XIV. The Black Man’s Burden

A bamboo shanty, doing service as a Methodist place of worship at the end of a “ High Street,” with a mud house roofed with corrugated iron, doing service for Belial, with gin shops and sheds studded all along the line at short intervals at the other end — such is a typical scene in a wellknown growing African community in the neighbourhood of the thriving mines on the Gold Coast railway. It is a terrible scourge, a veritable canker, eating its way slowly, yet surely, into the very vitals of the life of the black people among whom this plague of modern civilisation is planted.

It is the Christian Sabbath and the hour of morning service. Ding, dong ! ding, dong ! goes the bell, calling the devotional black folk of the community to worship. They are not inattentive to the call, if one may judge from the group after group of men, women, and children wending their way up the little rising on whose summit stands the House of God. The women far outnumber the men, and the house is filled to its utmost capacity. At a corner, all by himself, sits a son of Albion, a man of independent character, the butt of the camp, who dares to worship with the black folk on this holy day. It is a motley gathering of all conditions of men in all sorts of costumes from the latest Regent Street cutaway coat to the ample four fathoms of Manchester calico print, gracefully wound round the person. At 10.30 of the clock there mounts the pulpit a black parson who, from that hour till 11.50, reads Psalms and Litanies and hymns to the melody of an inharmonious portable American organ. No wonder half the congregation go to sleep, and the beadles have their work cut out for the rest of the morning. One of their number, aggravated by the extra rise in the thermometer, is a bit aggressive, and no wonder that a distinct unchristian scowl is clear on the face of a Christian gentleman sitting next to the observer.

Meanwhile, the reverend seigneur is discoursing in an unknown tongue to the majority of the congregation for all he is worth, and when he condescends at length to render the sermon into the vernacular, the finest Job-type in the congregation is not listening, but wondering when this labyrinth of a service will end. In the meanwhile, what of the house of Belial ?

“ Pretty polly ! pretty polly ! how do do? Quite well, thank you, pretty polly! tut! tut! are the \arious sounds that attract the attention of the wayfaring man from the throats of half-a-dozen tropical birds attached to the house of Belial. It is true the worshippers are but few and far between, mostly, and, in fact, nearly all, of one race. But their worship is real, sincere, and earnest. The black folk are beginning to understand and to appreciate that there is other worship than that of God, and that both are taught by the white man’s fetish which they call civilisation.

But a livelier scene remains yet to be described. The inmates of the gin shops are issuing forth in their tens and larger groups. They dance and gesticulate, as if seized by some evil spirit, and the uproar is worthy the confusion and the clamour of the nether regions. That is also the white man’s work.

And so it happens that the black man along the line is sorely pressed by a three-fold burden — the burden of allurement in the shape of gin drinking ; allurement in the shape of houses of ill-fame ; the bantering hypocrisy of the allurer. Heavens what curse is equal unto this curse !

Meanwhile, from the Moslem quarter of the village community at dawn, noon, and dusk goes forth the voice of the Muezzin, as from the minarets of Mecca, calling unto the faithful to prayer. They drink neither wine nor strong drinks, nor suffer them to come near their habitations the unclean thing. They keep alive their primitive simplicity and faith, combining Godliness with contentment. It is a struggle between the Cross and the Crescent. Which will win ? It looks as if the Crescent will win in the end, judging by the Divine standard of life; and yet Christ is stronger than Mahomet. But the House of Christ is divided against itself, because the men of that House, nay, the very leaders and the lamp bearers, are untrue !

“Good evening, Sir,” said a white miner to Kwamankra. “ Can you tell me where the West Indian gentleman who plays the guitar lives? ”

“ Certainly; if you will step over here I will show you,” said Kwamankra, rising up from his simple evening repast. “ You know the market place; if you will walk straight down and take the first turning to your left, I believe you will find him in the first house but one.”

Kwamankra settled down to his meal, thankful to have got rid of what threatened to be a serious interruption to his thoughts.

In ten minutes the miner came back. “ May I come in ? ” he asked.

“ Yes, do,” replied Kwamankra.

“ I did not find him; they say he has gone down to the Coast. What is your name ? 3 3 essayed the miner; “ you speak English so well. Are you a lawyer ? 33 He spoke a little thickly. Kwamankra did not answer, but put on a whimsical look which said as nearly as possible, “ what if I am? ” at the same time beckoning the miner to take a seat.

“You know I have seen you somewhere before. Your face is familiar. It must have been on the train,” persisted the miner.

“ Yes, I come up and down here pretty often.”

“ You know I came down to-night on purpose to have a little fun with the photographer over the way. I am good for a right down American singsong, and, if you don’t mind, we can have a fine time together.”

“No, thank you, I have some writing work to do, and I must be getting on before bedtime. Kofi, please show this gentleman round to the photographer’s across the way ” — addressing his servant on the verandah.

“ Oh, may I have a drink' of water? ”

“ I have some Tuborg beer, excellent stuff; perhaps you will find that pleasanter — Kofi, fetch some beer.” The miner subsided into the com-

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fortable canvas chair round the corner.

“ .Well, Boss,” he pursued, “ I know of a little job I can put in your way. There is a man in my camp who has worked for one year and fourteen days, and just because he had a little fun to-day, he has been turned adrift, and he is to pay his passage back home. Now, do you think that’s f air ? If you will take up the matter, I will send him round in the morning. What name shall I say? ” The same quizzical look and a smile by way of encouragement to get on and be finished with the business was all the response Kwamankra gave.

Meanwhile, the miner drained his second glass of Tuborg beer. He grew more confiding. “You know,” he said, “ they want me up there to do a platelayer’s work; but old B. insists upon paying me only fifteen bob a day, and, as I am no fool, I keep my ‘ sabi ’ there,” pointing significantly to his head. ‘ ‘ Besides, they think I am too familiar with the black people, and when they see me sitting down and drinking with them, they don’t like it; but I don’t care. There is no part of this district I have not been to, and the Fantis have always behaved to me like gentlemen, and I am always ready to do them a good turn. You know old B. wanted to play me the same trick as my pal. He says to me the other day, ‘ You are drunk, and, if this occurs again, away you go bag and baggage.’ Mind you, I wasn’t drunk. To-day I got drunk, and I go up and says to him : c Now, Mr. B., I am drunk, and very drunk too, and if you are a man come out in your shirt sleeves, and we shall have it out.’ He was as tame as a lamb ” — this almost in a whisper, accompanied by a low laugh. Kwamankra joined in it heartily.

“Kofi, show this gentleman the way to the photographer’s — mind you, Sir, there are ditches in the way,” said Kwamankra. “ Good-night, Sir,” returned the miner. In another ten minutes he had returned. Kwamankra was busy with his scribbling. He hardly dared interrupt the flow of ideas.

“ The photographer is out, I am told,” explained the miner.

“ Very good, Sir — good night,” said Kwamankra, hardly looking up from his writing.

“ As a last favour, would you mind showing me where I can find a bed for the night ? I am told there is a hotel about here.”

t: I am sure I don’t know of one, and I would advise you to get back to your camp,” said Kwamankra, fixing a penetrating glance upon the miner, which said plainly, £ I wonder if you are an honest man.’ With this the miner vanished into the outer darkness, but the story is silent the while whether the same operation was not repeated elsewhere that night.

The next day Kwamankra was due down the Coast, and he took the afternoon train with the ‘ ‘ Professor ’ ’ for a companion. The second-class compartment was full, so they travelled first, and though there were many angry glances, none dared question them. Kennedy Bilcox, the Political Officer, was also going down by the same train, and being minded to be gracious, and having had an extra parting glass more than was good for him, he was inclined to be confiding. Besides, though he immensely disliked men of colour, he judged it politic outwardly to be on the best of terms with the leaders of the people. He thought he gained their confidence that way. Rather he raised their suspicions, and was accordingly mistrusted.

On this auspicious occasion, he was full of the big things he had done up country — how he had metaphorically thrashed the Chief of Tandosu into humility, and how he crouched before him with fear, poor man ! Presently he turned to Kwamankra and said : “ I say, do you know that rascal Kobina Bua? I hear he is your client. You had better advise him to behave properly in future, or, by Jove, he will find himself at St. Jago.”

“ But what has he done? 55 queried Kwamankra.

‘ ‘ What has he done ? Why the fool is perpetually drunk, has lost all sense of decency, and is always making a ‘ palaver ” at Tandosu.”

“ Oh, is that all? ” said Kwamankra, provokingly.

“ You do surprise me, Mr. Kwamankra. To think that a man of your position and education should see nothing to condemn in the disgraceful conduct of Kobina Bua ! 5 5

“ Personally I condemn no man, but since you talk of condemnation, permit me to point out to you that the greater condemnation lies at the door -of the Government whom yon represent, and whose servant you are. You condemn Kobina Bua, and you presume to do so by reason of the fact that you are a Political Officer. As a fair-minded man, let me invite you to look at the other side of the picture. You know that trade gin contains fusel ■oil and other deadly noxious ingredients. You also know that that is the stuff the Government permit to be imported into the country and which ■eventually finds its way down the throats of ‘ rascals ’ like Kobina Bua. You dare not stop the importation of the vile stuff. Why ! because it would affect salaries and pensions and duty allowances and other perquisites. In the name of reason, how can you expect the average black man having the means to indulge in gin drinking to keep his head and behave decently ? And so when a Government Officer pays a visit to one of these otherwise harmless African dignitaries, and he is received by the latter with extra warmth, whereupon the Officer losing his self-control, vents upon him his wrath in eloquent periphrasis and damning reports reach headquarters, the observer, if he is a seeker after truth, certainly feels tempted to tap the Officer lightly on the back and say : ‘ Thou hypocrite, first cast the beam out of thine eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to cast the mote out of thy brother’s eye.’ ” Kennedy Bilcox appeared thunderstruck, but Kwamankra, unheeding, con-

l 2 tinued : “ You know, and the whole world knows, that if the black chief and his people stopped consuming the vile stuff the merchants offer them, the whole machinery of Government would stop running for want of the necessary grease. You are a Christian, of course. When you meet your friends, and, in conclave, you are inclined to be hard on my client, remind yourselves of the Master’s saying : £ Ye make clean the outside of the cup and platter ... ye tithe mint and rue and all manner of herbs and pass over judgment and the love of God.’ ”

«Y_. J/.

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As the Professor and Kwamankra shook hands at the station, the former said to his friend : “ Those were brave words. But you may be sure this kind of thing will get you into trouble one of these days. But here’s my h&nd on it, whenever you need help I am your man.”

Kwamankra spoke low : ££ I have counted the cost, and, it may be, I shall need thy help when the hour comes.”