V. In the Metropolis of the Gold Coast

In the year of grace, 1904, there was no such thing as a water supply in the town of Sekondi, the pet little preserve of His Majesty’s Gold Coast Government. Nor was this in any way strange. The Government and the people of the Gold Coast had always depended upon Providence for such a common necessary of life as water. So, it happened, that when the Metropolis was being laid out into ‘ ‘ High Streets ’ ’ and open spaces, it had not dawned upon the authorities that man was a thirsty animal, and this notwithstanding gentle reminders on the part of experienced men in the past. If you search the Colonial archives, you will find that in the eighties of the old century Dr. Lamprey of the Army Medical Service proposed a simple scheme for supplying the ancient town of Cape Coast with fresh water. The Government went to sleep over the proposal, nor did it wake up over the suggestion to lead the waters of Homo to Accra, the headquarters of the Government. As matters stand, when Providence fails the Metropolis, men are known actually to resort to soda water for the daily ablution.

Now, if you want to see Sekondi at its best and the water question at its worst, you must approach the town in the month of March on one of Messrs. Elder Dempster’s boats, at the season of the year, that is to say, when other parts of the country are already being bathed in refreshing showers. As you round off Tacradi Bay, you see the mother of Gold Coast civilisation enveloped in a sheet of overhanging clouds charged with electricity. The side view that is presented shows a city of great promise. Already there are signs of the heavens giving way, and raindrops patter on the ship’s deck. But even while you are wondering what a wet landing you are going to have, a blaze of light breaks out on the north-east, and the T itan of the upper sphere leaps forth triumphantly over thunder and storm. As you divest yourself of your mackintosh, a cynical old coaster says to you : “ That’s Sekondi all over; I shouldn’t be surprised if the tanks are all dry.”

In other parts of the world harbour works generally precede railways; but here an apology for a pier-head does service for harbour accommodation. The result is you have to land in an open boat often with an angry surf surging around you. Let us assume, however, that you have landed safely. If you had known Sekondi in the days of its pristine innocence, you will find that an iron bridge now spans the ancient natural boundary between the English and the Dutch towns. From the echoes beneath proceeds forth the monotonous dirge of an asthmatic engine which appears to be trying to do the work of two engines in a climate which, according to some, is bad for man, beast, and locomotive.

Where once stood the English town and the uplands beyond, one can see at sunset a number of well-arranged wooden houses on brick pillars, looking quaint and striking in the distance, but disappointing upon nearer view. At the foot of the hill lies the railway station, the first sign of civilisation, as you meet it on the Gold Coast. It is the terminus of the “ Great North Western ” of the Gold Coast. And a beautiful line it is with its sprightly curves and gradients and its thirtynine miles in something like three hours. But I am anticipating.

If you are not in a hurry to descend, you may come with me to the Manager’s bungalow, from the spacious verandah of which you can catch a bird’s-eye view of Sekondi, bathed in the twilight, as the sun moves leisurely in the western sky right into the bosom of the mighty ocean. So restful is the scene !

If you know the history of this town, a momentary sweep of the eye will bring back to memory signs of a former strife; for overlooking the Bay, there stands the old Fort, a symbol of the strife between the Dutch and the English in pre-locomotive days. The struggle, in name, was between two European nations, in reality between two aboriginal factions, who, for aught one knows to the contrary, might have otherwise lived in peace. The Dutch or the English flag was the standard which drew the natives in thousands into opposing camps, and for which they shed their blood freely, only that the white man might obtain freer scope to barter spurious drinks for the precious metal which the torrential rains washed to the very doors of the aborigines.

It is a sad reflection, but a legitimate one, that in the present day the successors of the leaders, who bore the heat and the burden of the day in order that British commerce might gain a footing on these shores, are not remembered as they should be by the British Government. But it is true that they are protected; it is feared very much protected. To be accurate, they are remembered sometimes in the partitioning of their territories, the minimising of their authority, and, worse than all, in some cases, in the sowing of those seeds of discord, calculated to destroy the integrity of a people.

