N/VenyvA'a a , *L. J. 
 
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 At Sawn 
 
 Hu Hyiita 3J. Heilman 
 
| At Dau)n | 
 
 | A Story of West African Mother-Love | 
 
 By LYDIA ISELY WELLMAN 
 
 WOMAN’S BOARD OF MISSIONS OF THE INTERIOR 
 (Congregational) 
 
 19 South La Salle Street. Room 1315 
 Chicago 
 
 1916 
 
Pounding Meal in the Ocine 
 
AT DAWN 
 
 A Story of West African Mother - Love 
 
 By LYDIA I. WELLMAN 
 
 The stars were paling in the sky over a little 
 West African village when Kanende pushed open 
 the door of the hut to see if the morning were fair. 
 The other occupants of the one room, father, 
 mother, her two little sisters and Samba, the baby 
 boy still slept. Kanende had waited a long time 
 for someone in the village to stir, now she would 
 wait no longer. She knew how to awaken the lazy 
 ones! So she tucked her * *epeka securely under her 
 armpits and shook the dust out of her frizzly little 
 braids to complete her toilette. 
 
 The fire on the bare earth floor was almost gone, 
 but Kanende found one little twinkling coal and, 
 holding it carefully in her palm, she Hew across the 
 \epata to the cookhouse. Softly she opened the door. 
 Kneeling, she blew the tiny coal to a blaze and 
 soon had a bright fire going. Now they should 
 awaken! The big *ocine stood near, half full of 
 corn waiting to be pounded. Seizing the pounding 
 stick Kanende raised it as high as her nine-year-old 
 strength would permit, then she let it fall upon the 
 corn in the ocine. Again and again she raised the 
 stick, again and again she let it fall. 
 
 * Pro. apa'ka. A two-yard piece of cloth worn by 
 children as their one article of clothing. 
 
 t Pro. apah'ta. The hut enclosure, family door yard. 
 This word is the nearest approach to ‘‘Home” in th^ 
 Umbundu language. 
 
 Kiinen'de means little clove. 
 
 * Pro. O che nay. A mortar. 
 
 Page 
 

 “Ndu-ndu! Nud-ndu!” sang the pounding stick 
 and at the deep-throated challenge the doors of all 
 the brown houses flew open and in a few moments 
 other fires were blazing and pounding sticks were 
 being wielded with energy, for thus does the African 
 woman resemble that virtuous one sung of so long 
 ago— 
 
 “She riseth while it is yet night 
 And giveth food to her household.” 
 
 True, the giving may be delayed for some hours, 
 but throughout her whole existence, from the first 
 dawn of womanhood to the last flicker of it, the 
 muscle and wits of the woman are bent on this one 
 elemental thing that by incessant toil must she bring 
 forth bread to the eater. 
 
 “You are not tall enough to raise the pounding 
 stick,” said fNakanende as she came into the cook¬ 
 house. “You may bring water; the corn needs 
 wetting.” For half an hour the measured rhythm 
 of the pounding arose and fell. Some of the women 
 sang the song of the ocine as they labored. The 
 stars grew paler and at last winked out altogether. 
 Forest and field began to murmur the hymn of 
 awakening life and day had begun. 
 
 For little Kanende, brown, slender, dirty, yet 
 more than half winsome in her eager childishness, 
 it was to be a great day, for she was going with her 
 mother to the white man’s settlement three hours 
 distant. The white people had been there for over 
 a year holding a school of which Kanende had heard. 
 Once the white man and woman had visited the 
 village but the district was large and they would 
 not come again until next season. One could go 
 to them but Kanende’s people had not seen fit to 
 accept the invitation, at least the women had not, 
 
 t Na kanen’de. Mother of Kanende. 
 
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 four 
 
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 but Kanjimbo, Kanende’s cousin, had been at the 
 
 
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 settlement one whole month and had come back 
 
 
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 with his head so full of the things of the school 
 
 
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 that his father had sent him on a trading trip, hop- 
 
 
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 ing he would forget. Books for boys and writing 
 
 
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 for girls! Nonsense! 
 
 
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 So’ this would be Kanende’s first visit. Her 
 
 
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 mother was taking a big basket of meal which she 
 
 
 3 
 
 would exchange for cloth and Kanende would carry 
 
 
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 a smaller basket of beans for which she, too, would 
 
 
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 get cloth. She smiled at the happy possibility as 
 
 
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 she helped her mother spread out the freshly pounded 
 
 
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 meal on wide grass trays. The sun would ripen 
 
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 the meal and in the evening her mother would stir 
 
 
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 a part of it into a stiff sticky mush and they would 
 
 
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 all eat. 
 
 
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 In the meantime little Samba had awakened 
 
 
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 and Kanende went to him. She placed the fat 
 
 
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 little boy astride her hips and, drawing a cloth over 
 
 
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 him, she tied the corners across her own spare front 
 
 
 3 
 
 after the manner of women. His fat little person 
 
 
 a 
 
 was against hers, his soft hand beat a tattoo on her 
 
 
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 shoulders, he gurgled and cooed as any healthy baby 
 
 
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 would do. There was no finer child. 
 
 
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 Nakanende rolled and pushed the bed mats aside, 
 
 
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 then she drew from the cook-house fire a large man- 
 
 
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 dioc root which had been roasting there. A goodly 
 
 
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 portion was sent to her husband, who was talking 
 
 
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 with the men in the *onjango. Each of the little 
 
 
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 girls had a piece, too, and the choice bits were re- 
 
 
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 served for Samba with some cold mush, which she 
 
 3 
 
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 forced down his throat. The seven months’ old 
 
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 baby resented this process, his stomach was full of 
 
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 that which Nature had provided for such as he, but 
 
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 his mother laughed at his struggles and the other 
 
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 *Onjan'g°- Sitting room of men. 
 
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 Page five 
 
Page six 
 
 Women Carrying Food. 
 
women came to see and to offer encouragement in 
 the unequal contest. 
 
 “Give him plenty of mush and beans,” said one 
 old woman. “I bore five children and I fed them 
 all. They died in childhood, two of them before 
 their teeth were through. If I had fed them more 
 mush and beans they might not have gone from 
 me,” and she shook her head gloomily. 
 
 “Samba is always well,” began Nakanende 
 proudly, then she checked herself, for the air was 
 full of spirits who envied her the child. She had 
 had a charm put on his wrist when he was but a 
 few days old. It was a little flat blue bead, ugly, 
 but it had done its work well. She intended to 
 buy another charm with the cloth she would get 
 for the meal sold today. 
 
 But the morning work was done and why should 
 women stand about while the fields waited? Soon 
 a long line of them with baskets, hoes and babies, 
 followed by a motley line of little girls, were off 
 for the day’s digging. Four or five women were 
 going with Nakanende. It was a morning for gay 
 chatter. Kanende, at the tail of the procession, 
 listened to their talk, of twins born in the next vil¬ 
 lage, of the making of beer pots, of old Samasele’s 
 illness, of the coming rains. The women moved 
 with easy, even steps, each with her basket of meal 
 on her head. Nakanende had a double load, for 
 she carried Samba. 
 
 At the settlement Nakanende unloosed the baby 
 from her back and nursed him. Soon the white 
 woman came out and greeted them pleasantly. She 
 brought a little stool for each and made them sit. 
 She bought all their meal and beans. She begged 
 to be allowed to hold Samba and sang him a song 
 about a baby’s toes which made the women laugh 
 aloud. 
 
 Illllllllllllllllllilllllllllllllllillllllllllllll 
 
 Page seven 
 
“Is it permitted to see the inside of the house?” 
 they asked. The white woman led the way. The 
 house was small, but full of. surprises. Where 
 could food be found to fill so many plates? Was 
 that a bed, really, and white blankets? And mats 
 on the floor and a mysterious little box on a shelf 
 that said “Tick-tick, tick-tick”; the women almost 
 ran away when they heard it, but the white woman 
 reassured them and, sitting down to a sort of table, 
 she brought forth such magical music with her 
 fingers that they fairly thrilled with the sweetness 
 and longing of it, and when she sang in their own 
 tongue in time to the music they were motionless 
 with wonder. 
 
