I had never seen Mary envious before. And envious of what? Nothing for herself. She wanted someone to help her husband so he could save souls more effectively. It made me hope that the five thousand pounds I had contributed would somehow reach our mission.
“And yet he seems happy,” I tried to comfort her. “He does not seemed begrudged to dig canals while he preaches.”
“No,” she agreed. “We are the working clergy and make no mistake! David will always prefer poverty and mission service to riches and ease. It’s his choice.”
Breakfast was eaten and cleaned quickly and soon we were gathering our things to go to school. I had asked Mary if Robert and Agnes were coming with us, but she assured me there was a young sweet girl from the tribe that would watch them while we labored.
A knock at the door introduced the girl spoken of, and Mary allowed her inside and gave her quick and concise instructions in Sechuana. It was obvious this girl had watched the children before, however, because as soon as they saw her their little faces lit up and they cried, “Abeo!” They were obviously content in her company.
Soon, the children were settled and Mary was by my side with her teaching supplies in hand.
“Good morning, Motsatsi,” she offered politely.
I had not even perceived him! And yet as I flipped around, there he was directly to my left, staring at me, unamused. I brought a hand to my heart in a vain attempt to slow it.
“Yes,” Motsatsi spoke in a slow, droll way. “I am here to escort Mma-Robert and Miss Anna to school on Miss Anna’s first day. You will follow me.” He turned on his heel and began. Mary looked at me, smiling indulgently.
We followed Motsatsi across another section of the village. He insisted on walking in front to lead his subjects.
Citizens of the Bakwena would notice Motsatsi marching up the road and smile lovingly at him. His silliness was legendary. Soon, they would notice Mary and me following behind and doubt would enter their countenance. It would take some time for Sechele’s baptism to die in popular topic, I was sure. With my arrival came the baptism of their chief and, unfortunately, the cessation of rain. At least they did not treat me with physical hostility.
Along the way, Mary pointed out a small tree that held the most radiant and intricate pink flowers I had ever seen! Each flower consisted of hundreds of minuscule sprouts. The smell transported me. I reached out to touch one and it recoiled and closed itself at the touch. Mary smiled.
“It’s called mimosa,” she said.
Finally reaching the steep hill to the school, we began our slow trod. I suspected from the very beginning that the slow pace of our walk was for my benefit. Although I tried to prove their caution unnecessary, I was winded by the time we made it to the top. Mary and Motsatsi looked on me calmly, unaffected physically by the hill.
“You will get it soon enough,” Mary smiled. I tried to smile back through heavy, embarrassing breathing.
One building was used as both school and place of worship. As we entered the meeting house, I noticed instantly there was no flooring. The ground was exposed and raw. Mary entered as comfortable as if she were walking into her own bedroom. One window let in a breeze, to the otherwise stifling square room. Mary marched directly to the left of the small space and placed a few large plates of food on the ground. She had prepared twice-baked bread and a special treat of rhubarb jam for the children, with a pitcher of cow’s milk to the side. As soon as all was prepared there, she moved to the head and center of the small space and sat down to read. I sat in a corner opposite her to observe.
Soon, children began to file in. They were dressed considerably different than I had seen them before. Where previously a clutch of strings or a gathering of beads hid their little bodies, now pressed white shirts and creamy clean aprons replaced their native garb. As each student entered, they each took a turn gaining acceptance from Mary. Her small eyes would peer over her book and inspect their clothing. Then if she were to nod, they would be allowed to sit. If she did not nod, she would gesture to them the fault she found with them; an untucked shirt, a loose hem, a hat purposefully askew, which did not please her. Soon, at least fifty small students had arrived and passed inspection. They all sat in the dirt around their beloved Mma-Robert.
She spoke in fluent Sechuana, so I could not understand most of what she said. Once in a great while a student would act out and be visibly reprimanded. The punishment for tardiness or bad behavior in Mary’s school was to fetch water from the river. All she did was raise her empty bucket high above her head and state the child’s name. The accused would have to march forward in front of his peers and take the bucket from Mma-Robert. By the looks on their sweet, pouting faces, I knew this form of discipline to be ideal. Carrying a heavy bucket for over a half a mile was something all of them wanted to avoid. More often, however, the children were smiling and giggling quietly at her cheerful little antics. Her singing of the Sechuana alphabet was a special treat for them. Sung to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, the children’s faces would beam. They were especially keen on the treat of knowledge, and it was so obvious they loved their teacher. She was certainly strict with them, but sincerely caring. The food Mary had brought for them remained untouched along the far left wall of the space.
I sat and observed the first day. And how I enjoyed it! Nothing could be better than being around these little ones. School was their highlight where I had seen so many hundreds of children fuss and groan because they had to attend class or study new material. Not these children. They looked forward to Mary’s lessons, even if they did pull and tug at their uncomfortable English clothing. Despite their interest in Mary’s lessons, quite frequently the students would turn around and stare at me. I expected this. I knew I must look so queer to them. Every time this happened I would smile, wink, or wave, and they would turn back around without a returning gesture.
