Out of Africa: Daniel and the Soldier Ants

My Aunt Joan's father was a missionary in British East Africa in the 1920s. Her older brother, Homer, wrote an unpublished memoir about his life, and included many stories of the family's time in Africa. He followed in his father's footsteps and returned to Africa as a missionary in 1933. This is another story from his memoir:

Bunyore, Kenya is a beautiful place in a tropical equatorial kind of way. The setting is surrounded by small African huts all thatched amidst groves of broad banana leaves. Outcroppings of granite stand out over the area as sentinels and tall eucalyptus sway in the breeze. 

Modern photograph of Bunyore, Kenya

We had good friends at the Bunyore Mission Station and went to visit them for a few days. Our son was a baby at the time. Having finished his last feeding for the evening, he was burped and nicely bedded down for the night. The netting was suitably tucked about the bassinet to shield from the hungry mosquitoes. The whole setting was calm and serene under a starlit, gracious night.

We were aroused from our slumbers by small sounds of pain from the wee one. Mother seemed to be the first of us aware of the baby's cry. She rolled out of bed to see what could be wrong. Turning up the lamp wick, she began the search for the reason. As she turned back the netting, and blankets, she instantly became aware that something was crawling on her feet and legs. Not only crawling, but also biting very hard. By this time she had found soldier ants (also called Army ants) within the baby's diapers, latching on to his little body. 

Drawing of an Army ant; courtesy of PLOS | Biology

This called for help; we had to do something instantly. Mother took hold of those vicious ants to pull them loose, but they clung tight until they came apart. They simply would not give up their hold on the wee body of our son. Baby Dan was most unhappy not knowing what to make of this rude awakening. 

Everyone was up by this time. There was no sleeping in this kind of situation. Getting a kerosene lantern, we began to scout the outside of the home. The ground was covered with soldier ants -- millions of them. We discovered they were using a one-inch piece of rope to make their way up and inside the house. Even the bats in the attic were under attack. They were literally devoured by ants.

The old expression "ants in one's pants" in such a case is not a bit funny. So what was to be done about the situation. Native people back through the dim past had used hot ashes to turn away these attacks and they were what we used that night as well. We took all the ashes from the stove in the kitchen, spread a line about the approach area. We also took the spray gun and used a mixture of kerosene with pyrethrum powder which is a very potent control for insects, but not instantaneous.

Let it be said if a baby were to be left alone and the soldier ants found it, life would not long be sustained. So it was that our night was disturbed, but the wee fellow was soon out of trouble.

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NOTE:  Previous "Out of Africa" posts:

Doctor Livingstone, I Presume
The Kikuyu
The Eland Hunt
The Hippopotamus Hunt 
Kagui and the Python 
Water Buffalo Trouble
Baboon in the Sweet Potato Patch
Breakfast at Kimingini

Out of Africa: Breakfast at Kimingini

My Aunt Joan's father was a missionary in British East Africa in the 1920s. Her older brother, Homer, wrote an unpublished memoir about his life, and included many stories of the family's time in Africa. He followed in his father's footsteps and returned to Africa as a missionary in 1933. This is another story from his memoir:

Mining camps have been the setting for many a yarn. Sometimes tragic and other times hilarious. This little incident is sort of in between and just a bit ridiculous. Kimingini was quite a place as it flared into a mining center. Houses were built there tier above tier, ascending the slopes of the hill. Out there in the valley of the Yala river, on this unusual hill, a sort of modern city sprung up almost over night.

Kimingini is located Kakamega County, Kenya

General ordinary kinds of laborers were given quarters on the lower levels. As one climbed to the higher levels, the small houses were occupied by European personnel. Above this level one came to the homes of the white-collar office people. At the very top, overlooking the whole area, stood the mansion of the mine manager. Most of the small cottages cluster about the hillside, were by the nature of things, quite close together. Due to contour or irregularity of the terrain, the houses faced in odd directions. It just so happened that the home of my friend, Morton, had a fine view, directly into the kitchen of the house next door. 

