The white man gave out a hymn, and the schoolboys sang it heartily. Bakula recognized it as the one he heard in Tonzeka’s town on the night of the drunken riot--“God loved the world of sinners lost.”
Then a strange thing happened: the teacher knelt in prayer, and the men and women, boys and girls turned over from their squatting postures on the mats, and bowed their heads while in reverent tones they repeated the prayers phrase by phrase--a confession of guilt, a petition for strength to do right, a note of thankfulness for God’s mercy, and, for His great gift of Jesus Christ, and a request that they might all receive His pardon and salvation. Then came another hymn, and the white man spoke to us on God’s readiness to forgive, if we will but repent and turn to Him, and he illustrated what he meant by telling us a story out of God’s book called “The Prodigal Son.” Another hymn and prayer and the strange meeting was over. The teacher went and spoke to the King and greeted all whom he passed on his way to his empty house.
Soon after dinner the white man called three or four of his boys, and, taking his long walking-stick, started for Mputu, to hold a service in that town. Bakula met the little party and received permission to join it.
Passing through the town, we descended a steep side of the hill, and came to the river Mposo, which we crossed by means of a rickety bridge, and a long walk up and down low-lying hills brought us to Mbumba’s town of Mputu. Apparently the white man was expected, for the folk gathered before the greetings between the chief and the teacher were concluded.
A service was conducted similar to the morning one, the chief and people joining in the hymns and prayer, and listening attentively to God’s palaver. The sun by now was fast sinking, so the white man bade the chief and his people good-bye and hurried back to Congo dia Ngunga. On the way out our white companion had chatted freely with us, but now he asked us not to talk to him, as he had to think over what teaching he should give the King on his return.
In our small party was a lad belonging to the town we had just left, so Bakula asked him if all the rumours of cruelty and murder he had heard about Mbumba were true, for he was notorious throughout the whole district for cutting off ears on the slightest provocation, murdering folk for the smallest offences, and stirring up quarrels and war between towns for the most trivial causes. “Yes,” admitted the lad, “it is all true. He cut off my brother’s ear, because, while sitting in front of him one day, he happened to stretch out his legs;[[49]] and I was present on another occasion when he ordered a slave to be killed for the same small offence.”
Mbumba’s[Mbumba’s] record was that of one “whose feet were swift to shed blood.” He had listened quietly to the teaching that afternoon, and had begged the teacher to “come again quickly.”
It was almost sunset by the time we had climbed the hill and reached the town. On arriving at the entrance to the King’s enclosure the white man turned in, we following at his heels. The King, hearing us, called to us to enter without ceremony, and we found his majesty squatting on a low stool with an empty chair opposite him. He shook hands cordially with the white man and, pointing to the chair, invited him to be seated. And sitting there face to face, with only a few boys about them, the white man said--
“The white teachers who first came to live in your town visited you every Sunday evening to explain God’s palaver to you, and for many months now I have been coming, when well, every Sunday evening for the same purpose. What is it that keeps your heart closed so tightly against our message?” Then he pleaded with him to repent of his many great sins and seek help and salvation in God. The shadows deepened as the conversation proceeded, but it was not too dark to see the tears trickling down the pock-marked cheeks of the old man.
At last the quiet talk was ended, and the white man, promising to see him again soon, bade the King “sleep well,” and returned to the lonely stone house that echoed with the voices of those who had lived and worked there before him.