Since we had left the port, we had not seen another living soul, besides the variety of animals. The children and I watched for beasts eagerly. Each time we saw a new one, I would ask them the noise it made and they would both repeat it instantly, with excellent skill. Mary had taught them well. I found myself delighted to pass the time making ridiculous noises with children. Although, when we could see some buffalo in the distance, I asked Robert to make the sound, and he rammed my belly with his small forehead. After that, I was careful of the questions I asked.
We saw such a myriad of forms of life. Elephants were bewildering in their mass, and the more distance between us, the more at ease I felt. Mebalwe brought us a meerkat to see up close, its wide eyes wondering what it was doing trapped in a box. The herds of wild horses I felt I could watch throughout eternity, whereas the rhinoceros seemed awfully dull and lackadaisical. To this statement David vehemently disagreed.
“Caught at the wrong moment in the grass, a rhinoceros could take a man’s leg off. They are much quicker than they seem.”
“You speak as if you have experienced this,” I said.
He shrugged a single shoulder. “I like to explore.”
Mary gave him a look of admiration.
We passed through two small villages, and at long last, we saw other humans. David got down from the cart and spoke with small groups of natives at both places. Mary got down only at the latter village, to embrace a woman she recognized, with skin as dark as hers was white. At the same time Mary was with her friend, a chief made his way toward us. I say he was a chief because he strode with authority and had several tall, glorious feathers attached to his dark hair. He was accompanied by eight women, all emotionally attached to him somehow. I was too apprehensive to ask if they were his wives.
He spoke with David for only a few minutes before returning the way he came. He had left David with a parting gift, a small piece of ivory, carved into the shape of a bird with its beak wide open.
“It’s lovely,” I told him when he showed me the piece.
“The chiefs here give a gift if they are pleased with your entering and exiting their lands. He said he found no fault with me, but would like me all the better if I was not forever preaching and giving sermons.”
I looked at the carving again.
“Are you the bird, then?” I asked.
“I suppose so,” he replied with a grin. “I suppose this is his formal request to hear less about salvation.”
Chapter 10
As soon as the days started to roll together into an indiscernible mass, our trek came to a close. We arrived at Sechele’s tribe on the end of the seventh day of travel by wagon. It was a much larger village than I had imagined. As we looked down on the valley atop a hill, I could see hundreds of neatly thatched huts, built with some sort of clay. The huts swirled around each other in small concentrated circles, and a large, triangular wall surrounded the entirety of them. The wall must have been at least seven feet in height, and as we drew near and traveled alongside the wall, I could see it was surprisingly attractive for what must have been done with hands and crude tools. I stretched my hand out the back of the wagon to feel the rough, warm texture of the wall. At regular intervals along the surface, my hand met perfectly round holes, about the size of my hand. I inquired after David to know their purpose.
“They are the width of a musket end,” he wiped his brow in the heat. “It allows the tribe members to shoot out of the village while still staying mostly protected.”
This struck me as wise. I found myself suddenly wanting to be inside the walls instead of outside.
“For protection against animals?” I asked
“Something like that,” David said, then spoke again suddenly. “There he is now.”
There, just outside the wall, was a small group of native men, women, and children. In my mind’s eye, I was looking for an individual who had similarities to the chief David had met with yesterday, and I could see amongst them was a man a good deal taller than his companions, whose skin was a good deal darker than the rest. It most certainly was Kgosi Sechele, Chief and King of the Bakwena. From afar I could see he was dressed differently than his fellow African leaders. And yet, something was oddly familiar about him.
As we came closer, I recognized the cut of his suit, the style of his boots, the curve of his collar. His cravat was neatly tied, his vest freshly pressed and his high hessian boots polished, if not slightly out of fashion. He was costumed as an Englishman! His buckles and buttons shone in the African sun so brightly, it told me he must have them polished individually and meticulously. The tunic, I knew, was stylish when my father was a youth, and the shirt peeked out at his wrists and neck, the stark white creating a charming contrast to his dark skin. His coat was a worn but pleasing navy blue. His costume was finished by a long, dark walking stick with a shining, white ball on the end.
