Anyoroguli, a Christian woman of Gaboon.
]
[Illustration:
WOMEN OF THE INTERIOR RETURNING FROM THE GARDENS WITH CASSAVA AND
FIREWOOD.
]
That the native Christians should inspire aversion is exactly what we
should expect; and yet we are scarcely prepared for the inveterate
animosity, the almost fierce hostility, that she everywhere reveals when
she comes in contact with a native Christian. Miss Kingsley’s attacks
upon the African Christians are the most unworthy of all the things she
has said. To give a single instance, I would refer to her story told in
_Travels in West Africa_ (p. 557) of a night which she spent in the
house of a Bible teacher of the Basle Mission. Two mission teachers,
together with a great many others, came into the room. The teachers, she
says, “lounge around and spit in all directions.” Next morning again,
she says, “the mission teachers get in with my tea, and sit and smoke
and spit, while I have my breakfast. Give me the cannibal Fang!”
Are we to conclude that cannibalism in Miss Kingsley’s opinion is a less
grievous offense against society than smoking and spitting? For that
matter, cannibals spit too. And I should think they would! And, then,
were the other natives who were present, the untutored savages, not
smoking and spitting? It may be regarded as certain that they were
smoking if they had tobacco; and whether or not they were smoking I am
sure they were spitting; for that nasty habit is racial and continental.
Even white men in Africa contract the habit; and, what’s more, they
_scratch_: they spit and scratch—the effect perhaps of the climate. I
have known a few native Christians who neither smoke nor spit; but I
have not known a savage, either man or woman, who did not do both. Why,
then, single out these two poor boys from the rest of the company? And
why visit upon their heads all the odium of a racial habit? If, at the
instance of the preaching of the Gospel, they have left off cannibalism,
and killing, and adultery, and stealing, and lying, I think they will
scarcely be damned for spitting; and I am sure they will leave that off
too before they enter heaven.
I well know the manners of native boys who have been in the mission long
enough to become teachers. They have an instinct for good manners. It
would be far easier to criticize their morals than their manners. At
this same place Miss Kingsley sent an attendant to ask the teacher for
wood to make a fire. The attendant returned and said that the teacher
would not give him wood unless it was paid for. Knowing the cordial
hospitality and eager attention that would be given to a white woman by
any and every mission teacher that I have met in Africa, I am compelled,
from the extraordinary behaviour of this teacher, to doubt whether Miss
Kingsley was a gracious guest. But we need not remain in doubt; for Miss
Kingsley, while she was the guest of this teacher, in a mission house,
had with her a demijohn of rum, which she dispensed to the natives in
pay and barter, as was her custom everywhere; and it is more than
possible that the teacher’s message that his wood was for sale was a
moral protest, not only against the violation of hospitality, but also
against the violation of those moral and religious principles to which
his life and honour were committed, and upon which depended, as he
sincerely believed, the salvation of his people.
It would be my duty to show that Miss Kingsley received most of her
so-called facts directly from the traders, and that all that came under
her own observation she saw through the medium of their opinions. But
Miss Kingsley has forestalled the necessity by the following frank
confession: “All I know that is true regarding West Africa, I owe to the
traders.”[13] Miss Kingsley must have felt that she owed an enormous
debt of gratitude to the traders: for through two large volumes she
sings a continual pæan to the trader’s praise. I might by the citation
of facts within my own knowledge show that in some instances Miss
Kingsley was mistaken; but I have not the least disposition to do so.
For the life of the trader on the far-away beaches of West Africa is so
cheerless and loveless—sometimes, indeed, an unremitting and lonely
fight with temptation, fever, delirium and death—that sympathy is more
becoming than criticism.
Footnote 13:
_Travels in West Africa_, p. 7.