As has been true through the years, of our mining camps anywhere, there were few women. It early developed that the bachelor house holder of Kimingini, had in general, very little knowledge of the intricacies of home making. It therefore was the custom in those camps for a bachelor to employ someone to care for those duties. 

Homer's friend hired a young man based on a recommendation in a language he could not read.

From the book entitled, Diamond Mines of South Africa,
by Gardner Williams

Coming out of the mine at the end of the day, Morton, found his clothes washed and pressed nicely. The house was clean and neat. Some of the food not all that bad. It turned out breakfast was the worst meal of all. At first, the bachelor, "bwana," speaks kindly to the cook: "Breakfast not good." The next morning, it was no better, and gradually the tone of bwana's voice changed; it became sort of hostile. Breakfast was still "not good." The cook sat for hours during the day, wondering what he could do to correct the situation. He'd hate to lose his fine position. At breakfast bwana was no longer patient. He called his cook a few names in Ki-Swahili, punctuating with some choice ones in English. Things were indeed very bad.

The cook gathered that the bacon was too greasy and that was why bwana was so displeased. The next morning, Bwana Morton was surprised. The table was set in good taste. The coffee pot and cup were there, smelling wonderful. The toast was not at all bad. The eggs were fried in an easily acceptable manner. Morton was most surprised by the bacon; it was not greasy. 

How did Morton's cook improve frying the bacon. Homer called the new process "Bacon ala Kimingini."

Lifting each slice of bacon from the frying pan, the boy very carefully held the ends, and gracefully ran the slice through his lips, sucking off the offending grease. He then arranged the breakfast in a neat manner. Placing his white cap, which all servants were want to wear, upon his head and donning a clean white gown, he delivered the breakfast to the dining room table. 

Homer's friend, Morton, likely worked for the Kimingini Gold Mining Company, which had been organized by the Tanganyika Concessions in July 1934. After formation, the company embarked on an intensive development program at Kakamega. By November 1938, the company was in liquidation.

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NOTE:  Previous "Out of Africa" posts:

Doctor Livingstone, I Presume
The Kikuyu
The Eland Hunt
The Hippopotamus Hunt
Kagui and the Python
Water Buffalo Trouble
Baboon in the Sweet Potato Patch

Out of Africa: Baboon in the Potato Patch

My Aunt Joan's father was a missionary in British East Africa in the 1920s. Her older brother, Homer, wrote an unpublished memoir about his life, and included many stories of the family's time in Africa. Here is one such story:

Below the massive granite ridge high above our house was a dense belt of forest. Brush grew thick between the trees. Perhaps as many as two hundred baboon spent the night there on those craggy heights. I bet you have never seen that many baboons, all busy climbing, running, fussing, hunting berries, or raiding a family's vegetable garden. They can easily consume a lot of corn given the opportunity.

It was early on a fine bright African morning. We had just finished breakfast when some of the Kikuyu we lived among came to the back door with news. A baboon was in the garden digging sweet potatoes. This did not usually happen as the garden was very close to the back of the kitchen. The baboon had never ventured so close to the house before. 

An 1800 drawing of a common baboon 

I reached for my gun, loading it as I went out the door. I cautiously edged to the back corner for a look and sure enough there he was, busy as a baboon could be. A mammoth old male was industriously digging, chewing and enjoying our sweet potatoes. He seemed to know exactly where to dig. In second, he had another one, enjoying a feast at our expense. He was sitting, facing me, watching for any kind of interruption. The dogs had not yet noticed the intruder. Quite evidently, the old baboon did not see me peering past the corner of the cook shack.

I quickly, cautiously slid the rifle past the corner lining up with the target, which was not all that far away. The baboon was shocked at the roar of the gun. I got to wondering why the baboon came into our kitchen garden, so close to the house. The explanation in my mind is as follows. He was very old, likely he had difficulty keeping up with the rest of the pack. Perhaps he chose to keep closer to the rocky, craggy spot where they would return later in the evening. Age may well account for the old one venturing into our sweet potato patch that bright morning.

