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Title: Bokwala: The Story of a Congo Victim

Author: Congo resident

Author of introduction, etc.: H. Grattan Guinness

Release date: February 10, 2022 [eBook #67371]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: The Religious Tract Society, 1910

Credits: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOKWALA: THE STORY OF A CONGO VICTIM ***





                                BOKWALA
                      THE STORY OF A CONGO VICTIM


                                   BY
                            A CONGO RESIDENT

                           WITH A PREFACE BY
                       H. GRATTAN GUINNESS, M.D.


                                 LONDON
                      THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
            4 BOUVERIE ST. & 65 ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD, E.C.
                                  1910








PREFACE


Having personally visited the Upper Congo in the days preceding the
establishment of the notorious rubber régime, and being intimately
acquainted with the conditions of native life which then obtained, I
have watched with profoundest pity and indignation the development of
Congo slavery. Old-time conditions of savage barbarity were awful, but
it has been reserved for so-called “Christian Civilisation” to
introduce the system of atrocious oppression and hopeless despair under
which, during the last fifteen years, millions of helpless natives have
perished directly or indirectly, for whose protection Great Britain and
the United States of America have special responsibility before God and
men.

It is particularly appropriate that in this moment of Congo crisis
these pages should render articulate the voice of a Congo victim.
Bokwala tells his own story, thanks to the clever and sympathetic
interpretation of a gifted and experienced resident on the Congo. And a
touching story it is, told with admirable directness and simplicity,
truthfulness and restraint.

I heartily commend the book to all who are interested in the greatest
humanitarian issue which has appealed to us during the last thirty
years, and to those also who as yet know little or nothing of the Congo
Iniquity.


    H. GRATTAN GUINNESS, M.D.

    Acting-Director of The Regions Beyond Missionary Union.

    Harley House, Bow, London, E.








O Lord, how long shall I cry, and Thou wilt not hear! even cry unto
Thee out of violence, and Thou wilt not save!

Why dost Thou shew me iniquity, and cause me to behold grievance? for
spoiling and violence are before me: and there are that raise up strife
and contention.

Therefore the law is slacked, and judgment doth never go forth: for the
wicked doth compass about the righteous, therefore wrong judgment
proceedeth.



Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look on
iniquity: wherefore lookest Thou on them that deal treacherously, and
holdest Thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is more
righteous than he?

                                               Habakkuk i. 2, 3, 4, 13.








FOREWORD


This story of Bokwala, a Congo victim, has been written in the belief
that it will help the friends of the Congo native to see something of
how Congo affairs appear when looked at from the standpoint of those
whom they most nearly concern in their actual working, i.e., the Congo
natives themselves.

Bokwala’s story is the truth, and nothing but the truth. The whole
truth, however, is written only in tears and blood wrung from the
unfortunate people who are subjects of such treatment as is described
in this book. Even if it were written with pen and ink, it could not be
printed or circulated generally. No extreme case has been chosen, the
story told has none of the very worst elements of Congo life in it; it
is the life which has been lived by hundreds and thousands of Congo
natives, and in great measure is being lived by them to-day.

Now in July, 1909, while these words are being written, wrongs are
taking place; men and women are being imprisoned for shortage in food
taxes; messengers of white men are threatening, abusing, and striking
innocent villagers; and constant demands are being made upon the people
who find it impossible to supply such except at great expense to
themselves, which they do not hesitate to incur rather than be tied up
and go to prison.

Changes there have been in the name and personnel of the
administration: but no change in the system. We who live here and see
what takes place pray that you at home may stand firm and not for one
moment think that the battle is won. It is not won yet; and will not be
until we see the changes actually worked out by reformers here on the
Congo as surely as you see the proposals and promises of them on paper
in Europe.

If what is here recorded helps to bring about that happy state of
things one day sooner than it would otherwise come, surely readers and
writer will unite in praise to Him who alone is able to bring it to
pass.


    A CONGO RESIDENT.








CONTENTS


                                                                   PAGE

PREFACE BY DR. H. GRATTAN GUINNESS                                    5

FOREWORD                                                              9


CHAPTER I

HOW WE ONCE LIVED                                                    15

    My early days—Life at home—How we fared—Work and play—Our one fear,
    the cannibals—Iseankótó’s warning—We despise it—We are captured by
    cannibals—The journey—A horrible meal—The cannibal village reached.


CHAPTER II

I AM A CANNIBAL’S SLAVE                                              26

    In the cannibal village—Before the council—Our fate—Desire to
    please my master—How I succeeded—Our fears and their
    justification—A sad company—Siene’s murder—The boy who lied—The
    ordeal by poison—Village strife—The human peace-offering—The
    haunting dread—Rumours of the white men—A fright—Makweke’s
    peril—How he escaped—We plan flight—The start—The chase—A near
    thing—The river reached—Over, and at home again.


CHAPTER III

THE COMING OF BOKAKALA                                               46

    At home again—I choose a wife—How I went courting—And was
    married—My visits to the white men—They talk of “one Jesus”—The
    other white man, Bokakala—He wants rubber—We are eager to get
    it—How rubber was collected—The rubber market—“We did not know.”


CHAPTER IV

THE BEGINNING OF SORROWS                                             55

    The coming of more white men—A change in our treatment—Things go
    from bad to worse—I get tired of collecting rubber—And stay at
    home—The white man’s anger and threats—I go to a palaver—My rubber
    is short—I am whipped—The white man’s new plan—Forest guards—Their
    oppression and greed—We report them to the white man—Results—But
    the worst not yet.


CHAPTER V

OPPRESSION, SHAME, AND TORTURE                                       62

    My new slavery—How our villagers fared at home—The white man’s
    meat—How it was got—The white men of God and their pity—How the
    women were enslaved—Feeding the idle—Endeavours to evade
    oppression—Results—How would you like our conditions?—Forest
    work—Its hardships—The day of reckoning—Back to the village and
    home—An ominous silence—A sad discovery—Redeeming our wives—An
    offending villager—A poor victim—A ghastly punishment—The woman’s
    death—Another village—The monkey hunters—The old man who stayed at
    home—How he was tortured—No redress.


CHAPTER VI

SOME HORRORS OF OUR LOT                                              74

    Our work grows harder—I consult the white man of God—A strange
    contrast—My plea unavailing—My rubber short—I am sent to the
    prison—The captives—Their work and their punishments—The sick—The
    new-born babe—The dead and their burial—The suspected—How they were
    tortured—The steamer—The rubber chief—The prison opened—A
    procession of spectres—The place of the dead—For a time peace—Work
    for the man of God—How we fared—My reward—I wish to go home.


CHAPTER VII

BACK TO SLAVERY                                                      88

    My welcome at home—My respite and its end—The forest sentry—The
    little boy—My father’s appeal and its result—I intervene—The
    sentry’s revenge—A rubber slave once more—I appeal to the man of
    God—Disappointment—“Nothing but rubber till I die!”—The hopeless
    toil—The coming of the pestilence—The witch-doctor’s medicine—The
    desolation—But still the rubber!


CHAPTER VIII

OTHER CHANGES. HOPE DEFERRED                                         98

    A change of labour—We become hunters—A new demand—And new
    difficulties—Failure—The sentry’s demand—The old men’s
    plea—Murder—We tell the men of God—And complain to the rubber
    man—The white chief—The things written in a book—And no remedy
    comes—Hunting again—The English visitor—The white woman—Results of
    making complaints—The sentries’ threats—The one way of
    escape—“Better to be with the hunters than the hunted”—Another
    sorrow—The sleeping-sickness—“Just a little while, and they die”—We
    cry to the white people.


CHAPTER IX

THE ELDERS OF EUROPE                                                112

    More white men from Europe—Fears and curiosity—The white men
    inquire about us—We tell them of our state—And our oppressors—The
    knotted strings and their story—“These things are bad”—The white
    man’s promises—Better times—Soon ended—Rubber again—The old
    toil—The men of the river—The demands on the villages—The chiefs in
    power—Chiefs and the sentries—The death wail and the white man—“We
    are very poor.”


CHAPTER X

THINGS WE WANT TO KNOW                                              121

    My story is finished—The past and the present—Why are these things
    so?—The old days—Now we are white men’s slaves—How long will it
    last?—We are dying—Our only rest is death—How long, how long?








BOKWALA


CHAPTER I

HOW WE ONCE LIVED

    My early days—Life at home—How we fared—Work and play—Our one fear,
    the cannibals—Iseankótó’s warning—We despise it—We are captured by
    cannibals—The journey—A horrible meal—The cannibal village reached.


I have heard that there are many white people in Europe, both men and
women, who feel compassion for us black men, and who would, if they
knew more about us, take pity on us and save us from our sorrows and
trials. So I am going to tell the story of my life, that they may know
and help us.

Long, long ago I was born in the village of Ekaka, and having lived so
long I have seen many things, and who is better able to tell them than
I? We have great controversy with the white people about our ages: they
say I am about thirty years old, but of course I know better; and I say
that I am about three thousand years old—which shows that white men do
not know everything.

My name is Bokwala, a slave. I do not know why my father and mother
named me so; for I was a freeborn child. But afterwards I became a
slave in truth, as I shall tell you, so then it suited me well.

We lived all together very happily in my father’s compound. He was the
chief of Ekaka, and had great authority; he had but to give an order,
and at once the people would hurry to execute it. His own name was
Mboyo, but he was always called Isek’okwala, after me, and in the same
way my mother was called Yek’okwala. It is one of our customs to call
the parents “father” or “mother” of Bokwala, or whatever the name of
the child may be.

My mother was my father’s favourite wife, but, being a chief, he had
several others, and necessarily our compound was a large one.

In the centre of one side of a large open space was the chief’s own
house, and next to it the open house for talking palavers, feasting,
&c. Then there were the houses of the women, one for each wife, where
she lived with her own children, and other houses for slaves. As we
boys grew older we built houses for ourselves in our father’s compound,
and in time it grew to be almost like a small village.

Those were good days, as far as we ourselves were concerned. We were
free to do as we liked; if we quarrelled, we fought it out, and the
strongest won; if we wanted meat or fish, we went to hunt in the
forest, or to fish on the river, and soon had a plentiful supply; and
in our gardens there was always as much vegetable food as we needed.

Sometimes the women had quarrels amongst themselves, and then we had no
peace for a time. They talked and talked, and scolded each other from
morning till night, and almost from night till morning, and there was
no sleep for any of us. Not even my father could put an end to these
rows: for the time being the women were masters of the situation and of
him. You see, the women provide us men with food, and if they are angry
with a man they starve him, therefore what can he do? He justs waits,
and by and by their anger is finished, and a time of peace ensues, and
possibly a feast.

I will tell you how we passed our days in the time of my childhood.
Every one rose with the sun, for our people do not think it good to
sleep late, and it did not take long to eat our morning meal of
manioca, and anything which had been kept over from the night before.

Then we began to scatter, some of the women to the large manioca
gardens at some distance in the forest, and others to fish in the
river. Sometimes they went fishing for a day only, at other times for
as long as a month. The length of time and the kind of fishing depends
on the season, whether the water is high or low, and what sort of fish
are plentiful. Some of the men and boys would go out to hunt with their
nets and spears, others would be busy making nets, canoes, paddles, and
cooking utensils, or doing smithy work, making spears, knives, or
ornaments for the women. The chief and elders of the village would
gather in the large shed and talk palavers, hear and tell news, smoke
and chat all day long.

We children would fish, go for picnics in the near forest, bathe in the
river, play games, quarrel and fight and make it up again, and return
to our play until we felt hungry, when we made our way homewards to
seek our mothers.

Towards evening, when the sun was slipping down, the men would come in
from the hunt, and the women from the gardens, from woodcutting in the
forest, and water-drawing at the springs, and then the cooking would
begin. All round us were women chatting, and little girls running
errands and helping them in various ways.

Some of the women would be making tökö (native bread) from the steeped
manioca they had just brought from the river, and they were busy with
pestle and mortar, pots and calabashes. Others were making banganju, a
kind of pottage made of manioca leaves, palm nuts, and red peppers, and
yet others preparing bosaka, or palm-oil chop.

The animals killed in the hunt were first taken to my father to be
divided by him, and soon the portions were given round to the women to
be cooked, while we youngsters sat about waiting, talked and feasted on
the appetising smells emitted from the various boiling pots.

My mother sat and talked with my father; she did no cooking, as she was
the favourite wife, and the others cooked for her. In the fruit season
we might add our quota to the feast in the form of rubber and other
fruits, or even caterpillars or palmerworms, and these were greatly
enjoyed by all.

