MY NAME IS BEMBA-DAVID
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Bemba is my Tokaleya name. In 1853, when I was fifteen-years old, I paddled a white man down the Zambezi River. This man became my friend and taught me the English language. This is the story of my land, my people, and this kind hearted soul whose name was David Livingstone.
I was born in Lukulu, a small fishing village on the shore of the Upper Zambezi River, surrounded on both sides by a savanna of coarse grass studded with Borassus fan palms. The name Zambezi came from our Bantu brothers, and means “river of fish.” In crisp morning light, I can hear a silence broken by the lapping of river water by the buffalo and giraffe. Breathing deeply, the fragrance of the Pavetta bush swells within my nose. Looking across the river, a field of Flame Lily welcomes the rising sun. Each summer during the rainy season, our annual flood cycle dominates this natural environment, our society, and our culture.
In every home, each member contributes their work to the well being of the family, and to the greater community. My father is a fisherman. Each day he will cast his nets from the shore, or out on the river from his dugout canoe. In the early evening, he will meet with other men of our village and trade fish for meat from hunters, or milk from herdsmen. Our mineral rich land allows my mother to grow millet and yams, which she can trade for fruits or other vegetables. Dr. Livingstone taught us about a creator God that has blessed our people with this bounty of fish, fowl, wild animals, and the land to harvest.
When I was a young boy playing by the river, a Nile crocodile lunged out of the water and bit off my left hand. The women pushed my forearm into the smoldering remains of a fire to stop the bleeding. As I grew older, I found my contribution on the water, where I paddle a small dugout canoe carrying goods up and down the river. Using my remaining hand to hold the oar, I push or pull the paddle with my forearm. I feel proud when sometimes I am called “strong arm” by the men in our village.
My sister is named Bupe, which means gift. She is two years older than me, and she is our family weaver. The grass of our land is excellent for basket weaving, and for the thatch roofs and sides of our houses. Bupe seldom leaves our home for fear of being captured by the slave traders. Years later, I came to understand how my friend Dr. Livingstone saved so many of our people from what he called “the curse of Africa.”
My father’s name is Abioye which means “the son of royalty.” He is a man of strong features and immense size and strength. In the early dawn he will stand on the mounded banks of the river and sing to the awakening nature. The African fish eagle will come down from the towering crown canopy, swooping across the cool billowing grass. The hippos will raise their heads from out of the water and wheeze a call from their nostrils. The zebra will give a high-pitched bark, and the elephant will trumpet a reply. Casting his net into the flowing Zambezi will startle the resting heron and egret. They will rise up with flapping wings, and circle this mighty river of life. Father will catch the beautiful yellow fish, the ferocious tigerfish, and the sharp tooth catfish.
My mother’s name is Ayo which means “full of joy.” As my father is large in physical stature, so is my mother small and petite. We all call her our bundle of joy as she hums and sings beautiful notes of music throughout the day. Our people are all dark skinned, but Mother is colored the deepest of midnight black. This Creator sought a perfect contrast, and chose to gift her with the whitest of teeth for a smile of love and tenderness. When the annual heavy rains cause the river banks to overflow, she will escape her gardens, and join Bupe with basket weaving. Over the years, our ancestors, understanding this seasonal flooding, taught us to build our houses on six-foot stilts for protection from water and the wild animals.
The dugout canoes are carved from African teak. My smaller canoe will carry two passengers or all manner of wares that are traded up and down the river. Starting before the sun rises, I collect goods at our village center for delivery to other villages. Often I will ferry people back and forth across the river. By mid-day, the harsh sun will beat down upon my back, and my muscles will ache. As the years progress, I can feel a leanness and hardness creep upon my body. This reserve of hidden strength saved my sister one early morning at her darkest hour.
