There are generally a few villages in close proximity to the white man’s place the natives of which are set apart to supply paddlers, carriers, dried fish for employees’ rations, manioca bread, &c., and who are not reckoned amongst the rubber workers. We used to envy the inhabitants of these places, and some of our people tried to leave their own homes and go to reside where the people seemed to us to be better off than we were.
But this was not allowed by the white man; if found out, the offence was punished severely either with the whip or prison, so we gave it up. And even in these favoured villages they had their trials; fowls and eggs were required as well as other little things, and they had to be supplied somehow, and it was often anyhow.
As long as the supplies came to hand regularly, and no complaints were made by the villagers against the sentries who were sent out to collect the food or call the people, all went well. But it could not possibly be peaceful for long, because our people were treated in ways that no one, not even an animal, would put up with quietly. And although I know you white [[67]]people do not like to hear of bad doings, I must tell you of some now, or you cannot understand how we feel about this rubber and other work which we are compelled to do by strangers of whom we know nothing, and to whom we think we owe nothing.
Think how you would feel, if you had been out in the forest for eleven or twelve days and nights, perhaps in the wet season, when the wind blows so that you cannot climb the trees for fear of either the tree or yourself being blown down; and the rain pours in torrents and quickly soaks through the leaf thatch of your temporary hut (just a roof supported on four sticks) and puts out your fire, so that all night long you sit and shiver; you cannot sleep for the mosquitoes; and, strong man as you are, you weep, because the day which is past has passed in vain, you have no rubber!
Then, if a fine morning follows, and you manage to make a fire, (with tinder and flint,) eat a little food you have kept over, and start off again in feverish haste to find a vine before some one else gets it. You find one, make several incisions, place your calabash under the dripping sap, and your hopes begin to rise. Towards evening it rains again, and again you [[68]]can scarcely sleep for the cold; you have nothing to cover yourself with, and the only source of warmth is a few smouldering embers in the centre of the hut.
In the middle of the night you have a feeling that something is near, something moving stealthily in the darkness, and you see two glaring eyes gazing at you—a leopard or civet cat is prowling round your shelter. You throw a burning firebrand at it, and with a growl it dashes off into the bush.
In the morning you tie another knot in your string, by which you count the days, and say, “If only I can get a lot to-day! The time grows short, I shall soon go home.”
Day after day passes in this way, and at last the rubber is ready, or even if it is not, the day has dawned; you must start for the white man’s place—and home is on the way!
One or two nights are passed on the road, and you draw near to the village.
“What a welcome I shall have! Bamatafe with the baby, Isekokwala, my father, now an old man, and my mother, and a feast of good things as I always find.”