Congo life and folklore

Failure of various remedies--Witch-doctor engaged--Diagnosing a case--Different “medicine men” are called in--Bakula denounces their trickery--Suspicion of witchcraft falls on Bakula--Native attempts to rid themselves of death, sickness, etc.--Preparing a corpse for the grave--Bakula is accused of bewitching his mother to death--He is guarded by Old Plaited-Beard through the night--He is taken to the hill-top.--He falls and is done to death--Tumbu buries the mangled body of his friend.

A few weeks after the closing of the school, as narrated in the preceding chapter, Bakula’s mother fell seriously ill of a chest complaint. Many remedies were tried, but failed to relieve her. Some neighbourly women sat with her by day and attended her at night, and numberless were the sure cures they recommended; but although applied they proved utterly futile. Her family at last decided, much against the wish of Bakula, to send for the “medicine man” who cures by herbs, fetishes and charms. He was called ngang’a wuka.

As already stated,^[66] each of these various ngangas (and there are nearly sixty different kinds) must find his way to the village and to the house of his client without either guidance or instruction, and he must also discover the disease from which his patient is suffering or the cause of death without asking a single direct question.

In due time the “medicine man” arrived in front of his patient’s house, having reached it by the usual stratagem of his assistant dropping leaves and twigs to indicate the road. He was a stout man with shrewd, quick, shifty eyes, and was dressed in the usual fantastic style, and carried a bag of charms slung from his shoulder. He seated himself outside the sick woman’s house, and a crowd quickly formed a circle round him.

The native “doctor” in diagnosing the case could not ask any direct questions of his patient--in fact she was in the house and he sat outside; but he met that difficulty thus: He asked a series of indirect questions, and when those present said “Ndungu” he knew he was on the wrong tack, and when they replied “Otuama” he knew at once he was guessing rightly, and the more excitedly they called out the latter word the nearer he knew he was to the truth, and the more indifferently they uttered “Ndungu” the farther he understood he was from the real complaint. Hence he started in this way--

“There are such things as backaches and headaches.” “Ndungu,” quietly said the folk.

“Sometimes there are pains in the legs.” “Ndungu,” was very coldly uttered by the crowd. The nganga recognized that he was on the wrong scent; but still he had managed to narrow the circle of affected parts, so he began again.

“There are such things as pains in the arms and thighs.” “Ndungu,” indifferently replied the people.

“Sometimes there are pains in the chest and stomach.” “Otuama,” uttered the poor folk.

He now knew his patient was suffering either from a bad stomach or chest, and he continued to narrow it down in this manner until at last he said: “Ah! her chest is very bad.” The people excitedly shouted, “Otuama,” snapped their fingers, and looked at the nganga with awe-filled eyes.

The “doctor” now knew that his patient’s chest was the seat of the trouble. What are the most common complaints of the chest? Hacking coughs, asthma, bronchitis, pleurisy, and pneumonia. So he started off to discover the particular disease from which the woman was suffering and the part affected. The people coldly said “Ndungu” when he missed his guess, or frantically called out “Otuama”; by this cunning process he narrowed the circle smaller and smaller, until at last, to their astonishment, he said: “The woman is suffering from pleurisy (ntulu) on the right side of the chest.”

The people thought that such a clever man, who had found out all about the disease without being told and without seeing the patient, was just the person to cure the complaint. He was consequently engaged at once and well paid. He made no proper examination of the patient, but took out some of his herbs and charms, and beating them into a paste told them to rub the woman’s chest with the preparation.

After two or three days, Bakula’s mother feeling no better, the family sent to ngang’ a moko. The messenger who went to her, for this witch-doctor is generally a woman, took with him a red bead which he gave to the nganga, who put it under her pillow that she might in a dream discover the cause of her patient’s complaint--whether it is a mere ailment, or a bewitchment by some evil spirit.

The nganga received her fee of one good fowl and fifty brass rods, and that night placed the bead beneath her pillow; but whether she dreamed or not I do not know. However, in the morning she told the messenger that the first “doctor” was unable to effect a cure because some one was bewitching the sick woman, and the family must send for a wizard to kill the evil spirit that was troubling her, and then she would soon recover from her complaint.

When the message was delivered Bakula, who was standing by, at once denounced the cheating trickery of the ngangas, and told how he, with others, had exposed one of these spirit-killing wizards in a certain town. He explained the whole process even to the piece of kwanga wrapped up to imitate a corpse, with the fowl’s bladder of blood inside. The people looked at him with horror-stricken eyes, recoiled from him in terror, and with raised fingers accused him of being a ndoki, or evil spirit, as otherwise he could not have meddled with the nganga and his things and not have suffered for it.