My first delivery was made down river, and I paddled back toward our village with an empty canoe. Suddenly, gunshots echoed throughout the valley, and the birds in the trees screeched and flew from their nests. I knew immediately that slavers were attacking our village. Willing my body to paddle with the fierceness of a wounded animal, I came upon a scene of utter despair. People of all ages were fleeing through the grass, jumping into the river, or climbing trees seeking to escape. Some had been clubbed and lay on the river bank or floated in the water. Jumping from my canoe, I ran toward our house. My father was laying on the ground and I feared he was dead. He lifted his head caked with blood and sand and waved me on toward the main foot path behind our village. As I rounded a turn in a dense forested area, my mother jumped out onto the path with sheer terror filling her eyes. She held an axe-like tool in her hand and motioned further down the trail. I grabbed this club and continued my run.
Slavers will tie their captives in a long human chain and often stake their arms behind their heads. As I neared the group, I saw my sister was the last in line and being pulled by a single rope tied around her waist. Without hesitation, I ran up behind her abductor and clubbed him with all my might. Bupe screamed with surprise as I dropped the axe, and grabbing the rope, started pulling her back toward our village. We found our mother kneeling on the path, rocking back and forth emitting a loud guttural cry. She held a sharp bloody stone in her hand and her arms were deeply cut. Showing no recognition, and in a trance-like state, I picked her up and carried her over my shoulder. Father was laying up against the ladder entrance to our house. Seeing our safe return, his body shook involuntarily, and he quietly wept. Extending his arms upward, we collapsed into his embrace.
For three days I treated the physical wounds of my mother and father, while caring for the emotional wounds of my sister. Why would the dark-skinned brothers of other tribes betray us with this hideous slave trade? We knew our people were taken east to the ocean and put on great canoes called ships. Lighter-skinned men called Arab traders would take them to distant lands to serve a master. I seethed with a burning bitterness that caused my soul to ache. Why should someone be a master and someone be a servant? This feeling of loss and betrayal filled me with a hatred. As an older man, I learned about forgiveness, but I still struggle with that word. Slowly our family life resumed to a natural rhythm of daily routine. Feeling a bit more peaceful, I will tell you how I met my friend.
From time to time, I will paddle upriver for several days to collect trade goods that seldom reach our village. On one particular day, further northwest than I had ever paddled, I saw a large gathering on the southern shore. As I neared the multitude, I saw what appeared to be a form from the spirit world. As my skin is black, this one was white, and dressed with the strangest of coverings. I could identify the black men surrounding this spirit as from the Makololo Tribe who live to the South. I brought my canoe to the shore and gazed at this strange being. I was summoned and walked forward. As he reached down to touch me, I fell to the ground shaking and buried my face into the sand. I felt a hand upon my arm, and this spirit lifted me up and spoke in a strange language.
The Tokaleya and the Makololo speak similar dialects of the Tonga language, allowing us to communicate. Their Chief Sekeletu stepped forward and said the spirit was a man like us, but from a land very far away. He said the white man was called Dr. David Livingstone. This man took my forearm in his hands and examined my stump. The Chief said he was a healer of sickness and spoke of a new god for all black people. This medicine doctor smiled at me and taught me my first two English words “hello” and “David.” The Chief said that the doctor had heard of our mighty river for many years and wanted to explore our land. I asked if I could paddle the white man down to our village of Lukulu, he nodded yes. At the river’s edge, he knelt down, and cupping his hands, drank our water. I knelt next to him and also drew water to my mouth. We looked at each other and both laughed with delight.
Word traveled downriver faster than we paddled. As we neared Lukulu, all the people were either standing on the bank or coming out to greet us in their canoes. My father stood proud as his son brought the white man ashore. Chief Sekeletu had learned the English language and said he would stay with us for a period of time. It was decided that I would be the first one of our village to learn this language, and that Dr. Livingstone would ride in my canoe for his exploration. Our family had built the largest home in the village, and the guest accepted the invitation to live with us.
David Livingstone was a medical missionary from Scotland. He had explored, traveled, and lived in southern Africa with his family. He believed that Christianity and free trade would liberate Africa from slavery. He saw the devastation of malaria upon the black people, and both he and his family had suffered from this sickness. By accident, he discovered a cure by mixing jalap resin, calomel, rhubarb, and quinine into pills called Livingstone’s Rousers. Part of his day was spent tending to the physical needs of our village people, and part was spent traveling the river in both directions. From the beginning of our friendship, he taught me ways I could help our people fight sickness. Another word he taught me was “diligence.” He said I was a diligent learner.
