice.
“In the course of the day’s lesson, which lasts two and a half to three
hours, several may get advanced from the ‘patch’ to the ‘sash’ stage.
The price of the ordinary sash is sixpence. (The work done in all the
sewing classes is sold later at a little bazaar, and the proceeds are
given to some scheme in connection with the native church.) I hear the
girls planning how they will manage to buy the sash when it is hemmed.
‘I have fowls at home worth sixpence,’ says one. ‘I have only one fowl
but it can lay eggs,’ says another. Some, having no source of income
can but regretfully admire, and envy their more fortunate companion.
“About two o’clock I take in the work again, and proceed to do a little
simple surgery, the binding up of ulcers chiefly. Anything serious I
decline to dress, advising the sufferers to come to Hospital, but the
simple sores, which are sadly common, are quite within my powers. It
brings me into touch with the people at another point of contact and
increases our sympathy.
“The dressings done and the farewells said, I call my carriers, get
into my machila, and off we go, my men singing lustily as they bear me
swiftly along the native path. The village lies close among the hills,
and the path winds in and out through native gardens and bush and long
grass, while two streams and a bog have to be forded. On either side
rise the ‘everlasting hills’; solemn, grand, restful, beautiful at all
times, in sunshine or shadow. In about an hour we leave the native path
and turn into the dusty high road, and a very short time finds us again
at the mission.”
And now to show you mission hospital work. I have found in the same
magazine the story of Gwebede, the Angoni labourer.
“His home was in far Angoniland--the village where his childhood had
passed, where he played through many a sunny day, rolling in the sand
till he was white, fighting mock battles with big grasses for spears,
‘tying’ little houses of grass and sticks, and lurking in them--all
play and no school; and at night time sleeping in his mother’s hut,
close to the fire, beside the dogs and the chickens. Now he is a
little boy, perhaps ten years old, and when his brothers and uncles
and companions are getting ready to go off to work with the white men,
Gwebede joins the party. He will work for three months and then come
proudly home with his earnings. His earnings will be an altogether
unimaginable extent of beautiful white calico. Perhaps it will be
enough to pay his mother’s hut tax, and when that is paid they will
tuck the yellow-edged paper with the stamp on it safely away among the
shiny black grass on the inside of the roof.
“So he trots gaily along the narrow path, carrying on a stick over
his shoulder some yellow cobs of maize for food by the way. At night
he is very tired, and after roasting his corn and grinding it up with
his little white grinders he very soon drops asleep. The party travel
for a day or two, and then stop to work for a day at some village to
earn food for the further journey. In about a week they reach their
destination and see the coffee planters’ broad acres of cleared ground
where in rows grow the coffee plants, as big as gooseberry bushes, some
of them a little bigger. Then is Gwebede installed with hoe in hand
amongst the coffee.
[Illustration: ATTACKED BY A LEOPARD]
“Now one morning early Gwebede got up and had just stepped out of the
grass shelter where he slept, when a great leopard sprang on him,
caught him by the back of the neck in its mouth, and bounded off with
him as easily as a cat would do with a mouse. Gwebede’s brothers are
waked from their sleep, and look out. ‘A leopard!’ they shout as they
seize hold of the red brands of their evening fire and rush out yelling
as they run. Into the grass they dash: yonder is the leopard: after
him! He is frightened: he drops the boy: he is off!
“Then they carefully pick up Gwebede. Poor little Gwebede! Is he dead?
No, but there is a great wound as if the leopard had taken a mouthful
away from the back of his head. They take him to their master, who
promptly binds up the wound, and sends them off with a letter to the
hospital. It is a long distance, and it is late in the afternoon when
they reach the mission.
“This was the first we saw of Gwebede. There did not seem to be much
hope for him. A little thin boy with a face full of terror, whom the
slightest movement made to cry out with pain. He refused to swallow
medicine, so we injected under his skin a little dose of that blessed
drug that takes away pain, and in a few minutes he was asleep. Then we
washed and dressed his wound. A leopard’s teeth are such dirty things
that the wound they make is very difficult to get clean. One has to
wash and wash and wash for a long time, going carefully into all the
holes and corners.
“As the days passed the pain became less, and the wound began to heal.
For several days Gwebede cried a good deal, and we had to repeat the
dose under his skin to put him to sleep. Then we noticed that he was
beginning to enjoy his food, and one day the attendant told us that
‘Gwebede had laughed.’ These were good signs.
“A few weeks later if you could have seen Gwebede you would have seen
that he was no longer thin, but getting quite respectably stout, and
also that he was constantly smiling. The night attendant noticed,
however, that he sometimes started and cried out in his sleep. This
is the way with people that have been hurt by wild beasts. For long
afterwards they dream dreadful dreams. Indeed, some of them are afraid
to sleep alone. They can’t help thinking that a beast will come into
the room.
“One day Gwebede’s brothers came to take him home. They said that the
whole party from their village were about to start for home. We begged
them to leave Gwebede with us to be attended to, and we asked them to
come back for him in a month. They said they were afraid to go back
without him, because Gwebede’s mother would say, ‘What have you done
with Gwebede?’ We told them that Gwebede was not well enough to do
without having his wound dressed. They saw also that he was quite happy
in the ward. So they decided to go back to their master and do another
month’s work, and at the end of the month to come again for Gwebede.
“The month passed, Gwebede walked about slowly and sedately, holding
his head in the air because his neck was stiff. He got fatter and
fatter, till his face grew like a little round moon--a black moon--full
of smiles and dimples. He was the jolliest little boy you could
imagine. Then came again the big brothers. Gwebede’s neck was now quite
healed. The great open wound had closed up and now there was only a
scar left. Soon he was dancing and skipping along the road with his
brothers, having clean forgotten the stiffness of his neck, and that
was the last we saw of little Gwebede.”
Now that you have heard such a great deal about Africa and its
children, and about mission work, are you not glad, my dear young
friends, that you are enjoying the privilege of helping to make Christ
known among the black people, that you are helping them to learn to
read and write, that you are helping them to be taught useful trades,
and that you are helping to bind up their wounds and ease their pain? I
know that you are. We all want Africa to belong to Christ and in God’s
own time it will be so. Meantime we must not faint or be weary although
the fight against the powers of darkness be fierce and long. Africa,
the dark continent must emerge from darkness at the call of her Lord
and Master and take her place among the nations who live in the Light
of the Saviour of the world.
“Spirit of truth and love,
Life-giving, holy Dove,
Speed forth thy flight:
Move o’er the water’s face
Bearing the lamb of grace,
And in Earth’s darkest place
Let there be light.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.