But my deepest sympathy and highest praise must be for those who have
gone to Africa not for gold, but at the sacrifice of gold and other
interests; who left home and social pleasures not indifferently and
impatient of restraint, but with tears and aching hearts, that they
might carry the Gospel of peace to the most miserable of human beings;
whom they are not ashamed to call brethren. Many such are now working in
the unwholesome jungles; but a far greater number lie in the grass-grown
cemeteries, who fell in the fight with a deadly but invisible foe, a foe
which became visible only in the incarnations of delirium, when the
fever like fire was coursing through their veins. To them belongs the
greater praise, for they died not in seeking their own interest, but for
others.
XVIII
SAINTS AMONG SAVAGES
Carlyle remarks: “If there are depths in man as deep as hell, there are
also heights as high as heaven; are not both heaven and hell made out of
him?”
The final argument and the best apologetic for missions in Africa is the
native Christian. He is not much on exhibition but he is there. The
traveller does not find him; for his voice is not heard in the streets.
Many a white resident in Africa is unaware of him and is incredulous
when he is pointed out; even as the people of Nazareth did not know that
there was any essential difference between themselves and Jesus though
He had lived thirty years in their midst. But the spiritual eye of John
the Baptist discerned in Him one who had no need of repentance. And the
“seeing eye” will easily discover the native Christian in Africa; and it
is really worth while, for at his best he is as much like his Master as
any that can be found anywhere, and particularly in that gentleness that
would not break the bruised reed.
The first elder of the Fang Church was Mba Obam (shortened to Mb’Obam),
chief of Makweña, and uncle of Ndong Koni. He was tall, good looking,
very quiet and of strong personality.
On one occasion when I was staying in his town over night it happened
that there was a great celebration. A month before this a big man of the
town, more important than popular, had died; and having mourned for him
every night for a whole month, the people thought they had done their
full duty. It remained only to give him a good “send-off” in a great
dance and feast, which released all his friends and relations from
further obligation of mourning. All the men from the neighbouring towns
had been invited and there was a great crowd and infinite noise. In the
midst of the furious dancing of the men some untoward incident occurred
that precipitated a general row, in which every man drew his sword, and
they instantly divided, according to their tribal relationships, into
two lines of glaring, dangerous savages. Before I had fully comprehended
the situation Mb’Obam, who had taken no part in the celebration, came
from his house down the street in long strides, every inch a chief, as
much so as the last of the Mohicans, but carrying no sword. At the
extreme risk of his life, as it seemed to me, he pushed into the middle,
between the lines of thrusting and parrying swords, and commanded
silence. To my surprise, they obeyed him and became quiet, the sudden
silence contrasting strangely with the former uproar and confusion.
Mb’Obam, with the gentleness of a father, reminded them that they were
no longer savages, but brothers, and that if they should hastily shed
each other’s blood they would be sure to regret it afterwards. There was
no more quarrelling that night.
Mb’Obam and his wife, Sara, had lived at Angom in the time of Mr.
Marling and had there become Christians. After Mr. Marling’s death they
had moved down the river to Makweña. Ndong Koni and Mb’Obam built a
beautiful chapel at Makweña. I have already told how that Ndong Koni
paid for the windows and doors by working in the yard at Baraka. In this
chapel Mb’Obam held a service every Sunday, besides early morning
prayers each day, at which all the people assembled before going away to
their gardens and their various occupations of work or pleasure.
I have told elsewhere how that, when Mb’Obam was dying, he called the
people around him and begged them to be good to his wife, Sara, and not
to accuse her of bewitching him when he was gone. He also reminded them
how in late years he had protected the women against whom this charge
was made. They promised, of course, and they meant it; for they revered
him; but as soon as he was dead old beliefs prevailed and old customs
asserted tyrannous authority. They charged Sara with having caused
Mb’Obam’s death by witchcraft. They dared not kill her; for they were in
the vicinity of the French government. But they drove her on her hands
and knees up and down the street with two men sitting on her back. From
this cruelty I rescued her one day with a stout stick which I used
somewhat freely; otherwise it might have ended in her death. When Sara
was sufficiently recovered I said to her: “Sara, what can I do to
protect you against further cruelty?”