One day while traveling south on the river, Chief Sekeletu, pointed further downriver to columns of vapor rising in the distance. “Mosioa-Tunya” he said. Then he spoke in English, “Have you smoke that thunders in your country?” The explorer had heard rumors of a great waterfall that could be seen from a vast distance. We paddled for two more hours, coming closer and closer to the thunderous sound. As the river flow gained intensity, I indicated the need to go ashore and walk. As we came to the falls, Dr. Livingstone sat on the ground and sketched drawings of this magnificent force of nature, marveling at the power of the falling water. In our culture, we consider the falls a sacred and essential element to our way of life. He named the falls after his Queen Victoria. When he sent her his drawings, he wrote, “Scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight.”
Each evening I would walk with Dr. Livingstone, or float with him down the river while the half moon would glitter upon the water. He taught me about the Christian God of his people. He said that he had only one convert in his many years in Africa. In 1847, King Sechele of the Bakwena people accepted this English God. He then laughed and said unlike him, the king was successful in converting many of the people. I laughed and said that he was like an elephant eating one fig but spreading the seeds over all the land. “You are a kind and caring man,” I said, “I want to be your second convert.” My heart swelled as he reached his hand into the river, and slowly poured the water over my head as he spoke a prayer to our God.
A new tranquility filled my heart as we would study the Bible while bringing medicine to river villages. I was now teaching English to our people while serving as his assistant. I was nineteen when my friend went home to his country. He had written a book, “Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa.” He told me that exploration was his way to gain influence, so he could open his mouth, with power among men, to remedy the immense evil of slavery. This dear friend came back to visit me one more time before moving to a new area near Lake Bangweulu. He died in 1873 from dysentery and malaria. I have often pondered the mystery of life, when a man dies from a disease for which he found a cure. As David would tell me, “Bemba, it is God who decides how and when we are brought to our final home. It is for us to till the soil of mankind while we wait for that glorious call.”
After his death, in homage to this great man, I added the name of “David” to my name. Thank you for listening to my story, my name is
Bemba-David.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Bemba is my Tokaleya name. In 1853, when I was fifteen-years old, I paddled a white man down the Zambezi River. This man became my friend and taught me the English language. This is the story of my land, my people, and this kind hearted soul whose name was David Livingstone.
I was born in Lukulu, a small fishing village on the shore of the Upper Zambezi River, surrounded on both sides by a savanna of coarse grass studded with Borassus fan palms. The name Zambezi came from our Bantu brothers, and means “river of fish.” In crisp morning light, I can hear a silence broken by the lapping of river water by the buffalo and giraffe. Breathing deeply, the fragrance of the Pavetta bush swells within my nose. Looking across the river, a field of Flame Lily welcomes the rising sun. Each summer during the rainy season, our annual flood cycle dominates this natural environment, our society, and our culture.
In every home, each member contributes their work to the well being of the family, and to the greater community. My father is a fisherman. Each day he will cast his nets from the shore, or out on the river from his dugout canoe. In the early evening, he will meet with other men of our village and trade fish for meat from hunters, or milk from herdsmen. Our mineral rich land allows my mother to grow millet and yams, which she can trade for fruits or other vegetables. Dr. Livingstone taught us about a creator God that has blessed our people with this bounty of fish, fowl, wild animals, and the land to harvest.
When I was a young boy playing by the river, a Nile crocodile lunged out of the water and bit off my left hand. The women pushed my forearm into the smoldering remains of a fire to stop the bleeding. As I grew older, I found my contribution on the water, where I paddle a small dugout canoe carrying goods up and down the river. Using my remaining hand to hold the oar, I push or pull the paddle with my forearm. I feel proud when sometimes I am called “strong arm” by the men in our village.
My sister is named Bupe, which means gift. She is two years older than me, and she is our family weaver. The grass of our land is excellent for basket weaving, and for the thatch roofs and sides of our houses. Bupe seldom leaves our home for fear of being captured by the slave traders. Years later, I came to understand how my friend Dr. Livingstone saved so many of our people from what he called “the curse of Africa.”