Mary dismissed class after six short hours. The time seemed to flow by for me, but the children looked slightly weary from sitting so long. Fortunately they had the bread, jam, and milk Mary had brought, and now took part in their refreshment. They hugged their Mma-Robert around the waist as a goodbye and dashed out the door. Soon all had departed and we watched as they tore the ties from their necks, the frocks from their chest’s, and the shoes from their feet as they ran down the school hill. They were considerate of Mary’s propriety as far as the classroom went, but as soon as they were able, they bolted down the hill at full speed, snatching the pesky clothing away as they went. I have often wished that sight could be frozen in a painting, a sight of perfect freedom.
“And now,” Mary spoke, back to business, “you will come with me, Miss Anna, we will visit the village.”
“Oh, thank you, Mary!” I thanked her sincerely. “I have been wanting to see more of it!”
Mary didn’t smile or react to my enthusiasm at all. She took her large basket and stepped out the door for me to follow.
The walk down the hill, I imagine, was not as liberating when one could not dash off one’s clothing. Nevertheless, Mary and I were enjoying being out of the stuffy room and out in the sunshine. A small wind had picked up, so the heat was not unbearable.
Soon down the hill we headed west, in the direction of the town. Mary kept a solemn face, and I followed her quick steps as well as I could. All too quickly, I was out of breath, but she continued even more quickly than before. She had become very determined since leaving the school. I waited to see why this was so.
Passing through the wall we came to a section of Sechele’s village that I had not witnessed as of yet. This part of town was considerably more sparsely populated than I had seen thus far. Instead of fully constructed circular huts like the rest of the town, there would be only stationary walls, looking to fall down and collapse at any minute. Sitting up against the wall would be as many beings as could rest their back on the unstable surface, their bare skin absorbing the sunlight with no protection. A man on the far end had been gouged in the eye and could d
o nothing but sit in the open with a compress to push against the aching socket. A girl who could not have possibly been more than seventeen cradled a small screaming child, whose belly was bulging and distended while his limbs and features were stick thin. He needed water, food, and medicine. What did Mary have in her basket for him?
My horrible memories threatened to overwhelm me as they came pushing back. I found I could barely stand the sight of the hungry children and the suffering adults around them. I wanted to take off my bonnet, my shoes, tear out my hair, anything to give to these people. I must have something to give! But what good would it do? I would help one person, perhaps, when I could have been more frugal and had the ability to serve many! Why had I brought extra clothing in my pack? Why had I not filled it to capacity with food? If I had seen this before I sailed, I surely would have held some grain tightly in my hand the entire ship ride here. Now I had nothing. I was dependent on the Livingstones, with no financial support whatsoever. I had thrown it away. Surely the Missionary Society would have taken two thousand pounds for my passage, or possibly only one! How many supplies could I have bought at the port with such a sum? I could have fed that child. I could have built a communal house. They could have had shelter from the harsh sunlight and severe winds.
I forced myself to look at them, although I was feeling extremely dizzy; overburdened by my idiocy. I soon came to find that Mary was standing next to me, keeping me from falling.
I looked to her with guilt in my eyes and no words to say. I expected another reproach from her, like when I could not stomach the cleaning of our dead birds for dinner. She surprised me.
“I know, Miss Anna,” she consoled. “I know.”
I forced myself to stand on my own. If I were going to throw away the supplies these poor souls needed, I did not need to take their benefactress as well. I stood apart from Mary and watched as she passed out water and small pieces of bread and meat. She knew I could not do it myself. She passed out several small handfuls of a white dusty material, and I looked at her questioning.
“Salt,” she explained.
I swallowed hard. Another substance I had taken for granted. They had no salt. I could not even tell you where my mother’s cooks bought salt.
Mary was so wonderful with each one of them. She would hand them something, and of course they would ask for more. But she would touch their arm or face and speak softly in Sechuana, possibly reassuring them she would be back the next day. Soon, they would settle back in their space and slowly eat their piece of bread or attempt to use the blanket she gave them to provide some type of shade.
I confess I do not remember much more of this experience. I watched shocked and immovable, holding back my emotions as Mary passed out supplies to those who were most in need. A woman, whom I had thought quite destitute in comparison with all the polite society I had been accustomed to, was now the most wealthy of us all.
At last we departed and not much time had passed before we were back home. Mary moved directly to her lean-to kitchen to prepare dinner. I stood by her side for a silent moment before speaking.
“Do you need anything of me, Mary?” I whispered through clenched teeth.
She stopped and turned to observe me. What she saw convinced her.
“No,” she replied mercifully. “You may go.”
I turned on my heel and ran. I kept going until my body screamed against me. I turned a deaf ear to my muscles pleading with me to stop, my lungs begging me to halt my pace, my feet imploring me to save them. But I would not, or could not, stop until I was completely and utterly exhausted and alone, until there was no hope of me continuing. There, finally, I stopped and knelt beside a low tree and sobbed until there was nothing left inside of me.
I had not realized I had fallen asleep. All I could remember was laying on the ground by the tree and now I was awake. I sat up, perplexed.