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NOTE:  Previous "Out of Africa" posts:

1. Doctor Livingstone, I Presume
2. The Kikuyu
3. The Eland Hunt
4. The Hippopotamus Hunt 
5. Kagui and the Python 
6. Water Buffalo Trouble

Out of Africa: Water Buffalo Trouble

My aunt's father was a missionary. He took his family to what was then known as British East Africa in 1920 and they lived there for nine years.  My aunt's brother, Homer Bailey, wrote an unpublished autobiography, which I was able to track down. In this story, Homer and his brother try to help some goat herders.

Goats go for bushy wild sorts of country -- the denser, the better. They even do a bit of climbing in a goat-y kind of way. Reaching those higher branches is a fine way to get a first course in the morning. With not a fence for miles, just bush for them to eat, this was for goats, the perfect life. Always with the goats were the herdsmen, mostly young boys, following along, going with the goats. This bright morning as the goat bells chimed there in the back of the beyond, they bumped right into a water buffalo.

Now, I mean the big, bad, mean kind of water buffalo. The kind that is apt to chase a man around a tree. Their horns curve outward, then downward and slightly backward, turning up at the tips. That is the kind of rascal to fear for he is easily enraged and deadly when aroused. If encountered in the open, he's the kind that just might tromp you, stomp you, and throw you in the air with his wicked horns. The buffalo is a bad enemy, determined to keep on coming at you until one of you drops.

Horn difference between a Cape Buffalo (top) and Asian Water Buffalo (bottom). Image courtesy of Wikipedia.org

The herd boys bumped into this big fellow about midmorning. The buffalo did not seem to mind the small, noisy goats nor did he really object to the herd boys, but they knew better than to get too close. What disturbed the herd boys was the way this buffalo and his relatives came by night, again and again, ravaging and ruining their small vegetable gardens. You have to see a garden after a buffalo goes through it to believe it. For this compelling reason they must try to be rid of this massive water buffalo.

Our family lived among these people not a great distance from the damaged gardens. The young herdsman wondered if we would come to their aid. He would lead us right to the buffalo. My brother and I hurriedly got our guns and ammunition, buckled on our sheath knives, and we were on our way. Soon we were in the forest wilderness. At first there was a path of sorts, but this faded away. Our guide led us through heavy underbrush. We could not see more than a few feet in any direction. Soon our herdsman guide said, "We're getting close, be very quiet." We walked single file as we cautiously edged forward, stopping every few feet to listen.

An aging dog had joined our party. When we moved ahead, he too would advance. When we stopped, he would glance over his shoulder and hold up too. It would have been nice if were it possible to communicate because he had a big advantage over us in the smell department.

Cape water buffalo. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.org

It seems you are never really ready when the time comes. Things have a way of happening too fast for our minds to act.  All of a sudden, the dog gave a deep throaty growl and came at us in reverse. His hackles were up and his teeth were showing without a smile. In that same second, it seemed, a lot of brush moved toward us. Visibility was nil. We now knew the creature was right there but see it, we could not.

The goat boy dove for a tree, which was hardly worthy of the name. It was a runty sort of refuge but the idea of getting above the ground appealed to me and I followed the boy up the tree. Having thus climbed above the surrounds, my eyes really bugged as I looked almost straight down on a great big blackish body with a set of massive horns. The buffalo was facing straight at us. His body was practically covered in dense growth. Our tree was most inadequate against such a menace. He looked as though he could easily shake our tree to bits.

I stood on a low limb holding on as best I could to the tree trunk and my 4.05 shotgun. It was British made, a combination double barrel shotgun. It was a great gun in its day, but required the use of black powder, which was a limitation. I pulled the old shotgun around, drew a line on the broad back below and fired. I should have set off both barrels, that would have really rocked the buffalo, but it would likely have knocked me right out of the tree.

Photograph courtesy of AfricaHunting.com

The buffalo made a quick decision to get out of there now! Can you imagine a tug boat -- squat, solid and powerful? Well, the buffalo, as it were, called for "full speed ahead." He did a graceful curve, passing off to our right, missing the tree and all of us. As he departed his head and horns spread the brush and shrubs and he sailed away in a sea of green. In seconds his proud stern disappeared in the deep forest.

