The beach strewn with logs of mahogany in preparation for shipment.
]
The fatal defect, both of trade and government, as independent
civilizing agencies, is that they have forcibly altered the outward
conditions of the native without changing the inward man. The African is
somewhat in the position of the poor Indian in our own country a few
generations ago. He was a hunter in a land stripped of game, a warrior
deprived of arms and obliged henceforth to seek his rights by legal
technicalities—while he was still the very same old Indian, inwardly not
a whit better, and by no means equal to the demands and moral
obligations which the new conditions imposed upon him. One may clip the
claws of the tiger and even pull his teeth, but he is still a tiger; and
a French uniform on an African cannibal does not make him a vegetarian.
IV
A LIVING REMNANT
The diminishing number of the Mpongwe, the hostility of the climate, the
insistence by the government that French must be the language of the
schools, the great difficulty of procuring a corps of French-speaking
missionaries, the curse of rum, the presence of a large community of
white men and the natural irresponsibility of the white man in
Africa—all these have combined to limit the work of our mission among
the Mpongwe and to make it exceedingly difficult. And besides, there is,
especially, the strong opposition of the French Jesuits who have a large
mission in Gaboon and any number of missionaries that the work may
demand. Their hostility makes coöperation impossible. Their methods, of
course, are Jesuitical. We have the authority of certain historians for
the statement that in the early days of missions among the American
Indians the Jesuit Fathers taught the Iroquois of Canada that Jesus was
a big Indian Chief who scalped women and children. If that was ever
true—and I doubt it—their object of course was to gain first the outward
adherence of the Indian, submission to their authority, with the
intention of afterwards instructing him in the full content of
Christianity, as they understood it. The French Jesuits, perhaps with
the same good intention, have baptized nearly all the polygamy,
drunkenness, immorality and fetishism of Gaboon, and they call it
_Christianity_. But I believe it is more inaccessible to moral and
spiritual influence than it was before.
One day shortly after the news of the death of Pope Leo XIII reached
Gaboon, and before I had heard of it, I was passing along the beach when
I heard in a small village the _ululu_ of women who were wailing for the
dead. Their mourning has usually a local occasion, and I had no doubt
but that somebody was dead in their own village; so I hurried over. The
mourning ceased abruptly at my approach—a triumph of curiosity over
grief. When I asked who was dead, the leader answered: “The Pope!” She
followed the answer with a prolonged howl in which they all joined, and
the tearless mourning proceeded. That is how I learned of the death of
Leo XIII.
The Protestant Christians of Gaboon are a very small community; but they
are the best Christians, and the dearest people, I have known in Africa.
They alone, of the Mpongwe, have good-sized families of healthy
children. They are the living remnant of a dying tribe.
When I moved to Baraka the Mpongwe work, the oldest in the mission, was
in charge of a fellow missionary, Mr. Boppell, and I had not expected to
take any part in it. But before the first year had passed, Mr. Boppell’s
health compelled him to leave Africa, his wife having died at the
beginning of the year. From that time I had charge of the Gaboon Church,
besides the work among the Fang. In particular I undertook the training
of an Mpongwe candidate for the ministry, who since Mr. Boppell’s
departure was occupying the pulpit and preaching very acceptably. This
man, Iguwi, I instructed four hours each week; but after most of the
year had passed, I felt that I could perhaps spend the time to better
advantage.
Iguwi was the best educated and the most eccentric man of the entire
Mpongwe tribe. He was a monk by nature. The African is distinctly a
marrying man. He is usually very much married. But Iguwi at the age of
forty-five was still single and was therefore a mystery to the natives.
He and myself were the only two single men in the entire region of
Gaboon. My own case seemed strange enough to the natives. They never
lost an opportunity of asking me for an explanation. “Mr. Milligan,”
says a wistful and sympathetic inquirer, “you nebber get wife?”
“No, I nebber get one.”
After a period of silence:
“Well, Mr. Milligan, why you nebber get wife? You no have money for buy
her? or she done lef’ you and run ’way wid odder man?”
In reply to these frequent queries, I gave so many answers that I have
almost forgotten which was the right one.
Iguwi was the only African I have ever known who was not a marrying man.
I have known other single men among them, but they were either busy
laying plans to run away with some other man’s wife, or were working day
and night and stealing, according to opportunity, to obtain sufficient
dowry.
Iguwi was extremely bashful; and in this also he was an exception to his
race. On one occasion, an elder of the church and his wife, intimate
friends of Iguwi, invited him to a chicken breakfast. They lived beside
him and he passed their house several times a day. Nevertheless, he
replied in a letter that he hoped they would excuse him on account of
his bashfulness; but that he would be very grateful if they would send
him his portion of the chicken. Iguwi was born in slavery, and as he
became educated and somewhat cultivated he was very sensitive in regard
to his birth. This indeed may account largely for his bashfulness.
