Mporokosa
By Lenora Dalton Burton
The Youth’s Instructor June 22, 1968 p. 10It was back in 1930 at Chimpempe Mission, Northern Rhodesia Africa that one of the schoolboys came to my husband at the beginning of the Christmas holidays for a permit to preach. Since he was a rather ignorant man, in only the first or second standards (third or fourth grade), my husband hesitated. But finally he gave him the necessary letter. This had to be endorsed by the magistrate to make it valid before he could preach. Having received his permit, he went home to his village about eighty miles away. The holidays ended and school started but John did not return. Six weeks later he finally appeared, but not in the way we had expected. Early one morning while we were having worship we heard a terrible commotion in the native compound near by. I had my baby in my arms. We rushed out to see what it was all about. A woman was wailing, crying, shouting.
"Afwa! Afwa! Joseph afwa!" (Joseph is dead.) Teacher Joseph? The only who had gone on an errand for us across the Kalungwishi River the day before? Yes, it was our poor Joseph! He had just been drowned in the river, the woman told us. We were horrified. We must get to him as quickly as possible.
I handed the baby to a native girl, and off we went in the car through the bush, where there was no road at all. Halfway to the river the petrol (gasoline) gave out. But we darted through the forest on foot to the riverbank two miles away. Sure enough, there under a bush lay Joseph. His friends were binding a grass mat around him, making the body ready for burial. My husband pushed them aside. They protested.
"Joseph is dead," they shouted. "We want to bury him. Leave him alone!"
But we had faith. Joseph must live! With earnest prayers on our lips we set to work. My husband kept the crowd back while I used the best methods of resuscitation I knew.
I worked perhaps twenty minutes before I saw any change; and then -- was it true that Joseph was breathing? Yes, there was a gasp. I can never forget that token of life. Joseph was alive! By this time we had learned of two others who also had drowned. So leaving our patient with one of the boys, we went to give further relief.
All was confusion, with weeping, wailing, jumping about! Finally we learned that one boy was still in the water. No effort was being made to get him out, and crocodiles were in the river, but the local tribe could not risk their lives for a stranger. Their friends were not of a river tribe and did not know what to do. So my husband took off his jacket and threatened to go in himself to find him.
This was too much for two loyal students. Their Bwana should not risk his life; so as directed, one went out in a dugout and threw down a rope to which a hook was attached while the other went under, found the body, and fastened the rope to the clothes. There under the hot tropical sun I struggled for nearly two hours. But it was no use. The poor lad had been under too long. A grave was quickly dug near by under a bush and he was wrapped in a mat and buried. A boy came up to my husband and asked permission to hold the service over his body. It was John! Our John, whom we had missed so long from school. This was his brother-in-law who had been drowned.
Grief-stricken, he read from the Bible and we prayed. Later he told us there had been several in the dugout. One boy got panicky, jumped overboard, and upset the boat, landing all in the river. Two were women with babies, one of which was the wife of this poor boy who had just been buried. Somehow, although they knew little about swimming, they tucked their babies under one arm and each struck out and swam to shore safely.
That afternoon when things had quieted down a bit, John appeared at the door with a notebook and told us his complete story.
He had gone home with the permit that had been given him and had preached to his people. As a result fifty-three names were written in his book as Bible class members. Eleven of these were in the company he was bringing to attend our school, but now two of them were dead. One was the lad who tipped the boat and was never found. It was thought he might have gone over the falls or perhaps was eaten by crocodiles. John knew he could not face the people at home with such dreadful news, so he asked that we send someone with him to help him explain.
Before long one of the natives who had gone home with John wrote:
"Bwana, it is wonderful how the work is growing here. There are not fifty-three but ninety-six now! And they are all strong believers too. The old men and old women have even cut off their bangles." This really meant something to them -royalty in this case.
At this time it was the rainy season, and there was no road. It was impossible for us to go by car, so the evangelist and head teacher were sent by bicycle. A few months went by, and then the word came: "What we find here is wonderful. There are not ninety six, but one hundred thirty-five believers now!"
When the boys returned from the mission, they told their stories with enthusiasm. I could but think of Caleb and Joshua, returning from the Promised Land, bringing their reports. As soon as the rains passed, we went out to John’s village and stayed for some days. Never at any village have the natives been so gracious and helpful.
When we reached the camp which they had prepared for us, there was a grass and pole hut with two rooms. In the kitchen we found a line of native pots filled with water, some eggs, fowl, and what not, all ready for our use. We visited the people in their homes by day and had meetings at night. Such interest! Such earnestness! Such singing! In due time a mission was started, called the "Mporokosa Mission." Many years after, we were happy to read W. H Anderson’s message: "The work at Mporokosa is one of our strongest."
What an example of earnestness is that school lad who started this effort and brought about the establishment of an entire emission! It simply shows how God can use anyone who is willing to help in spreading the message of His love to a dying world.