What had I done wrong? I had certainly blown that one badly. In my climbing, clinging, and firing, I was nervous. Opening the breech of the gun, you will not believe what I found. I had dusted that old buffalo down with shotgun pellets. Hardly could that that have been effective and to the buffalo it was insulting, irritating, but in no way deadly.

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NOTE:  Previous "Out of Africa" posts:

1. Doctor Livingstone, I Presume
2. The Kikuyu
3. The Eland Hunt
4. The Hippopotamus Hunt 
5. Kagui and the Python 

Out of Africa: Kagui and the Python

My aunt's father was a missionary. He took his family to what was then known as British East Africa in 1920 and they lived there for nine years.  My aunt's brother, Homer Bailey, wrote an unpublished autobiography, which I was able to track down. In this story, Homer explains how dangerous pythons can be.

Many moons ago, Kagui, the canine, lived down the road from our house. He was not an outstanding dog. He had no pedigree, however, he did possess a few ticks and fleas. For coloring Kagui was a murky brown, set off by some dingy white, as vague as his ancestors. Kagui lived a simple life in a land not cluttered by speeding cars or trucks. However, there were plenty of dangers in his simple existence. There were subtle smells that put fear in the heart of the dog. Out of thin air would come an odor that sent a tingle the full length of his spine to the tip of his tail. From awkward, wobbly puppyhood there were times, when tail tucked tight, Kagui would head to his hut fast or he would be consumed. 

Even before his legs were able to keep up with the with the goat herd going out to graze, he followed. The herd boys just loved this little waggy-tailed puppy and would carry him over the rough spots. There were no fences when we lived in what is now Kenya and the herd boys would have to make sure the goats did not get into family gardens. Soon, Kagui was helping to keep the goats in line. Should the boys not be watchful, they could find they had lost some of the herd. When this happened late it the day, it was very apt to result in the death of the lost goats. Kagui was a great help in trailing the wanderers and helping them return to the fold.

Many were the lessons Kagui had to learn. Early in his life, for example, he learned to leave a porcupine alone. That was just sure trouble stacked against a dog. Kagui also found it was not good to go down a hole. All too often the hole was occupied by something that didn't mind eating dogs. Some old dog told him it's best to stay reasonably close to the fire when it's dark. When his nose told him there were enemies about, he would bark loud and long, but was always ready to flee for the safety of the fire. 

One day out with the goats in bush country something very strange and very different appeared. This mass had a smell Kagui had never before encountered. Whatever it was, it had a shape Kagui had never seen. The goats galloped away to a safe distance, while the sheep fled in consternation. The herd boys were curious but did not venture too close. This object did not move. Kagui watched closely this strange sinister mass. His self-preservation instinct caused him to feel this thing to be a menace.

Photograph courtesy of The Scientist Magazine. This python was killed in the Philippines

He growled at it and circled it cautiously eyeing it intently. Then he barked at it savagely. The mass made not the slightest response. It did not even move. It seemed totally unimpressed by the frantic barking dog. Only the beady eyes kept track of Kagui as he stormed about, attacking, then retreating, trying to figure out this thing. For some strange reason, this enemy did not run; it did not charge; it made no advance or did it retreat. Nothing Kagui had ever encountered behaved like this strange silent mass.

Kagui kept what seemed to him to be an adequate distance, at least by comparison to everything else in his experience. What he did not know was pythons literally throw or thrust several feet of their bodies into an assault. Thus the battle lines were set. The fact the mass didn't move caused Kagui to take greater risks, darting closer. 

All of a sudden, the dark shiny body flew out at him fast as a flying fist. This took Kagui completely by surprise. In an instant he was caught, trapped by the body of the python. Though he tried desperately and struggled with all his might, he could not escape. Coil after massive coil surround him in seconds and they choked and smothered his breath away.

Athlete Wrestling with a Python by Frederic, Lord Leighton (1877). Photograph courtesy of Wikipedia.org

The herd boys came to our house at a run to tell us of this awful thing. We went out with them into the wilds and shot the python. After skinning the python, we opened him up and removed Kagui's body. We thought he would be badly broken in form. Not in the slightest. There was not a mark on him. He looked very natural indeed. Pythons do not squeeze enough to break bone. Rather the pressure is so great as to make breathing impossible and arrest blood circulation. That is the way pythons kill.