Bakula denied the cruel charge; but from that day he was regarded by the people with unfriendly suspicion, and was shunned by them. But for his slave friend, Tumbu, and his former scholars he would have led a very lonely life.

The spirit-killing witch-doctor was called, and made the night hideous with his shouts, threats, screams and gun-firing. He worked hard at his craft, received his fee and went; but the poor woman still continued ill, and, in fact, became much worse--the pain at her right side was acute, the breathing difficult, and the fever high. Her moaning was continuous, and the women who attended her knew not what to do for her relief. They were unskilled nurses and lacked knowledge rather than the feminine qualities of caring for the sick. There were no foods for invalids, no dainties to tempt a patient’s appetite--the sick had either to eat what the robust and healthy ate or go without. Many patients have died of hunger rather than of the diseases from which they suffered.

The practice of the witch-doctor was sheer quackery, and rested more on the exorcism of evil spirits by magical charms, incantations and concoctions, than on a knowledge of physiology, disease and medicine. The wonder was that any one survived the various treatments, and, in fact, only the fittest and strongest did recover from serious illnesses.

Bakula’s mother continued to grow worse. How he wished they were near the mission station, where she could have the help of those who cured his oil-scalded arm and nursed him so carefully; but the station was too far away! He attended his mother assiduously, and would have done more for her, but the women drove him out of the hut with jeers and curses, after his denouncement of the witch-doctor and their tricks. Poor creatures! they knew no better, they were doing their very best for the patient. They were simply safeguarding her from one whom they thought was full of witchcraft.

Another “doctor” was called, among whose outfit were several traps especially made for catching evil spirits. Having put a little fowl’s blood into each of the traps, he placed them around the doors of the house in which the sick woman was tossing in her efforts to breathe freely. He then pounded some herbs and chalk together, mixed them in palm-wine, and giving the patient this decoction to drink, sat down to watch the entrance of any evil spirit into his traps, disguised as cockroaches or spiders. Although he caught and killed several of the supposed evil spirits, i. e. several spiders and cockroaches, and therefore, according to his statements, the woman would now recover quickly, yet she grew worse.

In their desperation the family sent for yet another wizard who had the power to converse with spirits, and consequently was able to ask them why they were inflicting so bad an illness on the suffering woman! He came with his fetish, and, before locking himself in a house, told the people that they would see the house shake as he talked with the spirits. The family sat around the place listening and watching intently.

In a short time they saw the hut quivering and heard the bitodi fetish speaking and the spirits talking, and the answering voices were male and female, old and young.

After a long consultation between the nganga’s bitodi fetish and the spirits (nkwiya), the wizard came out, and said: “Some member of the family is guilty of breaking the country customs, laughing at ngangas, and throwing his (or her) charms away, consequently this sickness has come as a punishment. This same member has also a ndoki (or evil spirit), and whoever it is must bless the patient so as to remove the evil influence from her.”

Suspicion instantly fell on my owner, Bakula, for who else had broken the country customs but he! Had he not learned to read! Had he not accepted the white man’s palaver, and renounced his charms! Had he not laughed at ngangas and denounced their rites and ceremonies as cheating tricks!

Bakula was dragged into the hut to bless his mother. He solemnly took her right hand and, pretending to spit on it, said: “May you have blessing and good fortune.” Then he was hurried out of the room of his dying mother.

This particular “doctor,” to prove his bona fides, had heated a machet red hot three times, and had drawn it each time across his tongue. What better proof did the natives need than this of the nganga’s magical power to converse with spirits? He received a large fee of more than ten shillings’ worth of trade goods, and went his way, leaving his victim to bear the brunt of the family’s vengeance.

The nganga had not been gone many hours when the woman breathed her last, and poor Bakula was left motherless. His neighbours and relatives eyed his sorrow with contemptuous suspicion, and already began to whisper among themselves that he was the ndoki (or evil spirit) who had caused his own mother’s death. They thoughtlessly disregarded the true affection that the young man had always shown for his mother, his readiness to help her, and his sincere grief now that she was gone. They only considered and repeated to each other what the witch-doctor had said about breaking the country customs, laughing at wizards, and neglecting his charms. They could regard him in no other light than as the real cause of his mother’s illness and death.

For generations they and their forefathers had believed that disease and death were unnatural, and would not exist on the earth for a single day if there were no wickedly-disposed persons who used evil spirits to kill their relatives by incurable diseases. They did not know that their “medicine men” covered their ignorance, quackeries and failures by these charges of witchcraft. If a patient recovered, then they inflated themselves with pride and took all the credit of the cure; but if the patient died, then witchcraft was at work, a ndoki was “eating” up the patient, or by his evil spirit was throttling the spirit of the sick one. Rich men had bought expensive charms, had sacrificed goats and sheep to costly fetishes to keep them strong and alert, to protect their owners from the evil influences of the ndoki, and yet they had died.