She replied: “Mr. Milligan, I think you had better find me a husband.”
It wasn’t entirely out of my line—if there’s any such thing as a _line_
in a missionary’s work—for, as an essential part of my pastoral duty, I
found it necessary to run a kind of matrimonial bureau. Well, we found a
husband for Sara, which was not difficult, for they all knew that she
was a good woman. A Christian man married her and I hope they may still
be living happily together.
One night Mb’Obam came to an Mpongwe prayer-meeting in Gaboon and
brought a number of his Fang friends. The Mpongwe being a coast tribe,
all but the Christians among them despise the Fang. The meeting was in
an Mpongwe village and there were many present who were not Christians.
It happened that I was conducting the meeting; and after telling the
Mpongwe who Mb’Obam was I asked him to address them, which he did in
their own language. In the course of his talk he referred to the ark
that “Adam” built. Ndong Koni was sitting not far from him, and when
Mb’Obam referred a second time to “Adam’s ark,” before these
better-informed Mpongwe, Ndong Koni quietly said to him: “Father, you
mean Noah.”
Mb’Obam, without the least embarrassment, replied: “Was it Noah? Thank
you, my son. I thought it was Adam that built the ark; but it does not
affect what I was going to say.”
The simplicity of it was so beautiful that we scarcely thought of its
being amusing. Then he went on and made a most fitting and touching
comparison between his own life and that of Noah, preaching through all
those years the while he was preparing the ark, a lonely believer in the
midst of unbelief and ridicule and wickedness that rends a believer’s
heart. “Yet Noah’s words came to pass because they were God’s words; so
God will in His own time justify us. Meanwhile we will go on preaching;
and may we be faithful and uncomplaining.”
He made a profound impression on the Mpongwe Christians; and often
afterwards when I returned from my journeys some of them would ask me if
I had been to Mb’Obam’s town and if he was well. When I heard that he
was very sick I sent a boat and brought him to Baraka. I took him to the
French hospital for a few days. But nothing could save his life. It was
only at his death that I realized how much he was loved and respected.
He himself never knew.
Another man, Angona, had been an important man in his town, having had
several wives, and a great variety of powerful and well-tried fetishes.
Angona, on one occasion staying over night at Gaboon, took the
opportunity of spending the evening at Baraka and advising with me on
certain matters, moral and religions. He told me how that recently he
had nearly lost his life by his refusal to observe a certain Fang custom
which I venture to mention. Angona had been visiting a friend in another
town and had refused to assume the marital relations of his host,
according to their friendly custom. The friend was angry, suspecting
that something was lacking in his friendship, and not liking to see an
old custom discarded. His anger subsided however at Angona’s explanation
that he was a Christian. But not so the woman’s anger. She tried to kill
him by putting poison in his food.
Angona at the time of his conversion put away all of his wives but one.
He had paid a very large dowry for each of them; so that in putting them
away he had also put away his wealth and to a large extent had
surrendered influence and social position. But the surrender of his
famous collection of fetishes, which he had gathered among many tribes,
to which no doubt he owed his success and his possessions, occasioned
greater surprise than anything else. By the virtue of one of these
fetishes he had been successful in matrimony, and by the virtue of
another his wife had not deserted him; one fetish had procured him
success in trade, another had made him successful in war; by means of
one he had recovered from a dangerous illness, and by another his
gardens had prospered; by the virtue of one he could cause an aggressive
enemy to “swell up and burst,” and by another build an invisible fire
around himself when he slept, through which no witch could pass. And
most powerful of all was the sacred skull of his father. All the people
of the town stood by and stared as Angona delivered to me all these
fetishes; but at last when he went to fetch the skull the women were
warned to flee lest by any mischance the casket might open and they
should see what was inside and die. Angona by this renunciation gained
the reputation of being a particular fool. But he at once began
preaching to the people and before many months there was a class of
sixteen Christians in that town.
