Setting: Sierra Leone
Not a sound was heard in the coffin-maker's work-shop, that is to say no
human sound. Mista Courifer, a solid citizen of Sierra Leone, was not
given to much speech. His apprentices, knowing this, never dared address
him unless he spoke first. Then they only carried on their conversation
in whispers. Not that Mista Courifer did not know how to use his tongue.
It was incessantly wagging to and fro in his mouth at every blow of the hammer.
But his shop in the heart of Freetown was a part of his house. And,
as he had once confided to a friend, he was a silent member of his own
household from necessity. His wife, given to much speaking, could
outtalk him.
"It's no use for argue wid woman," he said cautiously. "Just like 'e
no use for teach woman carpentering; she nebba sabi for hit de nail
on de head. If 'e argue, shell hit eberyting but de nail; and so wid de
carpentering."
So, around his wife, with the exception of his tongue's continual
wagging like a pendulum, his mouth was kept more or less shut. But
whatever self-control he exercised in this respect at home was com-
pletely sent to the wind in his official capacity as the local preacher at
chapel, for Mista Courifer was one of the pillars of the church, being
equally at home in conducting a prayer meeting, superintending the
Sunday school or occupying the pulpit.
His voice was remarkable for its wonderful gradations of pitch. He
would insist on starting most of his tunes himself; consequently they
nearly always ended in a solo. If he happened to pitch in the bass, he
descended into such a de profundis that his congregations were left to
flounder in a higher key; if he started in the treble, he soared so high
that the children stared at him openmouthed and their elders were lost
in wonder and amazement. As for his prayers, he roared and volleyed
and thundered to such an extent that poor little mites were quickly
reduced to a state of collapse and started to whimper from sheer fright.
But he was most at home in the pulpit. It is true, his labors were
altogether confined to the outlying village districts of Regent, Glouces-
ter and Leicester, an arrangement with which he was by no means
satisfied. Still, a village congregation is better than none at all.
His favorite themes were Jonah and Noah and he was forever point-
ing out the great similarity between the two, generally finishing his
discourse after this manner: "You see my beloved Brebren, den two
man berry much alike. All two lived in a sinful and adulturous genera-
tion. One get inside am ark; de odder one get inside a whale. Day
bof seek a refuge fom de swelling waves.
"And so it is today my beloved Brebren. No matter if we get inside
a whale or get inside an ark, as long as we get inside some place of
safety as long as we can find some refuge, some hiding place from
de wiles ob de debil."
But his congregation was by no means convinced.
Mr. Courifer always wore black. He was one of the Sierra Leone
gentlemen who consider everything European to be not only the right
thing, but the only thing for the African, and having read somewhere
that English undertakers generally appeared in somber attire, he imme-
diately followed suit.
He even went so far as to build a European house. During his short
stay in England, he had noticed how the houses were built and fur-
nished and had forthwith erected himself one after the approved
pattern a house with stuffy little passages, narrow little staircases and
poky rooms, all crammed with saddlebags and carpeted with Axmin-
sters. No wonder his wife had to talk. It was so hopelessly uncomfort-
able, stuffy and unsanitary.
So Mr. Courifer wore black. It never struck him for a single moment
that red would have been more appropriate, far more becoming, far
less expensive and far more national. No! It must be black. He would
have liked blue black, but he wore rusty black for economy.
There was one subject upon which Mr. Courifer could talk even
at home, so no one ever mentioned it: his son, Tomas. Mista Courifer
had great expectations for his son; indeed in the back of his mind
he had hopes of seeing him reach the high-water mark of red-tape
officialism, for Tomas was in the government service. Not very high
up, it is true, but still he was in it. It was an honor that impressed his
father deeply, but Tomas unfortunately did not seem to think quite
so much of it. The youth in question, however, was altogether neutral
in his opinions in his father's presence. Although somewhat feminine
as to attire, he was distinctly masculine in his speech. His neutrality
was not a matter of choice, since no one was allowed to choose anything
in the Courifer family but the paterfamilias himself.
From start to finish, Tomas's career had been cut out, and in spite
of the fact that nature had endowed him with a black skin and an
African temperament, Tomas was to be an Englishman. He was even
to be an Englishman in appearance.
Consequently, once a year mysterious bundles arrived by parcel post.