But quite as prominent as Iguwi’s bashfulness and quaint eccentricities
was his transparent sincerity and goodness. His religion had not the
African tendency to exhaust itself in mental transports. The poor always
had a friend in him. I have had to remonstrate with him for giving away
all that he had. On one occasion, he came to me and asked the monthly
payment of his salary in advance. I expressed surprise at his need of
it, seeing that only a few days before I had paid him for the past
month. But I found afterwards that he had expended the whole mouth’s
payment in helping a poor widow to repair her house. She was not in any
way related to him; and she had relations who were able to help her; but
she had a sharp tongue and had turned them away from her, and when
poverty and distress came there was none to help her. The most degraded
of the heathen believed in Iguwi and would never have doubted his
honesty or truth. In this sense, indeed, he was a “living epistle” of
Christ which all could read and which none misunderstood. For so gentle
a spirit he had a set of categories that were especially drastic. On one
occasion, when I asked him how many persons had attended his village
prayer-meeting, he replied: “Fifteen Christians and six sinners.” The
attendance on the preceding Sunday was “ninety Christians and
twenty-five sinners.”
Iguwi was a remarkably good preacher. He had been taught in the mission
school at Baraka in the old days when English was still permitted, but
at best he received there only the equivalent of a primary-school
education. After he decided to study for the ministry he received
further training in a theological class. It was a mystery to me how a
man so bashful and diffident had ever chosen the ministry for a
profession. But when Iguwi stood on the platform his diffidence
disappeared entirely and his speech was perfectly free and courageous.
The people all enjoyed his preaching and were helped by it. He was so
absent-minded, however, in regard to his dress, that a committee should
have been appointed to look him over before he went into the pulpit, in
order to see that nothing essential had been omitted, and that his
clothes were fastened on him securely. A perpetual problem to the native
mind is how to get clothes to stay on without buttons—a problem of which
polite African society anxiously awaits the solution. Even with buttons,
the imported garments of civilization are still uncertain, when worn by
those who are not to the manner born. Sometimes, as if by a sudden act
of disenchantment, the buttons simultaneously unfasten, strings untie
and clothes fall off. Iguwi’s trousers were supported by a red sash,
which often got loose and began to unwind slowly as he preached. When
the loose end of the sash touched the floor, it was a question as to
what the climax of the sermon would be. I finally advised him either to
preach shorter sermons or wear a longer sash.
Iguwi’s sermons were thoughtful and spiritual. It was strange how so
unpractical a man could preach such practical sermons. They must have
come to him by intuition rather than by any exercise of judgment. It was
also indicative of a remarkable intellect that a man without any
library, who had read only a few books that he had borrowed from
missionaries, could preach sermons that were always well constructed and
thoughtful. I happen to recall an outline which he submitted to me one
day on the text, “For as many as are led by the Spirit of God, these are
sons of God.” His three main points were: First, The Spirit leads to the
cross of Christ; second, He leads to moral conflict (Iguwi probably said
to “war”); third, He leads to victory.
When I was leaving Africa, I gladdened Iguwi’s heart with a set of
Matthew Henry’s commentaries—which more than doubled his library. The
quaintness, the homely simplicity and spirituality of Matthew Henry were
not unlike Iguwi himself.
I have said that outside the pulpit Iguwi, with all his goodness, was
utterly unpractical. Often, indeed, he seemed to lack common sense. I
once gave him a book to read in which the writer, by way of illustrating
the evanescence of human glory, referred to the gorgeous palace of ice
which was built by Catherine of Russia, and so soon dissolved beneath
the sun. Iguwi had heard of ice and knew very well what it was, but
being unfamiliar with its resources of illustration he was deeply
impressed. While he was still reading this book, one night in
prayer-meeting he offered a prayer in which I, who did not understand
the Mpongwe language, was suddenly startled by the English words, _ice_,
_palace_, _Catherine_, _Russia_.
Even if the congregation had known English the illustration would still
have been unintelligible to them. For aught they knew _Russia_ might be
the name of an African tribe, or a river in America, and they were as
ignorant of the other words; and since those four words comprised the
whole illustration, the force and beauty of it must have been somewhat
lost upon them. It occurred to me at the time that a library, instead of
being a help to Iguwi, would probably have spoiled his preaching.
Iguwi was so unpractical it seemed best not to ordain him. If the worst
heathen of Gaboon had asked admission to the membership of the church
Iguwi would have received him with a _God-bless-you_. But he continued
to visit the sick and to give away his living to the poor. His goodness
shone along all the lowly paths of service.