As soon as I received this report of Angona’s work I visited the town.
After a brief service at which all the people were present, I asked
whether there were any sick people in the town, and they directed me to
the house of a woman who was recovering from a long illness. While I was
talking to her another woman, one of the Christians, came in and setting
a pot on the ground beside the sick woman, said: “The pot is yours. I am
a Christian. The palaver is finished.”
Another woman arose, and going over to the woman who had brought the
pot, put her arm around her in a half embrace and said:
“Yes, you are a Christian indeed.”
The sick woman had been cared for by the other woman during her illness
and had given her this pot for her kindness. Afterwards, when she was
nearly well she repented and asked for the pot. When it was refused she
gave free rein to a very sharp tongue and roundly cursed the other
woman. The whole community had evidently become involved in the quarrel,
which was becoming more bitter, when this Christian woman suddenly
brought it to an end, as I have told.
A few weeks after this one of my catechists, Amvama, visited Angona’s
town. While there it was recalled by the heathen people of the town that
a party belonging to Amvama’s town, in the days of cannibalism, and many
years before Amvama was born, had killed a man of their tribe and had
devoured him. In Africa, it is considered a great insult to a man to eat
him, an insult also to his friends, such an insult as may never be
forgotten until it is avenged. During the night, while Amvama was
sleeping in Angona’s house, the people, having surrounded the house,
called Angona out and told him they were going to kill Amvama. It would
have been a great loss to the work and a grief to me if they killed him,
for Amvama was one of the best boys in all Africa. The handful of
Christians and their sympathizers, with Angona at their head, replied
that they would lay down their lives in defense of him. The heathen
probably did not expect any such thing; for it is seldom that a town is
divided thus. They usually act as if by one impulse; but Christianity
draws new lines, makes new friends and new foes. The Christian’s friends
are sometimes those of a hostile tribe, while his foes are “they of his
own household.” The Christians, with Angona at their head, gathered
close around Amvama and soon showed that they meant what they had said.
They were few of course as compared with with the heathen; but the
latter were not willing to kill their own people. Before they had time
to plan for action the Christians had escorted Amvama to a canoe and got
him away in safety. The next time I visited that town I had a “war
palaver” with those people. But I was greatly elated over the conduct of
Angona and the handful of Christians whom he had taught.
This boy Amvama, who was rescued from savage bloodthirst in Angona’s
town, was the very first of those African boys whom I gathered around me
in the French Congo and was also with me the day that I left Africa,
nearly six years afterwards. In that time he grew from a small boy to a
young man of probably eighteen years. I used to say that he was the
best-loved boy in Africa.
Amvama never was a heathen. He was born close to Angom, and in his
childhood never even saw the worst forms of heathenism. He was received
into the church by Mr. Marling while he was still a child; altogether
too young, some thought; but the years fully justified Mr. Marling’s
judgment. Among the most impulsive people in the world, Amvama was
peculiarly deliberate and thoughtful. I have seen him in many trying
situations, but I never saw him angry. Among a people who live in the
realm of emotion, Amvama’s distinguishing characteristic was common
sense. In school he was not as quick to learn as many others, but such
was his faithfulness and persistence that in the end he surpassed them
all, and he had a saving sense of humour that always added gaiety to any
company. On one occasion, on a journey up the river, when I was
accompanied by a white man with an extremely bald head—the first that
the crew had ever seen—Amvama caused the natives and one white man to
smile by comparing it to a fresh-laid egg—a comparison that was quite
new in Africa.
In the early days before the _Dorothy_, Amvama was my “boy,” or personal
attendant, when I travelled about in the _Evangeline_. He was always a
cleanly boy, according to Fang ideals, but the Fang ideal leaves
something to be desired. One day, in the _Evangeline_, the crew, after a
long pull at the oars, were eating oranges, of which I had brought a
supply from the orchard at Baraka. I gave them my table-knife to cut
their oranges. While they were still eating I helped myself to an orange
and asked for the knife. It was passed to Amvama who handed it to me;
but, observing that it was dripping with the orange juice, he wiped it
carefully on his bare leg. A short time before I left Africa I told
Amvama of this incident, which he had forgotten. Looking at me in
astonishment he said: “I? Did I do that?”
