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When they had all gathered, the white man began l speak to them. He spoke through an interpreter who was an Ibo man, though his dialect was different and harsh to the enrs of Mbanta. Many people laughed at his dialect and the way In1 used words strangely. Instead of saying "myself" he always saul "my buttocks." But he was a man of commanding presence mull the clansmen listened to him. He said he was one of them, ,m they could see from his color and his language. The other (ourI
black men were also their brothers, although one of them did not speak Ibo. The white man was also their brother because they were all sons of God. And he told them about this new God, the Creator of all the world and all the men and women. He told them that they worshipped false gods, gods of wood and stone. A deep murmur went through the crowd when he said this. He told them that the true God lived on high and that all men when they died went before Him for judgment. Evil men and all the heathen who in their blindness bowed to wood and stone were thrown into a fire that burned like palm-oil. But good men who worshipped the true God lived forever in His happy kingdom. "We have been sent by this great God to ask you to leave your wicked ways and faLe gods and turn to Him so that you may be saved when you die," he said.
"Your buttocks understand our language," said someone light-heartedly and the crowd laughed.
"What did he say?" the white man asked his interpreter. Hut before he could answer, another man asked a question: "Where is the white man's horse?" he asked. The Ibo evangelists consulted among themselves and decided that the man probably meant bicycle. They told the white man and he smiled benevolently.
"Tell them," he said, "that I shall bring many iron horses when we have settled down among them. Some of them will even ride the iron horse themselves." This was interpreted to I hem but very few of them heard. They were talking excitedly .unong themselves because the white man had said he was Hing to live among them. They had not thought about that.
At this point an old man said he had a question. "Which is this god of yours," he asked, "the goddess of the earth, the god of the sky, Amadiora or the thunderbolt, or what?"
The interpreter spoke to the white man and he immediately gave his answer. "All the gods you have named are not gods at all. They are gods of deceit who tell you to kill your fellows and destroy i
"If we leave our gods and follow your god," asked another man, "who will protect us from the anger of our neglected gods and ancestors?"
"Your gods are not alive and ca
When this was interpreted to the men of Mbanta they broke into derisive laughter. These men must be mad, they said to themselves. How else could they say that Ani and Amadiora were harmless? And Idemili and Ogwugwu too? And some of them began to go away.
Then the missionaries burst into song. It was one of those gay and rollicking tunes of evangelism which had the power of plucking at silent and dusty chords in the heart of an Ibo man. The interpreter explained each verse to the audience, some of whom now stood enthralled. It was a story of brothers who lived in darkness and in fear, ignorant of the love of God. It told of one sheep out on the hills, away from the gates of God and from the tender shepherd's care.
After the singing the interpreter spoke about the Son of God whose name was Jesu Kristi. Okonkwo, who only stayed in the hope that it might come to chasing the men out of the village or whipping them, now said-.
"You told us with your own mouth that there was only one god. Now you talk about his son. He must have a wife, then." The crowd agreed.
"1 did not say He had a wife," said the interpreter, somewhat lamely.
"Your buttocks said he had a son," said the joker. "So he must have a wife and all of them must have buttocks."
The missionary ignored him and went on to talk about the Holy Trinity. At the end of it Okonkwo was fully convinced that the man was mad. He shrugged his shoulders and went away to tap his afternoon palm-wine.
But there was a young lad who had been captivated. His name was Nwoye, Okonkwo's first son. It was not the mad logic of the Trinity that captivated him. He did not understand it. It was the poetry of the new religion, something felt in the marrow. The hymn about brothers who sat in darkness and in fear seemed to answer a vague and persistent question that haunted his young soul—the question of the twins crying in the bush and the question of Ikemefuna who was killed. He lelt a relief within as the hymn poured into his parched soul. The words of the hymn were like the drops of frozen rain melting on the dry palate of the panting earth. Nwoye's callow mind was greatly puzzled.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN