XII. A Leader of Society

Tom Palmer, the son of Jonathan Palmer, of Horse Road, Ussher Town, Accra, was a goodly youth of many fine qualities. The Palmers originally hailed from Sierra Leone, settling on the Gold Coast early in the fifties of the last century. By dint of great energy, combined with uncommon business tact, the first Palmer had gradually won for himself a competence which the second Palmer, with equal tact, had gone on improving, so that when it came to the turn of Jonathan Palmer, he was looked up to as a man of wealth, position, and influence in the community of Accra.

Jonathan Palmer had contented himself with money making, but his son and heir, the goodly Tom Palmer, had combined book-learning with his other accomplishments, and gone to the extent of taking the L.Th. degree at the College in Freetown, though he never had the intention of entering the Church. He was fond of controversy, and as the L.Th. course combined a certain amount of historical information, he had followed it so as to be able to hold his own against all comers, as he pugilistically put it. For a calling he had chosen agriculture, and was an expert in the secrets of soils, manures, and seasons. Not that he practised agriculture, as men practise medicine for example. Oh, dear no ! He was a dilettante and no more. It was enough for him to be able to say with truth, I am a scientific agriculturist, and I can give you a point or two. Besides, in a community like Accra, where every respectable citizen has a calling, it would not have done to appear a loafer.

Tom Palmer was an ambitious youth. His aim in life was to be the leader of society in the community where it had pleased Providence to place his father and his father’s father before him. His was the family fortune by right after the pater was gone. He would be the leader of the black aristocracy. What was there to prevent it ? And, so, he set to work with a will. The cut of his coat was always up to date, and, on the Sabbath, he studiously appeared in church in a silk hat and patent leather boots, and never forgot his button-hole and gloves of approved style, though he was never guilty of the solecism of wearing the latter by reason of the tropical temperature. For the same reason also he generally wore his coat sleeves a little turned up, so as to show plenty of linen, and the tips of his trousers followed suit, so that you could count the white buttons on his boots. Other youths of his generation looked on admiringly — looked on, and pined, and strove to be like him in appearance, and many succeeded, though they had not Tom Palmer’s culture, for which his early associations were responsible or his money.

Freetown is an advanced African community. Notwithstanding the fact that some, not having the fear of God in their hearts, have thought it fit to malign her in print, still the reader may take it from the writer that it is a community that has nothing to be ashamed of. It has produced many a distinguished citizen, remarkable alike for intellectual attainments as for business enterprise and success, so much so, that Her late Majesty had thought it not amiss to bestow the honour of knighthood upon one of her esteemed sons. Besides, the city boasts of a cathedral, a rarity in the West African Dependencies. The singing is one of the finest on the West Coast, and men like Canon Spain, Canon Wilson, and Canon Moore, all black clerics, would do honour to any English See. It was no wonder, therefore, that Tom Palmer was truly proud of his Alma Mater , the Fourah Bay College, duly affiliated to Durham University, and of the City of Freetown, the Mecca of West Africa. Truly, if there was one thing more than another for which Tom Palmer revered the memory of his paternal grandfather, it was the utter unselfishness with which he had transmitted the savings of his father before him to his son Jonathan, and the likelihood of the latter obeying the paternal injunction to transmit, in his turn, the family fortune to the next generation, that is, to him, Tom Palmer. Yet, for all that, he could not quite forgive his great forebear for quitting the thriving community by the banks of the Roquelle at the time he did.

With all the lightness of manner we have seen in the subject of this sketch, yet must it be placed to his credit that he was generally most careful when taking any important step in life; and to all the vexed questions in West African social life, perhaps to none had he given such close study as the marriage one. For, mark you, Tom Palmer’s aim in life was to be the leader of society, the wankora wonkor, as a Fanti would say, in social life at headquarters. Yet he could not make up his mind somehow to do the thing. He had discussed the matter several times with friends without ever coming to a satisfactory issue, and it was, therefore, with particular relish that in conversation with Kwamankra one day, who was at Accra about this time for the Agricultural Show, he managed to introduce his favourite theme. Nor can we blame him. Every young man contemplating marriage does it. He worries everyone he meets upon the subject upon the slightest encouragement, until finally he makes a fool of himself, or escapes by the skin of his teeth.

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With an old world complaint upon her lips, the master philosopher met the complainant with the hint that one thing, after all, was essential. We all know the story, but some have, perhaps, not noted the human side of it. The complainant was plainly jealous of the marked attention the master philosopher paid to the younger sister. Her womanly instinct told her that the latter was fast discovering “ the one thing needful.” Her selflove asserted itself in the request, “ Bid her that she help me.” A charwoman’s aid would have been as good. But, truth to tell, she would herself sit at the great man’s feet, if she only knew how. It may be, thoughts like these were passing through Kwamankra’s mind, as he slowly repeated more to himself than to his companion, the words of the teacher: “ But one thing is needful! ” then somewhat abruptly turning to the young man he said, “ You are making the same mistake that most of us have made. We seem to think that love only comes when she is wooed in Parisian skirts and Regent Street high heels. Know then, my friend, that spiritual sympathy, like the wind, comes we know not whence. Happy the discerning ones who recognise the Queen of Heaven in whatever guise she approaches the waiting soul.”

The young man was puzzled. He spoke his thoughts aloud. “ What has all this to do with what I heard you muttering about the one thing needful?”

££ What to do with it? I should think it has all to do with it,” said Kwamankra gravely. ££ You have read the story, I daresay. The master finds a haven, a restful place, in the home of this particular family. Sympathy springs up between him and her who loved to sit at his feet, drinking in, as a thirsty soul, every word that fell from his lips. Interpret the master’s sentiment as you may. But there is no need to disguise the fact that Mary had found the secret of life.”

££ But then, all this is beside the question, if you will permit me to say so. The sympathy between Christ and Mary was a thing apart, a spiritual relationship, if I may so put it. How can you talk of it in the same breath with mundane matters — with the vulgar thing which men profess and affect,” said Tom Palmer, warming up to the subject in a way that interested his companion greatly.

Kwamankra eyed the young man for a second or two, and then said with a slight tremor in his voice, ££ If Jesus was not truly mundane, he would have no interest for you and me. Besides, if you knew of the gift of the gods, you would not speak of love in the way you have done. At one time I was of like mind as you are, but riper experience has taught me that there is nothing vulgar in love, and that the feeling, in whatever guise it exhibits itself, will be found, in its last analysis, to be the self-same thing, and remember then, that where love is, there God is. Great love, great soul ! As the streams flow into the rivers, and the rivers into the sea, and yet the sea is not full, even so does universal sympathy, from the cooing of the dove to the fervent heat of a Romeo, find its diapason in the God of Love.”

“ I must confess,” said the young man, “ that this way of looking at the matter is altogether new to me. But am I to understand that you would find excuse for the kind of sympathy that flies off at a tangent here, there, and everywhere ? 5 ’

“ I will state you a stranger proposition then,” said Kwamankra quietly. “ Remember, my young friend, to begin with, that love is a spiritual magnetic force, and as I showed at the beginning of our talk, like the wind it bloweth where it listeth. Remember also that there are affinities and repulsions where one might least expect. Oftentimes one starts from the north pole, another from the south, and the magnetic force draws them on and on until they meet, and, in this sense, are we the children of circumstances. Now, think of it. Here is a man of great magnetic force, evoking sympathy and love wherever he goes. But he is a mere man. The corresponding force which he attracts and calls into play here and there becomes created entities, begging for life and claiming the right to live. Tell me, what is the duty of the giver of this life, under God, or to put it materially, the creator of this force ? Must he allow free scope to the play of sympathy, or must be ruthlessly set to work to destroy the hope of light which he bids spring up in a human soul?”

“Again, I do not understand you, unless you would imply nothing material in what you say.”

“ I have said nothing that is difficult to understand,” pursued Kwamankra. “ Bear in mind I am speaking of true love. I am not referring to a mere wild senseless passion, the result of egoism, the kind of thing which finds satisfaction in multiplying wives, and, from that point of view, I speak of things spiritual rather than material. This, then, I say that no one who has the capacity to evoke sympathy in the human soul has the right ruthlessly to quench the fire once his flame has kindled. I will tell you a story, if you care to listen.”

“ Go on, please,” said the young man.

“ Well, here it is. ‘ Once upon a time there lived a youth who in the heyday of joyous inexperience, as he chanced by a certain out-of-the-way village, evoked love in the breast of a young damsel much below him in degree, and he wot not the full meaning of what he had done. The years rolled leisurely past, and her lover never returned. In the meanwhile, he had become great, gotten himself honour and riches, and, withal, love besides, as he thought. Now and again in the dim recesses of memory a recollection of the maiden would come back to him ; but he would say, that is a thing of the past, let the dead past bury its dead. But, as obeying some irresistible impulse, day by day, the thought gained upon him. What was at first a mere curiosity to know what had become of her, grew in intensity until it ended in a regular quest. Abroad he bade his servants go, if, haply, some news might come of her for whom his soul panted. But no news came. At last he gave up hope, and seemed to take no delight in his goodly surroundings, nay, not even in his wife, nor in his children and his home. One day, outside the city gate, as he returned from a lonely walk, he saw walking towards him the self-same woman whom youthful inexperience turned not back to see. Their eyes met. They had both aged so. They had also suffered. She frankly put forth her hands. His touched hers. “ At last ! ” she exclaimed, “ my woman’s heart told me sooner or later we should meet again.” “ And mine has been long lonely without thee,” he said. “ Moreover, riper knowledge has taught me that in the kingdom of love, nothing is ever lost.” 5 ”

The story ended, the teller paused for a second, and then added, ‘ ‘ Maybe you will now see in a truer light the one thing needful which shall not be taken away from her.”

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“ Now putting philosophy aside for the moment, I daresay you have flirted. a little in your time,” said Kwamankra, good-humouredly, then, with a mischievous twinkle, “ and you may have a child, a poor nameless one, in some out-of-the-way corner of the world. You needn’t be shy about it. All of us do do it, though not all of us are men enough to own it. Now, believe me, my friend, any child of Eve, who has deliberately become the mother of your child is worthy of your love, and to treat her as an outcast is to be unworthy of the name of a man. In this wise, we pagans are more Christ-like than so-called Christians. £ He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. And again, He stooped down and wrote on the ground,’ ” he quoted somewhat irrelevantly, then continued : “ In Africa, she is protected ; she is a wife. Call it polygamy, if you like. In so-called Christian countries she is despised, a prostitute, a leper.” In the fullness of time, Tom Palmer got married. None of his wives sought to be a leader of society, and he was well content. He himself did not seem likely, now that he had come to his heritage, that he would fulfil the promise of his early ambition. In due course the little ones came — so gladsome their little black faces wherever they appeared, the fulfilment of the radiant love which gave them birth. And as the years rolled by, it was sure that his girls were growing up to be useful members of the community, for Tom Palmer had made up his mind that he would have no Parisian skirts or Regent Street high-heeled nonsense, as he bluntly put it, nor would he ever condescend to explain himself.