The work of destruction, speaking generally, goes on not in the light of day, but, metaphorically, in the dark hours of night. The mighty Titan does not knock down his victim and deprive him of life outright. Oh no ! that would be too crude a way. With the gin bottle in the one hand, and the Bible in the other, he urges moral excellence, which, in his heart of hearts, he knows to be impossible of attainment by the African under the circumstances; and when the latter fails, his benevolent protector makes such failure a cause for dismembering his tribe, alienating his lands, appropriating his goods, and sapping the foundations of his authority and institutions. To apply Tennyson’s simile, the Titan only knows what the Titan wants, or what he means. And all the while the eternal verity remains that the natural line of development for the aborigines is racial and national, and that this is the only way to successful European intercourse and enterprise. The situation could not be better hit off than in the suggestive lines of Mr. Guy Eden who, with marvellous insight, has written in the ‘ ‘ King of the Blacks ” :

“ Clad in the civilised rags of humanity.

Blear-eyed and shaggy, he limps down the street, Grinning about him with childish urbanity.

Begging of all whom he chances to meet.

Begging, but not for sound garments to cover him, Nor for the food that he longs for, you’d think.

No, for a civilised passion is over him,

All that he asks and he craves for is drink ! “ But in the days long before the white man appeared, Here on this spot where a town was unknown, Hunger and thirst were two things Billy never feared, Hound him was plenty, and all was his own.

All was his own, for a tribe paid their court to him, Called him their King, in those days that are past, Subjects in scores all their loyalty brought to him, Hirst amongst men was he then — now, the last!

“ Where are all they who would make such a ‘ bobbery/ Roaming the bush like glad children at play, Where the mad whirl of the tribal ‘ corrobboree,’ Where the wild chaunt at the close of the day? Scattered and gone, for the world had no room for them,

Far o’er the seas came the pitiless cry:

‘ Why should they live? Fate has writ large its doom for them,

Land for the whites ! Let the black fellows die ! ’

“ ‘Land for the whites ! ’ Aye, the answer came speedily, Civilisation, with hot eager stride,

Sweeping upon them with maw gaping greedily, Swallowed them up in their pitiful pride.

See there the last of them, King in the days of old !

Now ’midst the lowest he takes the last place. Surely some day, when the story of life is told,

Angels will weep for the last of his race ! ”

But we were taking a passing view of Sekondi, and our companion was none other than Kwamankra. We have retraced our steps over the railway bridge, and are now in Dutch Sekondi. IN TEE METROPOLIS OF THE GOLD COAST. 71

On the left wing of the street are a number of substantial business houses looking defiantly down upon a small building of four bare walls which represents the Wesleyan tabernacle at Sekondi.

The spot upon which this simple building stands is historic. Here, half a century ago, was waged the civil war between the English and the Dutch, in which the good African missionary, Kwamina Affua, who had been baptised by the good missionaries as James Hayford, sometime British Resident at Kumasi, an ancestor of Kwamankra, and a brother of Kweku Atta, the then Omanhin of Cape Coast, lost his life. As peacemaker, he had gone to help separate the combatants. In the struggle he was brutally, though' perhaps, unintentionally, struck down. Peace be to his ashes ! It is a sacred spot, and no wonder that the stars in their courses would seem to fight against the powers of mammon in their efforts to dislodge the worshippers.

It being the hour of prayer, Kwamankra followed the crowd into the holy edifice, resolved to see for himself the result of fifty years of missionary effort. He noticed familiar faces here and there. There was Kwesi Yaw, who was quite a kid, and a carpenter’s apprentice, in his school days at Cape Coast. How he had aged ! The lines of care were thickly marked on his face. Yonder was Esi Maynu, who used to be the laundry maid at the old boarding establishment. Marks of age were upon her too; and when he remembered how gay and sprightly they, the young people, were in those bygone days, a sense of sadness came over him.