My jaw dropped slightly. I was always one to enjoy the ridiculous, but I had not imagined an English suit in the midst of all this rough terrain. I looked to Mary in my astonishment and she did not return my gaze. She simply shook her head. In my mind’s eye, I had fashioned Sechele in a large feathered hat, a bare chest, and skins about his loins. The African that stood directly in front of us now could stroll the streets of London without a second glance if his skin were white. How had he come to own such clothing? And why would he wear it?
“How?” I asked in bewilderment. I was grateful Mary understood what I was asking.
“Kolobeng gets its supplies from traders that move from the coast to the interior. They are well aware that Sechele is interested in English items and will pay well for them.” She cocked her head. “He must be baking in this weather.”
As if agreeing with her, some of his companions wore next to nothing, which I could understand more than I could a three piece suit. The others were dressed in plain tunics, hats, and trousers. In place of a walking stick, almost all of them carried long spears, which Mary told me were called assegais. The clothing they wore was obviously handmade, but not needing in anything. Almost all had bare feet, but all looked dressed up in a way, to welcome home the missionary doctor.
“Kgosi!” Robert shrieked. It startled me into remembering that, for the children, this was a typical experience. They were returning home. Robert bolted from the back of the wagon to clasp the knees of his chief. Sechele patted him on the back and grinned broadly while murmuring a low hum of soothing Sechuana to him. Agnes wobbled behind in imitation of her brother. When she arrived to Sechele with her arms outstretched, his eyes grew wide and he picked her up gently. I was amazed at his tenderness with her.
“Has he met Agnes before?” I asked Mary as we climbed down the front of the wagon.
“Only when she was new,” she answered. “His wife Selemeng is my good friend, and she helped me deliver Agnes. Sechele met her soon after.” She paused and smiled in remembering. “I imagine she has grown a touch since then.”
David stepped down from his seat and shook Sechele’s hand while his other hand clapped him on the back.
“Sechele, my friend,” he greeted.
“Ngaka,” Sechele called him.
I may have noticed Sechele’s clothing first, but let it be understood that he, in no way, looked ridiculous. He was royalty. His back was perfectly straight, his shoulders wide and strong. A hard jaw and a broad forehead were his dominating features. And yet, there was a clear suggestion of humility in him. His face showed lines of laughter, his hands often moved to clasp the shoulder or pat the back of the friends around him. As I observed him, I could see that he was sincere in his kindness yet certain in his authority.
“We are returned home,” David explained. “Mebalwe has accompanied me and we have brought my wife and children,” he said as he gestured to Mary and the children.
“My heart is glad at the sight of you. Welcome home,” Sechele said with an accent most intriguing. “Little Robert, I have been pondering while you were behaving as a grea
t traveler.” He crouched down so he was face-to-face with my little companion. “I shall place a giant hippo on the porch of your house, and you would have to stay there like the cattle in my corral, and you could never leave us again.” He clapped a hand on Robert’s shoulder in a friendly way and his smile ran from ear to ear. Robert chuckled, as did I.
Mary inquired after her friend.
“Selemeng is dreaming in the shade,” Sechele answered her. “She has been planting the garden this day.”
“And there is another who has accompanied us.” David introduced me as I stepped out of the wagon. I looked up into the face of Sechele. What piercing eyes he had! In an instant I felt if I were dishonest he would instantly be aware of it. He had the power of discernment. He saw through walls and dug out secrets. And so much rested on his opinion of me, if I would be welcome in this corner of the world. In a way, I needed his approval to begin my new life here.
And so, in a slight panic, I did what I had been taught since infancy when meeting a new acquaintance. I bowed my head and curtsied.
There was a slight stir in the company surrounding their chief. They looked around with question, and possible concern, in their faces. I quickly righted myself, worrying that a curtsy may have been the wrong first impression.
