(Fictional history) Mission on Gwai River 1892-1893 m/f
Jolanda Hawk, a young wife for a Methodist pastor went with him on a mission to the Gwai River Valley in Southern Rhodesia. They weren’t discouraged by the news about fierce Matabele tribe and they cruel king Lobengula. Recently a fragments of Jolanda’s diary were found in Zimbabwe state archives. The document is damaged, but we publish whatever remained. Jolanda and Steven Hawk were missing during the first Matabele War and their exact fate is unknown.
12.03.1892
I am so happy. Steven just was nominated to a pastor by our congregation and it was decided that we go to Rhodesia to teach the poor, heathen souls about the Lord. We’ll go with John, our servant and Alice - our maid, all faithful and good people.
28.07.1892
We arrived at the Gwai River, our porters found a perfect place to settle. Steven and John led them to pick up tents and then to build a pen for our meager livestock. It’s called “zeriba” here and it’s made from a very dense bushes and tree branches of species possessing very sharp thorns. When it was done, we ushered our cow, goats, pigs and a few hens and ducks inside. Alice and I started feeding them and the men unloaded our luggage and supplies and set up the rest of the camp. In the evening Alice and me cooked the porridge - our first meal in our new home.
30.07.1892
Steven and John started to build a house. First we paid our porters and they left. We convinced one of them, who spoke good English, to stay as our servant and interpreter. He is a Christian. He has a Christian name - Robert and as heathen one - Mugabe. He seems intelligent and cheerful. Lord surely gave him to us to be a great help.
2.08.1892
We had our first visit of the natives. A group of hunters approached our settlement. They waited in a distance until Robert came and invited them to the fire. He said there were of Mashona tribe. They didn’t look fierce or intimidating - rather small and poor fed, dressed scandalously in no more than a rag around their most private parts. For this Africa is a real terrible place. I still feel uncomfortable wearing this mid-calf skirts and dresses and such a thin blouses, but it is a must - you cannot overheat here, because you may even die. I am both startled and pleased, as Steven seems to like my new outfits. I only dare to write that our tries to make our family bigger never were so long and often, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, they sat on the ground, we gave them coffee and some sugar cane and later a meal of beans. I felt a bit ashamed, because they kept staring at me and discussing something.After a while, when I was distributing the dinner, one of them, who was sitting behind me, suddenly raised my skirt up and peeked. I shrieked, Steven yelled at him, but our Robert calmed him down and asked what it meant to be. It turned out that they were wondering if I am deformed, because I wear so many clothes! I blushed beet red. Robert of course informed them, that there is simply our custom. Then they asked him, if I am so “ukuhlekisa” because I am wearing shoes. Robert couldn’t or wouldn’t translate the term. He only was able to tell that they wonder if I laugh walking on the ground barefooted. I only shrugged, what’s funny in walking with my bare feet? Why should I laugh?
Then they told us to be wary about the Matabele tribe. Mashona are farmers, Matabele are sheepherders and warriors. They think of Mashona as a prey. Attack them, rob them, hurt their women or kidnap them. It seemed like a perfect place to come and teach about love and mercy of our Lord! A lot of work before us
14.10.1892
Two weeks after our house was finished we were visited by our first Matabele warriors. A patrol, much like our police force, arrived at our doors. They weren’t friendly or unfriendly - just checked if we are any threat. They were accompanied by a royal official of the king Lobengula. He inspected everything then gave us some kind of animal skin covered in symbols. Robert translated, that it was kind of a passport - a sign that King approves of us being here. Then he invited us to the Spring Festival. It’s funny to realize, that seasons are reverted down there. Autumn at home, spring here!
25.10.1892
What happened to us was terrible. A nightmare! We considered leaving this cursed land at once, but finally we prayed a lot and decided to stay. But I am still shaking and wake in the night crying.
It happened during the spring festival we were invited to. We went to the nearby kraal, that’s something between the town and the military fort. By “town” I mean rather a big village - a lot of huts, but the settlement itself bigger than many European towns. We were greeted by a governor and sat next to him to witness the ceremony. At first it was male and female dancing and singing, all to the beat of drums and some wild music. It was fascinating, although very indecent. The dancers wore hardly any clothes! Then four large X-cross frames were carried in and to every one of it was tied a naked, negro woman. They were all young, pretty and obviously terrified. Their only garment were lines and symbols painted all over their lush bodies.