What were they doing here ? They had come to worship, of course. Did they worship, or did they not, in those far away days when they, the young people, joined hands together in the moonlight under the open sky and sang SanJco songs ? Even then, to Kwamankra, the words of their familiar Sanko were full of meaning; and as he listened to-day to the wheezing sound of an old harmonium upon which a missionary boy was performing, he could not help thinking how much his people lost in passing from their ways to those of the white man. For a harmonium they had castanets with which they kept time as one of their number, Kobina Edu it was, gave the solo of the favourite Sanko while they joined in the chorus. He remembered the words so well, and readily recalled them :

Mi sankofu, wo nwhe bra yaku aya,

Inwhe bra wumba arku awiay;

Aryarsa, ye yi iou be ye biada!

Obiri, Osaivu si ay !

Adayaivi, osaivusi,

Mirny ona, bada miyamu.

Afi yi na nisini ya funa !

Anayaivi, mi dofu, mimyona ba da miyam ! Meaning :

Companions mine, see how well we’ve struggled,

Behold how far thy children have striven;

If so be, we shall still struggle on !

She is black and comely, she is like unto her sire ! Morning star, thou art like unto thy sire !

My sweetheart, come to my embrace ;

My Saviour, come to my bosom.

How wearied are we this season !

Morning star, sweetheart mine, beloved, come to my embrace !

How simple, how natural, how spontaneous all this was compared with the refrain of ££ Dare to be a Daniel,” composed and sang by Ira D. Sankey, which the missionary boy, with so much effort, was trying to play in tune. Those were the days of healthy Fanti manhood. The nation has missed the promise of her prime, and is likely to bow her gray hairs in sorrow and shame to the grave.

The congregation was composed for the most part of children, clad each in a few fathoms of Manchester home-spuns. At the head of the choir was the schoolmaster whose attire certainly invited attention. In his elegantly cut-away black morning coat and beautifully-glazed cuffs and collar, not to speak of patent leather shoes, which he kept spotlessly bright by occasionally dusting them with his pocket handkerchief, tucked away in his shirt sleeves, he certainly looked a

F veritable “ swell,” but he also did look a veritable fool.

And this was the sum total of half a century of missionary zeal and effort. Could it be for this that the simple good-hearted fathers of our race had suffered and died? They prayed for light for themselves and for their children’s children. But instead of light, say ye Gods, does not darkness brood over the land ?

The preacher was a white man, preaching to a black congregation ; and outside on the front wall of the holy edifice was to be seen a notice which informed all whom it might concern that there would be a service for Europeans in the Club House at the station at a certain hour that day. Kwamankra turned away in disgust.

Later in the day he came across Essi Maynu, the selfsame laundry maid of old days. He said to her: “Do you remember me, Essi?” She looked him up and down, and made a move as if to embrace him, but she checked herself.

“ What’s the matter,” said Kwamankra. “ Does your new religion teach you to be shy of old friends ? Now, to show you that I, at least, am not changed, I shall come round this evening with1 some of my Sankofu ; and shan’t we have a nice time with music and with dance ? ” She raised her eyes in holy horror as much as to say : “ Get thee behind me Satan.” Kwamankra retreated like a beaten man; but the lesson was not lost on him. Henceforth he was resolved to devote the rest of his life in bringing back his people to their primitive simplicity and faith. And, in that resolve, he mused upon the words : “ Bushido (Shintoism) offers us the ideal of poverty instead of wealth, humility in place of ostentation, reserve instead of reclame, self-sacrifice in place of selfishness, the care of the interest of the State rather than that of the individual. It inspires ardent courage and the refusal to turn back upon the enemy. It looks death calmly in the face, and prefers it to ignominy of any kind. It preaches submission to authority and the sacrifice of all private interests, whether of self or of family, to the common weal. It requires its disciples to submit to a strict physical and mental discipline, develops a martial spirit, and by lauding the virtues of courage, constancy, fortitude, faithfulness, daring, self-restraint, offers an exalted code of moral principles, not only for the man and the warrior, but for men and women in times both of peace and war.”

“ That is it; that is it; I have it,” said Kwamankra. “ If my people are to be saved from national and racial death, they must be proved as if by fire — by the practice of a virile religion, not by following emasculated sentimentalities which men shamelessly and slanderously identify with the holy One of God, His son, Jesus Christ.”