There were other similar homes. In the villages, even before Christianity enters, the natives look upon some of the customs of their tribes in various ways. Where there are large villages and many people, dances and carousals are frequent occurrences and much immorality results. Some of the parents forbid their children frequenting these places of amusement on account of the immorality.
Again, from some villages boys would come to the mission, stay only a few days and then leave, because they were obliged to perform a certain amount of work daily. We did not try to coax them to remain, for we preferred to keep only those who were willing to work--the others seldom amount to anything. Go into the houses of some such boys, and one would see them lying about, not willing to herd, much less dig. Perhaps the father will say, "Go and see about those sheep." The boy pays no attention to the command. The mother comes and scolds him and seeks to make him work, but with no better result; yet when food is prepared he is the first one to be around the pot and no one forbids him. From these instances it can be readily seen that African family training does not differ materially from European or American.
In many of the villages there are always some who desire to improve themselves and better their conditions. They have their gardens, but, work as they may with their primitive little hoes, they cannot make much headway; or there may be a drought and famine is the result. They go away and work for a time, and come home with a supply of clothing and some money. They come to their dirty homes and filthy surroundings, and their friends and relatives try to get as much of their clothing and money as possible. They gradually become more and more sordid in appearance, their clothing disappears, and we become disgusted with them for so soon leaving behind the outward marks of civilization. But how many months could we live their home life and be presentable in appearance?
Let us take Charlie as an example. He, with a number of other boys, went to Southern Rhodesia to work on a farm. He remained a year and received fifteen shillings ($3.60) per month, and he had to pay his way down and back on the train. He came home at the end of the year with a nice supply of new clothing and some money, and he looked as clean and well-dressed as a European when he came to Church on Sunday. He is a Christian boy and is trying to do what is right. Soon after his return home, his father, who is one of the three lazy men I mentioned, and extremely filthy in appearance, began wearing Charlie's clothes. First it was a shirt and a piece of calico; then another garment; then his nice grey coat. Charlie gave his little naked brother one of his shirts.
He wished to marry, and this took all of his money. In a few months he presented quite a different appearance from what he did on his return home from Bulawayo, and we began to blame him, at least in our minds, and say that he should not allow himself to degenerate in this way. But most of his clothing is gone and his money is gone; he does not even have sufficient with which to purchase soap, so that he may wash the remaining clothing.
Says one, "He should keep at work and not come and sit down in his home." The work takes him away from home, and his wages are low, so that he must keep at it continually in order to maintain appearances. May he not have any home life at all? It is a perplexing problem, and were we forced to take his place we would no doubt conclude that the boy does remarkably well under the circumstances. While at home he works in his gardens and does what he can find to do for the white men near his home; then, as his needs increase, he again goes to Bulawayo to begin again.
This is an actual occurrence and typical of many others. He may conclude to have no home life, but keep up the semblance of civilization, hang about the towns, and imitate many evils surrounding him, and in the end prove a greater menace to society and to the country than if he would, at least part of the time, live in his own home in a more primitive manner. Again, if he depends too much on the stores of the traders, he ceases to manufacture articles for himself, so that if he does finally settle down for himself, tired of the struggle, he is often more helpless than at first, because he cannot make the articles which his father made.
Is the native provident? or does he live from hand to mouth? Yes and no.
I heard a man who traded with the natives say that in one year he bought about 1,000 bags of grain from them, giving in exchange goods from his store. Before the next crop was harvested, he had sold about all the grain back to them, at of course quite an advance in price. I have seen, near our own doors, natives sell to European traders grain, either for money or goods, from $1.25 to $2.50 for a two-hundred-pound bag and buy it back later in the same season for from $6 to $7 per bag. But these are extreme cases. In the latter instance a year of plenty was followed by a year of drought, and the natives were far from markets and at the mercy of local traders. Many of the natives had put in their granaries what would have tided them over an ordinary season, but the prolonged drought led them to want. Others had a comparatively poor crop the previous year and this caused a scarcity. Some did not need to buy at all, as they always look in advance for such emergencies and do not sell their surplus until certain of a new crop. Such natives, when they do sell, often sell to their native neighbors or exchange their grain for cattle. Such are generally very thrifty, while there are always some who are in want. In this too it may be seen that they are not unlike other people.