It seemed incredible to him. In after years he would no more have done
any such thing than a white man.
However sincere the African Christian may be, the knowledge of Christian
morality in minute particulars is a long, slow growth. One day, out on
the bay in the _Evangeline_ and running before a fair wind, we sighted
the sails of a schooner coming towards the harbour but still far out at
sea. Amvama and Captain Makuba disputed as to the name of the schooner.
Makuba became impatient and said to me: “Mr. Milligan, I wish you would
tell Amvama that he must not contradict me; for he is a small boy and I
am an old man.” I had always thought that Makuba was a very young man.
Finally, these two, both of them Christians, and perfectly sincere,
decided to bet on the name of the schooner. The bet was a franc cash and
they asked me to hold the money; whereupon I delivered my sermon on
gambling.
I had hoped that Amvama would be the first ordained minister among the
Fang; but when he was about sixteen the need of catechists became
imperative and I felt compelled to cut off his further education and
send him out into the whitening field of the harvest. This was a great
disappointment. For although he proved himself a faithful and invaluable
worker, he could never be as efficient as if he had had adequate
training, and could never be entirely independent of the missionary’s
supervision.
I placed Amvama in a large town, called _Ndumentanga_, where there were
a number of newly-professed Christians who were eager to be taught. The
work was difficult and trying and he was a young boy and inexperienced;
and, as I have said, had never seen the worst of African heathenism. It
was with strange feelings that I left him in the street of that town one
very dark night when the rain was pouring down,—left him to prove
himself. For four months I did not see him; but I had the fullest report
of his work, and it was most satisfactory. He conducted a daily class
for religious instruction, teaching hymns and catechism and on each
question of the latter giving explanations and practical talks. He also
held a service on Sunday; and, besides, taught a day-school each morning
in which all who desired might learn to read the Bible. He also
regularly visited other towns that were not too far away. It was on one
of these latter visits that he had the narrow escape in Angona’s town.
For the next two years Amvama spent most of his time at Ndumentanga.
Shortly after his first arrival, a man of the town, who had been
visiting another town, returned home very sick. Amvama called on him,
and finding that he and his wife had become Christians while away from
home, he instructed them daily in their house, frequently calling all
the Christians of the town to go with him, and sing and pray with the
sick man. He was with him when he died, seeking to strengthen his faith;
and the people, perhaps for the first time, saw a man die without fear.
Then the heathen wished to open the body, in order to see whether the
man had been bewitched. But Amvama with quiet authority took possession
of the body until it should be given a Christian burial. I marvel that a
young boy was able to hold out against them and induce them to forego
all their heathen rites; but he had won the love and confidence of all
these people. He held a brief service at the house; and when the body
was placed in the grave he called upon the people to be quiet while he
offered a prayer. They all stood by, some in mute astonishment at a
Christian burial service, others laughing and falling against each other
in that weak abandon everywhere characteristic of the very ignorant.
What a scene for an artist! A young boy standing in the midst of a crowd
of carnal and degraded men and women, some of them aged; holding fast to
the things that are spiritual, contending for the reality of those
things that are not seen!
For several years Amvama had been betrothed to a young girl, who died
when he was about seventeen. The dowry, which included all that he had
ever earned, had been paid and the girl was living with Amvama’s mother
until she should be of marriageable age. It is the universal custom
among the Fang that when a girl dies before reaching that age the dowry
paid for her must be returned. So Amvama was entitled to the dowry which
he had paid; and it was the more urgent because there was no dowry for
him anywhere else within sight. But the girl’s people, probably taking
advantage of the fact that Amvama was a Christian, refused to return the
dowry. Such a refusal is always a matter of war.