When the food was ready the women brought it in hand-baskets to my
father, who first helped himself to his share, and passed some to any
visitors who might be with him, then he gave the rest to his wives, and
each in turn divided it amongst her own children. The slaves were
treated much the same as children when food was served out, they
received their share.

We had no plates or spoons then, as some of our people who work for the
white men now have, leaves served for plates, and twisted into a scoop
did equally well for spoons. The chief possessed his own carved ivory
spoon, worked from a solid elephant’s tusk, but that was taboo for any
but himself. Nowadays we may not work ivory for ourselves, we have to
take it to the white men.

As soon as we had all finished eating, and drinking spring water, some
of us carefully gathered up all the leaves which we had used, and the
peelings and cuttings of the food, and threw them away in the forest,
lest some evil-disposed person should get hold of them and by means of
them bewitch us. We are all very much afraid of witchcraft, unless we
ourselves practise it; then, of course, it is for others to fear us.

The meal finished and cleared away, and the leavings tied up to the
roof to be served again to-morrow morning, we all gathered round the
fires and the old men told stories of their prowess in hunting or in
war, or retold to us young ones some of the legends and fables of our
ancestors of long ago. Sometimes, on rare occasions, my father would
sing to us the legend of Lianza, the ancient warrior and hero of our
race. This story takes a long time to tell, and at frequent intervals
the whole company would join in singing the choruses, with clapping of
hands and great excitement.

This lasted far into the night. And sometimes when the moon shone
brightly we would sing and dance and play games, which we enjoyed
greatly at the time, although they were not good games, and we
generally had to suffer for them afterwards. On the following morning
many of us were sick, our heads ached, and we were fit for nothing.

We do not play these games so much now as we used to.

There was just one thing we were always afraid of in those days, and
that was an attack from our enemies who lived on the other side of the
river. They were very bad people, so wicked that they even eat men whom
they have killed in battle, or slaves whom they have taken prisoners or
bought for the purpose. They were at that time much stronger than we
were, and when they attacked us we always got the worst of it. So we
dreaded them very much, more even than the wild animals of the forest.

On a certain evening we were sitting talking after having finished our
evening meal, and we began to make plans for a fishing expedition to
the marsh near the river, and finally decided to start on the next day.

We slept that night at home, and were awake betimes in the morning
ready for an early start.

There was a very old man in our village named Iseankótó, or the Father
of Discernment. He had been a strong man and possessed great fame; but
that was in the past, and now we did not pay much heed to his sayings.
He called us together as soon as we were awake, and told us of a very
vivid dream he had had during the night.

It was this. We went to fish just as we had planned, but while we were
there the cannibals came, attacked and overpowered us, and we were all
either killed or taken prisoners. He besought us to lay aside our plans
and stay at home that day, as he was certain that the dream was a
warning to be disregarded at our peril.

We were self-willed, however, and would not listen to advice, but
rather ridiculed the warnings of old Iseankótó.

“It is only a dream,” we said; “who cares for dreams?” and snatching a
few mouthfuls of food we set off merrily, making fun of the old man as
we went. What fools we were! And how we blamed ourselves and each other
afterwards!

Down the hill we went towards the river, singing, shouting, and
skipping along, heedless of the danger into which we were running.
Having reached the bottom of the hill, we made our way along the forest
path which skirts the river bank, and ere long came to the place we had
decided on visiting.

Very soon we scattered and commenced work, and were just rejoicing to
find that the fish were plentiful and we were likely to have a good lot
to take home with us at night, when we were suddenly startled by a
rustling in the bush close to us.

Before we had time to realise what had happened, we were surrounded by
numbers of fierce cannibal warriors who had been in hiding, waiting for
a chance to pounce upon some defenceless party of a weaker tribe.

We tried to fight them, but being almost without arms, we had no chance
against these men who had come prepared for battle, and we were
completely at their mercy. One or two slaves who went with us were
killed, but the women and we boys and girls were tied together with
strong creepers and taken prisoners.

Our captors gathered up the corpses of the men they had killed, and
compelled some of our number to carry them, and then we were ordered to
march off with them. We kept a sharp look out for any opportunity to
escape, but this was impossible as we were too well watched. We were
taken across the river and away into the forest, in the depth of which
we encamped just before the sun went down.

During all that night we lay awake, weeping for our homes and friends,
and more for ourselves, watching our enemies prepare fires, cut up the
corpses of our friends, cook, and afterwards eat them; for to those
people we are but nyáma (meat); and all the time we feared even to
speak, lest we also should be deemed fit morsels for their evening
meal.

Early the next morning we were on the road again, and at last towards
evening we arrived at Bosomo, the village of our captors, footsore and
weary, and faint for want of food.

Everything was strange to us. We could not even understand the language
which we heard spoken, but we could guess that inquiries were being
made as to the success of the expedition, and that we were being
examined and scrutinised from head to foot as to our usefulness either
as servants or as food.

Some manioca was given to us by the women, and we were put all together
in a large open shed, while some warriors acted as sentries lest we
should escape. But there was no danger of that just then, we were far
too tired, and in spite of our misery were soon fast asleep.








CHAPTER II

I AM A CANNIBAL’S SLAVE

    In the cannibal village—Before the council—Our fate—Desire to
    please my master—How I succeeded—Our fears and their
    justification—A sad company—Siene’s murder—The boy who lied—The
    ordeal by poison—Village strife—The human peace-offering—The
    haunting dread—Rumours of the white men—A fright—Makweke’s
    peril—How he escaped—We plan flight—The start—The chase—A near
    thing—The river reached—Over, and at home again.


When we awoke it was to find the sun already shining, for after the
fight and long walk, in addition to the much talking of the night
before, our new masters were as weary as ourselves.

It was not long, however, before the whole village was astir and the
morning meal eaten. We were glad to eat the manioca which had been
given us the previous night, because now that we had rested we felt the
pangs of hunger. Needless to say, we watched the people furtively to
see what they did and what kind of mood they were in.

We were surprised and amused to see that they washed their hands and
faces in the dew which was on the plantain leaves, whilst they were
also very particular about their teeth. We, of course, clean our teeth;
but if one rubs his body occasionally with oil and camwood powder
surely he has no need of water! It only spoils the effect.

When they had finished their ablutions and taken their food the chief
and elders of the town gathered together in council, and after a little
while we were brought before them. There was much talk, which I could
not understand, but as it was evident that they were deciding our fate
we stood there in fear and trembling, not knowing but what some of us
might be chosen to furnish another feast for them. Finally it was
decided that we should be kept in slavery, and we were divided up
between the different elders of the town, the chief keeping me and
three others as his share of the spoil. And so my name, Bokwala
(slave), became true of me and I entered on my life as a slave to the
cannibals.

I felt so strange amongst all these people whose language I could not
understand, and yet I found that I was expected to enter on my duties
at once. Although I had great anger in my heart towards my captors, yet
in one way I desired to please them, because by so doing I hoped to
make sure of a better time for myself than I should have otherwise. So
I set myself to find out what was meant even when I could not
understand their words.

When the sun began to slip down a little I noticed that the women
commenced to get their fires ready for cooking the evening meal. The
wife of my master pointed to me and then to her fire, and was evidently
making some request of him which concerned me. He assented and turning
to me said, “Dua na epundu.”

I knew he was giving me an order, and immediately rose to obey; but
what did he want? I went into the house and looked round and soon spied
an axe. Of course, the woman wanted firewood, and in order to get that
one needed an axe. So probably “Dua na epundu” meant “Bring the axe.” I
picked it up and carried it to my master, who was apparently pleased,
for he patted me on the head and said, “Mwana mbai, mwana mbai” (“My
child”).

Then, pointing with his lips to the forest, he said, “Ke a lene desa”
(“Go and cut firewood”).

I had expected that order, so was ready to set off at once, repeating
over and over the few words I had learned, in turn with my own
language, so that I should not forget them:—

“Dua na epundu, yela liswa;” “dua na epundu, yela liswa,” I said over
and over again, until I felt sure of the words. Then, while I was
cutting the wood, “Ke a lene desa, Nco yo tena nkui;” “Ke a lene desa,
Nco yo tena nkui;” and before long I found that I had enough wood to
fill my basket, so I set off for the village, and was again rewarded by
a pat on the head and the words, “Mwana mbai, mwana mbai!”

While I was in the forest cutting wood the hunters had come back and
brought some animals with them, so I found every one busy preparing
meat for cooking. I, with the other children, sat down and watched,
when suddenly one of the women turned to me and said, “Dua na mune.”

I sprang up and rushed into the house, but what I had been sent for I
could not think. I sat on the ground and wondered, and again I sent my
eyes round the little hut. Ah! that is it! oil, of course. They have
plenty of meat, and are going to make palm-oil chop. I seized the
calabash of oil from under the bed, and ran with it to the woman who
had sent me, and was received with a chorus of “Bia! bia!” (“Just so”),
and for the third time received the old chief’s pat on the head, and
heard the words, “Mwana mbai!”

I began to feel a little less strange, and to listen for other words,
for I had already found that the way to please these people was to be
bright and do my best. I found that they called nyáma (meat), tito;
bauta (oil), mune; ngoya (mother), ngwao, and fafa (father), sango, and
I was just trying to learn these words well so as to remember them
afterwards, when the chief called to me, “Bokwala!”

“Em’óne” (“I am here”), said I, in my own language, for I knew not how
else to answer.

“Dua na yeka dia,” said he, beckoning me to their group, who were
gathered round to take their evening meal, which was just being served.
I drew near, and received my share of food, and so I learnt some more
words, which meant, “Come and eat food.”

I began to think that my master did not seem a bad sort of man after
all, and that perhaps I might get used to my life there; but then I
could not help remembering the fight, and that only two nights before
these people had been feasting off my people, and would do so again
when they had an opportunity, and I went to sleep that night with my
mind made up that if ever I could see the least chance to do so, I
would escape, even if it had to be alone.

Many days and nights passed in this way, we slaves having to do all
kinds of work and being sent on errands continually, sometimes even
being told to mind the little children when the mothers went to their
gardens. Of course, we looked upon all this as oppression, and felt
great shame, for we boys frequently had to do women’s work, and what
can be more degrading than that? And I could never forget that I was
the son of a chief!

As we learnt more of their language, and began to understand what was
said in our presence, we found that there was plenty of reason for fear
as to our future, even though we had been kept alive for the present.

When our people were spoken of it was as tito (meat), and fighting
expeditions were looked upon as hunts. It was quite usual to ratify
agreements between chiefs by the killing of a slave and feasting on the
body, and this was even done sometimes when a chief wanted to pay
special honour to a visitor. And when we heard these things being
discussed and plans being laid for them, we trembled with fear, and
wondered how long we should be all there together.

We had not much time to ourselves, for we were kept continually busy,
and we dared not talk together very much, because some of the natives
of the village could understand our words, but now and again, out in
the forest or at night, we were able to tell each other how we were
getting on, and to condole with one another over our misfortunes.

Now my master discovered that I was good at climbing and at catching
bats, so when the bat season came on he often sent me into the forest
to search for some. One day I went out on such a quest and did not
return until evening. I took the bats I had caught to the chief, and
afterwards went off to the shed where my companions were sitting.

They all seemed very quiet, and scarcely gave me a welcome, and this
was unusual, especially when I brought meat in from the forest. I threw
myself down amongst them, and looking round the group I missed Siene, a
little girl slave with whom I was on very good terms.

“Where is Siene?” I asked of the others.

“O Bokwala,” answered one, “do not ask, we do not want to tell you.”

“But I want to know. Is she ill? Or has she escaped?” I inquired,
thinking the latter hardly possible for a girl alone.

“Bokwala,” said one, beckoning me to follow him, “come.”

I followed him to an open space at the end of one of the huts, and
pointing to the ground, he said to me, “Look there; that is all that is
left of Siene.”

I looked and started back. Could it be? Yes, it was only too true—that
dark stain on the ground was blood. And little by little I heard the
whole terrible story. The chief had visitors, and he determined on a
feast in their honour, and as a dainty morsel was indispensable, he
decided to kill and serve up the body of my little girl friend. It was
on that very spot where we stood that the deed had been committed. And
that dark stain was all that was left of my friend!

That night I was drunk with anger, and so were the other boys. There
was no one but us boys and girls to weep for Siene, but we wept until
we wept ourselves to sleep for sorrow; sorrow not only for her, but for
ourselves as well; for we knew not how soon we might be treated in the
same way.

Time passed on, and we grew more and more accustomed to our
surroundings, and as we boys proved useful to our masters, we had a
certain amount of liberty, and went to fish and hunt frequently, but
always for the benefit of our respective masters—nothing we caught was
reckoned as our own property.