Such deaths did not shake their faith in charms and fetishes, but rather stimulated them to more careful observance of all the rites and ceremonies connected with them. They knew no better system than that in which they had been nurtured.

One night when Bakula was sitting around the fire I heard that two men many years ago had started a crusade against fetishes and charms. They preached throughout the Lower Congo that if all fetishes and charms of every kind were destroyed there would be no more disease and death. So effective was their condemnation of witchcraft, charms, and fetishes that whole towns and villages made bonfires of their images and charms, and children were shaken over the fires to purge them from any charms concealed about their person.

The deluded natives expected a golden day would now dawn upon them wherein there would be no sighing, no tears, no weeping, for disease and death would be banished from their huts; but, alas! sickness soon came and death quickly followed to disillusion them of their bright hopes.

The only folk who profited by this crusade were the ngangas, as they received large orders for charms and fetishes to replace those that had been burned. But the preachers were sure of the soundness of their panacea for the country’s woes, and they could only account for its failure by charging some of the people with hiding their charms and fetishes instead of destroying them.

Later still, two other men who were ngangas, calling themselves by some high-sounding titles, started another crusade; this time not against charms and fetishes, but against evil desires and murderous thoughts harboured in the hearts of the people. They proclaimed that every one should confess to them all the witchcraft, hatred, and bad thoughts they had in their hearts against others, and those thus confessing should receive a peanut and a sip of palm-wine, and thus disease and death would pass away from their country.

Large numbers flocked to them, paid their fees--five strings of beads for an adult, and two for a child--confessed their hatred, witchcraft, and evil thoughts, and received from the hands of the new cult of “medicine men” the peanut and palm-wine, and yearningly hoped that sickness had been banished from their district and death destroyed. But again they were quickly undeceived, for disease continued rampant and death entered hut after hut. The “medicine men” reaped a great harvest of beads, swaggered in wealth, and excused the failure of their system by saying “that the people had not confessed all their witchcraft and hatred, and consequently, not being cleansed from all, the old state of things had continued, and people suffered and died as before.”

Thus the people had had their hopes again and again dashed to the ground, and they had been flung back on their old “medicine men” and their fetishes. It has always been a tenet of their religion that sickness and death were and are caused by witchcraft, and the most hated person in all the country is he (or she) who, by the ordeal, is proved to practise witchcraft. Hold their views, and the tenderest heart will hate and kill the witch as mercilessly as they did.

There is no doubt but that the ngangas received bribes to render the ordeal non-effective; that the big men of the town incited the ordinary folk to bring charges of witchcraft against their enemies, or those whom they wanted removed from their path; and the witch-doctors themselves, by the aid of their assistants, fostered and turned suspicion against those who desired to introduce a new and better state of things into the country. Their position and gains depended on killing off all such dangerous people. Hence the ordeal and the charge of witchcraft were often simply acts of murder, according to the customs of the country if you like, but nevertheless murder.

The whole of the morning following the death of Bakula’s mother was spent in decorating the corpse for burial. Beads were twisted round the toes, feet, legs, body, arms, hands, fingers and neck, thus enswathing the whole of the deceased in a casing of glass beads. Fold after fold of trade cloths of different colours and qualities were wound round and round the body until it was nearly twice its original bulk. At sunset the corpse was carried to the grave, just outside the town, and laid to rest with the hum of town life on one side, and the weird, uncanny noises of the eternal bush on the other; but the soul had gone to that mysterious spirit town in the great forest where it would utilize all the cloth and beads in which it had been wrapped.

All through the day women had wailed and chanted mournful dirges, men had fired off guns amid much laughter and many jokes, and Bakula, with tearful eyes, had talked in subdued tones to his slave friend.

He had often, in the days gone by, conversed with his mother about the white man’s palaver concerning God and His great gift of Jesus Christ. He had poured out his heart to her, had instructed her in all that he had learned on the station, and had repeated to her portions of God’s Word.

He now recalled the eagerness with which she had heard the words: “God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son”; and, “In My Father’s house are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you”; and he was hopeful of meeting her, not in the mysterious forest town that had so many terrors for them, and which was simply a repetition of their earthly life and its sorrows, but in the Father’s house where all tears would be wiped away from their eyes, all sin banished from their lives, and all sorrow from their hearts. He grieved not as one without hope.

