I squinted my eyes. “Aren’t you aware of all the fruit that grows here, Sechele? David told me you were an expert on living off of the land.”
“I am not an expert in kengwe, Miss Anna,” he said without false modesty. It was fact. “No one can predict whether this particular fruit will be sour or sweet.”
He waited for me, his question still hanging in the air for me.
“Well,” I struggled to come up with an answer, “my botany is not very good, but I would say that perhaps whether the fruit is sweet would depend on its environment. The circumstances of its surroundings would determine the taste.”
Sechele gave me that wise, amused look that only he could give. “And thus we see, Miss Anna,” he concluded, “God did not put sour fruit on the land. It is the fruit’s surrounding that determines the worth. Even this kengwe—even when it covers the land for lengths and lengths—it is not always sweet. All this fruit is given the same water, sunlight, and air. Yet some still turn sour.”
“And you would have to look inside the fruit, to know if it was sweet,” I guessed.
“Yes! Now you understand! But because some of them are sour, my neighbors the Boers call them all “bitter fruit.” Naming all of them that way was unwise.” He used his knife to cut the piece of fruit in half, revealing a pink interior with small black seeds. He bit into the fruit and smiled.
“This fruit still has seeds to be avoided, imperfections to be seen, but it is mostly sweet. Even the Boers are not all sour,” he spoke as he handed me the other half. I stared down at the fruit in my hands, my heart aching.
“And what if the fruit has no chance at being sweet?” I asked softly. “What if the fruit grows up surrounded by fire and no water?”
He chuckled.
“Well, Miss Anna, this is where our parable ends. Because I am certain that God loves his children more than he loves fruit.” He ended my lesson with his wide grin. He stood, then strolled off, his hands in his English trousers.
I returned home with my head hung low. I was truly embarrassed by my behavior. I came upon Mary first, outside beating rugs with Agnes at her feet. I approached her timidly.
“I am truly sorry for causing you worry, Mary,” I apologized.
My voice had startled her and she jerked around. Seeing my somewhat pathetic state, she nodded sympathetically.
“Sechele brought us a lovely piece of beef.” She acted as if I had not spoken, while gesturing to the piece on the veranda. “Will you, please, prepare it and boil it as I showed you?”
I sighed in relief. “With pleasure, Mary. Thank you.”
There was no forgiveness like being made useful again.
Chapter 14
Several weeks passed for us in a similar manner. Five days a week Mary taught school and I observed while assisting in any way I could. I became very good at staying cheerful in the face of so many who were upset with me for my rumored witchcraft. It was not uncommon for small groups of men and women to peer at me from the safety of a tree’s shade and whisper “baloi” as I walked past.
My only friend, outside of Sechele, Mary, and her family, was Motsatsi. His sweet little temperament could not be dampened by his surroundings. Every day, without fail, he would meet me at the school room door and give me a bright smile. He was a beam of sunshine.
I did my best to move my thoughts to how I may be more useful to Mary. After school, she would take me down into the village where we would distribute what little we had to those who needed it most. These sessions did not prove any easier for me as the weeks went by, but I did not feel the need to run anymore, and I was becoming better at suppressing my deep feelings of remorse.
It was an unfortunate coincidence that no rain had fallen since Sechele’s baptism. It fueled the people’s hostility toward me, and in a small part toward David and Mary. David had, indeed, been regretting the loss of Sechele’s young wives to his congregation. They had been his best pupils, intelligent and eager to learn from the Bible. He had once called them the most amiable females in the town. They strived to understand the importance of their husband’s new belief and had been willing to adopt it themselves. They were to have formed the strong nucleus for conversion of the Bakwena people as a whole, or so David thought. He visited each one to express sympathy, but found he could do nothing to offset the conviction that the Christian church had abandoned them. One of the wives had tried to give David back his Bible but he would not take it.
And so it was true, that despite our desperate need for acceptance with the Bakwena, their amiability was sinking with the once booming river. A canal had to be built by David to bring water from the lessening river to our small garden by the house. Several of the tribesmen helped David in his pursuit. Although they wanted little to do with me, it was endearing to see some still felt the desire to assist their doctor in the support of his family. Yet, still, even with the help of David’s friends, the lack of rain was starting to affect us. The lack was being felt all over the village. In an effort to find water, several tribesmen ventured out into the terrain to find small ponds or creeks, but the trip would require as much water for drinking as they could bring back, and soon their returning supply was used up.
Mary began to be very careful with our personal water use as well. It was Mary’s idea to stop cooking with water all together. Mary showed me how to grill almost anything on a pan over a fire. Only very small amounts were used to wash the hands and face, and the majority of water was used solely for drinking, although I could not help but feel she was limiting our intake of that as well. I witnessed her storing it in small jars in a corner of her bedroom.
“Should we distribute some of these extra jars to the needy families in the village?” I asked her once. “Surely they would like to be storing water as well.” I couldn’t imagine many of the natives would have glass jars or jugs to use.