And we were not always in favour. If anything was lost or stolen, we
were accused of the deed; if we failed to obey or understand, we were
beaten or punished in some other way; and if one of us was found to
have lied, we had to pay the price, which was sometimes a heavy one.

One boy who told his master a lie was found out, and the master with
one slash of his knife cut the boy’s ear off, cooked it over the fire,
and compelled the slave to eat it. That was a bad master, they were not
all like that.

One way of punishing us was by rubbing red peppers into our eyes, and
another by cutting little slits in the skin over our shoulders and
backs where we could not reach, and rubbing pepper into the sores thus
made. They hoped by this means not only to punish us, but to harden us,
and make of us brave men who would not flinch at pain.

In the case of accusations of stealing, the most popular way of
settling the affair was by the poison ordeal. That was a very frequent
occurrence in those days, and still is in parts where the white men do
not visit often. It was like this. All the people gathered together,
and the chief, witch-doctor, and headmen seated themselves to hear the
trial. The persons concerned gave their evidence, and the accused was
allowed to make his defence; but if he were a slave, of what use was
it? Then the evidence would be summed up, and the decision given that
the poison ordeal be administered.

The bark was brought and scraped, then mixed with water, and the
draught given to the prisoner. We always took it willingly, for we all
believed that it revealed the truth, and therefore were obliged to
stand or fall by it. After it was drunk in the presence of the people,
all waited eagerly for the result. If the prisoner vomited, and was
none the worse, of course he had been falsely accused; if, on the other
hand, he fell and died, there was proof positive of his guilt. What
could any one want more decisive than that?

Occasionally there were fights between different villages near to us,
as well as the warlike expeditions to other tribes. When two villages
had been fighting for a long time, and neither could win or was willing
to give in, it was generally settled by a peace-offering. At such a
time we slaves went in fear of our lives, for it was almost certain
that a slave would be hanged as a peace-offering, and possibly his
corpse would be eaten afterwards.

With all these fears surrounding us, and never feeling sure of our
lives for a single day—no matter how kind some of the people might be
to us—you will not be surprised to hear that whenever we got together
and could talk a little our conversation always turned to the subject
of our escape from slavery. But so far as we could see there was no
possibility of getting away.

About this time we began to hear rumours of some strange people who had
paid a visit to a village not far from my father’s place, Ekaka. They
were said to be white—men like us but with white skins—and they came in
a canoe which went of itself, having no paddlers, but emitting smoke
from the roof.

At first we laughed and thought it was just a yarn, simply a made-up
story; but the rumours became frequent, and we heard that some of the
people had actually bought some land and settled down on it. We could
not understand about them, so we concluded that they must be the
children of Lianza, the great warrior hero of our race, who went down
river ages ago and never returned. But these things did not trouble me,
for what chance had I ever to get back to my father’s place, or see
these people?

One day we had a great fright. A neighbouring chief came with his
slaves and children and the elders of his village to visit my master.
There was the usual salutation and a little gossip, and then he began
to tell his business. He had been settling an affair between himself
and another chief, and it fell to his share to provide the feast of
ratification, and naturally he wished to do it well.

Now he had no suitable slave to kill for the occasion, which was
unfortunate, so he had come to his friend to see if he could help him
out of this serious difficulty by selling him a slave.

“No,” said my master, “I cannot help you; I have no one to sell.”

Then there was much talking and pleading. “You have so many slaves in
your village, do let us have one, even if only a little one.”

But for some time he held out, and refused to sell, and we who were
listening began to hope that we were safe for this time at any rate,
until at last we heard the words, “Well, take my wife’s boy: he is
small and not of much use to me. Take Makweke.”

Makweke was a little lad whom the chief had given to his wife to look
after her two baby girls, of whom they were both very fond. The woman
liked Makweke and was kind to him, and not having a boy of her own she
treated him better than most of the slaves. So when she heard her
husband’s words she whispered to the boy to run and hide, and told him
of a safe hiding-place.

Away he went into the bush, and we sat down and waited.

Soon the chief called, “Makweke, dua pelepele” (“Come quickly”), but
receiving no answer he called again.

Then his wife answered, “Makweke is not here; he was, but has gone.”

“Call him,” said the chief; “I want him here.”

The woman answered, “I cannot call him; if you want him you must search
for him yourself.”

So, receiving the chief’s permission, the people rushed out and
searched for Makweke in the houses and all over the village, then in
the gardens at the back, but they found no trace of him. Into the
forest they went and hunted in every direction, beating the bushes with
sticks, and peering up into the big trees, trying to discover his
hiding-place; but it was all in vain. The search failed, and they
returned to their own village in great anger at being thwarted in their
plans.

But I must tell you of Makweke. He ran off to a little distance,
climbed a tree, and let himself down into the hollow trunk—the
hiding-place of which he had been told. There he was safe, but he could
hear the noise and shoutings of the people who were searching for him
getting nearer and nearer, until at last they reached his tree, halted,
beat the bushes under it and the lower branches with their sticks, and
then—what relief!—passed on.

He told us afterwards that he was so scared he hardly dared breathe,
and although he knew they could not see him, he trembled with fear as
long as they were near.

Late at night, after the visitors had left, his mistress took some food
out to him, and told him to remain there until the morning, when
probably her husband’s anger would be finished. Then he might come back
to the village. He did so, and the affair passed without further
trouble.

All this decided us that we would not remain in such a place of danger
a day longer than we could help. I was older now, and had grown big and
strong, and once across the river I knew that a warm welcome would be
accorded to me and any who went with me. Our only fear was of recapture
before we could reach the river, but we all felt it was worth risking,
so from that time we began in dead earnest to look out for an
opportunity of running away.

Not so very long after the chief and some of his people went to pay a
visit and remained over night. All was quiet in the village, and no one
troubled about us boys, so in the dense darkness of a moonless night we
gathered together.

Hastily we made our plans, picked up the little food we had saved from
our evening meal, grasped our hunting spears and knives, and slipped
away into the bush at the back of the village. We went very
stealthily—nya-nya, like a leopard when he is stalking his prey—scared
at every sound, starting at the snapping of a twig, the call of a
night-bird or the whistle of an insect.

On and on we pressed, not daring to speak to each other, lest we might
betray our whereabouts to some unfriendly native, or one who was
friendly to our masters, scarcely able to see the path, for the moon
had not yet risen, scratching ourselves as we passed thorny bushes,
treading on sticks and roots of trees projecting from the ground—and
still on—what mattered wounds or weariness if at last we reached the
river and liberty?

We made good progress during the first few hours, and were not much
afraid of pursuit, as our flight would not be discovered until morning;
but by and by some of our party (which consisted of a man and his wife
with a little child as well as three of us boys) began to get weary,
and it was necessary that we should get away from the main road, lest
we should be overtaken. So we turned off into a side road, and at a
little distance from it we found a large fallen tree which made a good
hiding-place. There we lay down and slept for some time, one of us
taking turns at watching and listening.

In the morning we were startled by hearing voices not far off, and as
we listened we recognised them as belonging to natives of the village
we had left. Yes, they had awakened to find us gone; and now a search
party was out scouring the forest in every direction for signs of us.
We dared not move nor speak, and how anxious we were that the child
should not cry! Nearer and nearer came the voices till they sounded
almost close at hand, and then they receded gradually, and at last died
away in the distance. We were nearly caught, but not quite!

After waiting for some time, we went out to look round, and on the main
road we traced the footprints of our pursuers distinctly; they had
passed our footpath by, and so we escaped recapture. From now onwards
we had to keep to bypaths, sometimes cutting our way through dense
forest, spending our nights under fallen trees or on the ground, hungry
and weary; but in spite of all our difficulties we reached the river
bank at last.

We were still far from home, but once on the other bank we would at
least be safe from pursuit. Our people have a proverb, “Nta fendaka
ntandu la mposa e’ola”—that is, “You cannot cross the river by means of
a thirst for home.” This is certainly a true saying, so we had to seek
for a canoe to take us over. One of our party set out along the bank to
see if there were any moored there, as people often go out fishing and
leave their canoes with no one to look after them. This was our hope,
and it was fulfilled.

Not far away was found a canoe with paddles in it, and no sign of the
owners. We determined to watch it until sundown, and then, if no one
appeared, to take it and set out. For the remainder of that day we
rested, and sought for some food to stay our hunger. How we rejoiced to
find some edible caterpillars, which were delicious, and made us feel
stronger for our night’s work! Just as the darkness was coming on, when
you cannot tell one man from another, we crept along the bank, stepped
into the canoe, grasped the paddles, and silently pushed off into the
stream.

We boys were delighted to be on the river again, and we did paddle! But
had any people been about we might have lost everything even then, for
the woman who came with us had been born on that side of the river, and
had never been on the water in her life. She sat down in the bottom,
clasping her child, and trembling with fear. Every time the canoe gave
a lurch she would utter a little half-suppressed scream, and say, “Na
gwa! Na kwe bona?” (“I am dying. What shall I do?”). We could not help
laughing at her, but it did no good, she was really very much afraid.
We got safely over, tied the canoe to the bank, and left it for the
owners to find as best they might, and plunged once more into the
forest.

Now that we were on the safe side of the river we did not need to be so
careful about keeping away from the roads; we only hid if we heard
voices, not knowing to whom they might belong. Two more nights were
passed in the thick forest, and two more days we spent walking on, just
managing to keep alive by eating fruit, roots, caterpillars, or
anything we could find that was edible. When we were nearing home we
again heard voices not far off.

We listened. Yes, I recognised them. They were people from my father’s
village. Accosting them, we made inquiries about our friends, and were
glad to find that all was well.

On we pressed with renewed energy, and towards evening we arrived in
the village, worn out with anxiety, exhausted from want of food, and
ready to drop with weariness; but how glad we were to be there!

And what a welcome we all had! My father and mother received us with
great rejoicing—our fellow travellers for my sake—and what a feast was
made in our honour! After the feast I told my story, and many were the
questions asked and the comments made as the villagers listened.

Thus we arrived back at home, and thus we were welcomed, and on the
next day a great dance was held in our honour. And for ourselves, what
shall I say? We—we were ready to die of happiness! And yet the day was
coming when we would wish that we had stayed where we were, even as
slaves of the cannibals.








CHAPTER III

THE COMING OF BOKAKALA

    At home again—I choose a wife—How I went courting—And was
    married—My visits to the white men—They talk of “one Jesus”—The
    other white man, Bokakala—He wants rubber—We are eager to get
    it—How rubber was collected—The rubber market—“We did not know.”


After I got back home, it was some little time before we all settled
down again to the old ways. As I said, there was much rejoicing,
accompanied by feasting and dancing, and then when that was over, I had
to visit many friends, while others came to visit me.

We all enjoyed the feasting and soon got strong and well again, some of
us quite stout; but it was not long before we got tired of answering so
many inquiries, and listening to so many comments; so off we went into
the forest to cut bamboos and reeds for thatching, and trees for
building, and set to work to build new houses for ourselves. It was
soon settled that the family who had come with us from the cannibal
country should remain in our village, so the husband started building a
house for them not far from ours.

As time went on I began to think it would be a good thing to get
married, and as my father was quite ready to find the riches I should
need to pass over to the father of my chosen wife, I did not lose any
time in making known my wishes to her.

Her name was Bamatafe, and she was considered very beautiful. Her skin
was of a light brown colour, and decorated all over in various patterns
of cicatrised cuttings, and when well rubbed with palm oil and camwood
powder would shine in the sun. She was usually dressed in a wild-cat
skin and fresh plantain leaves frayed out at the edges and suspended
from a string of blue beads round the waist. Her hair was dressed in
our most beautiful style—called besíngya—that is, all the hair is
divided into very small portions, each of which is rolled in oil
sprinkled plentifully with red camwood powder and another kind of
sweet-smelling powder made from nuts. Her eyes were black, and her
teeth were chiseled to very sharp points.

Such was the girl I loved; and now that you know what she looked like,
can you wonder that I wanted her?

But of course I had to find out if she were willing to come to me, so I
determined to pay a few visits to her home.

On the first occasion I simply passed by and looked at her as she was
sitting in her father’s house; but I went again, and, drawing near, I
said to her, “Bamatafe, o l’eko?” (salutation, “Are you there?”) to
which she answered, “I am there; Are you there?” and I said “O yes!”

I felt very encouraged after that interview, and the next time stayed
and talked with her for a while; then when a few days had passed I
carried her a fine fat hen for a present. When she accepted that I knew
it was all right for me, she was agreeable.

I immediately went and told my father about it, and he arranged with
hers about the amount of riches which was to be paid as pledge money on
the occasion of our marriage. A spear was passed over as earnest of the
other things to come, and that evening I brought home my wife.