Sensing my discomfort, Sechele took two large steps to stand directly in front of me. Then with grace I did not expect in a desert, he bowed himself in half.
“I am pleased to be meeting you,” he said, speaking with purposeful articulation now. “I welcome you here. I am Kgosi Sechele, Chief of the Bakwena.” He gave me a small smile as he stood straight again.
His manners relieved my nerves so greatly I felt I could burst.
“The pleasure is mine,” I choked out. “I am Anna. And I thank you, sir.”
Sechele righted himself and his face glowed with a wide grin. He turned and extended his arm to me. I took it, and we walked arm in arm into another corner of the world.
Mebalwe excused himself discreetly, but David, Mary, and the children followed behind us as I saw the village for the first time.
There did not appear to be a single blade of grass out of place. The paths were paved flat and straight by the passage of many feet. Every so often a cow or goat would appear tied to the side of a home, as if it had been born and raised in that very spot, fearing to move and disrupt the cleanliness of such a place. All was orderly and comely. Mothers sat at their open doors and witnessed their chief walk past with a white girl at his arm. As peculiar a situation it seemed to me, the villagers did not seem surprised. I sensed that they knew their chief to be odd, but loved him all the same.
Toward me, however, there was a marked expression of suspicion. Brows furrowed and smiles slackened as they looked upon me. I thought it might have been because I was new and unknown, but as the Livingstones followed me, the villager’s expression continued in wariness.
We were all escorted to the center of the village, directly to the door of the chief’s own dwelling. In contrast to all the homes in his village, Sechele’s home was brick, square, large, painted white with an iron roof, and looked remarkably like a typical English home. Glass windows dotted the face of it, and flowers grew in pots hanging by the sill. A large garden was planted to the left of his front door, perfect rows of unfamiliar plants conformed in symmetrical lines. I shook my head at the spectacle. I could just have easily been in the country outside of London. I had been preparing myself to be accepting and open to new cultures and customs. How could I have imagined that the chief would be anxious to mimic mine?
Directly in front of his home was a large fire pit, which, I was told, was used for grand meetings. Signs of a recent gathering still remained in the sand.
Sechele, remembering something, turned his head and spoke to a man in his native tongue of Sechuana. It sounded like an order. The man ran in the opposite direction to heed his master’s demand.
In the same moment, a woman opened the front door of the large home and stepped outside. If I had taken the time to sketch out what my mind’s eye had seen as a perfect African queen, I feel certain I would have captured her precisely. She wore traditional African clothing. Beads hung around her neck and wrists. A thin cotton dress covered her frame, and two bold stripes ran from shoulder to shoulder, perhaps representing of the mantle she bore. Looking back, I suppose many of my English constituents would classify her as corpulent, but I found no fault with her. She was strong! Just as an African queen should be.
Distinctive cheekbones accented wise beautiful eyes. A small stern mouth told me she did not allow disobedience. She was majestic, commanding, a leader. Yet something in her face told me her husband persuaded her to laugh, but rarely.
“Anna,” Sechele spoke to me and patted my hand in a fatherly way. “I will have you meet my head wife, Selemeng.” She and I exchanged a nod of acknowledgement. I wondered why he called her “head wife.”
The man whom Sechele had ordered a command returned to our group with an ox. Everyone turned to him expectantly.
“Ah!” Sechele sang happily. “My friend David! Your family and Miss Anna are most welcome. I present this ox!” He gestured to the animal proudly.
This was obviously a welcoming custom. I felt lucky to be witnessing their culture firsthand. This was turning into a regular English setting, only with a slightly more unconventional gift.
I heard Mary speak my name loudly, but I did not turn. Then, Sechele spoke a single word in Sechuana to a man near him. The man drew a giant spear from his side like a sword, and expertly drove the head of the weapon into the neck of the animal. The ox hollered in surprise and shook its head in an attempt to swat the spear away. Several other villagers attacked the ox with their spears and other types of weapons, thrashing and cutting. Soon, the ox was on the ground, dead, and bathed in its own blood.
