Africa’s Dark Gods

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 874, 18 January 1930, Page 18

Africa’s Dark Gods

Intrepid Explorer Saved from Grim Death in Sunless Jungle

LADY DOROTHY MILLS, intrepid explorer, has written many interesting articles on her recent visit to the heart of Africa.- In the following article, written for “Titbitsshe tells of an experience with unknown gods in the jungle. OST people distrust the dark gods of Africa, whose symbols are repulsively ugly, yet oddly attractive. 1 have just spent four months hunting among black carved idols in the wilds of the West African bush, and even I, after several winters in the dank, sinister forests that are their home, have never, till recently, been able to rid myself of a certain reluctant awe of them. But on one occasion last year I think they saved my life. On the boundary of French Guinea, in a tangle of dense forest and mangrove swamp, is the sanctuary of a Negro secret society whose symbol, or totem, is the alligator. There I had set out to search for a shrine said to contain a number of fetishist idols and masks. This shrine and its queer lifeless inhabitants, I was told, was held in such superstitious terror by the neighbouring tribes that for days, or even weeks at a time, it was left alone and unguarded by its priest, or witchdoctor, in the certainty that no one would dare approach it. At the last little civilised outpost on the edge of the forest I was warned against a small baud of black desperadoes, prisoners who had escaped while awaiting a charge of man-eating and who, desperate and outlawed, were roaming the forest, committing any violence that came to hand; and that same evening, as I camped for the night, the chief of the village gave me a further warning. For days, with my string of carriers, I walked through that damp, steamy forest till at last we approached the area of the secret shrine. The district seemed peaceful and secure, so 1 left behind the bulk of my porters in a village, and started off with three men carrying the bare necessities for a few days’ trip. I was counting my chickens before they were hatched, for on the afternoon of the second day we heard the ominous sound of drum-talk in the distance. On this occasion Bangoura, my guide, said that the drums talked of us. At the end of twentyfour hours we were almost certain we were being stalked, and our suspicion was confirmed by a frightened native who overtook us, running from what he believed to be danger. It was rather nerve-racking, in the humid darkness of that sunless forest —the sensation that unseen creatures

observed us and talked of us in their mysterious language; that they followed us, unhurrying, waiting their time; that, at any moment, something—the dark gods of Africa alone knew what —might happen. But there seemed no use in pausing, in turning back. Somewhere ahead lay the shrine, and where it stood there might be a village; there would undoubtedly be the priest, and possibly others. There would be something, something tangible. All that day the drums came nearer, and we turned half-right in the direction of a friendly village of which Bangoura had heard. But we must have mistaken the road, for hours passed and there was no sign of a village. .The sua jvas low; on the

horizon, and we did not know what might happen if we stopped in the open for the night. Already my men, with their sharp ear 3, or with the queer sixth sense that forest-dwellers seem to have, declared they could hear, or sense, men following us not more than a mile or so away. Ahead, the red light of a bush fire blazed, but the men said it was blowing away from our path. As usual, they were wrong, for we were soon blinded by thick smoke, and the crackling of little red tongues of flame sounded unpleasantly near. But it was too late to turn back, so we ran for it, with smarting eyes and pounding hearts, until we found comparative safety in a stretch of great black swamp that checked the flames. A mangrove swamp is one of the horrors of the world, but we blessed it then, and blessed, too, the growing flames behind that might delay our pursuers. For a quarter of an hour we struggled through the black, oozing mud, so deep that sometimes we had to swing ourselves along by our arms from the white aerial roots of the mangrove trees. At last, nearly exhausted, we staggered to dry ground, and Bangoura gave a shout of jubilation as he pointed to a broad track that ran ahead. “The shrine of the sorcerer!” he cried. Looking back, we could see a dozen or so black figures swinging swiftly across the swamp, but our hearts were lighter as we ran up the broad track toward a ramshackle building of mud and thatch. At last we would find protection and food! At. the clearing we paused, openmouthed. There was no village, there were no people, or signs of habitation; only the ramshackle hut. stood alone in the clearing, and on either side of the entrance two tall black wooden figures, grotesque, distorted, hideous, staring ahead, like sentinels. “They Dare Not Approach” /‘The sorcerer is away,” whispered Bangoura. “The gods are guarding their shrine!” My heart sank as I thought of those malignant black figures creeping up behind. Bangoura guessed my thoughts. “You need have no fear,” he said. “They will not dare approach the shrine, but they are waiting,” said Bangoura. “They know that, sooner or later, hunger will drive us forth.” That thought haunted me through part of a rather sleepless night, as I racked my brains for some means of getting a message through to the nearest village. But somehow the dark and stuffy interior of that pagan shrine seemed to bring me a sense of optimism and assurance. By the light of a match I could see its odd denizens.

In the centre sat a hideous, formless figure painted in patterns of white and red and ochre, swathed to the waist in draperies of coloured cotton, decorated with bits of brightly coloured rag. Around it were strewn the offerings of its devotees; small bowls of rice and millet, little fragments of stick and stone, some rough ornaments of beaten copper, some feathers, the bones of a large animal. Near by stood smaller figures, roughly made, whose fiendish grins yet seemed to me friendly, in some way protective. Next day these feelings proved themselves justified. At midday there came the crashing and stamping of hurrying feet, the sounds of wild shouting and jubilation, and my 30 carriers came rushing up the track from the swamp. It was Simaye, my cook and devoted friend, who, hearing rumours of danger from the village where we had left them, had insisted on following hot-foot in our wake. They had come upon traces of violence committed by our pursuers; they had seen their figures, at their approach, slink quietly from the spot where they lay in ambush. And now, with the air of men well pleased, they squatted in a ring and cooked themselves an enormous meal of rice. As I write, a number of the queer carved gods of Africa are facing me, and my friends ask: “However can you bear those ugly things around you?” But I have more than an archaeological sentiment for them, for, as 1 have said, I think that on that occasion, anyway, they saved my life.