In fact, the Batonga taught their missionaries some lessons in caring for grain. We found that they store their corn in the grain bins without removing all the husks, and they shell it as they need it or near the end of the season. With the Kafir corn they do the same way, cutting off the heads and putting it away without threshing it. This was so different from the thrifty Matabele, who carefully shelled and threshed their grain, that the first time we visited one of the villages and saw their method we thought, "How lazy! We must teach them how to do their work properly." We soon discovered that in this hot climate the shelled corn was soon weevil-eaten, and that the shelled Kafir corn was almost ground to meal before the year ended. Now we are inclined to imitate the natives in this respect rather than they us. It shows too that the native adapts himself to the country and climatic conditions.
The African is a genuine lover of nature. He enjoys being out in the open air; he loves the bright rays of the sun. Everything around him is pregnant with meaning. Nature is his school, and he knows the habits of every beast, bird, or insect. In a measure he appreciates and loves the beautiful, even though at first he may smile at the white man's love for flowers. One day I inquired of an old heathen woman, who never came to Church, why they moved their kraal from the rock-bound place in which it had been, to the open plain. Her withered face brightened up, as with a sweep of her arm she took in the magnificent scene before her and exclaimed, "Is not that beautiful?" The native too shows good taste in the selection of clothing after he has become accustomed to civilized ways. We are inclined to think of them as being especially partial to bright colors. A few are, but my experience is that the majority are not. Many of the boys especially soon discard the native stores, where cheap apparel is sold, and frequent the stores for Europeans.
They love music and have several crude musical instruments. Their songs are generally of war, love, marriage, and the chase. They also have some songs suitable to their work. They of course have good voices for singing, and can be easily trained to sing well. They have their legends, their poetry, proverbs, and animal stories.
Natives, although very generous among themselves, are not inclined to be so to white people; perhaps because white people have not as a rule treated them so generously. If the native wishes to sell anything and is greatly in need of the money or clothing, he will often consent to sell for almost any price. It is the same with work; he will work very cheaply if he is eager to work.
On the other hand, if the need is on the part of the buyer, he will ask a very high price for grain or other articles and absolutely refuse to give for less, especially if the buyer is an European. With work it is the same. Even boys, after they have received a certain amount of education and religious training, are very slow to accept the idea that they should do anything for the white man from a sense of duty. There are doubtless some very good reasons for this. They, however, respect a master who is kind but firm, and it is best not to coax them. If they find that we are not dependent upon them, and can get along without them, they are more likely to conclude that they cannot get along without us.
The native is said to be lacking in gratitude to his benefactor, and there is some truth in this. One often spends much time and labor to train him along certain lines, with the hope that he will be of genuine service in the future. Perhaps about the time he is able to take the place for which he is fitted, he will often turn and, rejecting his benefactor, give the benefit of his training to some one who can remunerate him better. Naturally the missionary, or master, whichever it may be, feels grieved at this lack of gratitude. Too often, perhaps, the fault is on both sides, and we do not give him credit for the help he has been to us. Then too it is difficult to put ourselves in his place and see matters from his point of view. He has no idea of the value of our time or training and we sometimes spoil him in the beginning. Would not the best and safest way for the good of the native be to require him to earn his way as he goes? Let him always work sufficiently, if possible, to pay for the trouble it takes to teach him, whether in school or in industrial work, or in work pay him small wages at first and increase as he becomes more and more proficient. It may require a little of his time, but it has not spoiled him, and if he should conclude to go at any time, he has altogether or nearly paid his way in kind and one is none the loser.
