Read Online Across the Wide Zambezi: A Doctor's Life in Africa by Warren Durrant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Warren Durrant
Ads: Link
the necessary had been proposed,
including knocking on doors more in the spirit of the Gestapo than the Little
Sisters of the Poor, until I reminded them that our initials were PCC, and not
CPP (which had belonged to the party of the lately overthrown dictator, Kwame
Nkrumah).
The archdeacon spoke in the church one
week night to a large turn-out, more due to his star quality than any religious
enthusiasm, and spoke in tones of an Oxfordian fruitiness, that would have
surprised even his Victorian prototype, of the 'perishes that were not doing
vary waal' which included, alas, the back-sliding Samreboi. Various members of
the congregation made suggestions, which the archdeacon heard with apparent
interest before cutting short the inevitable African prolixity with an
un-Christian clap of the hand and an authoritative finger pointing to the next
aspirant. I forget what resolutions were arrived at (if any), before the
archdeacon closed the proceedings with a short prayer; nor do I know where he
spent the night, but I am pretty sure it was in more commodious circumstances
than Father Adeloye's house could provide.
Constable Yobo of the CID was pointing
out the local places of worship to me during a Sunday morning walk along the
main street. He was most proud of his own establishment, the Methodist church,
which he told me was 'best for singing'. His words were amply corroborated
there and then by the lusty strains of ‘Bread of Heaven’, which threatened to
lift off the tin roof of the building. This impressive performance was one of
the many fruits of that diligent labourer in God's vineyard, the Reverend Alec
Jones, an unassuming Welshman. Alec bore a curious nickname among the Africans.
They called him 'Bruni -go-die', ( 'Bruni' of course meaning 'white
man'). Alec collected old clothes through many contacts in his homeland, and
distributed them among the poor of his parish. As none of his parishioners
could believe that anyone could part with his clothes in life (especially in
one piece), they concluded these must be the post mortem effects of Alec's
friends in Britain. Hence the name.
Further down the street we passed the
Catholic church, where, Constable Yobo dismissively informed me: 'Dey jest
hollered in Italian.' (This was of course still in the days before they mucked
about with the Tridentine Mass.)
As I have hinted, there was a spectrum
of mixed worship between orthodox Christian and pure pagan. Somewhere near the
latter end of the rainbow lay a place I looked into one evening with an African
guide. In the middle of the room on a stand lay a large Victorian Bible, as good
as Father Adeloye's, around which the people were enthusiastically dancing amid
lot of drumming and singing. My guide informed me in a superior tone that 'dey
tink it catch plenty power' - a scene to make a missionary cry.
The Reverend Alec organised a sort of
Three Choirs Festival at his own establishment, in which the Anglicans and
Catholics were invited to participate. Not with any idea of competition.
Competitiveness is considered rather vulgar in Africa, and Lady Thatcher, I am
afraid, would not be thought ladylike - at any rate, on account of her famous
doctrine; though she might have been respected, even worshipped as a figure of
power - a Great She-elephant. Needless to say, competition or not, Alec's team
outshone all the rest. Even Alec, for all his innate modesty, could not
suppress a grin of sinful pride which threatened to cut his head off. The
Catholic priest sat expressionless. But poor Father Adeloye (who had of course
a family interest in the matter) exhibited what I can only describe as a
'boiled' look of equally sinful envy.
One Sunday afternoon I was lying on my
bed when I heard once again a distant drum. In those early days I was as eager
as a puppy to learn everything about my new surroundings. I quickly got up and
went in search of the sound in my car. Presently I came upon a body of scouts
filing into the
including knocking on doors more in the spirit of the Gestapo than the Little
Sisters of the Poor, until I reminded them that our initials were PCC, and not
CPP (which had belonged to the party of the lately overthrown dictator, Kwame
Nkrumah).
The archdeacon spoke in the church one
week night to a large turn-out, more due to his star quality than any religious
enthusiasm, and spoke in tones of an Oxfordian fruitiness, that would have
surprised even his Victorian prototype, of the 'perishes that were not doing
vary waal' which included, alas, the back-sliding Samreboi. Various members of
the congregation made suggestions, which the archdeacon heard with apparent
interest before cutting short the inevitable African prolixity with an
un-Christian clap of the hand and an authoritative finger pointing to the next
aspirant. I forget what resolutions were arrived at (if any), before the
archdeacon closed the proceedings with a short prayer; nor do I know where he
spent the night, but I am pretty sure it was in more commodious circumstances
than Father Adeloye's house could provide.
Constable Yobo of the CID was pointing
out the local places of worship to me during a Sunday morning walk along the
main street. He was most proud of his own establishment, the Methodist church,
which he told me was 'best for singing'. His words were amply corroborated
there and then by the lusty strains of ‘Bread of Heaven’, which threatened to
lift off the tin roof of the building. This impressive performance was one of
the many fruits of that diligent labourer in God's vineyard, the Reverend Alec
Jones, an unassuming Welshman. Alec bore a curious nickname among the Africans.
They called him 'Bruni -go-die', ( 'Bruni' of course meaning 'white
man'). Alec collected old clothes through many contacts in his homeland, and
distributed them among the poor of his parish. As none of his parishioners
could believe that anyone could part with his clothes in life (especially in
one piece), they concluded these must be the post mortem effects of Alec's
friends in Britain. Hence the name.
Further down the street we passed the
Catholic church, where, Constable Yobo dismissively informed me: 'Dey jest
hollered in Italian.' (This was of course still in the days before they mucked
about with the Tridentine Mass.)
As I have hinted, there was a spectrum
of mixed worship between orthodox Christian and pure pagan. Somewhere near the
latter end of the rainbow lay a place I looked into one evening with an African
guide. In the middle of the room on a stand lay a large Victorian Bible, as good
as Father Adeloye's, around which the people were enthusiastically dancing amid
lot of drumming and singing. My guide informed me in a superior tone that 'dey
tink it catch plenty power' - a scene to make a missionary cry.
The Reverend Alec organised a sort of
Three Choirs Festival at his own establishment, in which the Anglicans and
Catholics were invited to participate. Not with any idea of competition.
Competitiveness is considered rather vulgar in Africa, and Lady Thatcher, I am
afraid, would not be thought ladylike - at any rate, on account of her famous
doctrine; though she might have been respected, even worshipped as a figure of
power - a Great She-elephant. Needless to say, competition or not, Alec's team
outshone all the rest. Even Alec, for all his innate modesty, could not
suppress a grin of sinful pride which threatened to cut his head off. The
Catholic priest sat expressionless. But poor Father Adeloye (who had of course
a family interest in the matter) exhibited what I can only describe as a
'boiled' look of equally sinful envy.
One Sunday afternoon I was lying on my
bed when I heard once again a distant drum. In those early days I was as eager
as a puppy to learn everything about my new surroundings. I quickly got up and
went in search of the sound in my car. Presently I came upon a body of scouts
filing into the
Similar Books