 “It is a song of our school,” she explained. “A 
 song of a wonderful Friend who loves each of us. 
 He told us to come and help you. He is your 
 Friend, too. He keeps me all the days and I never 
 lack any good thing. He will keep you, too, if you 
 take Him for your Friend.” 
 
 “Never fear and never lack any good thing.” 
 Those were the words that Kanende carried away 
 with her. Warm and tired as they were when 
 they reached the epatn they must go to the fields for 
 a little digging and for firewood. Samba cried 
 and Nakanende laid him in the shade of a tree on 
 some leaves. The little sisters stood by to watch 
 that too many flies did not crawl into his mouth 
 and Kanende helped her mother with the digging. 
 The sun was low when they returned to the village, 
 then there was the fire to be made and the mush to 
 be stirred. The mush was served in little baskets 
 with beans in clay saucers. It was the one full 
 meal of the day. The men and boys ate in the 
 onjango and the women and girls in the epata. 
 They ate with their fingers, brushing the crumbs 
 from their lips with the backs of their hands. Even 
 
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 Page nine 
 
the tiniest baby had to be fed and the fingers that 
 had been digging all day, still unwashed, pushed 
 the mush and beans into the little mouths. Then 
 evening came and it was dark in the African vil¬ 
 lage. At full moon there would be a great dance, 
 but now there was nothing to do but to unroll the 
 bed mats in the smoke begrimed, unventilated huts 
 and go to sleep. 
 
 In the night Kanende was awakened by her 
 mother’s voice. “Samba’s head is hot,” she said. 
 By the light of the fire they looked at his face. 
 He seemed as well as usual, dimpled and sleepy, 
 but the next morning he was indeed sick. Naka- 
 nende sat with him in the hut and could not speak 
 when the women came to comfort her. The child 
 groaned and breathed heavily. The women ven¬ 
 tured some remedies, but his head grew hotter and 
 the paroxysms of pain more frequent. At noon the 
 witch doctor came. 
 
 “We will divine at once,” he ordered. Speedily 
 the crowd gathered in the hut and around it. 
 Kanende sat where she could hear every breath the 
 baby drew. Sickness made fear and she was terri¬ 
 fied for her brother. The witch doctor had smeared 
 his face with white clay and loaded his person with 
 charms, skulls of small animals, teeth and bits of 
 skin. Surely the evil spirits would fear him. 
 
 Slowly and monotonously the chant of the diviner 
 arose. After the chant he blew sacred ashes over 
 the child and its mother. Then he bathed his 
 hands in a little clay pot filled with water which 
 he had brought into the hut. Intently the black 
 faces watched him, breathlessly they hung on every 
 movement. With dripping hands he took the child 
 upon his lap. “I seek that which has brought ill¬ 
 ness to him,” he said, passing his hands firmly over 
 the naked little body. Again and again he moved 
 
li 'l'mi ...v a 
 
 | them searchingly over the little form. The child, 1 
 | soothed by the touch of the cool water, lay quiet. §j 
 1 Suddenly the witch doctor started. With apparent B 
 g effort he withdraw his hands from the object of ( 
 | h(§ Search. “1 have it,” he cried, and there in | 
 
 m his palm lay a bit of glass, no larger than a thumb ■ 
 jj hail, but pointed and hard and glistening. “By 1 
 H his side this entered at the will of the spirits. I jj 
 jj have removed the cause. Take your child and 1 
 1 nourish him.” 
 
 The people who watched did not know that the M 
 B diviner had secreted the bit of glass in the water M 
 | and at the proper moment had brought it out be- §| 
 B tween his fingers. To them it was a wonder and J 
 |j with a gaSp of relief Nakanende clasped her baby ■ 
 ij tO her breast, but he did not respond to her caresses. B 
 H 1 he chat began again, the air was close and jj 
 (j mysterious. Those who waited crowded the door, jj 
 jj Samba lay panting for breath and not until late B 
 |§ in the afternoon did the women withdraw for the | 
 B mush stirring and even the witch doctor, wearied B 
 m by his own frenzy, left the hut for his evening g 
 jj mSah 
 
 The next day Samba was no better. He lay with g 
 g eyes half closed moaning feebly. In the afternoon jj 
 jj there was a second divination. The witch doctor jg 
 jj gashed the little body in many places with a sharp gj 
 I knife. 
 
