Missions -- Uganda; Negrillos; Uganda -- Description and travel
One afternoon, just as the class was closing, I looked up, and in the
doorway of the Church stood two most repelling figures. Their hair had
grown to the shoulders and was rolled into thin streaks with an ample
quantity of white goat’s fat; they wore a mere fragment of clothing, and
held in their hands a bow and sheaf of arrows. My lesson came to a dead
standstill, and I asked the women who the two men were. “They eat each
other,” was the reassuring response. I dismissed the class right away
and made off, but found the two cannibals standing outside. Very bravely
I went up and saluted them, but they only stared and grunted, then when
I turned to hurry back to camp they came too! In spite of being told
that they only eat their own people, I did not like to run any risk, so
enticed a number of women to come with me all the way to our tent by
saying I had some pictures just out from England to show them.
As we stood there in Mboga among some of the most primitive of the
human races it was difficult to realize that they formed part of that
greatest existing empire of the world. Let us hope the time will soon
come when these people will be brought within the circle of its moral and
intellectual influence as well as the circle of its civil rule. One can
scarcely imagine that there ever existed a more unenlightened age in the
history of man than the present twentieth century among these distant
subjects of Great Britain. From the brow of the Mission hill at Mboga no
fewer than seven distinct practically untamed tribes, each with its own
peculiar customs and dialect, lie within the range of eyesight. During
the four weeks spent in these parts we had an opportunity of coming in
direct contact with some people from each of these tribes, and as we
learned something of their habits and modes of existence we realised
in a deeper sense than ever before the significance of the words, “And
darkness was upon the face of the deep.”
After one month’s life under canvas, nomadic life loses its charm,
especially when the rains are a little too generous. The last three weeks
of our stay in Mboga proved somewhat distressful on this account, for
the storms beat down upon our skeleton shed and poured in through the
tent almost daily. The wide trenches dug round our quarters were quite
ineffectual in carrying off the water which came sweeping in upon us like
a flood. Frequently we were obliged to sit on our chairs or boxes with
our feet tucked under us while the water gaily took possession of the
ground floor of the tent.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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