One evening when he was back at Baraka for a few days, he came to see me
desiring my advice on this matter of the dowry, wishing to know what he
as a Christian ought to do, but not wishing to ask me directly.
Politeness among some African tribes is reduced to a fine art. One of
its chief elements is indirection. I ask a boy whether he will work for
me; and he replies: “Did I say I wouldn’t?”
Sometimes the third person is used instead of the first; one is
occasionally reminded of the French _On dit_.
After an interval of silence Amvama remarked: “Those people ought to pay
me back that dowry.”
I made no reply; and after a pause he said: “Those people are treating
me very badly.”
Another pause, and then: “My people all want to go to war, and there are
five or six towns of my people.”
Another pause, and he said: “I tell you there will be blood spilled!”
At this I spoke and said: “We don’t need the help of your people,
Amvama; you and I will go, ourselves alone, and will kill all the people
of that town. Upon our arrival in the town we will hold a service, and
of course everybody will come, and they will come unarmed. After singing
one or two hymns I will ask you to offer a prayer; and while you are
praying I’ll open fire on the congregation and we’ll make short work of
them.”
He laughed and said: “I only wished to know what you thought.”
“Why, then, did you not ask me?” I said.
He replied: “I think I have been asking you ever since I came in.”
The people would not give back the dowry, and Amvama would not let it
come to a clash of arms; so he surrendered it. But about a year later
his brother (more likely a cousin) died, leaving two wives, who by the
law of inheritance became Amvama’s property. Both of them were eager to
marry him. One of the two was as good a woman as he could have found,
and he afterwards married her. The other he gave, with her consent, to a
cousin who was single.
In the examination of candidates for baptism I had to rely very much
upon Amvama’s judgment in regard to those whom he had taught. In one of
the towns where he had taught there was a young man who had been a
Christian for more than two years and who had attended the classes
faithfully; and yet Amvama did not recommend him for baptism. I asked
him the reason, and he said that there was only one thing against him,
and nothing else; he was lazy—so lazy that he was ridiculed in the whole
town. Amvama said: “He will bring reproach on his religion. And I think
that since his faith enables him to do other things that he did not do
before, it ought also to enable him to do a little work.”
A few months before Amvama left Ndumentanga, war broke out between that
town and a town of the Bifil people, a clan of the Fang who had come but
recently from the far interior and were very savage. A Bifil man had
stolen a woman of Ndumentanga. The old chief, who was a bloodthirsty
heathen, told the town to prepare for war. But he found a rival in
Amvama who advised that they must first make every effort to get the
woman back without shedding blood, which could probably be done through
her father’s influence. Amvama also told them that the fetishes upon
which they were depending for protection were useless.
The chief was disgusted at the suggestion of a peaceful settlement of
the affair, and passionately cried for war; and the people eagerly
responded. The most that Amvama could do was to hold the Christians firm
to their duty. As the chief exhorted Amvama exhorted too, but without
the least passion or excitement. The town was divided between these two:
an old chief, the very embodiment of the heathenism of the past; and the
young boy, representing the future—the authority of a Christ-enlightened
conscience and the power of a Christian life. The heathen went to war;
but the Christians refused to go and so broke with an immemorial custom.
They attacked the town of the Bifil, but the only result was that
several of their own men were killed. The Bifil secured the body of one
of them, and it was reported to me that they followed the interior
custom and cut the body in pieces, sending a piece of it to each of
their towns. If they did this it would be a call to arms. The pieces of
the body would be boiled and eaten, and thus it would become a strong
fetish protection against the enemy. The people of Ndumentanga returned
home from the war with sore hearts and with less faith in their
fetishes.
The war went on more desperately and it became unsafe for Amvama; so I
went after him and brought him back to Baraka. But he returned from the
field of his labours bringing his sheaves with him, in men and women
rescued from degradation and sin, and in the love of many.
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