Chapter XI: Satu visits the White Man

Bakula goes to the white man to have his wound dressed--White man puts
in a good word for the traders--Bakula is touched by the white man’s
kindness--A native dance--An exhibition of native pride--A long talk
with the white man--We gain many new ideas from our
conversation--Bakula has another interview with the white man, and
they become good friends.

The next morning the sun rose with clear-eyed brightness, oblivious of all that had occurred during his absence through the night, for he and the moon never approach near enough to each other to exchange confidences. Notwithstanding the sun’s obliviousness, the results of the night’s debauchery were evident in all who had taken part in it. Some ate monkey peppers, others bits of kola-nuts as pick-me-ups, and others took a plunge bath in the nearest stream; but headaches, wounds and bruises were not easily removed by such means.

WATHEN: THE DISPENSARY. [_Rev. J. H.
Weeks._]

WATHEN: THE BOYS’ QUARTERS.
_Bricks made by schoolboys and buildings erected by old school lads._
]

During the afternoon those who had smarting cuts went shamefacedly to the white man to have them bandaged with his soothing ointments, and among those who went was Bakula. He thought the white man would not know him in his “dress costume”; but I saw that the white man recognized him at once, though he said nothing at the time.

The white man carefully dressed the wounds, and then asked them how they came by them.

“We don’t know,” they answered, “for we got madly drunk last night on gin and rum, then we had a fight and cut each other. We were too stupidly intoxicated to remember which one cut the other, and who started the quarrel.”

“I am sorry the traders sell you such vile stuff. It maddens you when you drink it, and it is the chief cause among you of a great amount of sickness, and of a large number of the fights that occur between your towns and villages,” quietly and sadly replied the white man.

“Yes,” they asserted in chorus, “the traders are all as bad as the things they sell us.”

“No, they are not all bad,” sharply answered the white man, “and neither are all the articles they sell bad. You can buy from them good cloth for covering yourselves, blankets to keep you warm in the cold season, nails and tools for building your houses, soap, candles, saucepans, tins of provisions, and many other things that are good, and help to make your lives comfortable.”

“That is so,” they assented, “but when our heads ache with the bad gin, we forget the many good articles we can buy of them.”

“I know many of those traders,” continued the white man, “who hate selling gin and rum to you, and wish a law[33] could be enforced to stop all trade in them; but you are such fools, and will buy drink; and there is so large a profit on it that their masters in Mputu make them sell it to you.[34] Some of the traders are very good men, and perform many acts of kindness to you black people. Do your wives throw away all the pumpkins in their farms because a few have maggots in them?”

Footnote 33:

See note 28, p. 349.

Footnote 34:

See note 29, p. 350.

“No, of course not,” they sheepishly replied; “our wives throw only the rotten ones away.”

“Well,” rejoined the white man, “do not speak ill of all the traders because some cheat and rob you; nor condemn all their goods because they sell these accursed fiery waters that turn your towns into pandemoniums, and you into beasts and fiends. Buy the good articles they have, and let the bad ones alone.”

Bakula was astonished that the white man had not accused him of striking at his outstretched, friendly hand. He was in a quandary. Did the white man recognize him or not? Or was he simply waiting his opportunity to punish him for what he was now heartily ashamed? He was fearful lest the latter was the explanation, and he had almost made up his mind to put the matter to the test, and ask the white man; but just then the drums began to beat, and hurriedly taking farewell of their friend who had so patiently dressed their wounds and given them good counsel, they ran back to the chief’s courtyard.

To the native there is something electrical, moving, exhilarating about the beat of a native drum. Directly he hears it his body begins to twitch and sway to and fro in rhythm to the beat, a smile spreads over his face, weariness is forgotten, dull care is thrown to the winds, and he is soon shuffling round the circle, or has taken his place in the line, clapping his hands, and singing a chorus in admirable time.

Bakula and his townsmen were no exception, for even now in their running they kept step to the beat of the drum. On their arrival they took their place in the line of male dancers. The particular dance to the fore was called “Sala.” A medium drum was used, and the formation was in two lines, one of each sex. This dance was characterized by a rapid shaking of the whole body; and during it they made up songs about one another, causing endless amusement by their pointed remarks, innuendoes, and by-play.

While the dance was in progress a member of Tonzeka’s town went over to the drum, and by beating on it carried on a conversation such as the following, asking questions and replying to them himself.

“Welcome to you, chief Satu. Are you quite well?”

“I am quite well,” replies the drummer.

“Have you come a long way?”

