“At the school as well?” he questioned. “You taught before?”
“Well, no,” I faltered. “I do, however, feel confident in my education. My father was an avid reader like yourself. I have read since I could walk. And I attended a very fine school in my youth.”
“You stopped school when you became an old lady?” He asked.
I laughed again. “I am old in mind, if not in body, sir.”
He nodded, understanding me.
“And why stop attending to school?” he asked seriously.
“I was …” I faltered, “… needed at home.”
He nodded again.
“I believe I could learn to teach others,” I said confidently.
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “You may, Anna. Teach school with Mma-Robert. Understand?”
“I understand,” I responded grinning, assuming by “Mma-Robert” he meant Mary. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now!” Sechele said, “My friend David, I have to discuss with you. Let us walk.”
Sechele and David left Mary, the children, and me to rest in Sechele’s spacious home. Selemeng and the other three wives reentered the room, each greeting Mary and calling her Mma-Robert, which I was to learn simply meant “mother of Robert.” Mary responded to each of them in Sechuana, in which she was fluent. They sat on, and all around, a lovely sofa directly across from me. They ranged from tall to short, fair to coarse. The head wife, Selemeng, was the only one among them who knew some English.
“Miss Anna,” she addressed me. “Why your hairs short?”
Selemeng’s English was not as developed as her husband’s. Nevertheless, I understood.
“Oh!” I responded startled. I had not considered my appearance. Now I realized I must
have been quite a scene compared to what they were used to with English women. How could I explain? I considered telling the truth: My father cut it short so I would be mistaken for a boy as we escaped England under assumed names and start a new life in America away from my mentally disturbed mother.
A simpler explanation would have to do.
“I like it.” I shrugged as I ran one hand through my quickly growing hair.
Selemeng stared at me with tight lips and a confused expression, then translated for the other wives. I wish I could have framed what I then saw as they all took on the same expression: tight lips, scrutinizing eyes, tilted heads. Four regal African queens perplexed by English fashions. They surveyed me from top to bottom. I moved my hand to attempt to casually cover the hole in my dress that showed my knobby knee. My movement caught their attention and they were puzzled again. I sat in silence for several long, uncomfortable moments.
Thankfully, Sechele and David soon returned. As the Livingstones filed out of Sechele’s home one by one thanking him for his hospitality, the chief handed Mary a large beautiful piece of beef, which she accepted graciously. Agnes and Robert were particularly excited about the meat.
While I thanked the chief, the family walked speedily away, but I caught up to them quickly, picking Agnes off the ground and plopping her on my hip with a squeeze. Something they were discussing had them in an excited huddle. I leaned in closer.
“And what did he say after that?” Mary was asking David with an eager expression.
“Well, first, he asked if I had brought back any special medicine to make him a better hunter.” He paused and gave us a long face, to which Robert and I laughed and Mary rolled her eyes.
“And then,” he began, then stopped and stared off into the African terrain. He turned to look into Mary’s face and a smile broke over his face.
“He said he wants to be baptized.”
Chapter 11
David related his conversation as we drove the oxen to the Livingstone’s home inside the triangle shaped city.
David had been preaching here for six years, and had known Sechele for three of those years, and yet he had never converted a single soul. That surprised me. He seemed to be so convincing in his whole personage. Nonetheless, it was true: Sechele was to be his first baptism.
“He is resolved,” David explained. “Despite the consequences, he feels sure baptism is what God wants from him.”
“Surely the consequences are not too severe,” I ventured.
“Unfortunately they are,” David countered. “He will need to give up rain making, a tradition of Bakwena chiefs for centuries. That will certainly not go well. And in addition to that, Sechele has four wives.”
I paused.
“Is that,” I began, wondering how to phrase my question, “typical here?”
“For a chief it most certainly is typical. Having many wives benefits the tribe in several ways. You have many women who are worthy of being wife to a chief in such a big village, and having a daughter marry Kgosi, even if they are the fourth wife, is a great honor.”
“And he is going to take that honor away,” Mary said. “If he is to be baptized, he will have to return all wives to their families, save one.”
“It is the right thing to do,” David confirmed.
This custom was certainly new to me. I remember a lesson where the tutor said that taking several wives was only for the barbarian. But I didn’t think of Sechele as a barbarian, especially since he seemed to be very proud of each of his wives.
“What will happen then? Will the people be angry?” I asked.
“He is planning on sending each wife back to her parents with a good deal of valuables and wealth to compensate, in some way, for dismissing them from his presence. He will attempt to convince the families that he found no fault with them.”
“But they will not listen,” Mary interjected.
“It will be difficult,” was all he said in response.
I tried to imagine myself in the place of one of the discarded wives. How would that feel to go from a place of honor and respect back to the place whence you came? Truly, it would be humiliating. Surely people would wonder if you had done something to offend or upset the chief. From what I had witnessed, the chief was the literal and critical center of their community. What happened to those who offended him?
And then there was something deeper.
“Do all of his wives truly love him?” I questioned. “How will he choose?”
“I do not know, Miss Anna,” David said wearily.
Sechele’s baptism was supposed to be a joyful occasion. I hoped that David’s first convert would not be made an outcast of his own society. My mind wandered, and I found myself wondering what the captain would think of the situation. I blinked hard several times, amazed that I would have the thought.
At last, we reached the Livingstone’s home. It was plain white and surprisingly wide with narrow windows and two short steps leading up to the front door. A small covered porch before the house looked very welcoming. To the left of the little house was a covered lean-to, which I was sure was Mary’s kitchen, full of supplies like bowls, spoons, and pots. To the right of the house was a small corral where ten of the thinnest cattle I had ever witnessed stood quietly chewing cud. The children ran around their familiar home in sweet reunion.
I instantly fell in love. My time in small, dark quarters in a ship and then in the back of an ox-driven wagon allowed me to see this small house with newfound appreciation. It was absolutely stunning. There was a lot of work to do, and a lot of things to learn. I could thrive in responsibility. I felt ready.
The first thing we had to do was prepare and cook the raw meat that Sechele had given Mary. Mary began to prepare the meat and I watched intently.
First she salted the entire piece, but not as much as I’d expected. I wondered why she did not use more salt. Suddenly, it struck me that I did not know where one would buy, or find, salt in this area. Perhaps it came from the traders Mary had described. I wondered if it was expensive. I was afraid salt held more importance than I’d realized.
Mary continued, fetching a long knife from her kitchen supplies still on the wagon. She cut the meat into long
and thin strips. After she was finished, she turned to me.
“Start your fire, Anna!” she ordered.
I jumped to my responsibilities. Soon, I had some dry wood and grass collected from around the house and was working with my hand drill and board. I was proud of the fact that building the fire took less time now, though Mary still tapped her foot in impatience. Over the past week on our trek, my hand had become stronger and now bothered me very little while using my spindle and board. David checked it repeatedly during the course of several weeks and was proud to announce I had no lasting damage.
When the fire was roaring, Mary placed the strips of meat into one of her large pots and covered them with water. She then placed the pot on the area of the fire with the most heat.
“How do you know when the meat is finished cooking?” I asked her.
“When the water is gone,” she said simply.
I was amazed that if confronted with the need, I now knew how to cook meat. That thought alone brought me satisfaction.
While our meat was cooking, we helped David unload the wagon, along with Mebalwe who had reappeared. Mary then took me to what was to be my quarters. At the top of the stairs we found ourselves in a narrow hallway leading all the way to the back of the house. Before I stepped into the place, I noticed there was a fine layer of sand on every bare surface to be seen.
“Was a window left open?” I wondered aloud.
“No. The house is as air tight as we can make it,” Mary answered.
“Then how did the sand get in?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Somehow, it always finds a way.”
To the left was a fireplace and a small sitting area. Farther inside to the left was David and Mary’s bedroom and a small room meant to be David’s library. The walls were covered with books, medical references, dictionaries, encyclopedias, and his own personal journals. Several cases of medicine also rested here. It appeared to me the perfect resting place for David. We followed our path back and took a right to the opposite side of the house, where we found the bedroom I would share with the children. There was nothing spectacular about the space. At least it was larger than my cabin aboard the Madras. White walls, highlighted by the sun coming in through the one window, caught my eye. Two small beds lined the room’s walls with a large chest sitting at the foot of each. Directly in front of me stood a small table with a bowl and pitcher for washing. It was simple yet splendid. I turned to Mary.
“Robert and Agnes are little enough that they can share one bed,” she clarified our sleeping arrangements. “You can feel free to that bed,” she said gesturing to the one deeper in the room.
“You know,” I began, “I believe there is a special reward in heaven for people like you, Mary. I feel certain that anyone who would take in a lost girl and teach her all of these trades to become independent must surely receive some prize in the end.” I smiled.
“I don’t work for prize, Miss Anna. If I could tell my Creator I had simply performed a quiet life of service, that would be my reward.”
I considered that.
“And David? Will he be content with a simple life of service?”
“Oh no.” She shook her head. “David means to make a grand gesture. He is one that feels much is required of him. And he may be right.”
“What do you think?” I questioned her.
She paused.
“I think I miss my husband terribly when he is away,” she spoke quietly, turning away from me. “That is all I think.”
I was not sure I believed her.
“Would he ever consider a life other than this?” I asked.
“I am sure he would not,” she said confidently. “Before he left England as a student he was offered a teaching job that would supply us with the income to keep us all comfortable the rest of our days.”
“And he did not accept?”
“No, and he was right to refuse,” she said. “Teaching was not the object on which he had set his heart. He is best suited for exploration and missionary work. We, neither of us, have ever had a desire to be wealthy. A Kolobeng child, with plenty of food and water, is happier playing in the soil than a rich man is in his mansion of dispensables.”
“So you would not live in a grand house in London if given the chance?” I asked.
She shook her head at the question.
“I am African,” she said with a small smile.
I grinned at her as she exited the room. The more time I spent with Mary, the more I knew I wanted to emulate her conviction.
Before we had time to fully settle into our home, we were called to the feast of the unfortunate ox. The walk from David and Mary’s door to Sechele’s was only ten minutes. David pointed in another direction on the way, stating that was the direction of the school in which I would be helping him and Mary.
“You will enjoy the native children, I think. They are fond of Mary, as am I.” He looked lovingly at Mary, who shook her head and rolled her eyes. We all shared a laugh.
The celebratory feast was held at the chief’s fire pit, or kotla, which is to say, his place of gathering. Here, many dinners were consumed and many stories told. The Bakwena were gathering into the area and sitting in a general circle around the fire pit. Our friend the ox was roasting above a roaring fire in preparation.
I looked around at the Bakwena. I was not sure yet how they perceived me—mostly I received confused looks. I felt certain that, at least occasionally, some tribesmen wondered if this little girl was lost and looked as if they were ready to offer me instruction on how to depart. However, I perceived them differently than I guessed they perceived me. They were, in a word, noble. I knew that one singular mother in this wide circle could teach me a thousand skills on survival. Each tribesman and woman had been introduced to, conquered, and moved on from numerous skills I had yet to learn. Their experience showed in their faces. They were confident in their knowledge and experience.
As we began to settle in the circle, I could see the order of things. Sechele’s seat was across from us, the ground was covered in blankets for him to sit on. He was not present yet, but his wives were lined along what would be his left. They were comfortable in their positions. I realized they were seated in the same order they had entered the room earlier, possibly in the order in which they were married to Sechele. There was pride in their eyes. They were glad to be the wives of a chief. I cringed as I wondered if they knew they were about to be divorced.
It was soon after these thoughts passed through me, that my eyes noticed what I should have seen from the beginning. All of Sechele’s wives, Selemeng excluded, had cut their hair into a short, messy style, each at about an inch and a half long. They periodically ran a single hand through their scalps and smiled to each other. What shocked me further was each had cut a perfect slice out of their beautiful dresses, directly over their left knee, precisely where I had torn mine only days ago. Because they wore skirts with many layers, they purposefully pushed their one knee through the hole.
The sight of them was startling to me. Three regal queens, sitting cross-legged on the ground with short tattered hair and one bare knee coming out of their cotton coverings. I looked to Mary for some kind of explanation. She had her mouth in her handkerchief, quietly holding back laughter. David had noticed them as well and kept finding excuses to touch his cheek or mouth in an effort to cover his smile.
My mouth opened and refused to be closed. Did I have more influence than I realized as a former member of polite society? These wives saw that their husband admired the English, so how could they resist imitating a young woman come to them who was born and raised English? Their dedication to him was endearing. Remembering their possible future, however, I cringed again.
Sechele arrived. The tribespeople stood while he entered, as did we. As he moved through the crowd, he made slow progress while he stopped to talk to several families. Everyone was visibly happier with Sechele near. He seemed to be a beloved chief.
Kgosi Sechele sat
and in accordance we took our seats as well. Sechele began to speak in Sechuana with David translating.
“Welcome, my beloved tribesmen, to this welcoming feast for the return of our friends the Livingstones!” he spoke gesturing to David’s family. “And a special welcome to their friend, Miss Anna, who will be starting soon as an assistant school teacher.” Sechele smiled at me kindly. Every eye around the circle was trained on me. There was a notable stir amongst the crowd. I waved simply. Sechele smiled.
“My dear friend David came when I was younger in the face and smaller in the waist. He came with his faithful friend Mebalwe. At first I was not very fond of Ngaka.” The tribe all seemed to take this in stride. “But as he approached he said ‘Hail! Sechele, Great Elephant of the Bechuana,’ and I liked him the more.”
The listeners, including small children, all nodded in approval.
“I commanded the doctor to give my daughter some medicine, for she was ill and thrashing about. He told me only his God could heal through him, and so I allowed him to see my little one.”
He turned behind him and wrapped an arm around a teenage girl’s waist, then lifted her as if she weighed no more than a leaf and set her on his lap. This was the daughter he spoke of. Her name was Ope. She seemed accustomed to his behavior and giggled while she bit her fingernail.
“I told the white man, ‘If you kill my daughter, I will kill you!’” Ope’s smile and my eyes became wider. “But Ngaka said there was something bad inside her and he had to get it out.”
David halted his translation for a moment and whispered to Mary so that I could hear as well. “Appendicitis.”
“But the Lord was with us in His great mercy, for the bad piece was taken out of her and with only a little rest she was playing again.” The mention of deity was the only time the tribe’s people seemed uncomfortable, fidgeting on their blankets.
In Spite of Lions Page 12
