In Spite of Lions

by Pike Scarlette

  “Yes!” he agreed, grinning. He patted my hand in a wise sort of way. His attention turned to the small, solemn group of women who remained behind. He turned to me for a moment and excused himself.

  He walked over to his former wives and shook each of their hands. He spoke quietly and personally with each one, giving each a piece of his attention. One by one, they departed, a little more contented, I thought. I joined the Livingstones, and Sechele joined us all together.

  “We would be honored to have you over for dinner this evening, Sechele,” Mary invited him. “We would like to celebrate with you and Selemeng.”

  “That would be very good, Mma-Robert,” he agreed. “I would be happy.”

  “It is to be a simple affair, Chief. So you need not dress up.” She seemed to stress this point with him most sternly. He smiled.

  “I will arrive, Mma-Robert. Thank you,” he complied.

  On our walk home, I asked David what Sechele had said when he emerged from his baptism. He smiled to himself, then told me.

  “‘God is good. And I am God’s.’”

  Back at the house, Mary and I began to prepare the chief’s celebratory feast while Robert and Agnes enjoyed a chameleon they had found on a tree. They were placing the patient animal on every diverse material they could find to watch it change the color of its skin.

  We had come back to a surprise. Mebalwe had delivered a small box of apples and a sack of potatoes.

  “Where did he get these?” I asked Mary, amazed.

  “Kuruman,” she answered as if the answer were implied.

  “What is Kuruman?” I asked, truly confounded. “Who sent them?”

  “Kuruman is my parents’ missionary establishment. They’re from my mother,” she confirmed affectionately as she displayed the box of apples. Mebalwe smiled.

  “Your mother lives only hours away?” I asked bewildered. “Mary, why do we not go to see her?”

  “It would take us days in a wagon, Anna,” she explained. “It is not essential. We have no time for social visits and I have small children to mind. We will see them at Christmastime, I have no doubt. Now begin peeling these potatoes for me.”

  I sat mechanically and took the small knife she was handing me. We were quiet for a time while I peeled potatoes and she worked to shred the meat.

  “Mary,” I began my only question, “is it difficult for you to have your family so close and yet so far away?” I wondered if this was the reason she had kept silent.

  She turned to me with a kind smile on her face.

  “It is difficult, Miss Anna, but I do try so very hard to speak of my blessings rather than my burdens.”

  How unlike the rest of the human race Mary was! I had so very much to learn from her quiet dignity. She turned back to her dishes.

  Thinking of Mary’s goodness and expertise, I was reminded of earlier events.

  “Mary,” I began again, “what does ‘baloi’ mean?” I had made sure to memorize the word exactly as the tribeswoman had said it..

  She did not turn to look at me. “Witch,” she translated simply.

  A black anvil sat itself on my chest and refused to be discarded.

  Soon, I found myself with a full half hour before dinner began. I knew I needed to prepare myself, for Mary had said tomorrow would be our first day in teaching school together. Surely it was the noblest of callings, I only hoped I could be as noble as the calling.

  Mary had already informed me she kept a strict dress code with the children. I assumed she would keep the same standards with me. I had taken special care, until this time, to not put much thought into my appearance. I suppose now I would reconsider that plan since I was to be standing in front of young children as an example, and I did not want any more incidences of cut hair or ripped dresses. Luckily, my other dresses had not ripped yet, but they were still in desperate need of a good scrubbing. I took several simple dresses out to a barrel in the blazing evening sun, where I used as little water as I could to scrub the garments clean.

  Once they were cleaned and hung on a line to dry, I turned to the house in time to see Mary step onto the porch to beckon her children inside to wash their hands. What a pretty picture were they! They let the chameleon go free and waved goodbye to it as they scampered into the house. I let them pass in front of me, then turned slightly and became startled by a small tribal boy whom I felt sure had not been in that spot two seconds ago. It was Motsatsi, son of Chief Sechele.

  “Oh!” I spoke suddenly, surprised. “I had not seen you, Motsatsi.”

  “How do you know my name?” he asked, chin raised, eyes squinting.

  “Mary told me,” I informed him.

  “And how did she find my name?” he asked curious.

  I laughed. “Is your name a big secret, sir?”

  “Very big,” he said seriously.

  “Well, if it is a secret, would you be so good as to introduce yourself to me now?” I suggested.

  “Very well,” he said, very dignified. “I am Motsatsi of the Bakwena! Son of Kgosi Sechele!”

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Your Royal Majesty,” I bowed deeply. This satisfied him. “Although, you are not the first prince I have met.”

  “What?” he questioned. “You met another son of a Kgosi? My brother?”

  “No, he was the son of the queen of England, Queen Victoria,” I clarified.

  “And this queen,” he inquired, “does she have many cows?”

  “I am not sure, Your Royal Highness,” I responded, unable to keep from smiling.

  He did not seemed impressed if the number of her cows was not widely known.

  The rest of his family soon came toward the house in a small group. His mother, Selemeng, was easily recognizable of course. Her way of walking matched her steadiness of character. She seemed born to be a queen. Her head was adorned with a large white hat, and she wore a simple cream colored cotton dress. I imagined she always liked keeping her appearance plain. She led her small children by the hand, of which there were seven, all varying from two to eleven years old. However, even this small extraordinary group could not be as eye-catching as Sechele.

  Despite Mary’s plea for him to dress casually, here he came marching toward our modest home in a long crimson robe, the brightest red I had seen on this continent swept gracefully behind him as he led his small band to supper. He wore an intricately embroidered vest with a shining white tunic underneath, his legs adorned with black slacks with silver threading. His one hand held a brass poker, which could easily have been mistaken for a royal scepter. All that was lacking was a crown.

  I shook my head and smiled in sheer delight of the spectacle. Never could I have imagined Sechele’s character, nor portrayed his likeness. He was entirely his own. However, as unique as he was, Mary would not be amused.

  Mary emerged that moment from the front door.

  “Anna, would you be so good as to—” she was cut short by the site of His Majesty. “Land’s sake! Sechele, what did I tell you about your clothing? Couldn’t you simply wear a respectable jacket?” She raised her arms, then dropped them, as if heavy, down to her sides.

  “What is more respectable than what other kings have worn?” he said with an air of nobility. It seemed a perfectly legitimate question to all around him. The children could not imagine why Mma-Robert was so upset.

  “Oh good gracious,” she muttered impatiently. “Come inside then, your supper is waiting.”

  Sechele and Motsatsi ushered the women in the door before them. Soon after, the young prince staunchly climbed the two steps with an immovable chin, and the king swept his cape to the side and followed suit.

  Mary had set our modest table with a clean, albeit used, white tablecloth. Worn and old place settings dotted the square for us and our guests. I could not help but instantly prefer this setting to any my mother had spent excruciating months imagining. The adults sat in their places, appointed by Mary, while the children simply sat on blankets on the floor. I noticed
Mary sat the adults in the polite English way of separating the spouses from each other. It seemed a silly tradition to me. If I had a husband whom I loved as much as Mary loved David, I should like nothing better than to sit next to him with a full meal ahead of us to hold hands.

  David offered a blessing on the food and we began. Mary had made a splendid dinner with the potatoes her mother had sent. Boiled potatoes and boiled meat with a good helping of salt was a better meal than we had had in weeks. Potatoes were, thus far, the pearls of the African desert.

  As the food was passed round, Mary began a conversation with the king and queen.

  “Kgosi Sechele, how do you feel being newly baptized?” she inquired. I had a slight twinge of guilt knowing they would be speaking English only for my benefit. Everyone else in the room spoke fluent Sechuana.

  Sechele took a long moment to respond. David looked up through his bushy eyebrows with just a hint of worry on his face before Sechele finally answered.

  “Taller, Mma-Robert. I feel taller baptized.”

  David smiled, extremely pleased, and returned to his supper.

  “That is a very apt description, Kgosi Sechele,” Mary praised him.

  Selemeng sat an unmoving yet silently supportive companion to Sechele. It felt odd and uncomfortable that she had chosen not to be baptized while her husband and all of her children had done so. Still she did not argue or put up a fuss, at least with the missionaries in the room. I wondered what their conversations were like behind closed doors.

  “And how do you feel the tribe’s people get on?” Mary asked, truly concerned for their happiness. “Have you been treated unkindly?”

  Sechele looked surprised. “I shall not be treated unkindly,” he said indignantly. “I would disgrace the name of Kgosi if I allowed it.”

  “Mary meant only that you must feel the uneasiness of the people,” David clarified for her. “You must sense it as well as I that the people are feeling hurt.”

  “You know,” Sechele began as he helped himself to a spoonful of potatoes. He swallowed the potatoes and then used his spoon to gesture as he spoke. “When old Kgosis found an interesting thing, the people joined him. If he smiled at hunting, all young men would sharpen their assegai and practice until the sun woke up to contest for a place in his hunting party. If the Kgosi was interested in music, all would gather together to sing for him deep into the dark. And yet, I am interested in gospel, and none come to share this with me.”

  I could feel the hurt, betrayal, and frustration come off of him in waves. An idea struck him suddenly. Turning to David he relayed it.

  “Ngaka,” he spoke excitedly, “do you imagine these people will ever believe by your merely talking to them? I cannot make them do anything except thrashing them. If you like, I shall call my head men, and with our litopa we will soon make them all believe together!”

  I attempted to discreetly hide my mouth behind my napkin. I don’t believe I succeeded, however, because Motsatsi gave me a stern glance. Obviously, he found nothing amusing in his father’s scheme.

  “Although I can appreciate the sentiment behind your offer, Kgosi,” David began diplomatically, “I cannot think it right to force conversion.”

  Sechele nodded, accepting this advice. But soon he had more to say.

  “It is only that the Bakwena are lacking in good questions,” he said, truly frustrated.

  I could not help noticing Selemeng looked particularly irked by this statement. I knew her heart was with her people.

  “I understand your frustration, Sechele,” David spoke sympathetically. “Who can know better than I? Yet still, we need to hope for the best and keep an eye single to His glory.”

  Sechele nodded, but then bowed his head, slightly defeated. Any small criticism from David, I would find in the coming months, he would take with great gravity.

  I decided to turn the conversation to my curiosity.

  “Kgosi Sechele,” I addressed him formally, “I would like to hear the story of how you became king. David related to me once that bad men tried to take your title away.” I tried to keep my English simple, though I wondered if there was truly a need.

  “Yes, they did,” he confirmed. “My father, Motswasele, was king of the Bakwena before. He was not the best king of our ancestors,” he admitted. “His brothers put him to death in front of his people. Before he died, Father cursed his brothers that they would regret killing, that they would be lost, that ants would devour their land and their cattle. I saw it all. I had ten years.”

  I was unable to process the image of a ten-year-old boy watching his father be murdered. He continued.

  “My mother, and some who were loyal, feared for my life and drew me from that place and took me into wilderness. I wandered for years like a lion without its pride. On the edge of my wanderings, a chief named Sebego gave me cattle, which I named ‘Difetlhamolelo.’” He and the Livingstones smiled while I waited for translation. David gave it to me.

  “It means ‘lighters of the fire.’”

  “I light fire of my people’s love. I turned the small cattle into fat and then into many, and returned to my people with many cows, as their rightful king. My uncles flew from their huts. They left the wives to run from me. They thought I delivered the curse my father gave them.”

  I nodded, taking note that the Bakwena feared any sign of witchcraft. I also noted that, in many situations thus far, to have cattle meant you were wealthy.

  “Where is your mother now?” I questioned.

  “She went to the Lord three years after I am king,” he spoke with sadness. “She saw her son have success, instead of drying out in the desert.”

