Summary

Congo resident Bokwala: The Story of a Congo Victim (1910)

Hastily we made our plans, picked up the little food we had saved from our evening meal, [41] grasped our hunting spears and knives, and slipped away into the bush at the back of the village. We went very stealthily—nya-nya, like a leopard when he is stalking his prey—scared at every sound, starting at the snapping of a twig, the call of a night-bird or the whistle of an insect.
Source: Gutenberg

Congo resident Bokwala: The Story of a Congo Victim (1910)

Many of our people have died from exposure to cold and heat, or from lack of comfort; many others from accidents, such as falling from the rubber vines, and many more from the pestilences of which I have told you.
White men, I tell you the truth: we are dying, soon our villages will be put out as a fire that is quenched.
And still we are working, still we are slaves to the white men.
And we have nothing to look forward to, as far as we can see, except constant work—and death. We have heard that when a man reaches what the white men call forty years of age his tax palaver is finished
Source: Gutenberg

Congo resident Bokwala: The Story of a Congo Victim (1910)

On and on we pressed, not daring to speak to each other, lest we might betray our whereabouts to some unfriendly native, or one who was friendly to our masters, scarcely able to see the path, for the moon had not yet risen, scratching ourselves as we passed thorny bushes, treading on sticks and roots of trees projecting from the ground—and still on—what mattered wounds or weariness if at last we reached the river and liberty?
Source: Gutenberg

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