A service in the Gaboon Church is much like a service in one of our best
coloured churches in America. There is perfect order and good attention,
and we need not labour too much to be simple, for they listen
intelligently. Occasionally, however, one is reminded that it is really
Africa and not America. I have seen a man, in the first pair of shoes
that he ever possessed, come to church unusually late, tramp as heavily
as reverence would allow in coming up the aisle, and then sit in the end
of the seat, assuming an unnatural and uncomfortable position in order
to keep his feet in the aisle. What is the use of spending money for
shoes and wearing them with so much discomfort if people are not to know
that you have them? Shoes for the African trade are purposely made with
loud-squeaking soles; the African will not buy shoes that do not “talk.”
Sometimes, in localities further from the coast, the head of the family
will enter the church alone, wearing the shoes, and upon reaching his
seat will throw them out of the window to his wife, who also will wear
them into the church, and perhaps others of the family after her.
Among the Mpongwe it was deeply impressed upon me that the sincerity of
piety is not to be judged by its fluency. Most white people who acquire
the art of public speaking, especially in religious meetings, are
obliged to cultivate it; and only a small minority of Christians can
offer a prayer in public. But the African speaks with perfect freedom
and entire absence of selfconsciousness. He can offer a public prayer
long before he becomes Christian, or has any such intention. It took me
a long time to put the proper estimate upon fluency. One day I visited a
woman, Nenge, who was going further and further astray through rum and
other Mpongwe vices. I was so greatly impressed by her eloquent
expression of ideals and aspirations that I inferred a great change in
her life. I prayed with her and asked her if she would pray for herself.
Without the slightest hesitation she began a prayer of considerable
length that almost brought tears to my eyes. She prayed for herself and
me. But I found out afterwards that she had not the least intention of
parting with either of her great sins, and she was surprised that I had
so misunderstood her. She had not meant to deceive me. The truth is that
any native could offer such a prayer. After several such experiences I
became wary. It is a great gift, however, when it is truly consecrated.
An Mpongwe prayer-meeting never lags.
The Gaboon Church in its early history was ministered to for many years
by Toko Truman, probably the most eloquent native preacher who was ever
trained in the West Africa Mission. He was entirely blind for seven
years before he died. The first time I visited Gaboon Toko was still
living. I was on my way home to America and was detained several days at
Gaboon, waiting for a French steamer. I had heard much of Toko, and I
visited him every day. Among ever so many incidents of interest which he
related I recall his reply to a certain white trader, a very profane
man, who took pleasure in mocking at Toko’s faith and self-denial. One
day the trader remarked that if there was any such place as heaven, he
himself was as sure of an entrance there as anybody.
Toko replied: “I have read the words of Jesus, ‘Not every one that saith
unto Me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven,’ that is to
say, not even all those who pray shall enter; and the chances would seem
to be small for you, who do not pray at all. Heaven is not as cheap as
you think.”
Izuri is an elderly woman, a member in the Mpongwe Church, whose charity
towards the Fang of the interior presents a striking contrast to the
spirit of the coast people generally. I have already said that, in the
mind of the coast people, the Fang belong to the orders of lower
animals, and that the coast women are ashamed to be heard speaking Fang,
though they all speak it; for they trade with them daily. Izuri, when I
had charge of the Mpongwe Church, was sewing for a trading-house one
whole day each week, thereby earning twenty cents, which she gave to
help support a native missionary among the Fang. The Fang come down the
river long distances to sell food and building material in the Gaboon
market. They must travel with the tide, and often they remain at the
coast all night. It is sometimes hard for them to obtain shelter; and,
moreover, they are subjected to every form of temptation by those who
would get from them the money or goods they have procured for their
produce. Izuri might often be seen going along the beach in the evening,
inviting these homeless people to her town where she gave them shelter
in a house which she owned but did not occupy. And often in the evening,
sitting down in their midst, she would talk to them in their own
language, fairly scandalizing her neighbours. I presume Izuri still
continues her ministry to the poor Fang.
An Mpongwe man, Ntyango, showed this same spirit towards the Fang and
went among them and preached to them. He died about the time I went to
Gaboon, and was buried in the mission graveyard. Some years afterwards
the workmen were cutting grass in the graveyard. Among them was a Fang
man named Biyoga, whom Ntyango had taught to read when he was a small
boy. As Biyoga was cutting grass and occasionally spelling out the names
on the tombstones he found Ntyango’s name on one of them. Sacred
memories stirred the heart of the wild Fang. The next day he came to me
and told me that since the days, long ago, when he had known Ntyango he
had never met another man like him. All the time since finding his name
and while working beside his grave he had been thinking of him,
recalling his kindness to the Fang, especially to the children, and his
Christian teaching, and now he wished only to be the kind of man that
Ntyango was.
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