When opened, they revealed marvelous checks and plaids in vivid
greens and blues after the fashion of a Liverpool counter jumper,
waistcoats decorative in the extreme with their bold designs and rows
of brass buttons, socks vying with the rainbow in glory and pumps
very patent in appearance and very fragile as to texture.
Now, Tomas was no longer a minor and he keenly resented having
his clothes chosen for him like a boy going to school for the first time.
Indeed on one occasion, had it not been for his sister's timely interfer-
ence, he would have chucked the whole collection into the fire.
Dear little Keren-happuch, eight years his junior and not at all
attractive, with a very diminutive body and a very large heart. Such a
mistake! People's hearts ought always to be in proportion to their size,
otherwise it upsets the dimensions of the whole structure and often
ends in its total collapse.
Keren was that type of little individual whom nobody worshipped,
consequently she understood the art of worshipping others to the full.
Tomas was the object of her adoration. Upon him she lavished the
whole store of her boundless wealth and whatever hurt Tomas became
positive torture as far as Keren-happuch was concerned.
"Tomas!" she said clinging to him with the tenacity of a bear, as
she saw the faggots piled up high, ready for the conflagration, "Do
yah! No burn am oh! Ole man go flog you oh! Den clos berry fine!
I like am myself too much. I wish" she added wistfully "me na boy;
I wish I could use am."
This was quite a new feature which had never struck Tomas before.
Keren-happuch had never received a bundle of English clothes in her
life, hence her great appreciation of them.
At first Tomas only laughed the superior, daredevil, don't-care-a-
damn-about-consequences laugh of the brave before the deed. But after
hearing that wistful little sentence, he forgot his own annoyance and
awoke to his responsibilities as an elder brother.
A few Sundays later, Tomas Courifer, Jr., marched up the aisle of
the little Wesleyan chapel in all his Liverpool magnificence accom-
panied by a very elated little Keren-happuch whose natural unattrac-
tiveness had been further accentuated by a vivid cerise costume a
heterogeneous mass of frill and furbelows. But the glory of her array
by no means outshone the brightness of her smile. Indeed that smile
seemed to illuminate the whole church and to dispel the usual melan-
choly preceding the recital of Jonah and his woes.
Unfortunately, Tomas had a very poor opinion of the government
service and in a burst of confidence he had told Keren that he meant
to chuck it at the very first opportunity. In vain his sister expostulated
and pointed out the advantages connected with it the honor, the
pension and the awful nemesis upon the head of anyone incurring the
head-of-the-family's ire.
"Why you want leave am, Tomas?" she asked desperately.
"Because I never get a proper holiday. I have been in the office four
and a half years and have never had a whole week off yet. And," he
went on vehemently, "these white chaps come and go, and a fresh one
upsets what the old one has done and a newcomer upsets what he
does and they all only stay for a year and a half and go away for four
months, drawing big fat pay all the time, not to speak of passages,
whereas a poor African like me has to work year in and year out with
never a chance of a decent break. But you needn't be afraid, Keren
dear," he added consolingly, "I shan't resign, I shall just behave so
badly that they'll chuck me and then my ole man can't say very much."
Accordingly when Tomas, puffing a cigarette, sauntered into the
office at 9 a.m. instead of 8 a.m. for the fourth time that week, Mr.
Buckmaster, who had hitherto maintained a discreet silence and kept his
eyes shut, opened them wide and administered a sharp rebuke.
Tomas's conscience was profoundly stirred. Mr. Buckmaster was one
of the few white men for whom he had a deep respect, aye, in the
depth of his heart, he really had a sneaking regard. It was for fear of
offending him that he had remained so long at his post.
But he had only lately heard that his chief was due for leave so he
decided there and then to say a long good-by to a service which had
treated him so shabbily. He was a vociferous reader of halfpenny
newspapers and he knew that the humblest shop assistant in England
was entitled to a fortnight's holiday every year. Therefore it was
ridiculous to argue that because he was an African working in Africa
there was no need for a holiday. All his applications for leave were
quietly pigeonholed for a more convenient season.
"Courifer!" Mr. Buckmaster said sternly. "Walk into my private
office please." And Courifer knew that this was the beginning of the
end.
"I suppose you know that the office hours are from 8 a.m. till 4 p.m.
daily," commenced Mr. Buckmaster, in a freezing tone.
"Yes, er Sir!" stammered Courifer with his heart in his mouth and
his mouth twisted up into a hard sailor's knot.