“Yes, my town is very far away.”

“Are you very rich?”

“Yes, I have plenty of wives, slaves, pigs, goats, cloth and money. I am so wealthy that I really don’t know how rich I am. I don’t know what to do with my money. It fills my bags, boxes and houses.”

“Have you much with you?”

“Yes, my pouches and bundles are full.”

“Give me some of it, as you are so rich.”

And foolish Satu, flattered by this pretended conversation out of his usual caution, and in the vanity and pride of the moment, handed over some thirty shillings’ worth of brass rods. Gratified by the largesse the drummer beat away and sang a recitative in praise of Satu’s generosity, and the object of all this by-play sat swelling with self-complacency.

No sooner did the first drummer drop the drum than Bakula darted forward, and with laughing eyes and skilful hands beat out a conversation in fulsome praise of Tonzeka; his riches, his prowess in war, his unstinted hospitality--all received their full meed of wheedling adulation, and at last came the expected request: “As you are so rich, so great, so generous a man, give me some of your money.”

And poor, cajoled Tonzeka had to pass over thirty-five shillings’ worth of brass rods, for it would never have done not to surpass his visitor, Satu.

Bakula went to share his spoils with some friends; and another man took the drum and tapped out flatteries about the different head men with varying success, until he received what he considered a very mean present.

Then the disappointed drummer rapped out a song on stinginess so bitingly sarcastic that sharp words were bandied about from side to side, and what began as an amusing dance ended in a _mêlée_ that engendered bad blood between the persons concerned for many a day.

As soon as the noise had quieted down, Tonzeka offered to take his visitor to see the white man, but through an indefinable fear Satu shrank from going in the broad daylight, and promised to accept the invitation after the evening meal. So at the appointed time Tonzeka called Satu, and together they walked over to the white man’s quarters, followed by a large number of people.

The white man had heard of the proposed visit, and with the help of boxes and rugs had prepared seats for the coming visitors.

Satu, however, before trusting himself to the improvised chair, lifted the rug, shook the box to test its stability, and then gingerly took his seat. There was more than a rumour afloat that the King of Congo had murdered his mother by inviting her to sit on a mat which gave way beneath her. It had precipitated her, it was said, into a carefully prepared hole, and directly the wretched woman disappeared, the unnatural son ordered her to be buried alive.

The white man was fully conscious of Satu’s implied distrust, but said nothing; and Tonzeka pompously introduced Satu and some of the head men who had accompanied him.

During the speech Satu sat uneasily on his seat, casting furtive glances at the slim, kindly-faced white man before him. After all he did not look so terrible that a whole town should go frantic with fear of him.

When Tonzeka had concluded his speech the white man replied: “I am so glad to see Satu, for I have often heard of him, and a few weeks ago I went to visit him, but through some silly prejudice he would not give me hospitality, and sent me and my people to sleep in the damp with the mosquitoes at the bottom of his hill. Since then I have heard that some of his people wanted to kill me, but he would not let them;” and leaning forward he took Satu’s hand in his, and said: “I thank you very much for not only saving my life, but the lives of those who were with me. There was a lad who struck at my outstretched hand. This afternoon he came for medicine for a bad cut on his arm, thinking I did not know him. There he is, standing with the firelight full on his face. Will he not shake hands and be friends?”

And, rising, the white man went with outstretched hand to Bakula, who with much trepidation put his hand nervously into the very hand at which he had so cruelly aimed a heavy blow. In broken sentences Bakula begged forgiveness, which was freely given.

Everybody now felt thoroughly at home with each other, especially when Satu had cordially invited the white man to visit him, promising better hospitality next time; and the white man heartily accepted the invitation, promising, on his part, to come soon. Then came a long series of questions about Mputu (the countries of the white man); and while the white man told them of the great houses with many rooms, the innumerable streets, the broad roads, the trams, horses, and the size of the cities and towns, the audience sat with wide-eyed astonishment, broken only by the snapping of fingers and exclamations of surprise.

At last one boy put their thoughts into words by asking if the white man was speaking the truth; because, said he: “We have always believed that you white folk live underneath the sea.”

“Why do you think that?” laughingly asked the white man.

“For two very good reasons,” asserted the boy, rather aggressively. He did not like being laughed at before all the others, for he was only stating what they all believed.

“State your reasons,” said the white man kindly, for he saw that the boy was hurt by his laughter.