Not many days after the funeral the witch-finder arrived, dressed in his fantastic garb, his body decorated with gaudy paints and pigments, and his bells tinkling at every movement. A crowd quickly gathered and formed itself into a long oval, up and down the centre of which he danced. The whole town, with few exceptions, regarded Bakula as a witch, and the prancing figure there in the middle knew it. Still, he must give his employers something for their money, so through the whole long hours of the afternoon he gyrated perspiringly, threw his arms and legs about in the most approved fashion, put question after question and elicited such answers as confirmed his opinion that it would be extremely popular and safe to charge this ridiculer of witch-doctors, this scorner of fetishes and charms, this believer in the new religion with the death of his mother--the woman who had just died.

Bakula was present throughout the whole performance. Hour after hour he stood calmly there. As a member of the family he was compelled to be present; but he took no part in answering the crafty questions put by the grotesque figure dancing before him.

Towards the latter part of the afternoon he noticed that the people were withdrawing from him; they seemed to shun the spot where he stood, all except his faithful slave friend. He trembled as he observed these signs of popular resentment, for he fully recognized their meaning.

Towards sunset the witch-doctor increased his efforts to the admiration of the spectators. He leaped in the air, gyrated on his heels, flung his arms and legs about in amazing circles, crouched and jumped, undulated his body to simulate a python, and in a whirlwind of shaking skins, twirling arms and legs, and sounding bells he brought himself to a sudden halt in front of Bakula, and with raised finger accused him of bewitching his mother to death.

Poor Bakula! although he had fully expected this charge, he was dumbfounded now he stood accused before all the people. He essayed to speak, but no words issued from his parched, dry throat, and he would have fallen if Tumbu had not supported him in his strong arms.

Why had they accused him of killing his mother by witchcraft? Accused him of her death! It was ridiculous, cruel, wicked! Surely no Congo mother had ever before been loved by a son as she had been loved! The very teaching he had imbibed had taught him to honour, reverence and love his parents. If he had lied, robbed, lived a loose life and treated his mother with contemptuous indifference like other young men in the town, he would not have stood there charged with killing his mother by witchcraft.

The crowd surged around him. What ugly, sinister faces were pushed jeeringly into his! Sticks were raised and knives drawn to strike down the witch; but Satu pushed himself in front of the victim, and demanded that he should not be killed until the ordeal test had been given him.

“He will escape in the night to the white man’s station,” they shouted.

“No, he won’t,” said Old Plaited-Beard, “for I will bind him strongly and watch him through the night, if you will hand him over to me.”

This met with the instant approval of the crowd, and Bakula was handed over to the guardianship of his superstitious and merciless enemy.

Old Plaited-Beard, with the help of a few friends, took the accused youth to his hut, and with strong cords bound his hands, feet and legs. No tenderness was displayed in the tying; that the cords cut into the flesh was regarded by the tiers with utter unconcern.

To render escape doubly impossible the prisoner’s neck was securely fastened in a forked stick.

All through the long night the men took it in turns to watch Bakula, who, by reason of his strained position and tortured limbs, had no proper sleep, but dozed fitfully in painful semi-consciousness. Now and again he sang in a poor quavering voice the hymns he had learned on the station and had taught his few boys in their little school; occasionally he prayed for strength and comfort, and once he attempted to speak to his captors about the great Saviour--God’s wonderful gift to the world.

It was not until they threatened to ram a lighted stick into his mouth--and held one very near to his lips to emphasize their threat--that he turned from them to sing: “Jesus, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly.”

Early the next afternoon Bakula was released from his bonds, and led away to the top of a neighbouring hill. The rude hut was quickly built, and the victim placed in it with extended arms. The ordeal-giver ground the pieces of bark into powder, and fed the young man with them. Before he had taken many of the powders Bakula began to feel intoxicated by their narcotic properties. He swayed to and fro like a drunken man, his vision became blurred, foam came from his mouth, and at last he fell a writhing heap on the ground. Sticks and knives immediately finished the cruel, murderous deed, and the corpse, naked, battered and covered with gaping wounds, was left a prey to wild beasts and ravenous birds.

Again the stars arose and looked with blinking, sorrowful gaze on that tragic hill-top--the scene of many an ordeal murder, and as they looked they saw a strange sight: coming across the hill was a lad carrying a hoe. He carefully scanned every boulder, tuft of grass and shrub, and at last his eyes fell on the body of the lifeless lad. With a cry he bounded to its side and sank prostrate to the ground, and grovelled in heart-stricken sorrow by the side of his murdered friend.