I witnessed the entire spectacle with my eyes wide, head cocked, and hands clasped politely in front of me, which had been my stance prior to the incident. I had not dared move for fear of offending Sechele or any of his family. Luckily, Mary had turned the children away from the scene, but was not quick enough to turn my head as well. I assured her I was all right. Perhaps I needed to see it. After all, the ox was meant to be our celebratory feast that evening. I couldn’t be blind to the facts of living here any longer.
Now I bit my lip and considered what had just passed. Proper thought eluded me. Perhaps there were a few key differences between the Bakwena and the polite society of London.
We were escorted into Sechele’s home by his wife Selemeng. Thick, colorful rugs welcomed our weary feet as we entered, and it was larger inside than the exterior suggested. The walls were a solid white like the exterior, in contrast with the ebony black floor. The accents of color around the room made the space comfortable and interesting. Many large windows, with real glass, shed light into his receiving room. I noted that each window had thick curtains as well. I could imagine shade was precious here. And, in the small welcoming area in which we stood, there was a massive, mahogany grandfather clock to our right, the most breathtaking piece I had ever come upon.
I could also see into a sublime dining room. A long, gorgeous table capable of seating twelve dominated the space there, covered by a slightly dingy white tablecloth. In front of each chair was a place setting of simple white plates and shining silver utensils. A long, beautifully crafted sideboard sat out of the way, filled with more fragile plates and silverware. Above hung an elegant glass chandelier, more suitable for a ballroom than a home. The clear, delicate ornaments nearly touched the table, so great was its size. How it could have survived in the bed of a wagon I had not the faintest idea. Yet here it was, beautiful, if not peculiar to behold.
Three more younger women appeared beside Selemeng, trying to get a look at the newcomers.
“These are my other wives,” Sechele said proudly, “Mokgokong, Modiagape and Motshipi.” They all smiled pleasantly, proud to be introduced.
“Oh!” I
exclaimed in my surprise. My naivety was astonishing. I had not even thought to ask the question, so engrossed was I in Sechele’s English clothing and English home. Trying to recover my composure, I spoke. “It is good to meet all of you.”
The three wives grinned amiably, then exited in mass with Selemeng.
I continued to take in the chief’s home. I expected to see many books in a home like this, yet there was only one. An open bible sat on a short table beside what must have been his favorite red chair. I could see that Sechele had written in the margins of the pages. One paragraph in Isaiah he had circled entirely in red pencil and written to the side, Why?
“Please sit!” he said politely. “Eat!”
“No, Sechele,” David began, “you are already feeding us in a few hours, there is no need.”
Sechele shrugged and set a bowl of fruit on a short table. The children each took a piece of fruit that was familiar to them, but foreign to me.
I sat in a padded armchair and relished the comfort. I had not realized how hard the wooden benches of the wagon were.
David spoke casually. “And how are the affairs of the village, my friend? Is everything well with you?”
“Oh,” he responded in his thick African accent, “we have good rain and my women become fat and shining!”
I could not help letting out a burst of laughter. That caught his attention.
“I will speak at you first, Anna.” He turned to smile at me. “What do you plan?”
I straightened my back. This was to be my interview.
“Well, sir,” I began, “I have been told Mary needs help in her work.” I nodded in Mary’s direction. “I should like to apply myself to that role.”
As I spoke, Chief Sechele watched me intensely. I had never encountered someone who absorbed details so fully as this unconventional chief. He listened, not only to respond, but to truly hear. Nothing missed the scrutiny of his eyes. When he spoke, his features loosened and he could laugh and make others feel at ease, but as soon as another began speaking, I could sense that he was focused on not only their words but also their true meaning. Listening was a lost art that Sechele had perfected.
In Spite of Lions Page 11
