Dawn in darkest AfricaHarris, John H. (John Hobbis)
History
Dawn in darkest Africa
Harris, John H. (John Hobbis)
Africa, West; Africa, West -- Description and travel; Ethnology -- Africa, West; Slavery -- Africa, West
Some of these assertive and incredulous persons have themselves been
badly punished for their advertised temerity. The story goes of one lady
who, after having published much nonsense on this subject, was bundled
off home in an ice pack! I know one man who, after a year or two of good
health, gave rein to his opinion in the columns of the _Times_; this
good man was no believer in short and effective service, followed by a
well-earned period of leave; he advocated long terms of residence as the
certain road to immunity; that man spent a single term in Africa, towards
the close of which the climate made such inroads upon his constitution,
that he was never allowed to return.
Those who feel inclined to trifle with and ridicule the dangers
attendant upon life in Africa should spend a solid year in some lonely
post directing a staff not always amenable to discipline; should live
in that comfortless bungalow; should endeavour to tempt the appetite
day after day with something from a tin which, no matter what it is
called, invariably has the same taste. Then probably a fever intervenes
and the lonely resident goes to bed with limbs racked with pain and a
head throbbing like the puffing of an express train. By this time the
supercilious writer would be brought to know that after all, the climate
of West Africa is not that of the Swiss lakes or the Austrian Tyrol.
[Sidenote: THE STORY THE GRAVEYARDS TELL]
It may be a melancholy undertaking, but all whites going to West Africa
should brace themselves to the duty of visiting the cemeteries. What a
story the graveyards of West Africa tell! The fair young lives laid down
for the comfort of posterity. Men of all walks in life are there—the
official and the trader, pitiably aloof in daily life, now lying side by
side; they are there from every profession and trade, the engineer and
the miner, the planter and the doctor, the young wife and perhaps the
new-born infant. Africa—always cruel—has taken them in the very flower of
their manhood and womanhood.
On the Gold Coast I one day walked into the cemetery and standing in
one spot recorded the ages inscribed on twenty-seven of the surrounding
tombstones; the oldest amongst the deceased was only forty-six years, and
amongst the youngest, two had succumbed at the early age of twenty-two.
The average was exactly thirty-two years. Not a few had inscribed upon
the tombs such information as, “After two days’ illness.” “After only
three weeks in the colony.” “After three days’ illness.” “Died on the way
to the coast,” and so forth.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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