“Miss Anna, the Bakwena have been living on these plains for hundreds of years,” she explained, somewhat defensively. “They may be at a loss for food, but you can be sure they know better how to preserve water than I.”
David was fascinated by all biographical goings on. He would observe and take note of any peculiarity around us. He showed the children and me the large beetles that hid in the shade during the day. As we watched, one brave beetle came out of hiding, attempting to reach another area of shade. The heat and lack of humidity were so extreme it scorched to death within just a couple minutes and laid belly up to the sky in dry defeat. David gathered the small creature up in his gentle hands and carried it back to his study.
After these several weeks of observing her teaching, Mary allowed me to hold a small sewing class to the older girls after the main set of classes had finished. Those who wished to sew like a proper English woman were invited to stay. Despite my unpopularity, the schoolroom was filled. Soon I was standing in front of the large intimidating group.
“Hello,” I began timidly. I received no response. Considering my lessons would be in English, and the majority of Bakwena spoke little to no English, my lessons would have to be pantomimed. Instead of speaking further, I picked up a small piece of fabric I had been working on through the afternoon as I sat in the hot schoolroom. With a small square of fabric, a needle, and a small snatch of thread I had torn from one of my dresses, I had sewn a small, yet pleasing flower.
The response was exactly as I had hoped. There were several gasps of approval and several more whose eyes widened in surprise at my skill. Of course, there were still more who stayed obstinately unmoved. I wondered if their legends of witchcraft included sewing flowers.
“This particular flower is especially easy,” I spoke excitedly. “There are only a few simple petals so it does not take much time and can be added to all sorts of fabric.” When I looked up, I could tell from their expressions that none had understood my rushed English. “I will show you how,” I ended lamely. With that, I took a blank square of fabric and held it up as I made the small deliberate stitches, giving vis
ual instruction as I went.
I kept trying to make eye contact with several girls whom I knew shunned me most vehemently. They were quite obstinate in their distrust of me. Several times I would be successful in catching their eyes as I explained my presentation and I would smile shyly. No smile was returned to me. Even those who were obviously absorbed in my demonstration were only interested in the flower and not in the creator.
Through my lesson, Mary kept piping up from the opposite side of the space to chastise the women for some fault, which, try as I might, I could not understand. Mary’s booming Sechuana seemed to come at random. I noticed a few of the girls sat in small groups, talking amongst themselves in Sechuana, possibly they were saying inappropriate things. Mary’s chastisements seemed to right their wrongs for only a few minutes, and then their unknown omission would repeat itself.
Having finished my demonstration, I handed the little creation to the girl sitting closest to me, her wide eyes rivaled in size only by her mass of hair. It took her a minute to understand my meaning as I offered her this little flower, but slowly she reached up and received it. Though she did not smile at me, she smiled down at the flower and that was enough.
I asked Mary about her scoldings after the class had been dismissed. She heaved a sigh of frustration before she answered me honestly.
“To the average African woman, their only object is to bear children. They were saying, ‘A happy, honored woman is one who has many children and is fat.’ The women look down on you because you seem weak and small. Ergo, you are not well-fed, not favored by your husband, and therefore not one to be respected.”
I thought of London. In polite English circles I had been praised for my petite figure. Whereas older widows who increased in corpulence were the objects of snickering behind gloved hands. Here I was the point of ridicule for my thin frame.
We didn’t go down to the village today. When I questioned Mary, she shook me away like a fly. I wondered at this for only a moment before realizing that we had run out of things we could contribute. We walked home slowly.
As we approached home, there was a small crowd just outside the porch, conversing with David. This, in itself, was not unusual. David taught several impromptu sermons in a week, so it could be that. It could also be that they were seeking medical attention. David frequently had a line of patients waiting for him when his day of manual labor was finished. The detail that proved unusual was, as they saw us coming closer, the crowd dispersed, each going their separate ways in haste. We approached David with questions in our eyes.
David smiled sadly. “Come inside, I will tell you.”
We followed David inside and removed our bonnets. Mary excused herself for a moment to check on the children and their nanny. All was well, and she returned to hear the news.
“The people were here to beg me to release Sechele.” He gave a mocking smirk.
“Release him?” Mary asked for clarification.
“Yes. They said if I could release Sechele from his obligation to be a Christian, then he could perform the rain-making ritual and they could be comfortable again. ‘Only release Kgosi Sechele for one hour to make it rain, and then we will come to your church and sing and pray as much as you like,’” he imitated.
“Oh goodness,” Mary said truly sympathetic. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them I would be happy to have them in church, but that I could not release Sechele from his baptism, since it was his own choice to do so.” He paused, getting ready to repeat what they said to us again, “‘We don’t like you to speak on the subject of religion. Our empty bellies make us angry. We want rain, and if you argue, we think you don’t want it, and our throats make us angry.’” He paused again. “They truly believe Sechele could make rain, but simply refuses to do it because I have convinced him not to! They see him as eccentric to the extreme.”
“The drought is becoming troublesome,” Mary added. “The Kolobeng river was even lower this morning. Do you think it could diminish completely?”