Her beauty was greatly admired, and according to our custom I had to
make a lot of presents to the people who admired her so much. Every one
of the young men thought me very fortunate in securing such a beautiful
wife. And I soon found that she was clever also, for she could cook
well; and at once she set about planting a big garden, which showed
that she was industrious.

We settled down to village life then—building houses, making canoes and
other things, getting our knives, spears, and ornaments made by the
village blacksmith, hunting, fishing, palaver talking, paying and
receiving visits, having a good time generally, and feeling so glad to
be really free—free from bondage and servitude.

I often paid visits to the white men of whom we had heard so many
rumours on the other side of the river, and became quite friendly with
them. I could not quite understand them: their words were good
certainly, but they said they had come to our land simply to tell us
those words, and not to get anything from us.

Naturally that seemed strange to me—our people always want to get and
not to give—“but then,” thought I, “there is no accounting for people
who are such freaks as to have white skins; perhaps it is their way;
and if so, what more?” They were always talking about one Jesus, who
was very good and kind and loved us, and who they say died and rose
again and is now alive. That was too much! Who ever saw a person rise
from death, and if He were alive and really cared for us, why did He
himself not come and see us? So we said, “When we see Him, we will
believe.” Of course, it is only nsao (legend or fable).

We went to see them, and took them an egg or a chicken, or perhaps a
little manioca now and then, and listened to their words and heard them
sing, and we always came away thinking what wonderful people they were,
and how much wisdom they had.

And then there came to our district another white man, and he built a
house not far from the compound of these white men of God, and settled
down there. At first we thought that he and the other white men were
brothers: all had white faces and straight hair like monkeys; they
seemed friendly and helped each other, and we never saw them fight or
quarrel as we so often do. But after a while we saw that there was a
difference, for the new white man called a palaver, and our chiefs
gathered together from all the villages around the district, and, of
course, many of us young men went with them to hear what it was all
about.

It was this: the new white man—we called him Bokakala—had come to live
with us because he had heard that in our forest grew the rubber vine in
abundance, and he wanted rubber—plenty of it. Not only so, but would
pay for it—brass rods, beads, salt! Now would the chiefs get it for
him? Would they be willing to send their young men into the forest to
collect the rubber sap? And would the young men go?

Oh, how we laughed! How we danced! Who ever heard of placing any value
on the rubber plant except for the fruit to eat? Fancy getting
salt—white man’s salt—just for bringing rubber! Of course we would go
and get it. Could we not start at once?

Then Bokakala got out some baskets to give us to put the rubber in, and
there was such a scramble for those baskets—we almost fought as to who
should get the first chance of possessing a rubber basket.

The white man seemed pleased, and gave presents to the chiefs; and we
were pleased, anxious to get off at once, at the first possible minute,
to search for rubber, to obtain for ourselves some of that wonderful
salt from Europe. We had already tasted it, and once tasted, there is
nothing else that will satisfy the desire for it.

Away into the forest we went—not far, for there was plenty of rubber in
those days—and were soon busy making incisions in the vines and
catching the drops of sap as they fell in little pots or calabashes
ready to bring it home with us in the evening. There was great rivalry
amongst us as to who could get the largest quantity. Then when we
thought we had sufficient we returned to our homes with it and sought
for the plant with which it must be mixed in order for it to coagulate.
This grows in great quantities near many of our villages, and we call
it bekaaku. Having mixed the two saps they formed a substance solid
enough to make into balls about the size of a rubber fruit. These,
packed into the baskets which the white man had given us, were ready
for carrying to him.

When we took our well-filled baskets and presented them at his house
Bokakala was much pleased, and we wondered that any man should be so
easily satisfied, for we could not understand of what use the rubber
could be to him. However, he gave us salt and beads, and if we gained
by his foolishness, why should we object?

We continued to take him rubber, and in course of time a special day
was set apart (the fifth day of the white man’s week) on which rubber
was to be brought regularly, and that day soon came to be called by us
mbile e’otofe (rubber day), and is so called to the present time.

Week after week the rubber market was held, and Bokakala was good to
us—he gave us salt, cloth, and beads in exchange for what we brought;
he talked and chatted with us, settled our palavers for us, taught us
many things, and even named some of our children after himself and gave
them presents.

In those days we had no palaver with Bokakala; it was after he left us
that trouble began. Many times since we have regretted that we welcomed
Bokakala as we did because of what happened afterwards, but at the
beginning he treated us well, and we did not know what would follow.
Perhaps he did not know either, but it seems to us that we made our
great mistake in accepting his first offers. We were tempted and fell
into a trap; but we say to ourselves over and over again when we think
and speak of those times, “It was all right at first, but WE DID NOT
KNOW.”








CHAPTER IV

THE BEGINNING OF SORROWS

    The coming of more white men—A change in our treatment—Things go
    from bad to worse—I get tired of collecting rubber—And stay at
    home—The white man’s anger and threats—I go to a palaver—My rubber
    is short—I am whipped—The white man’s new plan—Forest guards—Their
    oppression and greed—We report them to the white man—Results—But
    the worst not yet.


When Bokakala had been with us some time, other white men came to our
country, and they also wanted rubber. “Why do they want so much
rubber?” we asked; for we could not see why they should be continually
wanting the same thing. That is not our way; we feel a thirst for a
thing for a time, but in a little while it is finished, and we want
something else. Later on Bokakala left us to go to his own land to seek
for strength in his body, and he left us another white man, whom we
called “Leopard”; but they were all known afterwards as Bokakala’s
white men.

When the day of rubber came round week after week, we took in to the
white man our little baskets of rubber balls, and received in exchange
salt or beads; or if, as sometimes happened, he had none of these
articles left, he would give us a book to keep, and pay us in kind when
his boxes arrived. So far we had not had any trouble between us and the
white man; he and we were satisfied with the barter we carried on.

But changes came—another white man came to help Leopard in his work,
and he was different from other white men, he was not good, so we gave
him a bad name which meant “Pillage” or “Brigandage,” though I do not
suppose he ever knew what it meant.

Naturally a change took place in the way we were treated, and gradually
things got worse and worse.

Now it is well known that no man goes on for ever at one thing without
getting tired, and wanting a rest. And when I had been going to and fro
to the forest getting rubber for a long time, I began to wish to sit
down in town for a little while, especially as by this time Bamatafe
had given birth to a little son, of whom I was very proud, as he was
our firstborn.

So one week I stayed at home when the young men went to the forest, and
when the day of rubber fell I had no rubber, and did not go to the
white man’s place.

As usual, our names were called out of a book, and when mine was
reached some one answered, “He has not come.” Then the white man was
angry, and said that if Bokwala did not come to the next market he
would have a big palaver. My friends came home and told me his words,
and the next time I went with them and was told that I must never miss
coming—the rubber must be brought in regularly without fail, or there
would be “chicotte,” or perhaps even prison for those who missed
coming.

After that I went regularly for a long time, but on one occasion there
was a great palaver to be talked in our village, and it was necessary
for me to be present at it. At this time we had to collect a certain
weight of rubber and present it at the white man’s place every
fifteenth day. It took almost all our time to go to and from the forest
and collect the rubber, for it was becoming very scarce.

So when the day came for carrying my basket to the white man I had not
the prescribed quantity. I knew that when my turn came to have my
rubber weighed the white man would be angry and scold me, but said I,
“Lotango nta wak’ontu” (“Reproach does not kill a man”), and I did not
expect anything worse.

But the order was given, “Etama” (“Lie down”).

I could scarcely believe my ears—I, the son of a chief, to be whipped
publicly!

It was true. I was placed face down on the ground, my cloth turned
back, and the twisted hippo hide whip was brought out by one of the
servants of the white man.

Down it came on me, lash after lash, cutting clean into the flesh at
every stroke, and causing the blood to flow!

I do not know how many strokes were given me then; how could I count?
The pain was bad enough, but the shame was worse. Then I was sent off,
the blood drops on the sand showing the path I followed, without
payment for the rubber I had brought, and with the order to bring a
double quantity next time.

For my own sake I tried to do so. I bought some from a man in the
village who had managed to amass a reserve stock, but I had to pay a
ruinous price for it. I soaked some in water to make it heavier, and
next time I was allowed to leave without any punishment.

One day the white man told us of a new arrangement he was making for us
rubber workers. A number of men were to be set apart as sentries, we
called them, but the white man called them guards of the forest. They
were to be taken from amongst our own people, and armed with guns, and
they would accompany us on our journeys to and from the forest and
protect us, and they would also escort us to the white man’s place when
the day arrived for taking in the collected rubber. This sounded well,
and as the rubber grew more and more scarce, and we had to go further
into the forest to secure it, surely, we thought, a gun would be a
protection, and keep our enemies from interfering with us.

Alas! once more were our hopes dashed to the ground. These men, who
were supposed to be our protectors, became in time our worst
oppressors. Instead of going with us into the forest, they at once
appropriated the best houses in the villages for themselves, or if
these were not good enough for them, they caused new ones to be erected
at our expense. After hurrying us off to the forest alone and
unprotected at the earliest possible moment, they established
themselves in the village, and lived in such a style as to far outshine
any of our chiefs—in fact, taking a delight in insulting and
depreciating them and relegating to themselves every vestige of
authority which had formerly been vested in the chiefs of our own
people.

As soon as ever we young men had gone, they behaved as though
everything in the village belonged to them; the few goats we had, our
fowls, dogs, food, all our goods and possessions—nothing was safe from
their greed, and it was not long before even our wives were not safe if
left at home alone.

Things had been gradually getting worse for a long time, and now that
the sentries were placed over us were so much worse than ever before
that we began to give up hope.

We reported their doings to the white man many times, but we soon found
that he and they were as one man, and that if we told we almost
invariably lost the palaver before the white man, and then the sentries
found means of their own to punish us for having spoken against them.

We frequently visited the other white men when we had the time to
spare—I mean those who taught about God—and told them our grievances.

They listened and wrote the things we told them in a book, and tried
very hard to get things put right for us; but with a bad white man in
charge of worse black men who were all armed with guns and given free
scope in the villages, it was little they could do.

On several occasions they did win cases for us, and we always knew that
things would be worse if they were not in our midst to see and hear
what was done, and to take our part against our oppressors.

“Times were bad!” do you say? You are sorry for us?

Yes, white men of Europe, they were bad, even then; but I have not
reached the worst part of my story. Then, if you do indeed feel pity,
your hearts will weep for us, and you will be filled with grief and
with anger.








CHAPTER V

OPPRESSION, SHAME, AND TORTURE

    My new slavery—How our villagers fared at home—The white man’s
    meat—How it was got—The white men of God and their pity—How the
    women were enslaved—Feeding the idle—Endeavours to evade
    oppression—Results—How would you like our conditions?—Forest
    work—Its hardships—The day of reckoning—Back to the village and
    home—An ominous silence—A sad discovery—Redeeming our wives—An
    offending villager—A poor victim—A ghastly punishment—The woman’s
    death—Another village—The monkey-hunters—The old man who stayed at
    home—How he was tortured—No redress.


I think you white people who hear my story will see that by this time
my name Bokwala (slave) was being verified for the second time; for
though the slavery to the black man was bad and caused me much shame,
that which we had to undergo now was, in some ways, worse; and, though
most of the very worst things were done by the sentries, the white man
agreed to them.

At least, we thought he did, as he scarcely ever lost a palaver for
them. This kind of treatment, constant rubber collecting, no rest, and
sometimes no pay—what can it be called but another kind of slavery?

I want to tell you some of the things which happened during this time
of oppression. It is not only we men who go into the forest who suffer;
but also those who are left at home in the villages, our old fathers
and mothers, our wives and little children.

The white man wanted fresh meat for his table, so he ordered the old
men in the villages to hunt antelopes in the forest for him, and bring
them in alive. The hunting was easy, but not so the catching of animals
alive. That meant great care in dealing with such animals as were
inside our enclosures of nets, so as not to allow their escape while
endeavouring not to kill them.

Then other kinds, the water antelopes especially, are dangerous, and
cannot be caught alive without the captor receiving wounds from their
sharp teeth. When once caught, their legs were broken in order to
prevent their escape on the journey to the white man’s compound, and
thus our fathers supplied the white man’s table with fresh meat.

Some of the villages had to supply one, two, or even four animals
weekly, and one white man would not take them with broken legs because
he wanted to keep them alive on his own place.

I have been told also that some of the white men of God and their wives
remonstrated with the carriers of these broken-legged animals who
happened to pass their houses, with regard to the cruelty of breaking
the legs. They say they feel pity for the antelopes! Of course, the men
laughed at that, because who pities animals? They are not men, or we
should pity them. White men are strange kind of people!

