A change of labour—We become hunters—A new demand—And new difficulties—Failure—The sentry’s demand—The old men’s plea—Murder—We tell the men of God—And complain to the rubber man—The white chief—The things written in a book—And no remedy comes—Hunting again—The English visitor—The white woman—Results of making complaints—The sentries’ threats—The one way of escape—“Better to be with the hunters than the hunted”—Another sorrow—The sleeping-sickness—“Just a little while, and they die”—We cry to the white people.
As I was telling you before, many of our people died of the “sickness from above,” including a number of the young men who worked rubber. Of necessity the supply of rubber became very small when there were so few to collect it in the forest. [[99]]
After the sickness was finished, and the white men found that it was really true that so many of our people were dead, and that others were still sick and unfit for work, they called us young men of Ekaka together and told us some very good news. It was this. That they had decided that we should make no more rubber, but be freed entirely from that work on condition that we men would hunt antelopes for the white man’s table, and bring smoked meat for his workmen’s rations, and that our women would supply tökö (manioca cooked ready for eating) at stated intervals.
We agreed with much joy, and all the way home that day we were singing and shouting, so as to let every one know of our good fortune. We went also to tell the white men of God our news; they were glad to hear about it, and gave us much good advice as to keeping up a regular supply of food, and not bringing palavers upon ourselves by failing to do our part. We heartily assented to all they said, for we were ready to do anything if only we might be freed from rubber work.
The hunting was started at once, and we kept up the supply of one or two antelopes weekly, and smoked rations for a long time; but by and [[100]]by a new white man came to us from up-country and he made new rules for us.
An order was given that we must procure four living antelopes every week, and in order to do this all of us who were strong enough to hunt had to be in the forest almost all the time, just sending in the antelopes as we caught them.
It was not so bad in dry weather—then we were used to go on long hunts in the old days of freedom—but now it was all the year round, wet season as well as dry, night and day; for antelopes began to get scarce as the rubber had done, and we had to penetrate a long way into the forest in order to get them. We found to our cost that hunting was not play under such circumstances; but even so, it was better than rubber, and we tried to fulfil the white man’s requirements.
But one day—the day for taking an antelope to the white man—we failed to procure one in time for the usual morning visit, when we were in the habit of sending it in.
I suppose the white man became impatient and dispatched a sentry—a native of our country who was known to us all as a fool—armed with a gun and cartridges, to inquire why the animal had not been sent in. [[101]]
When this sentry, Kebocu, arrived in our village, he found it almost deserted. Only one or two old men and a few women were there; but, my father not being present, his friend, Bomoya, went out to meet the white man’s messenger and inquire what he wanted. Bomoya was closely followed by Isekasofa, another old friend and associate of my father’s.