The native, however, can, and many of them do, improve greatly along this line after they have become Christians. While naturally they are not inclined to be disinterested and generous to the white people, yet many of them become so and display a remarkable spirit of self-sacrifice in the Lord's service. Many teach year after year at a far lower salary than they could obtain elsewhere; and, not only in teaching but in other lines of labor requiring skill, they will work for the Lord for a much lower wage than they could procure elsewhere, as all of our missionaries can testify. Then too many of them often give largely of their penury for the advancement of the cause of Christ.
I was one day touched by the spirit manifested by a big fellow. He had come to the missionaries destitute of clothing, but anxious for an education. He was a hard-headed chap, both in school and out, and ran up against many hard places before he became pliable. He received, like the rest, a little money at the end of each term, but since he was in school three and one-half hours each day, his time for work was limited and his pay necessarily small. He, however, stayed at the mission and gradually obtained some clothing and money to pay his taxes. He also began to accept Christ as his Savior and from being a proud, obstinate fellow, he became more and more docile. At one time the amount coming to him was ten shillings ($2.40). His wardrobe was still scanty, but he took out for himself one shilling of the money received and brought the remaining nine shillings and said, "Here, I want to give this to the Lord."
Giving the Gospel to the natives in their villages, while it is generally a pleasure to the missionary, is not always an easy task. They soon learn to be very quiet and respectful in the church, enter quietly, take their places and go through all the outward forms of service, and also leave without being noisy or talking, perhaps because they are requested to do so. But when one goes out into their villages, even to the best of them, there are many side issues. The chief, if he is present and worthy the name, will aid in keeping order, and even if he is not present, the majority may sit quietly and seem to be listening; but perhaps the cattle get at the granaries and must be driven away, or the chickens go into the huts and eat the meal and must be watched; perhaps new ones are continually coming and must be noticed and greeted, if they are allowed to do so. Then the babies are so interesting to their mothers or those near them, or perhaps there is a mother with an older child at her side, and she does not wish to lose any time; so, during her enforced leisure, she is sedulously examining the child's head or ornaments for parasites. Perhaps over there, outside the hut door, is a man who has not had time to make his morning toilet, so he concludes to spend the time in dressing the long locks of hair around the top of his head.
One does not like to stop and reprove them, because the rest seem attentive and perhaps those are also listening, for the work they are engaged in is such a common one! Again, all may seem attentive and the missionary rejoices that the seed is falling into well-prepared soil, and he continues eager to drive the truth home to their hearts. He pauses to let it sink in--when lo! some one will make a remark wholly irrelevant to the subject he seeks to impress upon their minds; it may be in reference to some article of clothing he is wearing, or some of their own needs. His enthusiasm cools, for he perceives that some, and perhaps many, have paid little attention to the message.
Again, one may be speaking, and the chief or headman repeats what has been said, or he may ask a pertinent question, the answer to which brings out other questions, which serve to elucidate the subject. The other natives are led to listen; and while the discourse turns to be almost a conversation between the speaker and this one, yet the missionary goes away feeling that they have at least understood and perhaps have received some light. Sometimes, again, one may have only a few listeners and go away thinking nothing has been accomplished, but God has taken care of the seed sown.
I remember being out once with one of the Christian boys. We came to a garden where a woman and her daughter were working, and we sat and talked with them about Christ our Savior. This was the first time they had had an opportunity to hear. Years passed and the incident was about forgotten by both the Christian native and myself. That girl later, out of much tribulation found her way into the Kingdom. Her father was a hardened old heathen, and had sold her to an old man. He was going to force her to marry the old man, but she escaped and fled to Matopo Mission where, with Elder Steigerwald's help, she was set free. She returned home, and later an European offered oxen and wagon to her father for her. She steadfastly refused and kept herself pure. Today she is the wife of a native evangelist and one of our most valued helpers.
She says her first knowledge of Christ was at that little meeting in the garden, where she and her mother were working, and her present husband and I stopped to speak with them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Some of Their Religious Ideas
Nevertheless He left not Himself without witness, in that He did good, and gave us rain from heaven, and fruitful seasons, filling our hearts with food and gladness.--Acts 14: 17.