 Another night of sleepless anxiety. How different g 
 jj was the dawn from that day when Kanende awak- g 
 H ened the village! Her father was worn and hag- g 
 jj gard, her mother speechless. Samba seemed to be B 
 jj Samba no longer. Suddenly she recalled what the g 
 m white woman had said about never being afraid B 
 B and never lacking anything. Would this woman, g 
 1 who knew no fear, help them against the evil spirits? | 
 M Timidly she put the question to her mother. 
 
 ■ v; : , PS 
 
 Page eleven 
 
Page twelve 
 
 Women Making Beer. 
 

 Nakanende was a woman of judgment and she 
 
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 turned the question over. She had incurred the 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 suspicion of her relatives by allowing the child to 
 
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 become sick. A heavy fee must be paid for the 
 
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 divination. If Samba died she would suffer a severe 
 
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 penalty. The witch doctor was doing no good. The 
 
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 white people had evident power and wisdom, but 
 
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 if she went to them the villagers would be furious. 
 
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 Yet she would go and through the white woman 
 
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 ■ 
 
 seek the great Friend who supplied every lack. 
 
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 With a word to her husband she raised the child 
 
 
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 in her arms and left the hut. The women, busy 
 
 
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 in their cook houses, did not see her, as followed 
 
 
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 by her husband and Kanende she left the village. 
 
 
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 Then they rushed after her and strove to dissuade 
 
 
 n 
 
 her from her purpose. The witch doctor pro¬ 
 
 
 
 nounced a doom upon her, but the weight of that 
 
 
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 little body grown so limp and inert nerved her 
 
 
 == 
 
 mother-heart and closing her ears to the words of 
 
 
 
 vituperation and putting aside the restraining hands 
 
 
 n 
 
 she took the path through the forest in the early 
 
 
 §§ 
 
 dawn. 
 
 
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 Pleasant faces greeted Nakanende and gentle 
 
 
 1 
 
 voices welcomed her to the mission house. Tender 
 
 ■ 
 
 ■ 
 
 hands took the sick child from her arms. For the 
 
 
 M 
 
 first time Samba had a real bath while the mission¬ 
 
 
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 ary drew from the mother’s lips the story of his ill¬ 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 ness. Quietly she explained that it was undoubt¬ 
 
 
 1 
 
 edly due to unwise feeding and exposure to the 
 
 
 B 
 
 sun. Indeed he was a very sick child, but she 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 would ask the great Friend to heal him, and sitting 
 
 
 1| 
 
 in her chair with the baby on her lap, she spoke 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 to One who could not be seen, but who plainly 
 
 
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 was listening. How different was this from the 
 
 
 H 
 
 chant of the diviner. The peace and calmness of 
 
 
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 the mission house reassured Nakanende. The mis¬ 
 
 
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 sionary unfolded proper methods in caring for chil- 
 
 
 
 Page thirteen 
 
( dren. All day she employed remedies which would 
 m bring healing and at evening Samba seemed more 
 | natural. A clean outer room was provided for 
 jj Nakanende where she and Kanende might sleep 
 B and through the night the missionary and the 
 
 ■ father kept watch beside the bed where they had 
 a laid Samba, for Nakanende was exhausted. In the 
 | early morning her husband called her. 
 
 “Come and look at the child,” he said. Naka- 
 M nende sprang to her feet. What was this? Had 
 B she slept through the night instead of watching? 
 j| What might they have done to her child? Like a 
 [ flash she was beside him and bending over him. 
 jj He slept, but the fever and the strained look had 
 a gone. As though he felt her presence he opened 
 j| his eyes and stretched out his hands. 
 
 Once more dawn was purpling the African sky, 
 M glorious symbol of the morning that was to arise 
 S in Nakanende’s benighted soul and in the souls of 
 J her people. Even now its first beams were strug- 
 M gling to enter there and the shadows wavered as 
 
 ■ with a prayer of gratitude which she did not know 
 | was a prayer she folded her baby in her arms. 
 
 Page fourteen