Samba: A Story of the Rubber Slaves of the Congo

Herbert Strang

sept 2020 · Library of Alexandria

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Samba lay face downwards upon the yellow sand, amid which his body shone in the sunlight like polished ebony. Behind, the rising bank was thick with trees and shrubs ablaze with colour, overspread with the delicate tracery of lianas and, creeping plants. Here was a spot of red, there a dash of orange; at intervals the pale yellow flowers of climbing gourds and the mauve blossoms of convolvuli peeped from the wall of vivid green. Tiny rills made music as they trickled through the foliage; and near at hand was a path trodden by herds of antelopes as they came to drink. Before, rolled the brown waters of a broad river, rippling over whitened rocks in the bed, or over the gnarled limbs of fallen trees. Here, on a sandy islet, flashed the scarlet and blue of little kingfishers, contrasting with the sober grey of the bittern, or the black and white of the vulture. A giant heron perched on a low overhanging branch, gazing solemnly at the ibis standing solitary by a distant bush. On a smooth spot at Samba's right sported innumerable butterflies, blue and green and crimson, amid bees and dragon-flies lazily basking in the heat. Samba had but to stretch out his hand to make prisoners of what he chose. But Samba's attention was already occupied. Looking over the brink into the placid water, his eye was caught by a small round soft object lying motionless on the surface. A tiny crocodile, only a few inches long, darted from beneath the leaf of a water-lily, in pursuit of a tinier fish. The round object suddenly contracted: there was a ripple on the water, and the baby crocodile found itself in the grasp of a droll little proboscis that shot out, gripped its hapless prey, and drew it beneath the surface. Samba smiled: he knew that just below lay a trionyx, the owner of that little nostrilled proboscis; he wasted no sympathy on the baby crocodile, which would never grow big to snap up little negro boys at the waterside. All around was silence, save for the hum of insects and the gentle lapping of the water on the sand. Then a slight sound caught Samba's ear, and turning, he saw a handsome young lizard, pied with yellow and greenish black, flashing along in chase of a fat frog which it had marked for its own. A swish of its flexible tail, a snap of its savage teeth, and ranunculus disappeared—a choice morsel for breakfast. Such scenes as these gave Samba constant entertainment. He would often wander alone from his village, as he had done to-day, carrying his little broad-bladed dagger in case a snake should cross his path, and spend hours in the forest or by the river bank, listening to the chatter of the monkeys and the screams of the parrots, watching the little stingless bees at their work, mocking the hollow note of the drumbird or the wild pigeon's doleful call, studying the busy doings of the multitudinous ants. There was not a bird or beast or insect within range of his village with whose ways Samba was not familiar.