Encouraged thus, the boy said: "When we stand on the shore at Ambrezette, or at any other of the trading-stations on the sea-coast, we see the ships come in, and what do we notice first? Not the big part of the ship at the bottom (the hull), but the stick at the top (the mast), and when the ship has discharged all its goods on the beach, and filled up again with palm-oil, rubber, ivory, palm-kernels and peanuts, it goes away, and the part that we see last is the topmost post. Of course it comes up out of the sea. That is why we first notice the top of the ‘stick,’ and it goes down into the sea; that is why the top of the ‘stick’ is last seen."

“Yes, that is very good! What is your second reason?” asked the white man.

“The second reason is this: all we people who live on the earth have curly hair; but all you white folk, because you live under the sea, have straight hair. That is because the action of the water has taken all the curl out of your hair.”

The white man with much difficulty suppressed his laughter, and proceeded to give them a simple lesson on the rotundity of the earth. They had all seen eclipses of the moon, and starting from that fact, and using his candle and various articles on the table as his apparatus, he tried to show them that only round objects threw round shadows on the wall of the adjacent house. They were interested, and pretended to be convinced, but how many of them went to bed that night still believing in the flatness of the earth he never knew.

Then came a series of questions, not prompted by impertinence, but by a healthy and natural curiosity. Questions such as: “Is there plenty of food in your country? How many wives have you in Mputu? Were you once as little as our babies? Have you a mother, father, brothers and sisters? Did they turn you out of your country because you are a bad man? How do you make matches? Who makes the cloth and the different articles we see in the traders’ stores? How do you make candles, soap, boots, and from what are they made? Why are you white and we black?” The white man patiently answered these questions to the best of his ability; but I noticed that whenever possible he worked his answers round to God’s palaver--he told them how a thing was made, that they themselves could make it, and would, by this time, have found out how to make it, only their witch-doctors taught them that anything new, anything out of the ordinary, anything that showed skill, was the result of witchcraft, and hence they killed off their wise and clever men; and lastly, "God’s palaver, when it enters the heart, sets them free from all their superstitious fear of the _ngangas_, and gives true wisdom and guidance."

It was now far into the night, and Satu was about to rise when the white man said: “It is very late, and I have attempted to answer your many questions. Now I am going to ask you all as a favour to stay while we have prayers.”

Satu very courteously thanked the white man for taking so much trouble and for telling them so many wonderful things. They would willingly stay to prayers and listen while the white man talked to God; but “Excuse us now, we are tired, and must go to sleep.” The white man looked sadly disappointed, but bade us “to go and sleep well.”

As we were returning to our quarters some one asked Satu: “Why did you not stay for prayers?”

“I was afraid the white man’s God would bewitch me; or that the white man himself might do so,” answered Satu. That night Bakula could not sleep, but frequently I heard him murmur: “He dressed my wound with the same hand I tried to strike.”

During the next morning Bakula and a few of the young men went to greet the white man, whom they found busy washing and dressing sores, and dispensing medicine to the sick. Bakula shyly went forward to have his wound dressed, and when it was finished the white man asked his name; but Bakula, filled with fear, gave his Santu name[35]--Dom Pedro. “No, I don’t want your Santu,” said the white man, “but your proper name. Do you still distrust me? Never mind, tell me when you know me better.”

Footnote 35:

See note 30, p. 350.

“I will tell you now,” he replied. “I will not doubt you any more. My name is Bakula.”

When the white man had finished his medical work we all sat down for another talk, and I noticed that Bakula sat very close to his white friend’s chair, and hesitatingly he put the following question: “You tell us your country is very beautiful; that there is plenty to eat; that your parents and brothers and sisters are living there; that you were not turned out for being a bad man. Why, therefore, have you come to this country, with its rough roads, its swamps, and its fevers?”

Then the white man unfolded before Bakula and his companions the wonderful story of Jesus Christ, from the time He left heaven on His mission of Redemption, until He returned to heaven the Author of eternal salvation. The audience listened attentively to this delightfully strange story, and Bakula, looking up, exclaimed in surprised tones--

“Why, Jesus Christ was just like you! He left all for us, the same as you have done.”

The white man was strangely and deeply moved as he replied--

“No, Jesus Christ did not copy me, but I try day by day to imitate Him. It is for His sake, Bakula, that I forgave you, and have tried to return good for evil, love for hate, and am willing to die that you all may hear and believe in His great salvation.”

After a little more conversation they separated, Bakula and his friends returning to their huts solemnized, for a time, by what they had seen and heard; and the white man, calling a few of his lads, went, with his medicines and his message of God’s love, to spend a few hours in a neighbouring village.