The above quotation may apply to the African's idea of God in general, but it seems especially applicable to the Batonga and kindred tribes.
Among these the word for God and rain are one and the same, _Leza_. This does not necessarily imply that they have no conception of God apart from the Rainmaker, but that conception is closely allied to rain and kindred elements in nature. They understand the name _Mubumbi_ (Moulder or Creator) and _Chilenga_ (Originator of Customs), but when speaking of the earth and vegetation, they will say, "Leza [God] made these things, because when leza [rain] comes, grass and vegetation spring up and grow, so Leza made them."
Of course their conception of Him, like that of all Africans, is very remote. He is their Creator, but to approach unto Him is like reaching out in the dark, in a vague sort of way, after something more powerful than themselves, something or some one they know not what. In times of great trouble, as in famine, fear, or when there is an earthquake or an eclipse, they will worship God, not necessarily by word of mouth, but by clapping their hands in reverence. They generally, however, like the Matabele, feel that they cannot approach God. He is too great and terrible, so they approach Him through mediators, such as departed spirits, prophets, and prophetesses.
Mr. Eddy, in "India Awakening," says: "Joined with these is the worship of dead parents, where spirits are dependent on their survivors for comforts, and who will avenge neglect or any deviation from custom. This belief is (1) a religion of fear, since most spirits are malicious; (2) a religion divorced from ethics, since spirits have no regard for moral ideas; (3) a religion of custom, since the worship rests on tradition and the spirits are apt to punish all departure from custom." This statement in reference to India can be as truthfully said of the pagan African.
The Batonga, many of them, build roofs or small huts over the graves of their dead. In them they will place skulls of animals and some of the property of the deceased. Their descendants come to this place, bringing beer and even water, and pour it out upon the grave in worship. If one has been considered powerful while alive, has been a great rainmaker, many people will gather around his grave in time of drought and pray for rain.
They have also their living prophetesses and prophets, to whom they turn in times of need. These claim that the soul of some powerful deceased one has entered them and bequeathed to them its power. In times of drought these prophetesses--for they are generally women--multiply rapidly. In a village of about thirty-five huts, near us, there were said to be ten prophetesses during the drought two years ago. The prophetic term of some of them is often very short, much depending on their seeming success as rainmakers. Sometimes the prophetess will make no claim for herself, but her friends will make it for her. The prophetesses are very often immoral characters.
Day after day people will come to the prophetess, as the time for planting draws near, bringing their presents of grain or money and their seed, that she may bless it and insure good crops. They come, sit down, reverentially clapping their hands and beseeching her aid. The hunter brings his gun, to receive medicine which will insure him prowess in hunting; a man comes asking for medicine for his sick wife, who is bewitched, and this medicine is to ward off the witchery. There comes from afar an old woman, who claims to have the power of making their grain last a long time by putting a certain medicine into it when cooking. She is believed and the medicine is bought and put into the food, and she rejoices in her pay. These heathens are always very gullible and readily purchase anything which appears conducive to their own interests.
One day I saw a number of natives going to a village to worship a rainmaker, so I concluded to go also and see what they did, for it was a village near the mission where the Gospel had often been proclaimed. As I reached the place the prophetess was in her hut, but a number of women and girls were outside, clapping their hands in worship. Their faces were familiar to me, and I could not avoid feeling sad to see how little influence the Gospel had thus far had on their lives. Finally the prophetess came out of her hut and was received with more clapping of the hands. She was a large, powerful-looking woman and gave orders like a queen, nor was she unqueenly in appearance. The worshipers were seated around a large hole or excavation in the earth, and had several dishes of grain which they had brought. They were told to sort the grain, selecting only the best and whitest; and I am informed that some of the grain, together with incantations, is dropped into the opening in the earth, but this I did not see. She came and greeted me and spoke a few words and then entered her hut. A man came to her for medicine for his sick wife, who was bewitched, and others went to consult with her.
