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The Sorrow of the Porters

The porters were weeping. They could not go on. They put down their burdens. They went into the papyrus grove to be alone with their sorrow. Their tears mingled with the river and turned the dry elephant paths to mud. We were stunned by this show of dejection from the ordinarily cheerful porters. Of course they sometimes suffered greatly from exhaustion, hunger, and thirst; but safari life is, for the most part, pleasant and picturesque.

We conferred among ourselves, wanting to understand. They bore upon their black backs the entire enterprise. And with it our hopes. But that was not the only reason for our concern: we liked them. They were good- hearted and amusing fellows. Of course like all savages and most children they had their limitations, and in dealing with them firmness is even more necessary than kindness. Not that we were unkind. We were not. We fed them well; we gave them suitable clothes and small tents. All in all, safari life is a great advantage to them.

"Surely they can see that!" we said, ashamed of the resentment which, in spite of ourselves, was stealing over our hearts.

"Perhaps we should try and cheer them up," suggested Hanby.

"Put on a show!" proposed Carlson.

"We'll soon bring them out of their dumps!" laughed Captain Slade.

We knocked together a little stage. We had a Rhodes piano and some elementary lighting instruments. For scenery we had Africa.

"I have never played before a weeping house," said Quigley, who went in for amateur theatricals.

(In my mind's eye I saw a house weeping from its windows.)

"Proceed," said Carlson, taking it upon himself to stage-manage the production.

We pummeled the porters with persiflage and tickled them with feathers. We performed the Savoy Operas in Swahili and bombarded them with badinage. We impersonated cabinet ministers and behaved like perfect idiots. At our wits' end, we wiggled, whooped, and wallowed. And then, throwing away the last remaining shreds of our dignity, we did our silliest walks. To no avail. Nothing we did could stem the tide of their weeping. Exhausted, they lay down at last and slept; but still the tears seeped through their closed eyes. Oh, it was pitiful to see!

"Perhaps it is the absence of women," said Captain Slade, who still carried a torch for Mlle. Pavlova.

"Perhaps the moon is having an effect," said Quigley.

"Perhaps we should ask them," said Blunt, who was as his name suggests.

We woke Muhammad and Bakari, two excellent men, loyal and enduring.

"What is your sorrow?" we asked them.

The fault, it turned out, was mine.

"We have been too long on the margins of your story," they said. "Scarcely a chapter has been written in which we have not played a part, but we are like the papyrus grove or the Kitanga hills or the red lizards -- mere exotic decoration. We hardly know ourselves anymore! It is for this we weep. This is our sorrow."

Kassitura woke and rebuked me, "It is always the same when you write of me: 'Kassitura played his harp.' I assure you I am much more than that!"

Ali, a particularly faithful and efficient porter, woke next.

"You seem to think it quaint that we should be fond of umbrellas," he chided. "Do we laugh at your ridiculous jodhpurs and hats?"

"I don't like this," I confided to Pennington.

"Shall I shoot the whining bastards?" he asked.

I shrugged, refusing to commit myself.

Then the Bishop arrived, complaining of vilification.

"You won't get away with your libels!" he threatened, shaking his crosier at me. "I am not a man to be mocked with impunity."

"Shall I shoot him?" Pennington asked, keen to use his Holland.

"Not yet," I said.

At that moment, the news reached us that a hyena had seized Major R. T. Coryndon, administrator of Northwestern Rhodesia, and dragged him out of bed. I was thankful for the diversion.

The porters resumed their weeping.

Dance music drifted through the trees.

Georges Méliès appeared. We had promised him the use of the porters for his filming of an African Fantasy, but this was not the time.

"We're sorry," we said.

Disappointed, he left without a word.

"We will do it yet!" I shouted after him.

Lord Renshaw crossed the stage from left to right. I waited for him to return, but he didn't. Perhaps he sensed I wanted to borrow money.

The Bishop tripped over a tent peg and could not get up because of the weight of his vestments.

The porters were forgotten.

We went to the dining-tent for a game of hearts. In the morning the porters would rise and take up their burdens. If not, we would hire others. There are many men in Africa who would love to wear the blue blouse of a porter. Who would love to accompany us into the dark heart of the continent.

That night Pennington had his throat slit.

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