My father’s name is Abioye which means “the son of royalty.” He is a man of strong features and immense size and strength. In the early dawn he will stand on the mounded banks of the river and sing to the awakening nature. The African fish eagle will come down from the towering crown canopy, swooping across the cool billowing grass. The hippos will raise their heads from out of the water and wheeze a call from their nostrils. The zebra will give a high-pitched bark, and the elephant will trumpet a reply. Casting his net into the flowing Zambezi will startle the resting heron and egret. They will rise up with flapping wings, and circle this mighty river of life. Father will catch the beautiful yellow fish, the ferocious tigerfish, and the sharp tooth catfish.
My mother’s name is Ayo which means “full of joy.” As my father is large in physical stature, so is my mother small and petite. We all call her our bundle of joy as she hums and sings beautiful notes of music throughout the day. Our people are all dark skinned, but Mother is colored the deepest of midnight black. This Creator sought a perfect contrast, and chose to gift her with the whitest of teeth for a smile of love and tenderness. When the annual heavy rains cause the river banks to overflow, she will escape her gardens, and join Bupe with basket weaving. Over the years, our ancestors, understanding this seasonal flooding, taught us to build our houses on six-foot stilts for protection from water and the wild animals.
The dugout canoes are carved from African teak. My smaller canoe will carry two passengers or all manner of wares that are traded up and down the river. Starting before the sun rises, I collect goods at our village center for delivery to other villages. Often I will ferry people back and forth across the river. By mid-day, the harsh sun will beat down upon my back, and my muscles will ache. As the years progress, I can feel a leanness and hardness creep upon my body. This reserve of hidden strength saved my sister one early morning at her darkest hour.
My first delivery was made down river, and I paddled back toward our village with an empty canoe. Suddenly, gunshots echoed throughout the valley, and the birds in the trees screeched and flew from their nests. I knew immediately that slavers were attacking our village. Willing my body to paddle with the fierceness of a wounded animal, I came upon a scene of utter despair. People of all ages were fleeing through the grass, jumping into the river, or climbing trees seeking to escape. Some had been clubbed and lay on the river bank or floated in the water. Jumping from my canoe, I ran toward our house. My father was laying on the ground and I feared he was dead. He lifted his head caked with blood and sand and waved me on toward the main foot path behind our village. As I rounded a turn in a dense forested area, my mother jumped out onto the path with sheer terror filling her eyes. She held an axe-like tool in her hand and motioned further down the trail. I grabbed this club and continued my run.
Slavers will tie their captives in a long human chain and often stake their arms behind their heads. As I neared the group, I saw my sister was the last in line and being pulled by a single rope tied around her waist. Without hesitation, I ran up behind her abductor and clubbed him with all my might. Bupe screamed with surprise as I dropped the axe, and grabbing the rope, started pulling her back toward our village. We found our mother kneeling on the path, rocking back and forth emitting a loud guttural cry. She held a sharp bloody stone in her hand and her arms were deeply cut. Showing no recognition, and in a trance-like state, I picked her up and carried her over my shoulder. Father was laying up against the ladder entrance to our house. Seeing our safe return, his body shook involuntarily, and he quietly wept. Extending his arms upward, we collapsed into his embrace.
For three days I treated the physical wounds of my mother and father, while caring for the emotional wounds of my sister. Why would the dark-skinned brothers of other tribes betray us with this hideous slave trade? We knew our people were taken east to the ocean and put on great canoes called ships. Lighter-skinned men called Arab traders would take them to distant lands to serve a master. I seethed with a burning bitterness that caused my soul to ache. Why should someone be a master and someone be a servant? This feeling of loss and betrayal filled me with a hatred. As an older man, I learned about forgiveness, but I still struggle with that word. Slowly our family life resumed to a natural rhythm of daily routine. Feeling a bit more peaceful, I will tell you how I met my friend.
From time to time, I will paddle upriver for several days to collect trade goods that seldom reach our village. On one particular day, further northwest than I had ever paddled, I saw a large gathering on the southern shore. As I neared the multitude, I saw what appeared to be a form from the spirit world. As my skin is black, this one was white, and dressed with the strangest of coverings. I could identify the black men surrounding this spirit as from the Makololo Tribe who live to the South. I brought my canoe to the shore and gazed at this strange being. I was summoned and walked forward. As he reached down to touch me, I fell to the ground shaking and buried my face into the sand. I felt a hand upon my arm, and this spirit lifted me up and spoke in a strange language.