Finally I went to the door of her hut and spoke with her, inquiring why these people were worshiping. She said:
"They want rain. The spirit of a rainmaker who died a long, long time ago entered into me and they come for me to make it rain."
Knowing them so well, and being jealous for Him Whose ambassador I was, I asked, "Do you really mean to say that you can cause rain?"
Regarding me quite earnestly for a time she finally said, "No, I cannot cause rain."
"Why then are you deceiving the people and pretending that you can? God only can produce rain."
"Yes," she replied, "He alone can make it rain."
"Then come and tell the people that He only can cause it to rain and that they should worship Him."
She willingly complied, and coming out of her hut, she spoke to them very earnestly, telling them to worship God, as He alone could cause rain. As she claimed to be only an intercessor, and no doubt did this to please me, it did not necessarily interfere with her role as rainmaker.
Even the most pagan among them acknowledge Leza (God) as the Rainmaker, and these only as His messengers. Since the people so readily transfer their worship from one to another, they also freely come to the missionaries to have them pray for rain. They have done this at Macha, and the Lord has graciously answered the prayers of His servants. This, however, does not seem to bring the native any nearer to repentance and God, and one feels loath to heed their request, except in the case of Christian natives.
With the Batonga, wailing for the dead seems to be essentially a religious requirement, and it is most religiously observed, so we venture to include it as a part of their religion. When the news of a death reaches a village, the people begin to wail at once, especially if they be relatives, and continue to do so while they are moving about, putting away their grain, baskets, and the few utensils they own, for a stay of several days. They may be heard wailing as they pass on their way out of their village to go to that of the dead. In a short time perhaps the entire village is deserted. We were once camping near a village of fifty huts, and news came that a relative had died at a mine near Bulawayo. In a few minutes nearly all the inhabitants were on their way to the house of mourning; for, although the body was buried about four hundred miles distant, they firmly believed that his spirit returned to his home and took cognizance of all they did. If a native is traveling along a path, and word comes to him of the death of a relative, he will begin wailing at once, and turning around proceed to the place of mourning.
Perhaps the reader will more fully understand what an African funeral is if he in mind accompanies us to one. Apuleni's father had been working in a mine in Southern Rhodesia. He became quite sick there and was brought home to die. We visited his home, and found that they had taken him to a temporary hut at some distance from the village. It is a very common practice for them to do this, especially if one is near death's door. His wife and daughters are near him, doing all they can to relieve his sufferings. His lungs are diseased and it is likely to prove fatal.
One evening word comes to the boy that his father has died. He immediately goes home, while Sister Engle and I conclude to go and see him buried. We have seen the wailings, but not the interment. It is already dark when the word comes, so we take the lantern and together with several schoolboys start for the village. We all go single file along the path for nearly three-fourths of a mile, down the hill, across the river, which is dry at this season. The night is quite dark and only lighted up by the flame of the lantern. Up the hill we go, on the opposite side, for over a fourth of a mile to the village. All along the path the sound of wailing comes to our ears. Sometimes it subsides and then becomes more violent than ever. Before death the deceased has been brought back to his hut, and as we enter the village the men are sitting around in groups outside and are quiet. We proceed to the hut of mourning, which is crowded with women and is dark, save for the light of the fire in the center, the flickering flames of which ever and anon light up the weird scene.
We stoop down and enter the low door. It is so crowded and hot that farther progress seems impossible, and yet we manage to work our way among the crowd, seated or standing and keeping up their doleful wail.
Our object is twofold: We wish to see, and also to show our sympathy for the boy who has been with us so long and is a Christian, and we desire to see the sorrowing wife and daughters, for we know them well and believe that they will appreciate our presence and words of condolence.