  I nodded again stupidly. I never knew how to console others with bad news.

  “Now, Anna,” he effortlessly turned his voice to a more cheerful tone. “I told you my story, now it is time for yours.”

  I froze.

  “What would you like to know, Chief?” I asked warily.

  “You lived at London?” he started with a vague question, but the interest burned in his eyes.

  “Yes,” I spoke slowly, trying to be honest.

  “In which circle did you run? Were you servant? A queen?” he guessed.

  I chuckled. “Somewhere in between.”

  David eyed me curiously.

  “And what is a London day?” he was anxious to know. “How were you busy?”

  A few sarcastic, and also true, answers came to my mind, but I chose the stereotypical London version of a young eligible female. I assumed this would interest him more than my trauma.

  “Most people in London wake long after the sun, sometimes eleven or twelve o’clock. Then they receive morning callers, or visitors to their home. Afterwards they are not of much use,” I added honestly. “Most of the daylight is used in taking walks, playing silly games, and making yourself ready for the nightly functions of balls or parties.”

  The look on Sechele’s face told me he had absorbed every detail I had shared, caching it away in his mind for future reference. It also told me he wasn’t fooled. He knew I had deliberately generalized the question to not include myself specifically.

  “Your parents?” he asked simply, but the effect was akin to someone squeezing my heart. “Do they like events?”

  Every adult eye was on me. Mary was concerned for me. David was condoning the morbid curiosity, but watching closely. Sechele was absorbed in learning more of English customs. Selemeng put on an air of disinterest, but was betraying herself by watching my face out of the corner of my eye.

  “Both dead,” I finally said. In an odd way, everyone seemed to relax.

  “Then you and I have two things the same,” Sechele confirmed. “Both orphans, and both have interest in British life.” He smiled widely. “I, myself, would like to be a British subject one day.”

  “You mistake me, good Kgosi,” I corrected, “I may have had an interest in British life as a child, but that desire has run thin with me. I should much rather like to b
e a citizen of the Bakwena.”

  “And we are honored to have you,” he said amiably.

  I smiled at his welcome.

  Selemeng did not.

  Chapter 13

  In the morning, I arose a teacher. I felt empowered and ready for the challenge. Although life had left me bereft of several things, it had given me a good education. I washed my face and dampened my hair. I dressed in my clean, yet plain, yellow dress with no adornments. I took a few moments with my reflection to get my short hair to look slightly feminine. I was still lost on how to dress it or make it presentable at this length.

  I stepped outside to the sun only just rising. The cool shadows of the night were being drawn into its rays, unable to remain while light shone. Although the heat during the day was turning unbearable, the mornings and evenings of Kolobeng were deliciously refreshing. I had not noticed immediately the presence of David. He stood to the rising sun with his eyes closed, his arms limp at his sides. He sensed my presence and opened his eyes.

  “How often have I beheld, in still mornings, scenes the very essence of beauty, and all bathed in a quiet air of delicious warmth. Before the heat of the day has become intense, this forms pictures that can never be forgotten.”

  After a boyish grin, he donned his hat and moved inside. I tried to see what he saw. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. Then I heard Mary preparing breakfast in her lean-to. I finished my breath and went to help her in serving the porridge.

  David practically inhaled his breakfast, several pieces attaching themselves to his growing mustache, and rushed out the door with a plan to dig some canals in the Kolobeng for their small garden. Mebalwe had volunteered to help him.

  Mary kissed him goodbye while I sat with Robert and Agnes at the table. Agnes still needed occasional help with her spoon. Mary watched David trot away and sighed. Then she spoke almost to herself.

  “It grieves one to think of a man so eminently fitted for linguistic preaching, being bound to spend his days in manual labor.” She shook her head and then turned to me and my confused expression. “In other missions, the Society will provide an artisan for the work of building, digging, or general repairs and craft. Yet, there is no money for the employment of craftsmen, so he has to do what is necessary with unskilled assistance.”