THE BLACK PRINCE OF AFRICA
_Khama_
(Dates 1850--the present day)
One day men came running into a village in South Africa to say that
a strange man, whose body was covered with clothes and whose face
was not black, was walking toward their homes. He was coming from the
South.
Never before had such a man been seen in their tribe. So there was
great excitement and a mighty chattering went through the round wattle
of mud huts with their circular thatched roofs.
The African Chief, Sekhome--who was the head of this Bamangwato tribe
and who was also a noted witch-doctor--started out along the southward
trail to meet the white man. By his side ran his eldest son. He was a
lithe, blithe boy; his chocolate coloured skin shone and the muscles
rippled as he trotted along. He was so swift that his name was the
name of the antelope that gallops across the veldt. Cama is what the
Bamangwato call the antelope. Khama is how we spell the boy's name.
He gazed in wonder as he saw a sturdy man wearing clothes such as he
had not seen before--what we call coat and hat, trousers and boots.
He looked into the bronzed face of the white man and saw that his eyes
and mouth were kind. Together they walked back into the village. Chief
Sekhome found that the white man's name was David Livingstone; and
that he was a kind doctor who could make boys and men better when they
were ill, with medicines out of a black japanned box.
When evening came the boy Khama saw the strange white man open another
box and take out a curious thing which seemed to open yet was full of
hundreds and hundreds of leaves. Khama had never seen such a thing
in his life and he could not understand why Livingstone opened it
and kept looking at it for a long time, for he had never seen a book
before and did not even know what letters were or what reading was.
It seemed wonderful to him when he heard that that book could speak
to Livingstone without making any sound and that it told him about
the One Infinite, Holy, Loving God, Who is Father of all men, black or
brown or white, and Whose Son, Jesus Christ, came to teach us all to
love God and to love one another. For the book was the Bible which
Livingstone all through his heroic exploring of Africa read each day.
So Livingstone passed on from the village; but this boy Khama never
forgot him, and in time--as we shall see--other white men came and
taught Khama himself to read that same book and worship that same God.
_The Fight with the Lion_
Meanwhile strange adventures came to the growing young Khama. This is
the story of some of them:
The leaping flames of a hunting camp-fire threw upon the dark
background of thorn trees weird shadows of the men who squatted in a
circle on the ground, talking.
The men were all Africans, the picked hunters from the tribe of the
Bamangwato. They were out on the spoor of a great lion that had made
himself the terror of the tribe. Night after night the lion had leapt
among their oxen and had slain the choicest in the chief's herds.
Again and again the hunters had gone out on the trail of the ferocious
beast; but always they returned empty-handed, though boasting loudly
of what they would do when they should face the lion.
"To-morrow, yes, to-morrow," cried a young Bamangwato hunter rolling
his eyes, "I will slay _tau e bogale_--the fierce lion."
The voices of the men rose on the night air as the whole group
declared that the beast should ravage their herds no more--the whole
group, except one. This young man's tense face and the keen eyes that
glowed in the firelight showed his contempt for those who swaggered so
much and did so little. He was Khama, the son of Sekhome, the chief.
The wild flames gleamed on him as he stood there, full six feet of
tireless manhood leaning on his gun, like a superb statue carved in
ebony. Those swift, spare limbs of his, that could keep pace with a
galloping horse, gave him the right to his name, Khama--the Antelope.
The voices dropped, and the men, rolling themselves in the skins of
wild beasts, lay down and slept--all except one, whose eyes watched in
the darkness as sleeplessly as the stars. When they were asleep Khama
took up his gun and went out into the starry night.
The night passed. As the first flush of dawn paled the stars, and
the men around the cold ashes of the fire sat up, they gazed in
awed amazement. For they saw, striding toward them, their tall young
chieftain; and over his shoulders hung the tawny skin and mane of a
full-grown king lion. Alone in the night he had slain the terror of
the tribe!
The men who had boasted of what they meant to do and had never
performed, never heard Khama--either at that time or later--make any
mention of this great feat.
It was no wonder that the great Bamangwato tribe looked at the tall,
silent, resolute young chieftain and, comparing him with his crafty
father Sekhome and his treacherous, cowardly younger brother Khamane,
said, "Khama is our _boikanyo_--our confidence."
_The Fight with the Witch-doctors_
The years went by; and that fierce old villain Sekhome plotted and
laid ambush against the life of his valiant son, Khama. Men who
followed David Livingstone into Africa had come as missionaries to
his tribe and had taught him the story of Jesus and given him the
knowledge of reading and writing. So Khama had become a Christian,
though Sekhome his father was still a heathen witch-doctor. Khama
would have nothing to do with the horrible ceremonies by which the
boys of the tribe were initiated into manhood; nor would he look on
the heathen rain-making incantations, though his father smoked with
anger against him. Under a thousand insults and threats of death Khama
stood silent, never insulting nor answering again, and always treating
with respect his unnatural father.