When his grief had somewhat spent itself Tumbu arose and began to dig a grave for the body of his admired benefactor. It was a fearsome place, strewn with bones--the remnants of many trials by ordeal; and weird noises, trying to the stoutest heart, came on the night air from the near forest. Tumbu started many a time during his self-imposed task, and fear gripped his heart more than once; but he steadied himself by driving his hoe deeply into the earth, and working hard to save the body of his kind friend from the cruel, sharp teeth of savage beasts.

At last the grave was deep enough, and then Tumbu, spreading some cloth he had brought for the purpose, laid the body of his friend upon it; but before wrapping it around him he took the Brass Rod from Bakula’s neck, intending to keep it as a memento of his slain friend.

Tenderly were the remains laid in the grave, and the earth covered all that was left of my whilom companion and martyred owner.

Mikula while digging the foundations for a brick house discovers me--The town is changed--There is daily worship--Observance of the sabbath--Sunday service--Collections for support of teachers--Christian funeral--Visit to the mission station--Teaching teachers--Martyrs for the cause.

[Fifteen years are supposed to have elapsed between the concealment and the unearthing of the Brass Rod.

The preceding part of this narrative unfolds the prejudices, superstitions and evil practices rife on the Congo thirty years ago, while the following chapters indicate the progress that has been made in christianizing the people and leading them to higher and better things.]

After burying Bakula on that sad night, Tumbu carried me back to his hut; but being afraid to wear me lest he should be accused of robbing a dead body, he secretly polished me, and, wrapping me in an old rag, concealed me beneath the earth in a corner of his house, hoping no doubt some day, when all fear of detection had passed away, to take me out and wear me in memory of his friend.

How long I lay buried I know not; but my finder was a sturdily built, pleasant-faced young man whose name I heard later was Mikula. When he had rubbed me clean of all my accumulated dirt, and found that I was good solid brass, he well polished my sides and wound me in graceful rings round his wrist.

I discovered afterwards that my new owner was digging the foundations of a brick house when he happened upon me. Mikula had been taught on the mission station, and had learned there, among other things, the arts of brickmaking and bricklaying, and now he had returned to his home he was busy building a brick house into which he hoped to bring his future wife. He had already made and burnt several thousands of bricks, and was hurrying forward the building of the walls so as to roof in the house before the rainy season commenced.

What a change had passed over the town! I scarcely recognized it for the same place. Here and there were comfortable brick houses, a few plank ones, and many others of wattle and daub nicely colour-washed, while the grass huts were larger and very neatly made. And as Mikula walked through the town that evening I noticed that many of the homes were lighted either with candles or lamps, and families--father, mother and children--were sitting around one common table partaking together of their food; those families that could not afford artificial light sat together round their fires.

Occasionally we came upon some who maintained the old state of things--broken up families, the male and female members of which still sat and ate their food apart from each other.

At six o’clock every morning a small bell rang out, calling the natives to morning prayers before they started their daily employments. Mikula, who was a deacon of the Church, had charge of the religious work in his own town, and performed voluntarily the duties of a pastor of the Church and teacher of the school.

About a hundred men, women and young people gathered every morning for worship--a hymn was sung, a portion of the New Testament was read and commented on, a short prayer was offered either by Mikula or one of the Christians, and another hymn brought the simple service to a close. After that the women went to their farms and the men to their various occupations. Who can measure the influence such services exerted over the lives of the folk who attended them? Their horizon was no longer confined to the trivial affairs of their former mean lives, but extended to the boundless reaches of heaven and God’s own eternity; their thoughts no longer grovelled in the trough of lustful desires and evil passions, but were lifted to higher, purer and more spiritual concerns; and their aims were no longer wholly selfish--set on attaining many women and much wealth,--but they gave their time, energy and money that their heathen neighbours might enjoy the same blessings that had come into their lives, and had transformed them, by a wondrous alchemy, from base metal to beautiful gold.

On Sundays the Christians refrained from farm work, visiting the markets, trading, and any other form of labour that would desecrate the Lord’s day; and a large number of those who were not professing Christians also observed the day; but there were still many who clung to the old state of things, who farmed, toiled and traded on that day as though they had never heard of a day of rest.

During the Sabbath afternoon the bell rang out, and more than three hundred natives attended the service which was held in a large brick building that had been raised and paid for by the native Christians themselves. What a pride they seemed to take in their "House of God"! The walls were colour-washed and decorated with pictures of the life of Christ; the doors and windows, which were of native carpentry, were nicely painted, and the roof was of corrugated iron sheets that they had bought with their own hard-earned money. There stood their “House of God” on the finest site, in the very heart of the town.

What a contrast to Bakula’s little grass school-chapel that had been so ruthlessly destroyed by some of the very people who had laboured to erect this new building! Yet the latter, and all it stood for, was the outcome of the former.