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NOTE:  Previous "Out of Africa" posts:

1. Doctor Livingstone, I Presume
2. The Kikuyu
3. The Eland Hunt
4. The Hippopotamus Hunt

Out of Africa: The Hippopotamus Hunt

Homer Bailey went to Kenya, then known as British East Africa, with his missionary parents in 1920 and returned as a missionary years later with his own family. Near the end of his life, he wrote an autobiography of sorts that to my knowledge was never published. I was lucky enough to track down a copy several months ago.  This is the story of hunting hippopotamus, which was not a sport at the time. People used many parts of the animal for daily living as well as for food.

During the dark of night we found our way to a landing on Lake Victoria. We found it necessary to wait for our boatmen as they had not arrived. It was a miserable wait; the place was inhabited by a million or so mosquitoes. The boatmen were members of the Joluo tribe and we could not understand their language. Our host spoke Swahili, so we communicated to the others through him.

Following the leader, we trudged, at times stumbling, along a narrow root-obstructed path until we finally emerged at the waterfront. We were led to a boat and we all climbed into a large log-type of canoe. The boatmen pushed off and they paddled their way out about a hundred yards. They dropped whatever they used as an anchor over the side and we waited in silence until dawn.

Quite early that morning we noticed our seats were placed very low down in the water, obviously for stability. We could see places where repairs had been made to some damaged areas. It was from these stitches, that water was seeping into our craft, creeping higher. To keep our posteriors dry, some of us found it necessary to man the pumps. These pumps turned out to be half sections of dried gourd. 

Four men worked the paddles -- two in front, two aft. Not a ripple marred the mirror-smooth surface of the lake as far as the eye could see. We had raisin bread for lunch and shared it with the Joluo boatmen. It was rather amusing to see them stealthily slip the raisins out and over the side of the canoe. Apparently they had never before seen such large bugs or insects in the bread.

Successful hippopotamus hunt. Photo courtesy of KenyaList.com

The sun had begun its descent when we spotted what could be a hippopotamus.  As quietly as possible, we floated forward. All that was visible were two widely space eyes. As we floated nearer we could see an inch or so of the head. By this time we were convinced that it was indeed a big hippopotamus and it seemed to be keeping us under surveillance trying to figure out if we were friend of foe. Should it make up its mind too early, it could easily submerge and move away.

Try to imagine a target of perhaps an inch some fifty yards away. If you shoot low, the water will cause the bullet to deflect. Should your aim be high, you will have lost your opportunity. It is no small trick in a canoe with such a small target. You have just one chance or it is gone for good.

The guns blazed away, shattering the still, quiet afternoon. The object out in the lake suddenly submerged. But that is really too mild a term for the waters boiled up all muddy as the colossus thrashed about. For several minutes the activity was furious. Gradually the furious struggling ceased, the muddy waters became calm.

Huberta, South Africa's famous hippopotamus. Photo courtesy of Listverse.com

In an old log canoe, far from new, one would hardly want to be over the place where an angry hippo came to the surface. It seemed best to stay well back for awhile and let the animal make the next move. I cannot say exactly how long we waited but eventually that great big old water hog came up before our eyes, feet first. A cheer rang out from all onboard the canoe. The paddles now really went to work. We came along side of this immense thing. One of the men took out his knife, making an opening to which we could tie a tow line. Having secured the line to our canoe, we turned about for the trip back to the landing. A very slow trip it was.

Back at the shore, we were met by a veritable throng of local citizens. Word had got out fast. This good fortune could only result in a great feed for one and all. Without a moment's delay, they all waded in and we soon had that one-ton monster on land. Knives, handmade, long, short sharp or dull, were carving that porker. I kept wondering if someone might get hurt -- there were a lot of knives. It was a free for all. I was surprised to see some of the people eating the pork on the spot, raw. Now to me that was just a bit too rare.

It turned out to have been quite a day, the day we got our hippopotamus and fed the village.

