UNASIKIA?: “DO YOU HEAR?”
NDIO: “YES”
Under these circumstances, of course, I cannot say how the little native girl actually grows up, and whether she enjoys anything even faintly resembling the happy childhood of our own loved ones—but nothing leads us to suppose that she does; though there is no question that the native shares in the universal instinct which inspires all parents with affection for their offspring; he feeds his children and protects them when they need protection; he rejoices when they thrive and mourns over their illness and death. I can still see Matola, as he came to me one day—his usual expression of gentle melancholy heightened to one of deep grief and anxiety—carrying a little girl of some five or six years. She was not even his own child, but a relative, for whom he entreated my help. To my sincere regret, it was impossible for me to do anything—the poor little thing was suffering from a malignant gangrene, which had eaten away the whole front of one thigh, so that the tendons were laid bare and the bones were beginning to bend. I spoke very seriously to Matola, asking whether he were as much of a mshenzi as his people, who were perishing through their own stupidity and apathy. He, the headman, and a clever man at that, knew very well, so I told him, that there were German doctors at Lindi, who could cure even such cases as this, if the patients were brought to them. He ought therefore, to send the child down at once, unless he wished her to die, as all her elder brothers and sisters had done.
NATIVE TELEPHONE
Matola gazed at me for some time, evidently wavering between hope and doubt; but in the end he followed my advice; and I have since heard that the child is well on the way to recovery. But it is astonishing and perplexing that such an enlightened man as the chief of Chingulungulu should have allowed the disease to go on so long before taking any serious steps to obtain assistance. What then could be expected of a man from the bush, who consulted me immediately after my arrival, asking me for medicine for his sick child?
“What is the matter with your child?”
“A wound on her foot.”
“But, my good man,” I said, “I can’t give you medicine to take home,—you would not know how to put it on. You must bring your child here. Where do you live?”