That Sunday was a Communion day--the first sabbath of the month. Mikula, as deacon-pastor, took the service. Native Christians living in the surrounding villages had walked to this centre to take the Communion. The meetings in their own villages had been postponed, and, headed by their teachers, some of them had marched across hills and dales, forded streams and waded swamps to be present at that service.

Many of them had walked from five to nine hours from the more distant parts of their district. They were in earnest, and expecting a blessing they did not return disappointed. The building was not large enough to contain all who attended, so the overflow sat round the windows and doors that they might share in the service.

How heartily they sang! What prayers they offered--not wholly for themselves, but also for their neighbours that they too might be saved. How attentively they listened to Mikula’s teaching, on “Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.” They were an agricultural people, and knew the truthfulness of the lessons their teacher enforced with eloquent directness, and wealth of illustration taken from their own daily work on the farms.

The first service over, those who were not in Church membership left to make room for those who had come so far to take the Communion. Soon the place was full again, and Mikula, assisted by the teachers, dispensed the bread and the cup. Close upon two hundred that afternoon commemorated the death of their Lord and Saviour.

During the former service the usual collection had been made, and at the close of the Communion Service the teachers from the various towns handed over to the deacons the amounts that had been received at the gatherings during the previous month. Every Church member was expected to give according to his or her ability for the support of the native teachers who prosecuted the local missionary work. And the gifts from the different towns and villages were recorded in the deacons’ books, and the offerings of the Church members were written in the diaries Sunday by Sunday by the teachers in charge.

Apparently, from what I heard, two things have been recognized from the beginning by the white men who founded the work at the various centres: (1) that Congo is too big a land for white men only to evangelize, hence the need for an ever-increasing supply of native teachers and preachers; and (2) that if you want a person to appreciate anything, let them pay for it, for what costs nothing is very soon valued at about the same price--nothing; hence every member of the native Church has been taught to give freely and generously for the propagation of the gospel among the villages. No native Christian is financially bettered by joining the Church; but it costs him or her something every week to be a member. These gifts are the expression of their appreciation of what Christ has done for them.

I would that Bakula could have attended that Communion Service. He would have felt well repaid for all his toil, anxieties, disappointments and death. And who shall say that his spirit was not hovering over and witnessing the wondrous sight? How I should have liked to have asked about Old Plaited-Beard, Satu, Tumbu and many another, but the natives were very reticent in speaking about their dead.

I recognized among the communicants some who had been taught by Bakula in the old school hut. Of course they were grown into young men, and a few of them were married and had children toddling about their knees.

Two or three weeks after the Communion described above, a message was brought to Mikula that an old man, a member of the Church, had just died, and would he go and bury him. Mikula fully recognized that this was one of his duties as a deacon of the Church, and readily promised to conduct the service on the afternoon of the next day.

On arriving in the village of the deceased man, Mikula went straight to the house of mourning, and spoke a few kindly, comforting words to the widow who was weeping silently by the corpse of her lost one. A few young men picked up the body and carried it reverently to the little chapel.

It was an unpretentious building of wattle and daub, colour-washed and clean--a house of comfort and strength, a place of worship to the few souls in that village who professed the Christian faith. In front of the small platform the body was laid, and over it were spread some palm-fronds--symbols of joy and victory.

Mikula conducted a simple service, and spoke with much tenderness and force to the heathen present, on “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.” They listened attentively, and more than one man dated his conversion to that address. At the grave a hymn of triumph was sung, and then the poor wasted body was laid to rest with these beautiful words as its shroud: “Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

No drunken orgies, no dissipated feasts, no sensual dances accompanied this funeral; neither was it followed by any smelling out of witches, nor charges of witchcraft, nor giving of the ordeal, nor the leaving on some neighbouring hill-top the stabbed body of a murdered man. Death was now dressed in another garb, wore a different aspect, for it was now regarded not as the result of malignant witchcraft, but the call of the Father to His child to occupy one of the places in the many mansions. Consequently there were no howls of rage, no wails of despair, no sinister threats of vengeance over the body of the deceased, but the palm-fronds, the hymns, the promise of a sure and certain resurrection, and the assurance that the absent one was present with the Lord--the dead had received eternal life.

Mikula hurried forward the completion of his house, as he desired to visit the station for the week of special teaching periodically arranged for teachers, deacons and Christian workers. Soon after we started on the road we were joined at different points by teachers and deacons whose faces, like my owner’s, were turned towards their Jerusalem--the Mission Station.

We arrived on Saturday afternoon, and were cordially welcomed by the white men, not one of whom I recognized as being on the station when Bakula lived there. I heard that some of them had died and were buried on the hillside overlooking a quiet peaceful valley, and others broken by health, had been compelled to leave the country; but whether dead or sick, their work was being prosecuted with zeal by those who had taken their places.