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NOTE:  Previous "Out of Africa" posts:

1. Doctor Livingstone, I Presume
2. The Kikuyu
3. The Eland Hunt

Out of Africa: The Eland Hunt

When the Bailey family lived in British East Africa, now Kenya, they hunted game, not for sport but to put food on the mission table. Homer, my aunt Joan's brother, wrote about hunting in his journal. This is the story about hunting elands, Africa's largest antelope. Grown bulls stand close to six feet tall.

Late one afternoon a man and a youth rode into the wilds hunting eland. Should you finally off in the distance spot a big bull eland, that would be a great thrill. You realize full well it will be hard to get within firing range unnoticed. So as to get this good eland meat, great care must be taken in the approach. Just snap a dry twig or in some other way be careless and the opportunity will swiftly disappear and all your effort will have been lost. Should you stalk it successfully, and should you drop it, taking it home remains a rather tall task.

On this day, father and I had searched for hours when late in the evening high on the plateau ahead we caught sight of some of these beautiful antelope. Very carefully we worked our way from the ravine to plateau to gully to clump of trees until we finally came into shooting range. It was quite a bit after the initial sighting until the Dad's gun was fired. After the shot we rushed to the prize. The bull eland had fallen close among a clump of those flat-topped thorny trees. 

Darkness was now fast approaching. We were a long way from home with a sizable task before us. One of us must go for help for how else could we move this load without pack animals? One of must stay so as to stand guard -- remember, there were hungry meat-eating animals nearby. I was the one to stay.

Night dropped its curtain over the plateau and darkness was upon me and the wind rose.  It was not hard to realize that eyes were watching my every move, unfriendly, savage eyes. I became deeply concerned. I knew there was not a single soul within miles. The night was full of frightening noises.

I realized my greatest danger was being by that beast there on the ground. Though the thorny trees were quite unfriendly, I climbed up one to sit and clung to some limbs. Lions, they say, do not climb very well. It was certainly safer up there out of their reach. Holding on and waiting I did a lot of thinking. As the long hours wore on I waited. Time has a way of seeming very long when we are all alone. Up there in that old tree, I wept and prayed.

Finally, way off in the distance, a glimmer of light showed quite intermittently. At first I could not be certain, but gradually I knew it was coming nearer. Above the night noises I finally heard voices calling my name.  Soon we were reunited and the long night ended just as we arrived home.

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NOTE: Previous "Out of Africa" posts:

1. Doctor Livingstone, I Presume
2. The Kikuyu

Out of Africa: The Kikuyu

My Aunt Joan was born in Kijabe, British East Africa (now Kenya), in 1921. Her father was a missionary for the Church God and the family lived in there from 1920 until 1929.  Joan's brothers -- Maxwell and Homer -- wrote journals about their lives.  Homer's journal includes many descriptions of life in Africa. 

The Kikuyu folks we found to be most friendly. As to the language, we did not know a word at first.  Soon we knew the greeting, "Wemuwega." People were pleased to help us, often were amused, laughing as we stumbled about strange words. The Kikuyu didn't have a daily newspaper; it was "Waiguatia?" Just a few words later and you had communicated the latest news.

We were surprised to see them bearing great burdens on their backs. Wide, wide rawhide thongs tied about the load passed over the head and leaning under that load they carried produce from garden to home or home to market. Women will carry larges vessels on their heads.

Kikuyu men carrying bundles of wood.  Photo courtesy of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations

Kikuyu women

Well-worked skins formed the major part of a woman's attire. Men wore them as well but many were wrapped in blankets. The children wore smaller skins, a baby goat's skin for example. Many of the skins were well saturated with castor bean oil mixed with a reddish pigment. The oil made the skins somewhat waterproof, but the pigment seemed to rub off on other objects, turning them bright red.

In those days it was common to see their hair shaved close, leaving a circle at the top of the head. The Kikuyu wore bracelets, beads, and rings. The bigger the better. Most ears were pierced, the lobes being stretched to quite long lengths.