"And I suppose you also know that smoking is strictly forbidden in
the office?"
"Yes, er er Sir!" stammered the youth.
"Now hitherto," the even tones went on, "I have always looked upon
you as an exemplary clerk, strictly obliging, punctual, accurate and
honest, but for the last two or three weeks I have had nothing but
complaints about you. And from what I myself have seen, I am afraid
they are not altogether unmerited."
Mr. Buckmaster rose as he spoke, took a bunch of keys out of his
pocket and, unlocking his roll-top desk, drew out a sheaf of papers.
"This is your work, is it not?" he said to the youth.
"Yes, er er Sir!" he stuttered, looking shamefacedly at the dirty,
ink-stained, blotched sheets of closely typewritten matter.
"Then what in Heaven's name is the matter with you to produce
such work?"
Tomas remained silent for a moment or two. He summoned up
courage to look boldly at the stern countenance of his chief. And as he
looked, the sternness seemed to melt away and he could see genuine
concern there.
"Please, er Sir!" he stammered, "May I er just tell you every-
thing?"
Half an hour later, a very quiet, subdued, penitent Tomas Courifer
walked out of the office by a side door. Mr. Buckmaster followed later,
taking with him an increased respect for the powers of endurance
exercised by the growing West African youth.
Six weeks later, Mista Courifer was busily occupied wagging his
tongue when he looked up from his work to see a European man
standing in his doorway.
The undertaker found speech and a chair simultaneously. "Good
afternoon, Sah!" he said, dusting the chair before offering it to his
visitor. "I hope you don't want a coffin, Sah!" which was a deep-sea
lie for nothing pleased him more than the opportunity of making a
coffin for a European. He was always so sure of the money. Such
handsome money paid it is true with a few ejaculations, but paid on
the nail and without any deductions whatsoever. Now with his own
people things were different. They demurred, they haggled, they bar-
tered, they gave him detailed accounts of all their other expenses and
then, after keeping him waiting for weeks, they would end by sending
him half the amount with a stern exhortation to be thankful for that.
Mr. Buckmaster took the proffered chair and answered pleasantly:
"No thank you, I don't intend dying just yet. I happened to be passing
so I thought I should just like a word with you about your son."
Mr. Courifer bristled all over with exultation and expectation. Per-
haps they were going to make his son a kind of undersecretary of state.
What an unexpected honor for the Courifer family. What a rise in
their social status; what a rise out of their neighbors. How good God
was I
"Of course you know he is in my office?"
"Oh yes, Sah. He often speaks about you."
"Well, I am going home very soon and as I may not be returning
to Sierra Leone, I just wanted to tell you how pleased I should be at
any time to give him a decent testimonial."
Mr. Courifer 's countenance fell. What a comedown I
"Yes, Sah," he answered somewhat dubiously.
"I can recommend him highly as being steady, persevering, reliable
and trustworthy. And you can always apply to me if ever such a thing
be necessary."
Was that all! What a disappointment! Still it was something worth
having. Mr. Buckmaster was an Englishman and a testimonial from
him would certainly be a very valuable possession. He rubbed his
hands together as he said: "Well I am berry much obliged to you, Sah,
berry much obliged. And as time is short and we nebba know what a
day may bring forth, would you mind writing one down now, Sah?"
"Certainly. If you will give me a sheet of paper, I shall do so at
once."
Before Tomas returned home from his evening work, the testimonial
was already framed and hanging up amidst the moth-eaten velvet of
the drawing room.
On the following Monday morning, Courifer Jr. bounced into his
father's workshop, upsetting the equilibrium of the carpenter's bench
and also of the voiceless apprentices hard at work.
"Well, Sah?" ejaculated his father, surveying him in disgust. "You
berry late. Why you no go office dis morning?"
"Because I've got a whole two months' holiday, Sir! Just think of
it two whole months with nothing to do but just enjoy myself!"
"Tomas," his father said solemnly, peering at him over his glasses,
"you must larn for make coffins. You get fine chance now."
Sotto voce: "I'll be damned if I will!" Aloud: "No thank you, Sir.
I am going to learn how to make love, after which I am going to learn
how to build myself a nice mud hut."
"And who dis gal you want married?" thundered his father, ignoring
the latter part of the sentence altogether.
A broad smile illuminated Tomas's countenance. "She is a very nice
girl, Sir, a very nice girl. Very quiet and gentle and sweet, and she
doesn't talk too much."
