houses. This, the guide said, had been Luhinda’s village. Later we learned more of the story of King Luhinda— a thrilling tale showing the almost incredible faithful ness of a people to their earthly king. After Luhinda had gone away, the people had kept* on working in the little village."The king had gone away before but always he had come back. But a year passed, then another and yet another. Still the faithful villagers kept the place in perfect order. “The king may come back today,” was their password. They swept the paths, thatched and re-thatched the houses, planted and harvest ed the crops and cared for the cattle. Ten years went by — then twenty. Actually ninety years passed before the waiting for Luhinda was given up. During all this time the village was kept in readiness for the king’s return. Only a few years before we arrived, the village finally had been abandoned. A Roman Catholic priest had told the people that it was all superstition and persuaded them to leave the place; At last they tore down the houses, divided up the herds of cattle and moved far away.
one end to the other. Luhinda was a good king but a strict one. “ There is a place over there,” the old man pointed by raising his chin and jabbing it toward the north, “ where a high cliff faces the great lake. It was there at Luhinda’s decree that they took people convicted of vari ous crimes and forced them to jump to their deaths below. As his kingdom grew in size and strength, he conquered villages which did not voluntarily join with him. At one time he even tried to conquer Rome Island. He built a bridge with his canoes from the shore to the island and forced his warriors to march across a quarter of a mile of lake on a bridge of canoes. He failed to conquer the island but only after a terrible battle in which many lives were lost. “ But always Luhinda came back to his village by the lake. It was a model village, kept clean. Its houses were well-thatched and its cattle and gardens well-tended. “ Then one day Luhinda called his paddlers to him. ‘We are going on a long journey,’ he told them, ‘make ready the big canoe.’ “ Then, turning to the men and women of his village, he gave them this charge, ‘I am going on a journey. I am not sure when I am coming back but remember this—I am coming back. And when I do, I want to find my village in order. I want the paths clean, the houses well thatched, the cattle well cared for. I am going away but I am coming back.’ “Then he stepped into the long canoe and his paddlers thrust out from the shore. With voices chanting and paddles deep digging they sped the canoe on its way across the sparkling waters. The people stood on the white sands watching until their beloved king passed from sight. Only then did they return to their duties.” The old man stopped talking. He was staring into the coals of the fire lost in meditation. Then, standing to his feet, he began again. “ King Luhinda hasn’t come back yet. But one of these days he is coming.” Now his voice rose excitedly, “He’s coming back to be our king. Right out of that lake he will come!” He sighed and like a deflated balloon, he slumped down on his stool. The night was quiet except for the chirping crickets and the waves lapping on the sandy shore. Then silently the old prophet rose. He jerked his blanket around his thin shoulders and stalked off towards his hut. Story time was over. Having left our boat anchored in a sheltered cove, we missionaries had spent the day tramping over the hills visiting the scattered villages. We were in an un known area and our reception in the various villages had been good. People had listened ■attentively as we had preached the gospel message. Now the sun was sink ing and we were wending our way back to the boat where we would spend the night. Suddenly the man who was guiding us stopped. “ Do you want to see the place where King Luhinda’s village stood?” he asked. We assented, not really knowing what it was all about. He led us higher up the ridge which we were following. As we neared a straight row of pepper trees, he stopped. “ There,” he said, almost in a whisper, “ those trees are the ones under which King Luhinda kept his pots for making rain.” Our guide seemingly was afraid of going farther, so we left him and walked over to the trees. Under several of the trees stood large earthenware pots such as •a chief or witch doctor would use for making rain. A wooden stool stood near one of the pots as if waiting for someone to come and sit upon it. Then beyond the row of pepper trees we saw the spot where a village had stood. The straight paths were easily dis tinguishable. On either side of them were the remains of
— Photos b y th e author What happened to King Luhinda no one knows. In all probability, his canoe sank in a storm on Lake Vic toria, although some think he may have tired of his kingiy task and went back to the land of his origin. Yet even today the old Bazinza sit around their fires at night and tell the story of the king who never came back. They tell it in faith, still believing that some day he will return, as he promised. “ Fools,” you say, “ to wait for a mere man.” Perhaps, but surely those Africans are not as foolish as those who name the name of Christ and yet live as if He were never coming back. For our King too has gone away. He promised to return and has bidden us be faithful until He comes. What if He does delay His coming? Can we not be faithful to the One who is the eternal Son of God whose Word has never failed and whose return is as sure as tomorrow’s sunrise?
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FEBRUARY, 1964
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