“I do,” David confirmed, and my heart sank. Where would we get water if the river were to disappear? “I have never seen the moisture leave so quickly. This afternoon I recorded the temperature of the soil at one hundred and thirty degrees. I placed several of your sewing needles into the dirt, Mary. I am hoping in a few days they will have obtained some rust, so we can know there is moisture somewhere.”
We both nodded, acknowledging the wisdom in this. We had to know what we were up against.
But there was no way we could have known to what extent our lives would change. It seemed to shift for us all drastically. After a few more weeks, the Kolobeng river did dry up. Hyenas scavenged the area in the daytime, without fear of man, to feed off the putrid mass of fish and one unfortunate alligator stranded in the riverbed. Still, with several dozen hyena scrounging around the area, they could not finish it all, and the smell that came from these events was inescapable in any part of the town. And the smell could not be escaped by the transporting scent of the mimosa tree. During a drought, it remained closed and I felt a pang every time I walked by its bare branches.
Where the heat had been manageable before, it now became oppressive. No matter what time of day Mary and I tried to rush to the schoolroom, we would still be soaked through with perspiration by the time we arrived, the sun dying our colorful garments into a bland canvas. Enormous centipedes would come out of their safe homes, unsuspecting, and roast instantly in the scorching blaze.
We stopped washing entirely. This was almost unbearable since the hot sun made us sweat through every piece of clothing before noon. We knew we were not clean, yet we continued on, trying to make the best of it. Mary continued to restrict our water intake, trying to save every drop she could. I could feel the desperation beginning to mount inside of me. It seemed impossible that there was nowhere we could get water. But the dry, grating feel of my throat was a constant reminder that we had run out of resources.
Despite the drought, and an ever-present headache as a result of his dehydration, David held church services three times a week in the same building we held school. Sometimes when the heat was too stifling, we would all simply congregate under the shade of a tree, the women fanning themselves and their little ones. Our group generally included Mary and her children, one steady old man named Sebite, Sechele’s children occasionally accompanied by their mother, and a few curious village members. All the men wore dark pants, white button-up coats with white shirts underneath, and wide brimmed hats. The women wore simple, light colored dresses, with an occasional beaded necklace or broach. Of course, Sechele attended each meeting without fail, accompanied with his massive bible and pages of notes. This night he wore a suit, boasting a jacket with a fine lapel and trousers, which may have earned the approval of even Mary’s strict expectations, if it had not been made entirely of tiger’s skin. On his neck he wore a cravat so beautifully tied, so blazingly white, it would have made the wealthy of London envious. Despite his attempt at majesty, however, I could not help but notice with a smile that his trousers were too short, his coat too high, and his stockings the color of the soil around. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled.
I noticed his children were each impeccably dressed. I later came to find that Sechele took the chore of dressing his children for church upon himself, claiming that no one could do as fine a job as he.
We began all meetings in the same way. We sat ourselves down and said all together, “A re shueng,” which David told me could be translated as “Let us pray.” It was interesting to note that the same word the Bakwena used to denote prayer could also be used denote death. We would use “A re tsoheng” to close the meeting, meaning “Let us rise.”
This night, David incorporated some of his personal experiences into his sermon. Mary translated for me.
“When I was a piecer in a Scottish factory, the fellows used to try to turn me off the path I had chosen, and always began with ‘I think you ought,’ till I snap
ped them up with a mild, ‘You think! I can think and act for myself. I don’t need anybody to think for me, I assure you.’” He spoke in a gentle, chiding way.
“I soon resolved to devote my life to the alleviation of human misery. This must, according to my experience, be the way all through. I never followed another’s view in preference to my own judgment. I did a thing out of deference to another when I myself thought it wrong, but I had reason to repent of it. I don’t mean to inculcate rebellion, but we must all think and act for ourselves. I recall a venerable neighbor, David Hogg, who on his deathbed had said to me, ‘Now, lad, make religion the everyday business of your life, not a thing of fits and starts.’ I hope we may all emulate this example. Make religion an everyday business, not an occasional occupation.
“Some of the brethren do not hesitate to tell the natives that my object is to obtain the applause of men. This bothers me, for I sometimes suspect my own motives. On the other hand, I am conscious that though there is much impurity in my motives, they are in the main for the glory of Him to whom I have dedicated my all. Pray, my dear friends. Pray to know how you can dedicate your all to Him. Pray that you may come off conqueror.”
David ended the meeting with one of his simple yet poignant prayers.
“A re tsoheng,” we all recited and the group disbanded.
I stood quietly holding Robert’s and Agnes’s hands as I watched Sechele approach his teacher and exchange a few words.
“What nice words you speak to me. You have verily come to teach me things,” Sechele said to David.
The trust and brotherhood they shared was something I had never witnessed before. Sechele clapped his hand on David’s shoulder and laughed as only Sechele could laugh in response to something David had said to him. Then he handed David a large container and departed with his wife and many children.
Walking home as a group, I asked David what the pitcher contained.
In Spite of Lions Page 16