Again, when the white man’s compound grew large and he had many people
working for him, he needed food with which to provide for their needs.
Not only his actual servants but their wives and families, and
sometimes others went and sat down, as we say, on the white man’s
place, for there they had an easy time.

In order to supply all that was needed the women in the villages had to
work very large gardens, much larger than would otherwise have been
necessary; then dig the roots of the manioca; peel and steep it in the
river for four or five days; carry it back again to their homes in
heavily laden baskets up steep hillsides; pound, mould into long
strips, wrap in leaves, bind with creeper-string, and finally boil the
tökö or kwanga, our native bread. All this meant much work for our
women; firewood must be cut and carried from the forest, special leaves
sought and gathered, and creeper cut for string; and every week the
food must be taken to the white man’s place punctually.

And for a large bundle of ten pieces one brass rod (5 centimes) is paid
to the women!

What seems hardest of all is that much of the food goes to supply
families in which are plenty of strong women, who are perfectly well
able to cook for themselves and their husbands.

These women live a life of idleness, and very often of vice, on the
land of the white man, and frequently treat the village women with
disdain and shower contumely upon them. If, as sometimes happens, high
words ensue, the village women have no chance whatever, for the others
can say a word to their husbands or paramours, who are armed with guns,
and it is an easy thing for them to avenge such quarrels on their next
visit to the village of which the women happen to be natives.

There are generally a few villages in close proximity to the white
man’s place the natives of which are set apart to supply paddlers,
carriers, dried fish for employees’ rations, manioca bread, &c., and
who are not reckoned amongst the rubber workers. We used to envy the
inhabitants of these places, and some of our people tried to leave
their own homes and go to reside where the people seemed to us to be
better off than we were.

But this was not allowed by the white man; if found out, the offence
was punished severely either with the whip or prison, so we gave it up.
And even in these favoured villages they had their trials; fowls and
eggs were required as well as other little things, and they had to be
supplied somehow, and it was often anyhow.

As long as the supplies came to hand regularly, and no complaints were
made by the villagers against the sentries who were sent out to collect
the food or call the people, all went well. But it could not possibly
be peaceful for long, because our people were treated in ways that no
one, not even an animal, would put up with quietly. And although I know
you white people do not like to hear of bad doings, I must tell you of
some now, or you cannot understand how we feel about this rubber and
other work which we are compelled to do by strangers of whom we know
nothing, and to whom we think we owe nothing.

Think how you would feel, if you had been out in the forest for eleven
or twelve days and nights, perhaps in the wet season, when the wind
blows so that you cannot climb the trees for fear of either the tree or
yourself being blown down; and the rain pours in torrents and quickly
soaks through the leaf thatch of your temporary hut (just a roof
supported on four sticks) and puts out your fire, so that all night
long you sit and shiver; you cannot sleep for the mosquitoes; and,
strong man as you are, you weep, because the day which is past has
passed in vain, you have no rubber!

Then, if a fine morning follows, and you manage to make a fire, (with
tinder and flint,) eat a little food you have kept over, and start off
again in feverish haste to find a vine before some one else gets it.
You find one, make several incisions, place your calabash under the
dripping sap, and your hopes begin to rise. Towards evening it rains
again, and again you can scarcely sleep for the cold; you have nothing
to cover yourself with, and the only source of warmth is a few
smouldering embers in the centre of the hut.

In the middle of the night you have a feeling that something is near,
something moving stealthily in the darkness, and you see two glaring
eyes gazing at you—a leopard or civet cat is prowling round your
shelter. You throw a burning firebrand at it, and with a growl it
dashes off into the bush.

In the morning you tie another knot in your string, by which you count
the days, and say, “If only I can get a lot to-day! The time grows
short, I shall soon go home.”

Day after day passes in this way, and at last the rubber is ready, or
even if it is not, the day has dawned; you must start for the white
man’s place—and home is on the way!

One or two nights are passed on the road, and you draw near to the
village.

“What a welcome I shall have! Bamatafe with the baby, Isekokwala, my
father, now an old man, and my mother, and a feast of good things as I
always find.”

As we get near the village, I begin to sing and feel happy, and tell
the other men what a good wife I have, and what a feast she will have
ready for me!

But how quiet it all is—and yes, surely I hear a wail! What can it be?

I rush on ahead, and hear the following story.

In the morning some sentries arrived to bring the rubber men to the
white man’s place. We had not come in from the forest, so they took our
wives, quite a number of them—Bamatafe amongst them with her baby at
her breast—away to the white man’s prison, or hostage house as he calls
it, and my relatives are crying over it!

I was mad with rage, but it was too late to do anything that night.

In the morning we took our rubber in to the white man, who received it,
refused to pay anything for it, but allowed it to pass for the
redemption of our wives! Of course, we did not say anything; we were
only too glad to get them free at any price; for what could we do
without them?

You, white men in Europe, who say you feel pity for us, how would you
feel if such a thing happened to you and your wife and little child? We
were treated like that not once, but many times.

In a village not far from my father’s the men were all away on one
occasion trying to procure what was required of them as their weekly
tax. When the day for bringing it in fell due, they did not arrive in
good time, and as usual sentries were sent out to inquire into it.

Finding no men in town, and most of the women having fled into the bush
in fear at the approach of the sentries, they seized the wife of one of
the absent men. She had recently become a mother; perhaps she was not
strong enough to run away with her companions. Anyway she was arrested
with her babe at her breast, and taken off to the white man’s place,
where it was decided to give the village a lesson that they would not
soon forget.

In the presence of the white man the poor thing was stretched on the
ground, and the awful hippo-hide whip was brought into requisition. The
man who started the whipping became tired, and passed the whip over to
another to continue it, until at last, when the woman was more dead
than alive, and in a condition which cannot be described to you, the
white man gave the order to cease, and she was—set free, did you
say?—No, sent into the prison house!

An hour or two later her husband arrived and was told that if he wanted
to redeem his wife he must bring the white man twenty fowls. He
succeeded in collecting sixteen, which were refused, then he made up
the number, and so redeemed his wife and babe. This redemption must
have cost him a great deal of money, and he was a poor man.

Three days after her return to her home the wife died.

It seems strange, but the child lived, and is alive to-day, a puny,
ill-nourished child, as you may imagine.

O white women, can you listen to such things unmoved? Think, then, how
much worse it must be to see them, and live in the midst of them,
knowing that the same thing might happen to you any day?

In a village situated at some distance from the white man’s compound
the sentries had established themselves in their usual style of living,
in the best houses the village could boast of, and began to supply
themselves lavishly from the gardens and poultry-houses of the
villagers. They ordered the old men who were past rubber collecting out
into the bush to hunt monkeys for them to feast upon.

Day after day the old men went, and brought back the animals required,
but one morning there was a heavy fall of rain.

One old man refused to go out in the wet, he said that he could not
stand the cold, and so remained in his house. His failure to go to the
hunt was discovered by the sentries, and he was arrested by two of
them, stripped, and held down on the ground in the open street of the
village.

Then they—but I must not tell you what they did, white people do not
talk of such things.

After that one of the sentries held the left arm of the old man out
straight on the ground, while another, with his walking-staff (a square
sawn stick), beat him on the wrist until at last his hand fell off. His
sister came to his assistance, and he went away with her to his hut to
suffer agonies of pain for months.

A long time after the white man of God and his wife were visiting a
neighbouring village, teaching the people, and this old man found
courage to go and tell them his story, and show them his arm. Then the
wound was green, the bones protruding, and he was in a hopeless
condition.

But the strange thing was that the arm appeared to have been cut a
little below the elbow. The explanation was that the ends of the bones
had become sharp, and were constantly scratching other parts of his
body, so he had cut them off from time to time with his own knife. He,
with the white man of God, went a long journey to the white man in
charge of the rubber work, and showed him the wound.

But nothing was done, as all his people were too much afraid to bear
witness to the deeds of the sentries. If they had done so they might
have been treated in the same way, or even worse. For there was
nothing, not even murder, that the sentries were afraid to do, and
nothing too cruel for them to think of and put in practice.

I think I have told you enough to make you see that we rubber men were
not the only ones who suffered from the presence of the white men; and
now I must tell you more of my own story.








CHAPTER VI

SOME HORRORS OF OUR LOT

    Our work grows harder—I consult the white man of God—A strange
    contrast—My plea unavailing—My rubber short—I am sent to the
    prison—The captives—Their work and their punishments—The sick—The
    new-born babe—The dead and their burial—The suspected—How they were
    tortured—The steamer—The rubber chief—The prison opened—A
    procession of spectres—The place of the dead—For a time peace—Work
    for the man of God—How we fared—My reward—I wish to go home.


I am afraid that you white people will get tired of listening to a
constant repetition of the same story, but that is just what my life
and the lives of my people have consisted of ever since the coming of
Bokakala—rubber, chicotte, prison, rubber, prison, chicotte; and again
rubber, nothing but rubber. We see no chance of anything else until we
die.

If you are tired of hearing about it, what do you think we must be of
living in it?

The rubber vines were getting worked out in our part of the forest, and
almost every time we had to go further to get any, but at last we found
a way of getting it quicker. It was this: when we found a good vine,
instead of making incisions and waiting for the sap to drip from them,
we cut the vine down, dividing it into short lengths. These we placed
endways in a pot, and left them to drain off all the sap into the pot.
In this way we got quite a lot of rubber from the one vine, and we
rejoiced accordingly.

For a time this way of working rubber helped us over some of our
difficulties; it gave us a sufficient quantity in a short time, and so
we were saved from the anger of the white man. But it was not long
before we began to find a dearth of vines; for those we had cut were
useless for future working, and therefore we had to take longer
journeys into the forest than ever before.

If we went too far in any direction it brought us in contact with the
natives of other villages who were also seeking for rubber, and
regarded us as poaching on their preserves. True, there was some rubber
on the other side of the river, but there we dared not go, because of
the age-long feud between the natives of that part and ourselves—we
feared that if we went we should never return.

After much consideration, I thought there was just one chance of
getting free; so I went to see the white man of God, taking him a
present which I hoped would show him that I really meant what I said,
and asked him to take me on to work for him.

He received the fowl I gave him, but not as a gift; he would insist on
paying for it its full value, and giving me a few spoonfuls of salt
over. (Truly the ways of white men are unaccountable! Some compel one
to supply against one’s will what they want, and pay nothing or next to
nothing for it; and then others refuse to take a thing as a gift, but
insist on paying for it! Of course, we like the latter way, but should
not think of doing so ourselves.)

Then he explained to me that it was impossible; he could not engage any
man who held a “book” for rubber, and as I did hold one and my name was
on the rubber workers’ list, it was out of the question. I pleaded with
him, Bamatafe pleaded for me. We returned again on the following day to
try once more, but it was in vain. I had to go back to my rubber work
in the forest.

Soon after this a day came when my rubber was short weight. I had
failed to find a good vine, and though I soaked the rubber in water to
make it heavier, the white man noticed and refused to pass it. As a
result, I did not return home that night, but spent it and several more
in the white man’s prison.

I had heard much about this place from Bamatafe and others, who had
frequently been in it, and so was not so surprised as I otherwise might
have been. Prison to us who are used to an outdoor life in the forest
has always a horrible aspect; but such a prison as that was is beyond
description. And yet I must tell you something about it.

The building itself was a long, narrow hut with thatched roof, bamboo
walls, and mud floor. That was all; and it was crowded promiscuously
with men and women of all ages and conditions. These were fastened
together with cords or chains round the neck, in groups of about ten
with a fathom of chain or cord between each.

There were old men and women with grey hair and shrivelled skins,
looking more like moving skeletons than living people, with scarcely
enough cloth or leaves for decent covering. Strong, capable women were
there who should have been working happily at home for their husbands;
women with babies only a few days’ or weeks’ old at their breasts;
women in delicate health; young girls; the wives of husbands who had
somehow failed to satisfy the demands made upon them; and young lads
who had tried to shirk paddling the heavily laden rubber boats—all
these were there, crowded together in that one shed without privacy or
sanitary arrangement of any kind from sundown to sunrise, and some of
them for weeks together.

The smell was horrible, the hunger and thirst intense, and the
publicity in some ways worst of all. I myself was not hungry that first
night, and Bamatafe came to and fro with food for me on the following
days; but much of it I never ate. Some of my fellow-prisoners were so
ravenously hungry, that it was impossible to save any scraps, even if I
had wanted to. Many of them, coming from a distance, had no friends to
supply their needs.