"You, as the son of a great chief, must marry other wives," said
old Sekhome, whose wives could not be numbered. Young Khama firmly
refused, for the Word of God which ruled his life told him that he
must have but one wife. Sekhome foamed with futile rage.
"You must call in the rain-doctors to make rain," said Sekhome, as
the parched earth cracked under the flaming sun. Khama knew that their
wild incantations had no power to make rain, but that God alone ruled
the heavens. So he refused.
Sekhome now made his last and most fearful attack. He was a
witch-doctor and master of the witch-doctors whose ghoulish
incantations made the Bamangwato tremble in terror of unseen devils.
One night the persecuted Khama woke at the sound of strange clashing
and chanting. Looking out he saw the fitful flame of a fire. Going out
from his hut, he saw the _lolwapa_ or court in front of it lit up
with weird flames round which the black wizards danced with horns and
lions' teeth clashing about their necks, and with manes of beasts'
hair waving above their horrible faces. As they danced they cast
charms into the fire and chanted loathsome spells and terrible curses
on Khama. As a boy he had been taught that these witch-doctors had the
power to slay or to smite with foul diseases. He would have been more
than human if he had not felt a shiver of nameless dread at this lurid
and horrible dance of death.
Yet he never hesitated. He strode forward swiftly, anger and contempt
on his face, scattering the witch-doctors from his path and leaping
full upon their fire of charms, stamped it out and scattered its
embers broadcast. The wizards fled into the darkness of the night.
_The Fight with the Kaffir Beer_
At last Khama's treacherous old father, Sekhome, died. Khama was
acclaimed the supreme chief of all the Bamangwato.[46] He galloped out
at the head of his horsemen to pursue Lobengula, the ferocious chief
of the Matabele who had struck fear into the Bamangwato for many
years. Even Lobengula, who to his dying day carried in his neck a
bullet from Khama's gun, said of him, "The Bamangwato are dogs, but
Khama is a man."
Khama had now freed his people from the terror of the lion, the
tyranny of witch-doctors, and the dread of the Matabele. Yet the
deadliest enemy of Khama and the most loathsome tyrant of the
Bamangwato was still in power,--the strong drink which degrades the
African to unspeakable depths.
Even as Khama charged at the head of his men into the breaking ranks
of the Matabele, his younger brother, Khamane, whom he had put in
charge of his city in his absence, said to the people: "You may brew
beer again now." Many of the people did not obey, but others took the
corn of the tribe and brewed beer from it.
At night the cries of beaten women rose, and the weird chants of
incantations and of foul unclean dances were heard. Khamane called the
older men together around his fire. Pots of beer passed from hand to
hand. As the men grew fuddled they became bolder and more boastful.
Khamane then spoke to them and said, "Why should Khama rule you?
Remember he forbids you to make and to drink beer. He has done away
with the dances of the young men. He will not let you make charms or
throw enchanted dice or make incantations for rain. He is a Christian.
If I ruled you, you should do all these things."
When Khama rode back again into his town he saw men and women lying
drunk under the eaves of their huts and others reeling along the road.
At night the sounds of chants and drinking dances rose on the air.
His anger was terrible. For once he lost his temper. He seized a
burning torch and running to the hut of Khamane set fire to the roof
and burned the house down over his drunken brother's head. He ordered
all the beer that had been brewed to be seized, and poured it out
upon the veldt. He knew that he was fighting a fiercer enemy than
the Matabele, a foe that would throttle his tribe and destroy all his
people if he did not conquer it. The old men of the tribe muttered
against him and plotted his death. He met them face to face. His eyes
flashed.
"When I was still a lad," he said, "I used to think how I would
govern my town and what kind of a kingdom it should be. One thing I
determined, I would not rule over a drunken town or people. I WILL NOT
HAVE DRINK IN THIS TOWN. If you must have it you must go."
_The Fight with the White Man's "Fire-water"_
Khama had conquered for the moment. But white men, Englishmen, came
to the town. They set up stores. And in the stores they began to sell
brandy from large casks.
The drinking of spirits has more terrible effects on the African than
even on white men. Once he starts drinking, the African cannot
stop and is turned into a sot. The ships of the white man have been
responsible to a terrible extent for sending out the "fire-water" to
Africa.
Khama called the white traders in the tribe together.
"It is my desire," he said, "that no strong drink shall be sold in my
town."
"We will not bring the great casks of brandy," they replied, "but
we hope you will allow us to have cases of bottles as they are for
medicine."