The Tokaleya and the Makololo speak similar dialects of the Tonga language, allowing us to communicate. Their Chief Sekeletu stepped forward and said the spirit was a man like us, but from a land very far away. He said the white man was called Dr. David Livingstone. This man took my forearm in his hands and examined my stump. The Chief said he was a healer of sickness and spoke of a new god for all black people. This medicine doctor smiled at me and taught me my first two English words “hello” and “David.” The Chief said that the doctor had heard of our mighty river for many years and wanted to explore our land. I asked if I could paddle the white man down to our village of Lukulu, he nodded yes. At the river’s edge, he knelt down, and cupping his hands, drank our water. I knelt next to him and also drew water to my mouth. We looked at each other and both laughed with delight.
Word traveled downriver faster than we paddled. As we neared Lukulu, all the people were either standing on the bank or coming out to greet us in their canoes. My father stood proud as his son brought the white man ashore. Chief Sekeletu had learned the English language and said he would stay with us for a period of time. It was decided that I would be the first one of our village to learn this language, and that Dr. Livingstone would ride in my canoe for his exploration. Our family had built the largest home in the village, and the guest accepted the invitation to live with us.
David Livingstone was a medical missionary from Scotland. He had explored, traveled, and lived in southern Africa with his family. He believed that Christianity and free trade would liberate Africa from slavery. He saw the devastation of malaria upon the black people, and both he and his family had suffered from this sickness. By accident, he discovered a cure by mixing jalap resin, calomel, rhubarb, and quinine into pills called Livingstone’s Rousers. Part of his day was spent tending to the physical needs of our village people, and part was spent traveling the river in both directions. From the beginning of our friendship, he taught me ways I could help our people fight sickness. Another word he taught me was “diligence.” He said I was a diligent learner.
One day while traveling south on the river, Chief Sekeletu, pointed further downriver to columns of vapor rising in the distance. “Mosioa-Tunya” he said. Then he spoke in English, “Have you smoke that thunders in your country?” The explorer had heard rumors of a great waterfall that could be seen from a vast distance. We paddled for two more hours, coming closer and closer to the thunderous sound. As the river flow gained intensity, I indicated the need to go ashore and walk. As we came to the falls, Dr. Livingstone sat on the ground and sketched drawings of this magnificent force of nature, marveling at the power of the falling water. In our culture, we consider the falls a sacred and essential element to our way of life. He named the falls after his Queen Victoria. When he sent her his drawings, he wrote, “Scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight.”
Each evening I would walk with Dr. Livingstone, or float with him down the river while the half moon would glitter upon the water. He taught me about the Christian God of his people. He said that he had only one convert in his many years in Africa. In 1847, King Sechele of the Bakwena people accepted this English God. He then laughed and said unlike him, the king was successful in converting many of the people. I laughed and said that he was like an elephant eating one fig but spreading the seeds over all the land. “You are a kind and caring man,” I said, “I want to be your second convert.” My heart swelled as he reached his hand into the river, and slowly poured the water over my head as he spoke a prayer to our God.
A new tranquility filled my heart as we would study the Bible while bringing medicine to river villages. I was now teaching English to our people while serving as his assistant. I was nineteen when my friend went home to his country. He had written a book, “Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa.” He told me that exploration was his way to gain influence, so he could open his mouth, with power among men, to remedy the immense evil of slavery. This dear friend came back to visit me one more time before moving to a new area near Lake Bangweulu. He died in 1873 from dysentery and malaria. I have often pondered the mystery of life, when a man dies from a disease for which he found a cure. As David would tell me, “Bemba, it is God who decides how and when we are brought to our final home. It is for us to till the soil of mankind while we wait for that glorious call.”
After his death, in homage to this great man, I added the name of “David” to my name. Thank you for listening to my story, my name is
Bemba-David.
RICHARD SWAIN