Early in the morning we were turned out in charge of sentries to clean
the paths of the compound, carry water, work on houses, cut up and pack
rubber, and carry the filled baskets from the store to the river ready
for transport by canoe or boat to the place of the great rubber chief
down river. If the work done failed to satisfy the sentry, or he had
any old scores to pay off to a prisoner who was in his power, the
chicotte or the butt-end of the gun was always at hand, and proved an
easy means of chastisement for either man or woman, the latter
frequently incurring it for nothing worse than a desire for chastity.

Then at sundown we were marched back to the prison house for another
night of horrors. It was often impossible to sleep.

On one night in particular we were kept awake hour after hour by the
groaning of some of the sick ones, and then towards morning, after a
little sleep, we were aroused again by the puny wail of a new-born
babe. Was it any wonder that its first cries were weak, and that the
little life so recently given seemed on the point of ebbing away? In
the morning the sentries agreed that the mother was not fit for work,
and reported to the white man accordingly; but three days afterwards
the mother was out at work in the hot sun with her baby at her back.

Many prisoners died at the time of which I speak—two, three, five,
sometimes ten in a day—there was so much hunger and thirst and
sickness. When one died, they tied a string round his foot, and dragged
him a little way into the bush, dug a shallow hole, and covered him
with earth. There were so many that the place became a great mound, and
the burials were so carelessly done that one could often see a foot,
hand, or even head left exposed; and the stench became so bad that
people were unable to pass by the road which was near the “grave.”

And yet, bad as all this was, something happened there which made me
glad that I was an ordinary prisoner, and not (what I had thought
impossible) something worse. Four big, strong young men were suspected
of having stolen some rubber from the white man’s store. It may have
been a true accusation; that I do not know—no one knows.

The white man was furious, and said that he would make an example of
them, which he proceeded to do. Four tall poles were procured and
planted in the ground at the back of his own house, and the four men
were brought.

Their heads and beards were shaven, they were stripped of their loin
cloths, and tied to these poles, not only by the lower parts of their
bodies, but by their heads, so that they could not move at all.

This happened in the morning.

The sun climbed up, and stood overhead—they were still there.

The sun slipped down, down, down—they were still there.

No food or water had they tasted all day, so they were parched with
thirst. They pled for water, none was given; for a covering for their
shame, no notice was taken; and at last, in sheer despair, they
entreated that they might be shot—they would rather, far rather, die
than endure the shame of remaining any longer in a public place in such
a condition.

At night they were released from their agony, only to be sent to
prison, and finally exiled up river. The charge was never proved
against them. But the white man of God heard about the affair, and
talked the palaver with the rubber chief, and eventually they were
released and came back to their own villages.

One day we heard a steamer whistle; it was coming to our landing-place.
“Oh, joy! perhaps the white man will let us go,” we thought. He often
did send prisoners off to their homes when a steamer whistled, which
seemed strange to us in those days, but it mattered not to us why he
did it, if only we might get free.

To our disappointment he did not do so on this occasion, and we soon
heard that the big chief of rubber had come. We wondered what he would
do to us, if things might be worse, although we did not see how that
could be.

Afterwards we found that the white men of God had been writing many
letters to him about us and the way in which we were treated, and he
had come to see for himself. He did so, with the result that he opened
the doors of the prison house, and told us to walk out. He commenced to
count us, but gave it up: we were so many. He told us we were free, and
could go to our homes. We could scarcely believe it, it seemed to be
too good to be true; but we immediately set off with hearts full of
joy.

You may think what a merry procession we must have been, perhaps even
that we were singing and dancing with delight, because we were free!
Not so; we must have looked more like a procession of spectres. Some,
too weak to walk, were carried on the backs of others not much stronger
than themselves; women weak and ill, some soon to become mothers, and
others with young babes looking as sickly as themselves; men and women
both so famished with hunger that they had tied strips of plantain
fibre tightly round their stomachs to try and stay the craving for
food!

How eagerly we drank the water and devoured the little food that was
given to us by friendly people as we passed, and how the old men and
women called out blessings on the head of the chief of rubber and the
white man of God who had interceded for us! We noticed that as we
passed through their compound the white men and women of God were
actually crying with tears for our sorrows, and yet how glad they were
to see us free!

Yes, we were free, but many who lived at a distance and were old or
sick never reached their homes again. One died at the place of the
white man of God, two or three in villages a little further on, and
many who entered the forest were never heard of again; they probably
died of hunger, and their bodies must have been devoured by wild
animals.

I was one of the last to leave the prison, and as I did so the great
chief was making inquiries about the prison grave of which he had
heard. He said to me, “Will you show me the place?”

I answered, “Oh, yes, white man, it is not far. Just over in the bush
yonder; but if you come, bring a cloth to hold your nose; for you will
not reach the place without it.”

He said, “Is it as bad as that? Then I think I will not go.” And he did
not.

The end of it was that the bad white man who had been so cruel to us
was sent away to Europe, and a new one came to us who was much kinder
in his treatment of us, and for a time we had peace.

Then came my opportunity; for while there were not so many palavers
going on, there was freer intercourse between the rubber white men and
the white men of God, and so it became possible for the latter to take
a few of us rubber men to work for them.

As I had begged so long for that very chance I was one of the first
chosen; and how can I describe the joy with which I said farewell to
rubber work, and went with my wife and child to reside near the
compound of my new master.

Everything was so different; it was like having a rest, although, of
course, I do not mean that we did not have any work. We had plenty, and
it had to be well done; but there were regular times, and home and food
and a welcome from the wife in the evening when one returned from work
tired, instead of cold, wet, hunger, and fear in the forest. I thought
I had indeed reached a good place, and should never want to leave it,
so I set to work with a will.

By and by I was taught to use the saw, and became one of the staff of
pit sawyers who were cutting up wood for house building. We worked from
sunrise to sunset, with two hours off for rest mid-day; but sometimes
we did piece-work, and then our hours were shorter. We received a
monthly wage, and a weekly allowance for rations; and as our wives kept
their own gardens, and sometimes went fishing, we were well supplied
with food and soon got strong and well.

Each morning before we commenced work there was a service in the chapel
which we all had to attend, and later on there was school for the boys
and domestic servants of the white people and for our children and any
who liked to attend from the villages. Some evenings there were
preaching services or classes for inquirers, and occasionally the white
man showed us pictures with a lamp.

The pictures appeared on a large cloth which was hung from above, and
we liked seeing them very much. But we were also somewhat afraid of
them, especially when we saw some of our own people who were dead—we
thought it must be their spirits! And when we went round to the other
side to see their backs, behold, they had none, but only another front,
so we thought there must be something strange about them; for we have
never seen people with two fronts and no backs!

Every first day of the week we did no work, but went with our wives and
other people to hear the teaching. Before this time I knew but very
little of it: I knew that it was about one Jesus, but who or what He
was, or why they talked so much about Him I could not understand. Now I
began to learn that He was the Son of God, and came to earth for us. I
heard about His birth, life and death, and how He died for us—instead
of us—just as the peace-offering is killed in our country to save the
whole village. We kill a slave; but God sent His Son, and Jesus came
willingly and gave His life for us. Truly, He must have loved us!

After a time I joined the inquirers’ class, for I wanted to learn more
about Him, and to belong to His company.

The time passed very quickly, it seemed but a little until my book,
which was for twelve moons, was finished. I received my payment—brass
rods, cloth, salt, &c.—and felt quite a rich man. Never had I possessed
so much before; and I wanted to go to Ekaka and show off my riches.
When my master asked what I purposed doing I said that I was tired and
would like to go home for a while to rest.

I went, and soon after that my master went to Europe for his rest also.








CHAPTER VII

BACK TO SLAVERY

    My welcome at home—My respite and its end—The forest sentry—The
    little boy—My father’s appeal and its result—I intervene—The
    sentry’s revenge—A rubber slave once more—I appeal to the man of
    God—Disappointment—“Nothing but rubber till I die!”—The hopeless
    toil—The coming of the pestilence—The witch-doctor’s medicine—The
    desolation—But still the rubber!


I was well received by my people at Ekaka, and my father, now an old
man, was proud to see me return with my riches.

I also had a good welcome from the family of Bamatafe, for had I not
brought brass rods, salt, knives, a blanket, and other things for which
they craved? When a man is paid off at the end of a year’s work he
always gets plenty of visitors, and is much praised by all his
townspeople as long as his riches last. After that they seem to lose
interest in him, and do not care for him any longer.

But at first, as I said, I had a good time. My father was immensely
pleased with a present of a red blanket; the father of Bamatafe
received a knife and some brass rods, which my father had smelted for
him into anklets; the salt was used for feasts and presents, and it was
but a few days before we found that we had nothing left of all my
wages!

Now, thought I, I would rest. A little fishing, a little hunting, a
good deal of lying down in the big palaver house, and very much talking
and telling of news—in fact, a good time generally—and then one day
came the end of it.

On that day, I cannot forget it, a big bully of a sentry, armed with a
gun and chicotte, came into Ekaka to see about sending the rubber men
off to the bush. As he passed my father’s place he began to grumble to
the old man about many things—he did not provide a sufficient number of
rubber workers; he did not give enough honour to the sentries placed in
his village; one of the rubber men had died, fallen from the vine he
was cutting high up in the top of a tree, and been picked up dead, and
my father had not brought any one forward to take his place on the
white man’s list.

This sentry proceeded to seize a little boy of about twelve years of
age, a nephew of the deceased man, and ordered him to get rubber. My
father ventured to plead for him, representing that he was too young,
and not strong enough for the work.

He was answered by curses, insults were heaped upon him, then the bully
took his own knife from him and actually cut off his long beard, of
which he and all his family were so proud; and finally he struck the
old man on the chest with the butt-end of his gun, felling him to the
ground.

I had kept quietly in the hut, but this was too much. I sprang up and
rushed to my father’s aid, and that was my undoing. The sentry took his
revenge for my interference by informing the white man that I was
sitting down at home doing nothing, and ought I not to be sent out to
work rubber?

The white man called me, and gave me a book for rubber. In vain I told
him that I was only resting in town for a little while, and intended to
return to my work for the white men of God; my name was put on the
list, and once more I was obliged to seek for rubber. The conditions
were much the same as before, but we were obliged to go further away
than ever to find the rubber vines, as they were getting so scarce.

After some months of this work, which we all hate, I heard the news
that my white man had returned to our country.

“Now,” thought I, “all will be well. I will go and plead with him, and
beg him to redeem me from this slavery, and then I will work for him
again.”

So when I took my next lot of rubber in to the white man, after
receiving my three spoonfuls of salt in return for my basket of rubber
balls, I went on to see the other white men.

It was true, the white man for whom I had worked had arrived while we
were in the forest, and was just settled down to work again. When he
and his wife saw me they gave me a hearty welcome, evidently thinking
that I, like so many others, had just called to welcome them back to
our land. He knew nothing of what had taken place in his absence.

I told him all my story, everything that had happened to me and mine
while he was in Europe; and asked him, now that he had returned, to
redeem me from my slavery, and let me come back and work for him again.

But new white men had come and new rules had been made since his
departure from our land, and again it was not permissible for a man
holding a rubber book to take service with any one. All my hopes were
dashed to the ground; but still I pleaded with him with all the fluency
of which I was capable—he had done it before, and if then, why not now?
We can understand white men making rules for black, but how can they
interfere with each other? I thought that, if I only kept at it long
enough, I should surely win.

But at last I was convinced of the truth of the statement, and I wept.
Yes, strong man as I was, I wept; for anger and sorrow were in my
heart, and I turned to the white man as I stood there on the grass
outside his house.

“White man,” said I, “if this is true, there is no hope for me. It will
be nothing but rubber until I die, and rubber is death. Dig a grave
here, and bury me now! I may as well be buried in my grave as go on
working rubber.” And I meant it.

But back to rubber I had to go, with no hope of ever doing anything
else; back into a slavery which would last until death, and from which
there is no escape. For if you run away from one district, you only
reach another, and another white man as eager for rubber as the one you
left. Then he will make you work for him, if he does nothing worse; he
may send you back, and then—chicotte, prison, and more rubber!

So I and my people went on day after day, and month after month, with
little pay (what we did receive was only a mockery of the word), no
comfort, no home life, constant anxiety as to our wives and daughters
in the villages, and nothing to look forward to for our sons but that
they must follow in our steps, and of necessity become rubber workers
as soon as, or even before, they were old enough to have sufficient
strength for the work.

White men, do you wonder that the words, “Botofe bo lē iwa” (“Rubber is
death”) passed into a proverb amongst us, and that we hated the very
name of rubber with a deadly hatred? The only ones who were kind to us
in those days were the white men of God. They visited our villages
frequently to teach us and our families, and sometimes on their
journeys they would meet with us in the forest, and stop for awhile to
talk to us.

“Come,” they said; “listen to the words of God, the news of salvation.”

We came, and they told us the same story of Jesus and salvation from
sin; it is a good story, and we liked to hear it. But we would say,
“White man, you bring us news of salvation from sin; when will you
bring us news of salvation from rubber? If you brought that, then we
should have time to listen to and think about your other news.”

Then came a time of awful pestilence, so terrible that we do not
understand or even mention it, lest we ourselves be smitten like
others. When we speak of it we call it the “sickness from above” or the
“sickness of heaven”; but the white men, who are not afraid to mention
it, call it smallpox.

It raged in all our villages, and spread from hut to hut like a fire.
We took our sick ones into the forest, and a few people who had
recovered from the disease many years before went to look after them.
Crowds of people died, and though some recovered, they were very weak
and ill after it.

The white men of God put some medicine into the arms of many of our
people. It was cut in with a needle, but we did not understand it, and
most of us refused to have it done, as we thought it would hurt. But we
noticed that many of those who did take the medicine did not get the
sickness, or at least only slightly.

In the midst of it all one of our own witch-doctors arose and announced
that a cure had been revealed to him, and as he himself was immune from
the disease, he would come and put his medicine on all who were
prepared to pay his fee. He made an itineration through all the
villages with much singing, dancing, and shaking of rattles, and in
each village he took up a stand to administer his medicine to all who
would pay.

The sick people were brought out of the bush, the suspected cases from
the huts, and the strong ones in the villages came also, and all were
anointed with the medicine on payment of a brass rod. Such crowds there
were; very few refused, I think only the children of God, and they did
it in spite of much opposition. Their relatives tried to persuade them
to take it, but when the witch-doctor heard of and asked the reason of
their refusal, and was told that it was because they were children of
God, he said, “Leave them alone; if that is the palaver, it is of no
use to persuade them; they will never give in.”

But, strange to say, the sickness was worse than ever after this
episode, until the people got tired of trying to isolate the cases and
just left them in the villages. Crowds of people still died at this
time, and many of the corpses were left unburied, until at last we
began to think that we should all be finished off by the sickness,
which lasted many moons, perhaps sixteen or eighteen.

When at last the sickness did cease, the villages were half empty,
whole families had been swept away, and the few who were left were so
weak that most of the work in the villages had to be left undone. Then
many more died of the hunger and after-effects, because they were
unable to work to get food, and had no friends left to help them.

But one thing had to go on without cessation all the time, and that was
rubber collecting. It must have varied in quantity, but the supply was
never allowed to stop during all that dreadful time.

When our wives and children or mothers and fathers were sick and we
knew not what the end of the sickness would be, we still had to leave
them with others, or even alone, and go into the forest on another
errand—that of rubber collecting! Many a relative died in those days
without our ever knowing of their illness; but we were rubber men. Were
we not also slaves, having no choice but to go, even though the rubber
sap seemed to us sometimes like drops of our blood?








CHAPTER VIII

OTHER CHANGES. HOPE DEFERRED

    A change of labour—We become hunters—A new demand—And new
    difficulties—Failure—The sentry’s demand—The old men’s
    plea—Murder—We tell the men of God—And complain to the rubber
    man—The white chief—The things written in a book—And no remedy
    comes—Hunting again—The English visitor—The white woman—Results of
    making complaints—The sentries’ threats—The one way of
    escape—“Better to be with the hunters than the hunted”—Another
    sorrow—The sleeping-sickness—“Just a little while, and they die”—We
    cry to the white people.


As I was telling you before, many of our people died of the “sickness
from above,” including a number of the young men who worked rubber. Of
necessity the supply of rubber became very small when there were so few
to collect it in the forest.

After the sickness was finished, and the white men found that it was
really true that so many of our people were dead, and that others were
still sick and unfit for work, they called us young men of Ekaka
together and told us some very good news. It was this. That they had
decided that we should make no more rubber, but be freed entirely from
that work on condition that we men would hunt antelopes for the white
man’s table, and bring smoked meat for his workmen’s rations, and that
our women would supply tökö (manioca cooked ready for eating) at stated
intervals.

We agreed with much joy, and all the way home that day we were singing
and shouting, so as to let every one know of our good fortune. We went
also to tell the white men of God our news; they were glad to hear
about it, and gave us much good advice as to keeping up a regular
supply of food, and not bringing palavers upon ourselves by failing to
do our part. We heartily assented to all they said, for we were ready
to do anything if only we might be freed from rubber work.

The hunting was started at once, and we kept up the supply of one or
two antelopes weekly, and smoked rations for a long time; but by and by
a new white man came to us from up-country and he made new rules for
us.

An order was given that we must procure four living antelopes every
week, and in order to do this all of us who were strong enough to hunt
had to be in the forest almost all the time, just sending in the
antelopes as we caught them.

It was not so bad in dry weather—then we were used to go on long hunts
in the old days of freedom—but now it was all the year round, wet
season as well as dry, night and day; for antelopes began to get scarce
as the rubber had done, and we had to penetrate a long way into the
forest in order to get them. We found to our cost that hunting was not
play under such circumstances; but even so, it was better than rubber,
and we tried to fulfil the white man’s requirements.

But one day—the day for taking an antelope to the white man—we failed
to procure one in time for the usual morning visit, when we were in the
habit of sending it in.

I suppose the white man became impatient and dispatched a sentry—a
native of our country who was known to us all as a fool—armed with a
gun and cartridges, to inquire why the animal had not been sent in.

When this sentry, Kebocu, arrived in our village, he found it almost
deserted. Only one or two old men and a few women were there; but, my
father not being present, his friend, Bomoya, went out to meet the
white man’s messenger and inquire what he wanted. Bomoya was closely
followed by Isekasofa, another old friend and associate of my father’s.

They exchanged greetings with Kebocu and asked his business.

“Where is the antelope for the white man’s soup?” he asked.

They explained that we had failed to catch any on the day previous, and
that they were expecting our arrival at any time, and then the animal
would be dispatched immediately.

His answer was to raise and load his gun, an action not understood by
the old men, who simply stood still waiting. Calling to a woman who was
crossing the road to get out of the way, he fired. The shot passed
through Bomoya’s thigh, disabling him; but old Isekasofa, stooping down
to hide behind his friend, received the bullet in his breast, and
dropped dead on the spot.

Just as the deed was done, we all rushed into the village with our
antelopes, proving the truth of what the old men had said. We heard all
about the shooting from the woman who had seen it all, and whose
husband was a workman of the white men of God. Kebocu himself ran away
when he saw us all come into the village.

Basofa, the son of Isekasofa, and another man picked up the corpse, put
it on a bier of forest poles, and set off with many others of us to
tell our sorrowful story to the white man of God.

We arrived first at the school-house where Mama, the white woman, was
teaching the children; when she saw us and our burden she was much
grieved, for Isekasofa was a friend of the white people and had visited
them only a few days previously. We went on to the dwelling-house, and
told our story to the two white men of God, who sympathised with us in
our sorrow, and wrote a letter to the white man of rubber about the
outrage.

We went on to the rubber compound, and waited there a long time,
because the white man had gone to the river. He kept us so long waiting
to show him the corpse of Isekasofa (he knew why we were there, for
messengers had been sent to tell him) that, sitting there in the heat
of the midday sun, we became very angry, and some of our people even
set out to attack the village of which Kebocu, the sentry, was a
native.

At last the white man came and listened to our story, but he seemed so
strange that we thought—of course we did not know—that he had been
drinking the strong palm-wine of Europe which makes people dizzy in
their heads. Once a white man gave some to one of our people, and he
was quite foolish after it.

We were persuaded not to attack Kebocu’s village, as the white man
would see that he was punished; and we went back to our own place to
weep for and bury our dead, and attend to the wounded man.

It was but a few days after this episode that a great chief called a
judge came from down-country to make inquiries about our part, and hear
palavers.

This was the first time a white man had come on such an errand, and
numbers of our people gathered at the house of the white man of God and
told our troubles to the chief. He listened and questioned us, and made
inquiries of other people who had seen the things we brought forward,
and another white man wrote many, many words in a book. That book, they
said, would go down-country to another great chief, and then everything
would be settled satisfactorily.

As Kebocu had not been punished or even arrested for causing the death
of Isekasofa, that affair was also talked about, and Bomoya was carried
in from his home that the white man might see for himself the truth of
our statements. His wound was in a terrible condition, and was turning
green inside. All this was also written in the book.

The book was sent down-country; the white men both went their way; and
we never heard any more. Kebocu was never punished, but lived in his
own village a free man. Bomoya recovered, because the white men of God
made medicine for his wounds, but he was always lame.

It made us very angry when, some time after his partial recovery, he
was imprisoned for some weeks—because he was found in his village, and
not out in the forest hunting antelopes for the white man’s soup! Just
as if a lame man would be of any use in a hunt with nets and spears!

We continued our hunting week after week, not only to supply the white
man’s table, but also to provide rations (either of meat or fish) for
his sentries and workmen, and our women had to provide manioca for the
same reason.

It meant much work for us all; not only work, but constant exposure to
the cold and damp of the forest. It was worse in the wet season, when
many of our people contracted a sickness of the chest which is most
painful and often ends in death. In fact, the providing of food was
getting to be almost as great a tax upon us as the rubber had been. And
we thought, “If the rubber work never ends, the food work will not;
they will never give up calling for food!”

We had no comfort at home, for we were rarely there. We had nothing to
look forward to in the future but work—either rubber or food—so we gave
up hoping; our hearts were broken; we were as people half dead!

Two or three times white people came again to ask about our affairs.
One was a very tall Englishman with a wonderful dog such as we had
never seen before. He was very kind to us, made many inquiries about
our treatment, and gave us presents before he left. We asked him to
come back to us again, but he never did. We were told that he was
talking about our troubles and writing them in a book in England, but
that is all we know about him.

Another who came was a white woman. She stayed for a little while at
the rubber place, and used to ask us many questions and talked much to
us and to the white men. But we could never really understand about
her; why should a woman come to see about palavers—how could she settle
them? She soon went away, and we did not think any more about her.

Others came at intervals—great chiefs from down-river, I suppose they
were—to some of whom we told our grievances; but we soon found that the
rubber white men did not like us to do so, and sometimes we were
punished or even imprisoned after the departure of the white men to
whom we had made reports. So you will not be surprised when I tell you
that we got to hide our troubles, and did not tell even when an
opportunity presented itself.

Many times we have been asked by other white men of God who have come
on visits, “Why do you not tell these bad doings of which we hear? Why
do you not report to the white chiefs?” It was like this: we were
afraid to tell—afraid of the consequences to ourselves afterwards; we
had been threatened with such dreadful things by the sentries if we
dared to speak of their doings.

I do not wonder that they did not want their doings talked about, for I
have not told you one-tenth of the bad things they did, and the worst
of the things cannot be even mentioned. And then, so many promises
which had been made to us by white men had been broken, of what use was
it to get more promises from them? They would only be broken like the
rest, we thought, and so we gave up, and when the white men tried to
find out things we even ran away and hid, rather than tell them, and so
bring greater trouble on ourselves and our families.

There was just one way out of our slavery, and some of our young men
availed themselves of it. It was to become a sentry oneself. Only a few
had the opportunity, and those who took it soon became as bad as the
other sentries with whom they came in contact. They found that the only
way to please the white man was to get plenty of rubber; and in order
to do that they were obliged to use the same means as the others and
become cruel oppressors of their own people.

When they were remonstrated with they would say, “It is better to be
with the hunters than with the hunted. We have the chance to join the
hunters: what more?” I never had the chance myself; perhaps if I had I
might have done the same; for if you compare our lives with the lives
of the sentries, I do not think that even a white man can wonder that
some of us chose the easy way.



There is one thing of which I have not yet told you; we think it is one
of the worst of all our trials. We scarcely know about the beginning of
it, but it seems to have been soon after the end of the “sickness of
heaven” that this other sickness began to come amongst us. We call it
“nkangi ea iló” (“sickness of sleep”), and many refer to it as “this
desolation,” “losilo lóne.”

Both names describe it. When a person has the disease, he gradually
gets more and more languid until at last he sleeps all the time, and
the disease destroys him. We have no hope for the future on account of
this disease, as well as our other troubles; no one ever recovers, but
generally the whole family take it, and die one after the other, until
whole villages are almost wiped out.

At first only a few people had it; and though we did not understand it,
we thought that, like other sicknesses, it would be cured. But in a
very few years it has spread from house to house and village to
village, away into the back towns and far up-river; it seems as if it
had no ending!

Numbers of people who are weak and sickly contract it, and many more
who are exposed to all weathers rubber seeking, hunting, or fishing,
and who come back home with some simple malady, get the sleep sickness
as well, and then—just a little while—and they die!