The Kikuyu stretched their ear lobes with weights and jam pots

I believe in order to avoid contagion a very ill person was taken out to the edge of the wilderness, left there with food, fire, and fire wood.  Seemingly no one stayed with them. If the fire was kept brightly lit, the hyena would stay away. It was evident some did not make it as their bones would be visible in the forest. With the advent of the medical mission, as well as government doctors, some of the old dangers diminished as well as the customs.

The Kikuyu were hard working, frugal, and progressive. Often in the early days the small herds of goats or sheep spent the night within the hut with the family for the leopard was a danger.

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NOTE:  Previous "Out of Africa" posts:

1. Doctor Livingstone, I Presume

Out of Africa: Doctor Livingstone, I Presume

My Aunt Joan was born in Kijabe, Kenya, in 1921. Her parents were missionaries for the Church of God. Not long after Joan's birth, her mother developed altitude sickness as Kijabe was located about 7,000 feet above sea level. Her doctor advised her to move to the coast to regain her health.  Lilly Manson (Bradley) Bailey moved to Mombasa for several months. Her daughters, Elizabeth, Sylvia, and Joan went with her.  Their brother, Homer, describes in his journal an interesting meeting they had with Matthew Wellington, and included an old photo.

From Homer Bailey's journal:

Mombasa is lovely town. One could easily watch the Arab dhows slowly sail into the old harbor, blown by a soft monsoon breeze. Or one might thoughtfully stroll about the ancient bastions of famous Fort Jesus, trying to visualize the lives lost in that place over the centuries. The bazaar where slaves were sold, where masses of men and women still go to buy or sell, is a fascinating spot.

Yet alive in the early 1920s was a man few of us have heard of. All civilized men readily recall Dr. David Livingstone. We know of his life, to a degree, as well as of his death. Seated between my sisters, Elizabeth on the left, and Sylvia on the right, is Matthew Wellington, which is his Baptismal name.

Elizabeth Bailey, Matthew Wellington, and Sylvia Bailey

It was never my privilege to meet Mr. Wellington, but thrilling it would have been to have heard him relate how they prepared Dr. Livingstone's body for the long journey to the coast. Learning why they buried his heart near the spot where he died under a Mvula tree in Chief Chitambo's village near Lake Bangweulu in what later became Zambia.

What a rare memory it would have been to sit on a low stool, all decorated with beaded art, and hear the old one telling of the privations, the dangers from wild beasts, of the unfriendly tribes through which they had to pass, and to hear it all from this one man's lips. Amazing to think Doctor Livingstone's loyal followers believed this white man's body must be returned to his homeland beyond the seas.

That took courage, faithfulness, and a deep abiding devotion to one who had befriended them in Africa. They allowed nothing to deter them until they let their burden rest beside the ocean liner which carried his body away. For all time, David Livingstone rests from his labors in Westminster Abbey.  One of those who endured in order to make the Abbey burial possible now rests beneath the tropical sky in a simple grave with a simple marker not far from the city of Mombasa.

David Livingstone died in Chief Chitambo's village at Ilala southeast of Lake Bangweula in present-day Zambia on 4 May 1873 from malaria and internal bleeding caused by dysentery. He took his final breath while kneeling in prayer at his bedside. His followers, Chuma and Susi, carried his body and journals over one thousand miles to the coast for shipment to England. Chuma was only a boy when Livingstone and Bishop Charles McKenzie freed him from slavers in 1861. He was from the Yao tribe. Susi joined Doctor Livingstone in Chupanga when he was employed to cut wood for Livingstone's second journey.  It is not known if Matthew Wellington was the Baptismal name for Chuma or Susi.

David Livingstone. Photo courtesy of Wikipedia.org

David Livingstone was one of the most popular national heros of late Victorian Era Britain. He had almost mythical status. What we most likely remember today is Stanley's meeting with Livingstone on the shores of Lake Tanganyika in 1871 when he uttered the famous words, "Doctor Livingstone, I presume?"  Stanley later tore out the pages of this encounter from his diary so we will never know if those words were actually uttered or not.

Stanley meeting Livingstone. Drawing courtesy of Wikipedia.org

When reading Homer Bailey's journal which as written in 1991 shortly before his death, I find this one of the most interesting stories of his first stay in Africa, but there are many others....stay tuned!