A change of labour—We become hunters—A new demand—And new difficulties—Failure—The sentry’s demand—The old men’s plea—Murder—We tell the men of God—And complain to the rubber man—The white chief—The things written in a book—And no remedy comes—Hunting again—The English visitor—The white woman—Results of making complaints—The sentries’ threats—The one way of escape—“Better to be with the hunters than the hunted”—Another sorrow—The sleeping-sickness—“Just a little while, and they die”—We cry to the white people. CHAPTER IX THE ELDERS OF EUROPE 112 More white men from Europe—Fears and curiosity—The white men inquire about us—We tell them of our state—And our oppressors—The knotted strings and their story—“These things are bad”—The white man’s promises—Better times—Soon ended—Rubber again—The old toil—The men of the river—The demands on the villages—The chiefs in power—Chiefs and the sentries—The death wail and the white man—“We are very poor.” CHAPTER X THINGS WE WANT TO KNOW 121 My story is finished—The past and the present—Why are these things so?—The old days—Now we are white men’s slaves—How long will it last?—We are dying—Our only rest is death—How long, how long? BOKWALA CHAPTER I HOW WE ONCE LIVED My early days—Life at home—How we fared—Work and play—Our one fear, the cannibals—Iseankótó’s warning—We despise it—We are captured by cannibals—The journey—A horrible meal—The cannibal village reached. I have heard that there are many white people in Europe, both men and women, who feel compassion for us black men, and who would, if they knew more about us, take pity on us and save us from our sorrows and trials. So I am going to tell the story of my life, that they may know and help us. Long, long ago I was born in the village of Ekaka, and having lived so long I have seen many things, and who is better able to tell them than I? We have great controversy with the white people about our ages: they say I am about thirty years old, but of course I know better; and I say that I am about three thousand years old—which shows that white men do not know everything. My name is Bokwala, a slave. I do not know why my father and mother named me so; for I was a freeborn child. But afterwards I became a slave in truth, as I shall tell you, so then it suited me well. We lived all together very happily in my father’s compound. He was the chief of Ekaka, and had great authority; he had but to give an order, and at once the people would hurry to execute it. His own name was Mboyo, but he was always called Isek’okwala, after me, and in the same way my mother was called Yek’okwala. It is one of our customs to call the parents “father” or “mother” of Bokwala, or whatever the name of the child may be.