Read Online Across the Wide Zambezi: A Doctor's Life in Africa by Warren Durrant - Free Book Online
Authors: Warren Durrant
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the hot morning, I
made out the steady beat of a drum. Colonial thoughts of an Ashanti rising came
to my mind. Before long, looking out of the glassless window, I saw a drum,
which carried itself like Humpty Dumpty on two little black legs, and beat
itself with two little black arms. Behind the drum came a school crocodile,
guided by a number of schoolteachers in their Sunday-best clothes.
When the procession reached the church,
the drum was silenced with some difficulty by one of the teachers, and the
crocodile metamorphosed into a colony of ants, which poured into the church -
an hour late, but what did that matter in Africa!
At least they were in time for Father
Adeloye's sermon. When he came to the bit about church dues, he hit the pulpit
so hard with his fist that two sugar canes that had been leaning there fell
down onto a couple of cocks which lay trussed and giving the occasional squawk
between the choir stalls, killing one outright and miraculously striking the
raffia cords off the legs of the other. The second cock jumped up, rejoiced at
his new-found freedom with a loud crow, and dived into the nearest choir stall.
Much scuffling of little black feet and cassocks, and he was out among the
congregation, flapping his wings and jumping over the heads of the multitude,
until he was caught, re-trussed, and flung beneath the altar again.
There was a collection, but I think
Father Adeloye let us off the name game that Sunday as he had something else in
store.
After the usual three hours the service
came to an end. The familiar table was placed at the head of the aisle but
supplied with more than the usual number of seats. Father Adeloye's helpers
were augmented to a full committee by the 'biggest men' in town, all kitted out
in the most resplendent tribal dresses. The everyday ledger was replaced with
an even larger one. Biros were produced and tested. It became apparent that
some kind of business was about to take place.
In fact, all the harvest gifts were to
be auctioned off in aid of the church. There was no thought that Our Lord might
appear with his whip, overturn the table and drive them out. This might be
God's house, but were they not about their Father's business?
The first article to be auctioned was a
simple glass of water. The chairman (for Father Adeloye had taken a well-earned
rest in a side seat) rose and extolled the virtues of water. Was it not the
source of all life? Where would we be without water? What was more precious
than water? How much am I offered for this glass of water?
This was of course a purely ceremonial
sale, a matter of honour. I did not feel called upon to upstage any of the big
men, so preserved a modest silence in my usual seat. The bids went up and up to
ten dollars, and a big man had his big day drinking the water there and then,
to the uninhibited cheers of the congregation.
And so on down to the unfortunate cocks.
I did buy something myself: a fish-trap, made of woven cane. A work of art in
itself which I knew would make a beautiful ornament. I got it home to England
eventually and presented it to an uncle. It returned to me after his death, and
thirty years from the day it was made it still stands sturdy and elegant in my
sitting room, where guests think it is a space ship.
One day we were honoured by a visit from
the archdeacon. The uniformity of the English Church is as remarkable as its
catholicity. There is a certain brand mark about its officers which makes me
wonder if they are not mass-produced at Canterbury and some painted black for
Africa. For our archdeacon was Trollope's Archdeacon Grantly, painted very
black indeed. (Father Adeloye, I might say, could have been Mr Harding.) There
had been some slump in the fortunes of the Church (and when I say fortunes I mean
what St Matthew the tax-gatherer would have meant by them). We had already had
a meeting of the parochial church council, of which I was a member, at which
some very strong-arm methods for raising
made out the steady beat of a drum. Colonial thoughts of an Ashanti rising came
to my mind. Before long, looking out of the glassless window, I saw a drum,
which carried itself like Humpty Dumpty on two little black legs, and beat
itself with two little black arms. Behind the drum came a school crocodile,
guided by a number of schoolteachers in their Sunday-best clothes.
When the procession reached the church,
the drum was silenced with some difficulty by one of the teachers, and the
crocodile metamorphosed into a colony of ants, which poured into the church -
an hour late, but what did that matter in Africa!
At least they were in time for Father
Adeloye's sermon. When he came to the bit about church dues, he hit the pulpit
so hard with his fist that two sugar canes that had been leaning there fell
down onto a couple of cocks which lay trussed and giving the occasional squawk
between the choir stalls, killing one outright and miraculously striking the
raffia cords off the legs of the other. The second cock jumped up, rejoiced at
his new-found freedom with a loud crow, and dived into the nearest choir stall.
Much scuffling of little black feet and cassocks, and he was out among the
congregation, flapping his wings and jumping over the heads of the multitude,
until he was caught, re-trussed, and flung beneath the altar again.
There was a collection, but I think
Father Adeloye let us off the name game that Sunday as he had something else in
store.
After the usual three hours the service
came to an end. The familiar table was placed at the head of the aisle but
supplied with more than the usual number of seats. Father Adeloye's helpers
were augmented to a full committee by the 'biggest men' in town, all kitted out
in the most resplendent tribal dresses. The everyday ledger was replaced with
an even larger one. Biros were produced and tested. It became apparent that
some kind of business was about to take place.
In fact, all the harvest gifts were to
be auctioned off in aid of the church. There was no thought that Our Lord might
appear with his whip, overturn the table and drive them out. This might be
God's house, but were they not about their Father's business?
The first article to be auctioned was a
simple glass of water. The chairman (for Father Adeloye had taken a well-earned
rest in a side seat) rose and extolled the virtues of water. Was it not the
source of all life? Where would we be without water? What was more precious
than water? How much am I offered for this glass of water?
This was of course a purely ceremonial
sale, a matter of honour. I did not feel called upon to upstage any of the big
men, so preserved a modest silence in my usual seat. The bids went up and up to
ten dollars, and a big man had his big day drinking the water there and then,
to the uninhibited cheers of the congregation.
And so on down to the unfortunate cocks.
I did buy something myself: a fish-trap, made of woven cane. A work of art in
itself which I knew would make a beautiful ornament. I got it home to England
eventually and presented it to an uncle. It returned to me after his death, and
thirty years from the day it was made it still stands sturdy and elegant in my
sitting room, where guests think it is a space ship.
One day we were honoured by a visit from
the archdeacon. The uniformity of the English Church is as remarkable as its
catholicity. There is a certain brand mark about its officers which makes me
wonder if they are not mass-produced at Canterbury and some painted black for
Africa. For our archdeacon was Trollope's Archdeacon Grantly, painted very
black indeed. (Father Adeloye, I might say, could have been Mr Harding.) There
had been some slump in the fortunes of the Church (and when I say fortunes I mean
what St Matthew the tax-gatherer would have meant by them). We had already had
a meeting of the parochial church council, of which I was a member, at which
some very strong-arm methods for raising
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