We finally reach the partition which extends over halfway across the hut. Near this lies a bundle about four or five feet long. It is a somewhat shapeless mass, wrapped with a number of layers of blankets and carefully tied. In the fitful light one might easily mistake it for a bundle of clothes, but we know without asking that this is the body of the deceased; for around it are seated the wife and daughters weeping bitterly, and lovingly patting the wrapping of the body. The rest of the women are mingling their tears with those of the relatives. We stoop and speak a few words of comfort to the wife, but it is little we can give; he had frequently heard of Christ, but refused to accept Him. As the fire flames up we can see Apuleni standing in the shadow, and he too is weeping bitterly, but more quietly. The boys who came with us make their way through the throng and going to him mingle their tears with his, and our own eyes overflow at the sight.
But this crowded hut, without windows or means of ventilation and with a hot fire, is unbearable, so we go outside, the boys following. Everyone on the outside is quiet or speaking in low tones. Sister Engle and I are given blocks of wood for chairs. From one of the groups of men the chief, Lupata, rises and takes his little hoe, and after he has made some measurements, he marks off the grave a few feet from the door of the hut of mourning. In the meantime wood and logs have been brought and several fires kindled, as night is nearly always cool. Around these fires the men sit in groups, but the fires do not make sufficient light, and some grass is brought from the roof of the hut and burnt near the grave for light, so the chief may see to do his work in digging out the first part of the grave. He then hands the hoe to another, who continues the work. The ground is very hard and the work proceeds slowly, and since they have difficulty in seeing, we place our lantern on a stamping block near them. This is gratefully acknowledged by the little group, and the digging continues.
It is an uncanny scene: The steady, dull thud of the hoe as it digs into the hard earth; the various campfires lighting up the dusky, grave faces of the men in their heathen garb; the steady wail of mourning in the hut near by--all leave an impression not soon obliterated. Thus perhaps an hour passes and several men have taken part in digging, the loose earth being removed by means of a basket; but the picking of the hoe has taken on a metallic ring, for the earth is stony. The chief asks for kafir corn, and a daughter comes and shells some and places a pan of it near the open grave. Frequently some of this grain is dropped into the opening, "to soften and appease the earth," they say, and the digging continues, though but little progress is made. Then the chief calls to the mourners, "Be quiet and do not make so much noise. Don't you know that the ground is hard and stony?" The noise subsides and the digging goes on. Soon the friends again begin their loud wailing, and since the ground is still hard and stony, the chief finally goes to the door of the hut and berates them soundly. "Be quiet! Do you not know that you are making our work difficult by your lamentations? The earth refuses to receive the dead" (because you are loath to give it). They become quiet and the work continues. They think the very elements are arrayed against them, and the friends must propitiate the earth by a willing surrender of their loved one to its cold embrace.
It is now midnight, and from the progress made we conclude that it will take all night to finish the stony grave. We speak to the chief and he says, "Yes, the interment will not likely be before early dawn." We conclude to return home and have some rest. At an early hour we are awakened and reach the village just at dawn. The grave has been dug so that those inside can stand to their armpits. Then near the bottom a further excavation is made in the side of the grave, sufficiently large to receive the body. Two men remain standing in the grave while the body is carried out amid the lamentations of the mourners. It is gently lowered into the open grave and placed in the excavation in the side.
Earth is handed down in baskets, and this is carefully packed around the body. Then comes the filling of the main part of the opening. As the ground is lowered the two men stamp it down with their feet, for of course they are not standing on the body. When it is nearly full, the men emerge and several with sticks carefully pound the earth as it is put in until the grave is full.
All this time the friends have been standing around weeping. When the grave is filled and all the rest of the earth removed, the head one calls loudly, "Water!" This is brought in a gourd and all the relatives and those taking part in the burial rush together; and as the water is poured out on the grave, they wash their hands in the falling water. The surface of the grave is by this time quite wet. The friends throw themselves on the muddy grave with their entire force, so that one would think bones might be broken. Some throw themselves repeatedly, and by the time they have finished, their bodies are quite muddy, but the top of the grave is pounded down as smooth as the surrounding earth, and by the time it is dry the uninitiated could not tell the place of burial.