"I consent," said Khama, "but there must be no drunkenness."
"Certainly," the white men replied, "there shall be no drunkenness."
In a few days one of the white traders had locked himself into his
house in drunken delirium, naked and raving. Morning after morning
Khama rose before daybreak to try and get to the man when he was
sober, but all the time he was drunk. Then one morning this man
gathered other white men together in a house and they sat drinking and
then started fighting one another.
A boy ran to Khama to tell him. The chief went to the house and strode
in. The room was a wreck. The men lay senseless with their white
shirts stained with blood.
Khama with set, stern face turned and walked to the house where he
often went for counsel, the home of his friend, Mr. Hepburn, the
missionary. Mr. Hepburn lay ill with fever. Khama told him what the
white men had done. Hepburn burned with shame and anger that his own
fellow-countrymen should so disgrace themselves. Ill as he was he rose
and went out with the chief and saw with his own eyes that it was as
Khama said.
"I will clear them all out of my town," cried the chief.
It was Saturday night.
_Khama's Decisive Hour_
On the Monday morning Khama sent word to all the white men to come
to him. It was a cold, dreary day. The chief sat waiting in the
_Kgotla_[47] while the white men came together before him. Hepburn,
the missionary, sat by his side. Those who knew Khama saw as soon as
they looked into his grim face that no will on earth could turn him
from his decisions that day.
"You white men,"[48] he said to them sternly, "have insulted and
despised me in my own town because I am a black man. If you despise us
black men, what do you want here in the country that God has given to
us? Go back to your own country."
His voice became hard with a tragic sternness.
"I am trying," he went on, "to lead my people to act according to
the word of God which we have received from you white people, and yet
_you_ show them an example of wickedness such as we never knew. You,"
and his voice rose in burning scorn, "you, the people of the word
of God! You know that some of my own brothers"--he was referring to
Khamane especially--"have learned to like the drink, and you know that
I do not want them to see it even, that they may forget the habit. Yet
you not only bring it in and offer it to them, but you try to tempt
_me_ with it.
"I make an end of it to-day. Go! Take your cattle and leave my town
and _never come back again_!"
No man moved or spoke. They were utterly shamed and bewildered. Then
one white man, who had lived in the town since he was a lad, pleaded
with Khama for pity as an old friend.
"You," said the chief with biting irony, "my friend? You--the
ringleader of those who despise my laws. You are my worst enemy. You
pray for pity? No! for you I have no pity. It is my duty to have pity
on my people over whom God placed me, and I am going to show them pity
to-day; and that is my duty to them and to God.... Go!"
And they all went.
Then the chief ordered in his young warriors and huntsmen.
"No one of you," he said, "is to drink beer." Then he called a great
meeting of the whole town. In serried masses thousand upon thousand
the Bamangwato faced their great chief. He lifted up his voice:
"I, Khama, your chief, order that you shall not make beer. You take
the corn that God has given to us in answer to our prayers and you
destroy it. Nay, you not only destroy it, but you make stuff with it
that causes mischief among you."
There was some murmuring.
His eyes flashed like steel.
"You can kill me," he said, "but you cannot conquer me."
* * * * *
_The Black Prince of Eighty_
If you rode as a guest toward Khama's town over seventy years after
those far-off days when Livingstone first went there, as you came in
sight of the great stone church that the chief has built, you would
see tearing across the African plain a whirlwind of dust. It would
race toward you, with the soft thunder of hoofs in the loose soil.
When the horses were almost upon you--with a hand of steel--chief
Khama would rein in his charger and his bodyguard would pull up behind
him.
Over eighty years old, grey and wrinkled, he would spring from his
horse, without help, to greet you--still Khama, the Antelope. Old
as he is, he is as alert as ever. He heard that a great all Africa
aeroplane route was planned after the Great War. At once he offered
to make a great aerodrome, and the day at last came when
Khama--eighty-five years old--who had seen Livingstone, the first
white man to visit his tribe--stood watching the first aeroplane come
bringing a young officer from the clouds.
He stands there, the splendid chief of the Bamangwato--"steel-true,
blade-straight." He is the Black Prince of Africa--who has indeed won
his spurs against the enemies of his people.
And if you were to ask him the secret of the power by which he has
done these things, Khama the silent, who is not used to boasting,
would no doubt lead you at dawn to the _Kgotla_ before his huts. There
at every sunrise he gathers his people together for their morning
prayers at the feet of the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the
Captain and King of our Great Crusade for the saving of Africa.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 46: In 1875.]
[Footnote 47: The chiefs open-air enclosure for official meetings.]
[Footnote 48: These are Khama's own words taken down at the time by
Hepburn.]