The foundations so well and truly laid were now receiving the superstructure, the cornerstone of which was Christ. Other men had laboured, and these had entered into their labours; would they not all rejoice together when the topstone was placed amid the shouts of men and angels?

The lessons began in earnest on Monday morning, and for the next five days the teachers and others present received five hours a day of special instruction in such subjects as would help them in their work as teachers and leaders of the people--sermon-making, pastoral theology, Church history, hygiene, astronomy, geography, and a thorough study of one of the Gospels. Each attendant had his exercise-book, and opportunities were given for taking copious notes. These afterwards became the bases of many of the addresses they delivered to their people in the numerous little chapels dotted about the districts.

There were early morning prayer-meetings, the usual morning services, and public meetings on two or three evenings during the week. Between the lectures the teachers discussed with the white man who had charge of their particular district the peculiar difficulties of their spheres of labour, and sought counsel and guidance on knotty biblical, doctrinal, or other questions.

It was a busy time for all, white and native teachers alike; but it was of untold value to the latter, and undoubtedly exerted a great and beneficial influence on their life and labours. On the Sunday following the week of lectures, the Communion was taken; and the teachers returned strengthened, mentally and spiritually, to their work.

On Monday morning my owner, Mikula, bought a supply of various simple medicines to take back to his town, and he also asked for and received some slates, pencils, and reading-books to meet the demands of his numerous scholars. By noon he and the others had said “Good-bye” to their friends, white and black, and were on the road again with their faces turned homewards. Mikula moved with a buoyant step, for his heart was light and happy. His work as a deacon, teacher and preacher had received the commendation of his white man; and he was returning home to be married--to take to his house, which had cost him so much time, thought and labour, the girl of his choice, one who had been taught on the station, was a member of the Church, and sympathized with him in all his work.

During the evening, while we were sitting round the fire, the conversation turned on the days when much superstitious opposition and prejudice existed against the Christian religion, and witch-doctors and their followers exerted their combined forces to crush it. Mikula told of one zealous teacher he knew who travelled the country proclaiming God’s message of salvation, who was seen to enter a town, but was never known to leave it. False and misleading reports were spread concerning him; but after a long period the truth came to light: the evangelist went into the said town to preach, the people seized him, hurried him down the long slope to the river, fastened a great stone to his neck, and, hurling him from the rocks, drowned him in the rushing waters.

“A few months ago,” said one of the teachers sitting round the fire, “the people in a town I visited caught me and tied me with my arms extended on a cross in mockery of my Master; then they placed me for hours out in the broiling sun, so that my mouth and throat became parched and dry like the bottom of a saucepan. As the sun went down they set me free, and we have a teacher and some Christians now in that town, for they were astonished to hear me praying for them instead of abusing them.”

“Have you heard what happened some months ago in the district next to ours?” asked another. “An evangelist went into a town, and the natives took him and stretched him on a cross in imitation of our Saviour, and then, spearing him, they cut off his head and flung his body into the bush. Christ suffered much for our salvation, and it is to be expected that we shall have to suffer a little for Him.”

As they sat there round the fire two or three engaged in prayer, and singing softly their evening hymn--“Jesus, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly,” they rolled themselves in their blankets, and there in the open around their fires they stretched themselves in sleep.

A Christian wedding--Grateful offerings--Christianity a great boon to the women--Reunion--Various meetings--Lady missionaries conduct services--Auction sale of the gifts--Changed lives--Mikula instructs a stranger in the way of salvation--Rules for candidates and for Church fellowship.

A few days after Mikula’s return he was married to the young woman for whom he had built the brick house. In honour of the occasion the church was prettily decorated with flowers, long streamers of vine-like branches and palm-fronds. A bower was made by arching some palm-fronds, and beneath this were placed two chairs, tied together, symbolical of the future state of those who were to sit upon them.

The town was all agog with the excitement of the event, every seat and standing place was occupied, and the doors and windows were crowded with black but smiling faces.

This was the first time that a deacon-teacher had been married in their town, and as the bride-groom was much honoured by Christians and heathen alike for his happy, kindly, obliging disposition and straightforward, consistent life among them, they had come in large numbers to his wedding.

The bride was arrayed in a clean muslin dress of a bright but pretty pattern--the gift of her white lady teacher as a recognition of her helpful work among the girls during her stay upon the station. The bridegroom was dressed in a nice blue loin cloth and white jacket, the latter being the work of one of his neighbours who was expert with the needle.