Some of the largest and best populated villages are now reduced to a
few huts, the majority of which are inhabited by sick folk. Men and
women of all ages and little children all alike take the disease, and
all alike die.

In the old days, if a person died in one hut, a child was born in
another to take his place and name; but now—every day the death wail is
heard, every day funerals are taking place—but it is a rare event for a
child to be born. You see just one baby here, and another there, and
that is all! And therefore we have come to say, “We shall all be
finished soon, all get the disease, none recover. If we are to have it,
we shall have it: what more?”

Perhaps you think we should take medicine for this sickness, but we can
find none of any use. The white men of God have tried many kinds of
medicine: medicine to drink, and also the kind which they put into
one’s arm with a needle; but these only did good for a little while,
and then the sickness was as bad as ever. Our own people have tried
their own medicines, our witch-doctors also have tried to cure it by
means of their fetishes; but all alike are useless. We often ask the
white men if their doctors have found the medicine; but we always get
the same answer, “No, not yet.” We wonder that the white men with all
their wisdom have not found it: if they have not, who can?

The white men of God are continually teaching us that in view of all
this sickness, now is the time for us to settle the palaver between us
and God by believing in His Son Jesus, so as to be ready if death comes
to us. And then our witch-doctors step in and say, “Is not this closing
of the eyes in prayer, which these white men have taught our people,
the cause of the sickness of sleep?”

What can we do? We go and hear the teaching, and it is good: we agree
to it. Then we hear what the witch-doctors say, and for a while we
absent ourselves. And all the time the sickness goes on and increases.
O white people, will you not pray to your God for the medicine? will
you not try and send it to us soon, that this desolation may be ended,
and some of us be saved alive?








CHAPTER IX

THE ELDERS OF EUROPE

    More white men from Europe—Fears and curiosity—The white men
    inquire about us—We tell them of our state—And our oppressors—The
    knotted strings and their story—“These things are bad”—The white
    men’s promises—Better times—Soon ended—Rubber again—The old
    toil—The men of the river—The demands on the villages—The chiefs in
    power—Chiefs and the sentries—The death wail and the white man—“We
    are very poor.”


One Saturday evening a big steamer came to the white man’s beach, and
soon after the news spread throughout our villages that a lot of white
men from Europe—old men with grey hair—had come to see and judge of our
condition for themselves, and to listen to what we had to tell them.

Some of us were afraid to go near them; we had not had a good
experience of white men in the past, and we kept away. But others were
curious to see the elders of Europe, and so they went to take a look at
them from a distance, and then came back and reported to us who stayed
at home. There were, said they, three strange white men, said to be
settlers of palavers, two of whom were in truth old, grey-headed men;
one other was a medicine-man. These were accompanied by the great
rubber chief, as well as the white men who worked the steamer. They had
also heard that we were all invited to go to the steamer on the next
day and state our grievances.

Then while we were still talking about it, the white men of God sent to
advise us not to hide anything, but to come and tell these white men
all the palavers we could remember, giving names, and bringing
eye-witnesses whenever we could. They also said that these white men
had promised that we should be protected, and that no harm should come
to us as the result of our making our grievances known.

This reassured us, and we thought that as these white men were not boys
but old and white-haired, they were worthy of respect, and their word
should be true. Therefore we gathered together, we and our chiefs, and
we told them many, many things—things which grieved and surprised and
made them very angry.

We told them how we had to make rubber when the vines were practically
finished in our district; how we had to get animals all the year round
and in all weathers, and fish, no matter what the state of the river
might be; how our wives could scarcely prepare manioca for our own
families because of the constant demands of the white men and his
sentries. Then, gaining courage, we went on to tell of the treatment
which we received from the sentries in our villages, of their cruelties
and oppression, their murders and thefts, their wicked treatment of our
wives and daughters, and many other abuses which I cannot tell you of.

Many chiefs came from far distant villages and districts, bringing with
them long knotted strings or bundles of twigs, each knot or twig
representing a person killed or a woman stolen.

Everything we told was written down, and the white men of God told many
things, and these also were written down. This went on for two or three
days, until at last the old white chief said, “Have you anything more
to tell?”

“Oh, yes,” we said, “many things, white man; we can go on like this for
three more days, if you want to hear all.”

Said he, “We have heard sufficient; we know that these things are bad,
why should we hear more?”

We were given twenty brass rods each, and told that no one would molest
us, and that soon these bad things would be ended, as the palaver would
be settled in Europe.

So we went home, and waited. We did not expect much, for we had been
told the same thing before, and we had given up hoping long ago.

But after long time of waiting changes did come once more. Bokakala’s
white men of rubber did not come to us any more, but Bula Matadi (the
State) himself came and said that now he would send his own white men
to us, and that they were good; and there would be no more bad doings
in our villages; as they would recall all the sentries and not send any
more out to live with us, and oppress and ill-treat us and our
families.

And Bula Matadi really came, and since then we have had better times
than before. Having no sentries in our villages, but only our own
headmen, makes it much better for us, and far safer for our wives and
families who are left at home when we are away in the forest.

For a little while there was no rubber work; we cut posts and bamboos
for building, and firewood for steamers, and there was always the food
tax which pressed hard on men and women alike. It always has been a
heavy task to supply that, and is still—just as much food is needed,
and we are so few, so very few to keep up the quantity.

However, we congratulated ourselves on not having rubber to work, when
lo! Bula Matadi himself suddenly ordered us to begin working rubber
again!

It seems that there is no way of pleasing a white man except by
providing him with rubber. I do not mean the white men of God—they are
different. But the others, whether they belong to Bokakala or Bula
Matadi, whether they live up-country or down, or away on the big river,
they are all alike in feeling a hunger for rubber.

So now we are away in the forest for two months, and in our homes for
one. The two months are spent in collecting rubber, and making it into
long strips to take to the white man. Each man has to make six strips
for each month, and take them to the white man once in three
months—eighteen strips at a time. Then we get a piece of cloth or a
shirt or a plate as payment if the rubber is good and the quantity
sufficient; if it is not, then we get very little or no payment, and if
the shortage is of frequent occurrence, it may be prison.

We are better off in having a longer time for getting the rubber; but
we have long distances to go in order to reach any vines, and then we
have to cut them down and sometimes dig up the roots in order to get
sufficient of the sap.

And we have more comfort, because, going for a longer time, we make
better shelters, and take our hunting-nets and spears with us, and so
succeed in getting some fresh animal food. If several of us are in the
same part of the forest, it is easy to set up our nets round a herd of
wild pigs or some antelopes. Some go in and beat the bush, others wait
outside the nets with poised spears, and it is not long before we have
some animal for our evening meal.

The people who live on the river bank, and have to be always providing
wood for passing steamers, or fish and manioca for rations for Bula
Matadi’s soldiers and workmen, and fresh meat for his own table, are
really worse off in some ways than we who are now on rubber work,
because they must take their portion every seven or fifteen days, and
if they fail to do so they are imprisoned.

Then demands are made of some villages to supply fowls and eggs at odd
times and in varying quantities. We wonder sometimes what the white men
do with so many eggs; they seem to be always wanting them. One of our
people who has frequently to supply eggs says that he thinks the white
men must be under the impression that we black men lay eggs the same as
fowls do, for they are always calling for them, whether or not the
fowls are laying!

Now that there are no sentries in our villages the chiefs of the people
are expected by the white men to exercise more authority. But during
the years of the sentries’ rule the chiefs were divested of every bit
of authority, and systematically degraded in the sight of their people.
So bad did it become that a chief spent a great part of his time in the
chain, or in the bush hiding from the sentries.

Naturally the children and young people lost their respect for the
chiefs, and many an old man whose word a few years ago was law has
found, to his shame and chagrin, that he is considered as of no
importance and his word as valueless.

Sometimes the old men get into trouble for things that are not really
their fault.

For instance, a little while ago some one died in a village near the
white man’s compound, and, as usual, the people commenced wailing. From
evening until far into the night the death wail rang out, and the sound
disturbed the white man’s rest. On the next day the chief was arrested
and put in prison for not having stopped the noises—and he remained
there for three days and nights. He is absolutely dispossessed of his
power, no one thinks of obeying him; and yet he is punished for the
inevitable outcome of the rule of the sentries in our villages.

It was much easier to kill the authority of the chiefs than it is to
give it back to them. Of course, there is one great chief, who wears a
medal, and is in constant intercourse with the white men of Bula
Matadi. He has plenty of authority—we think too much—and he uses it
largely in getting a great crowd of wives and making it difficult for
the young men to get any. Being rich, he can pay enormous prices for
women, and demand the same. That is one of our grievances at the
present time.

It is our custom to pay for our wives to their fathers and guardians,
and the present high prices and scarcity of brass rods are making it
almost impossible for a young man to get a wife, and this leads to
other bad palavers.

We are very poor—poorer than ever, because the prices of food and other
things are higher than before, and yet those who provide the food tax
do not receive any more for what they supply. Nowadays our women have
no heavy brass anklets, gaiters, or neck ornaments; we are often glad
to sell the knives, which were our pride in the old days, for rods with
which to settle our palavers.

So, although we are better off in some ways since the changes came, we
still have our troubles. We are but few and weak, and those who are
stronger than we still oppress and tread us down. We are still slaves,
and even if our slavery is a little less hard than of old, it is still
slavery and still irksome to us and our children.








CHAPTER X

THINGS WE WANT TO KNOW

    My story is finished—The past and the present—Why are these things
    so?—The old days—Now we are white men’s slaves—How long will it
    last?—We are dying—Our only rest is death—How long, how long?


White men of Europe, my story is finished. I have told you about the
past, and the two kinds of slavery in which we have been bound; I have
told you about the present, our constant work, the difficulty in which
our chiefs find themselves placed, our inability to marry because of
our poverty, our sickness, the desolation which broods over our
villages, the lack of children to take the places of those who die. I
think I have told you sufficient to show you that we are in need of
pity and help.

I want to ask you, white people of Europe, two questions. The first is,
“Why are these things so?”

Long ago, our fathers tell us and some of us can remember, there were
no white people in our land; we lived alone and happily in our own way.
True, there were feuds and fights, quarrels and bloodshed, and a kind
of slavery, but the country was ours, the forest was ours in which to
hunt, the river was ours in which to fish, the fruits of the forest and
the produce of our gardens were ours to appease our hunger. We did not
know anything about white men, nor did we wish to.

And then—suddenly they came in their steamers and settled amongst us.
And gradually we learnt that these white men, who came to us uninvited,
are our masters—we, our families, our forests, the produce of our
gardens, the spoil of our hunting and fishing—all belong to them. And
we cannot understand why it should be so.

Once more, we have to work for the white man all the time. Now, when
the work is lighter than ever, we are in the forest two out of every
three months. We must get a certain quantity of rubber, or there is
prison for us, and, when we come out of prison, more rubber must be
made in place of what was short before we can make a start on the next
three-monthly portion.

Those of us who are taking food are out on the river fishing from the
first to the fifth working day, and we take in the food on the sixth.
If we hunt, we must be continually going to the forest, which is not
any better. The food-tax men are worse off than the rubber men at
present. For all this constant work we receive very little pay, and, if
we complain, we are told that all this work is “wuta” (“tax”). We knew
about “wuta” long ago before the white men came, but our “wuta” was to
pass over a part of what we had in consideration of some benefit
received, or the use of some implement, or in order to be freed from
some obligation, but we never understood it to mean all that we had or
anything which would take all our time. Now, everything else has to be
let go in order to get “wuta” for Bula Matadi, and I would ask you
white men, Why is it so?

I have only one more question to ask you. It is this, For how long will
it last?

We were young men when it commenced, now we are middle-aged, and we
seem no nearer to the end of it than we were at first. Still there is
the demand for rubber, rubber, rubber!

Many of our people have died from exposure to cold and heat, or from
lack of comfort; many others from accidents, such as falling from the
rubber vines, and many more from the pestilences of which I have told
you.

White men, I tell you the truth: we are dying, soon our villages will
be put out as a fire that is quenched.

And still we are working, still we are slaves to the white men.

And we have nothing to look forward to, as far as we can see, except
constant work—and death. We have heard that when a man reaches what the
white men call forty years of age his tax palaver is finished; but that
time must be in very old age, for no one ever seems to become old
enough to leave off work. No, the only rest we can look forward to is
death!

The white men of God are still with us, and they still tell us the news
of salvation from sin. That is good news.

But again I say that what we want to hear is the news of salvation from
rubber. How long before we shall hear that news? How long a time must
pass before this “wuta” business is finished? How long shall we wait
before we get a little rest—apart from death?


                               THE END.









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