"I see. Is dat all?"
"Oh, no. She can sew and clean and make a nice little home. And
she has plenty sense; she will make a good mother."
"Yes, netting pass dat!"
"She has been to school for a long time. She reads nice books and she writes,
oh, such a nice letter," said Tomas, patting his breast-
pocket affectionately.
"I see. I suppose she sabi cook good fashion?"
"I don't know, I don't think so, and it doesn't matter very much."
"What!" roared the old man; "You mean tell me you want married
woman who no sabi cook?"
"I want to marry her because I love her, Sir I"
"Dat's all right, but for we country, de heart and de stomach always
go togedder. For we country, black man no want married woman who
no sabi cook! Dat de berry first requisitional. You own mudder sabi
cook."
That's the reason why she has been nothing but your miserable
drudge all these years, thought the young man. His face was very grave
as he rejoined: "The style in our country is not at all nice, Sir. I don't
like to see a wife slaving away in the kitchen all times to make good
chop for her husband who sits down alone and eats the best of every-
thing himself, and she and the children only get the leavings. No
thank you! And besides, Sir, you are always telling me that you want
me to be an Englishman. That is why I always try to talk good English
to you."
"Yes, dat's all right. Dat's berry good. But I want make you loo\
like Englishman. I don't say you must copy all der different way!"
"Well, Sir, if I try till I die, I shall never look like an Englishman,
and I don't know that I want to. But there are some English customs
that I like very much indeed. I like the way white men treat their
wives; I like their home life; I like to see mother and father and the
little family all sitting down eating their meals together."
"I see," retorted his father sarcastically. "And who go cook den
meal. You tink say wid your four pound a month, you go able hire
a perfessional cook?"
"Oh, I don't say so, Sir. And I am sure if Accastasia does not know
how to cook now, she will before we are married. But what I want
you to understand is just this, that whether she is able to cook or not,
I shall marry her just the same."
"Berry well," shouted his father, wrath delineated in every feature,
"but instead of building one mud hut you better go one time build one
madhouse."
"Sir, thank you. But I know what I am about and a mud hut will
suit us perfectly for the present."
"A mud hut!" ejaculated his father in horror. "You done use fine
England house wid staircase and balustrade and tick carpet and hand-
some furnitures. You want to go live in mud hut? You ungrateful boy,
you shame me, oh!"
"Dear me, no, Sir. I won't shame you. It's going to be a nice clean
spacious mud hut. And what is more, it is going to be a sweet little
home, just big enough for two. I am going to distemper the walls
pale green, like at the principal's rooms at Keren's school."
"How you sabi den woman's rooms?"
"Because you have sent me two or three times to pay her school
fees, so I have looked at those walls and I like them too much."
"I see. And what else you go do?" asked his father ironically.
"I am going to order some nice wicker chairs from the Islands and
a few good pieces of linoleum for the floors and then "
"And den what?"
"I shall bring home my bride."
Mr. Courifer's dejection grew deeper with each moment. A mud
hut! This son of his the hope of his life! A government officer!
A would-be Englishman! To live in a mud hut! His disgust knew no
bounds. "You ungrateful wretch!" he bellowed; "You go disgrace me.
You go lower your pore father. You go lower your position for de
office."
"I am sorry, Sir," retorted the young man. "I don't wish to offend
you. I'm grateful for all you have done for me. But I have had a raise
in salary and I want a home of my own which, after all, is only
natural, and" he went on steadily, staring his father straight in the
face -"I may as well tell you at once, you need not order any more
Liverpool suits for me."
"Why not?" thundered his irate parent, removing his specs lest any
harm should befall them.
"Well, I am sorry to grieve you, Sir, but I have been trying to live
up to your European standards all this time. Now I am going to chuck
it once and for all. I am going back to the native costume of my
mother's people, and the next time I appear in chapel it will be as a
Wolof."
The very next Sunday the awful shock of seeing his son walk up
the aisle of the church in pantaloons and the bright loose over jacket
of a Wolof from Gambia, escorting a pretty young bride the color of
chocolate, also in native dress, so unnerved Mista Courifer that his
mind suddenly became a complete blank. He could not even remember
Jonah and the whale, nor could his tongue possess one word to let fly,
not one. The service had to be turned into a prayer meeting.
Mista Courifer is the local preacher no longer. Now he only makes
coffins.
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