He winced perceptibly when I told him that the only work which I could give him at the time was that of cutting grass. This is the one kind of work, above all others, that the African soul abhors. The coarse, rank grass grows with astonishing rapidity in that moist, hot climate. But for reasons of health it must be kept down. A lawn-mower is useless: it is cut with a short, straight cutlass—the English matchet—and in wielding this cutlass one must stoop to the very ground. It is extremely hard work, and regarded also as peculiarly menial. To keep half a dozen natives working at it steadily for half a day is the final test of the white man’s power of command in Africa.
One day I set the crew of the Evangeline at this work. Makuba, the captain, was very resentful; and the next day when I ordered him to get the boat ready for a missionary journey he was still resentful—so much so that he could scarcely walk. In answer to my stare of amazement at his snail pace he informed me that he had rheumatism as a result of cutting grass. Makuba was an incomparable boatman and a faithful friend; but in that mood he was sufficiently exasperating to demoralize both crew and missionary and to make the heathen rage. When we got well under way, and the Evangeline had spread her white wings to the wind, the other men began to eat; but Makuba would not even touch his food. At length I said to him:
“Makuba, I am very sorry that your rheumatism is so bad you can’t eat; for I am going to have a fried chicken for my dinner and I was expecting to give you a portion of it—about half, perhaps.”
I had already learned that the chicken is the one African fetish whose potency survives all changes. Makuba’s countenance was a study; but he replied:
“Mr. Milligan, chicken no be same as other chop. I be fit to eat chicken.” (Makuba was not a Fang, so he always addressed me in English.)
“But do you think it would cure your rheumatism?” I asked; “I am not sure that I can spare it unless it is going to effect a complete cure.”
Makuba assured me that fried chicken was the specific for his kind of rheumatism. And he was right; for it cured him completely. We had a successful missionary tour, Makuba doing extra service at every opportunity and singing as he held the helm.
The reader will understand, therefore, that Onjoga, the Fang Christian, a man of middle age, and of real importance in his town and tribe, did an extraordinary thing when he consented to cut grass that he might stay at Baraka and be instructed in the Christian religion. He was distinctly a man of brains. Before I left Africa I saw him stand before a large audience and read a chapter from the Gospel of Matthew; and he read it well. It was he, by the way, who, after one of our missionary tours, first gave me my African name, Mote-ke-ye: Man-who-never-sleeps.
While Onjoga was living at Baraka I often took him as one of the boat-crew in my work of itinerating. On one occasion, after a long journey and a futile effort to reach a certain town during the afternoon, we lost our way; for there was a network of small rivers. We could neither find that particular town nor any other. Our predicament became serious when darkness approached and the air became dense with mosquitoes. At length we espied a canoe in the distance with several persons in it. We pulled as fast as possible in order to overtake them; but they evidently thought that we were pursuing them and they tried to escape from us. Then Onjoga, rising in the boat and calling to them as loud as he could yell (loud enough to be heard at any finite distance) told them that we were lost and that we would like to go with them to their town for the night. Having observed my helmet, they knew that there was a white man in the boat and they were afraid, and refused to take us to their town; for the French had recently burned some of their towns. Onjoga assured them that I was not a government officer. Then they asked who I was.
Onjoga shouted back: “He is a missionary.”