A fellow deacon had come from a neighbouring town to perform the ceremony. A marriage hymn was sung and was followed by two teachers asking for God’s blessing on those about to be married; then the deacon read a translation of the marriage service, during which the bride and bridegroom took each other’s hand and solemnly pledged themselves to one another until death. Another hymn and prayer, and the benediction concluded the simple but impressive service.

No sooner did the newly wedded pair emerge from the church than they were greeted with cheers, shouts and a salvo of guns. Their progress home took the form of a triumphal procession, all the folk vying with each other in their expressions of pleasure, their exclamations of goodwill, and the guns banged with such tremendous reports of jubilation that it was a wonder they did not burst their sides.

Mikula invited his friends to a great feast of pig and cassava-flour puddings, washed down with copious draughts of water, tea and coffee. There was no wine, no drunkenness, and no debauchery; but a happy merry-making that left no bad “after palavers,” and no unpleasant headaches.

About three or four months after the marriage the native Christians in Mikula’s town and district were very busy in preparing their harvest thanksgiving offerings. Many of the women had hoed extra patches of peanuts and cassava gardens, the crops from which, when matured, they sold on the markets, and the proceeds were given to Mikula for the coming festival. Mats, baskets and saucepans were made and sold for the same purpose. The men also put by a certain portion of their “trade,” and devoted the result to the same object. Others laid aside pieces of cloth, hats, umbrellas and various other articles to take with them as their gifts.

Mikula carefully noted all the moneys he received, and everybody concerned was looking forward with eager interest to the arrival of the letter that would inform them of the date of the coming religious fête.

At last the messenger arrived, the day was proclaimed, and those members of the Church and their friends (for everybody--Christian and non-Christian--was welcome to this festival) prepared their baskets of food, their offerings, their children and their clothes for the great event. As they travelled up to the station they met other contingents coming from various districts, near and far. They chatted about the news, compared their gifts, and the teachers and deacons consulted and talked over the progress of “God’s palaver” at the different centres of work.

Oh! wonder of wonders; the men helped the women in carrying the babies and the loads of food, etc. A kindly service they never rendered in the old days, for then the men swaggered along unencumbered, left their women to trudge after them as best they could with all the impedimenta on their backs, heads and in their arms--poor beasts of burden.

This Christian religion had certainly wrought a great change for the better in the condition of the women. Instead of being treated with contempt as inferiors, they were respected as equals; instead of receiving the leavings of the men, they now sat at the same table to eat with them; instead of being regarded as mere chattels to be borrowed and loaned, ill-treated, cursed and killed, they were cherished as wives; and instead of being mere children-bearing, farm-making, food-cooking animals, they were now the companions of their husbands and the sharers of their sorrows and joys.

It was early on Saturday afternoon when we arrived on the station. There across the entrance to the ground was a red banner with these letters in white on it: “TUKAIYISI” (= Welcome); and that was not the only welcome our party received. The white men and their wives greeted us very heartily, and showed us houses, and loaned us mats for our use during our stay. The women quickly gathered about their lady teachers, and questions, kindly inquiries, and answers were the order of the day. My owner, Mikula, recognized, greeted and conversed with many of the young men who were lads at school with him in the old days.

What a happy reunion! How longingly anticipated, and how fully appreciated! Faces were missed there that were now present in the cool glades that border the River of Life; and some few were absent, because, through heinous sin, they had been cut off from the Church, and were ashamed to show themselves at this Christian festival of gladness and thanksgiving.

One white man had decorated the church with palm-fronds, plantain-trees, festoons of creepers, flowers and flags. The station had been thoroughly swept, the flags streamed from the apex of the church to the ground. Another white man was looking after the comfort of the numerous visitors, allotting to them their sleeping-places, mats, and utensils for fetching water and cooking food. A third was receiving the numerous gifts, noting the names of the donors and districts, and arranging the offerings in front and around the platform.

What a miscellaneous assortment of gifts was there! Heaps of pumpkin seeds and peanuts; numerous bunches of plantains and bananas; a pile of oranges; pieces of cloth of various colours and qualities; umbrellas, eggs, glasses, fowls, rabbits, parcels of native tobacco, mats--plain and ornamented, kwanga loaves of native bread, pumpkins, calabashes, bundles of native greens, tomatoes, garden eggs, boxes of gun-caps, tins of gunpowder, and bottles of kerosene. Those who could not give garden produce or pieces of cloth presented mugs, plates, wash-hand basins, saucepans of native make, and European enamel-ware; those who had come too far to carry their offerings in kind, had sold them on the local markets and brought the results of such sales in francs and brass rods. Native tailors, who had made jackets, dresses and cloths ready for wearing, presented them as their share.