“And there you are,” a familiar voice said. “Take this, and we begin again.” A flask of water was being handed to me and I took it gratefully. I had not realized how desperately thirsty I had become. I drank half of its contents before I remembered the poor people on the other side of the village. I jerked it away from my lips, feeling unworthy of support, and handed it back to the owner.
He took it back and watched me carefully as I tried to straighten my hair and clean my face and hands.
“What are you doing here, Sechele?” I asked somewhat perturbed. “I am well and able to find my way back to the village.”
“Then why did you not come when the moon was on her walk?” he said with mockery in his voice.
I jerked up to face him. “Has it been twenty-four hours?” I gasped.
“Ngaka, Mma-Robert and I have been searching for you,” he explained. “It took some time. You are five miles away.”
“Five miles,” I repeated shakily. “Oh, I hate myself for putting you into such trouble! I only wanted to be alone!”
“Perhaps the stress of the change has made you sleepy as an old man who bows his head,” he speculated. “Your body is tired, and so slept as long as was needed.”
“Why should I sleep when others suffer?” I questioned him openly. “What have I done to deserve sleep and water and endless food, while they go without and are hungry?”
He watched me so intently while I asked these questions. I did not look at him, I could only feel it. He was trying so desperately to understand, and I was speaking in riddles. After a few moments of forming his words carefully, he spoke.
“You have a dark past, Miss Anna, so dark I dare not ask about it,” he said carefully. “Would you trade your sorrow for water and food? Would you give your sorrow away?”
It was a provoking thought. It seemed tempting, but if Mother had not abused me, she would have chosen someone else. Would I subject another person to my mother’s wrath if it meant I could now obtain food and water?
And another thought: if my mother had never mistreated me, would I have ever come to Africa? Would I have ever met Sechele?
“It is not for us to guess at God’s plan for his children,” he continued as he watched me pause, “only to be grateful for what he bestows.”
I looked up at him and he was in such earnest that I was comforted. I sighed.
“How did you come to be so wise, Sechele?”
His laugh held some self-doubt.
“I sat with the young white man in the shade of a wagon, listening like a babe to his mama, as I was told that those who heard the word of God and did not heed it would be lost, and I was astonished.” He was speaking of a younger David, I was sure. “I have clung to the Bible he brought ever since. If there is any wisdom in me it comes from the prophets.”
I smiled.
“You have been lucky in your friendship with the Livingstones,” I reflected. “If I had only known David and Mary, I should assume the entire race was exemplary.”
“You don’t believe your kind is good?” he asked curious.
“I don’t,” I replied without hesitation. “My relations with them, in general, have been foul. Of what I have seen of the world, although it has not been much, the white race is the most selfish and cruel of them all.” My anger was turning to every wealthy nation in the world, who were ignorant of what was still fresh in my mind.
Sechele’s forehead was creased in familiar lines as he processed what I had said. He nodded his head infinitesimally, letting me know he had heard what I had said. He was so very contemplative and inquisitive. Nothing spoken to him would simply pass through his ears. He pondered words—truly pondered them.
His forehead was still creased as he stood and walked away from me. For a hurt moment, I thought he had simply grown tired of our conversation. Soon, I realized he was heading toward a small patch of thick vines on the African floor some distance away. The terrain here was fascinating how it could transition from sand to vegetation in the most unlikely spots. As he reached the patch, he squatted down and pulled out a knife from his back pocket. He cut an orb-
shaped fruit from the vine and started back toward me with it. As soon as I could hear his voice again, he began to explain.
“Last season was especially good for rain,” he said. “The river flowed with water—there was no need to hide it. It ran free for all. In these seasons, a special fruit grows. I have some!” He held the fruit up for my observation. “It is the kengwe,” he said. “Do you know it?”
“It looks like a watermelon,” I ventured.
“Ah!” he said, “And how would you know, Miss Anna, if this was your native watermelon?” his pronunciation of “watermelon” made me smile. “Describe this watermelon to me.”
Perhaps something I said had reminded him he had questions about our common vegetation. I collected all my adjectives of the fruit, knowing that if I did not give a complete description he would be disappointed.
“Well, it can be the same size as your kengwe.” My pronunciation made him smile too. Apparently both our accents needed some work. “It is green on the outside with lighter stripes. It has a thick husk that when cracked open reveals red or pink insides. It is very juicy! But there are black seeds to be discarded.”
“And is it sweet, Miss Anna? Or would your face squint at the taste?” he asked, curious.
“They are mostly sweet. Possibly it would depend on the season and the fruit’s ripeness.”
“That is very true.” He spoke almost as if what I had spoken had disturbed him. I cocked my head and waited for an explanation.
“God put all this fruit on the earth, is that not so?” he said. “And is there ever a variety! Sweet fruit, bitter fruit, fruit that will poison the stomach when eaten too late or too early. But what makes a perfectly tasty fruit, I wonder? How do I know if this fruit will be sweet? How can I know which fruit to pick to feed my children? What makes a fruit delicious?”
In Spite of Lions Page 15