“Mashona slaves” - whispered Robert.
Eight shamans in animal masks burst from the crowd and started dancing around the girls, two before each one. Then they came closer, reached with their animal fur covered tods and clawed fingers and started tickling the poor girls. They were obviously very sensitive, immediately bust in laughter and started shrieking something in shrill voices, obviously begging for mercy. But they got none and had to laugh and writhe under the cruel torture.
I shuddered. Being wickedly ticklish myself I could very well imagine the suffering of those poor souls. I remembered my uncle, to whom my parents brought me every summer to leave me for a month. He was very fond of tickling me and his daughters. As a girl I was totally helpless to defend myself and spent many moments squirming and laughing in his lap.
The governor noticed my distress and asked, by Robert’s translation, about the cause.
Naively I answered that I was too ticklish myself to stand even a sight of such a torture.
Robert translated this and I clearly heard the word “ukuhlekisa”. So he knew it anyway. And the Mashona hunters asked, if I was too ticklish to walk barefooted. I felt a surge of fear, but it was far too late. One order from the governor’s lips and I was grabbed by two strong warriors. Steven raised to defend me, but he was stopped by several spearheads aimed at his heart. Almost fainting with fear I was led towards the worst ordeal in my entire life.
They took me to a remote hut then gave me into the hands of several old women, they looked like witches from scary tales! Their bony, but strong hands grabbed me and started undressing me. I struggled and protested, but to no avail. Soon I stood naked before the old crones. They put me into the tub with lukewarm water and started washing me with sponges. Despite my predicament I couldn’t stop giggling, because it tickled. Then I was dried and stretched on the wooden table. Four of the women were holding my limbs and two started shaving my hair from my legs, under my armpits and, forgive me, over my private parts. Soon I was bald like a prostitute and dying of shame. Then they grabbed some kind of a volcanic rock - very soft, covered with pores and looking like a petrified sponge and started scrubbing dead skin from the soles of my feet. I started laughing and trashing, because it tickled horribly, but they paid that no heed, deaf to my pleads. Then my whole body was massaged with some oil. Then the next torture began - the painting of my body. The same symbols that were on Mashona women now were painted on my defenseless body. I couldn’t help, but laugh again. It seemed unbearable, especially when painting came to my armpits and belly.
When the painting was over, women called loudly and four Matabele warriors entered, I cried and blushed from shame, but could do nothing to cover myself from their eyes. They took hold of me and dragged towards the entrance. As I feared I was to be exposed naked to the whole crowd. I struggled and pleaded, but to no avail. As the addition to my shame the warriors amused themselves by grabbing and pinching my bottom and breasts and even putting their hands between my legs. Then I was led outside and was paraded naked among the cheering crowds towards the festive ground.
Even despite the crowd cheering and singing and drum beating I still heard the Mashona girls pitiful laughter and pleas. Soon we saw them and were approaching their writhing forms rapidly. To my horror the fifth X-cross was erected next to them and I was led just there. I did what I could to avoid my fate, but my struggles fell for nothing and soon I was bound to the rash wood. I started pulling my bonds and begging to be released. Among the wild music I heard Steven shouting angrily, also 0demanding me being released.
But it all went for naught, as two shamans jumped on me and attacked my defenseless armpits and soles, tickling them with cruel efficiency. Being excruciately ticklish I had no choice but to burst in hysterical laughter. I struggled in a futile attempt to protect my sensitive parts, but the bonds held me tight. The torture was unbearable, but I had to bear it. It became even worse when the third black joined the others and started titillating my sides and stomach. I howled with laughter, unable even to beg and barely able to breath, but the brutes didn’t care. They just tickled and tickled and I laughed to tears and beyond. I thought I’d die, but I survived. I often thought about martyrs and even wondered how I would perform in time of such a need, but I never imagined the threat would be in a form of the tickle torture.
I don’t know, how long it took. I could think only how to catch the next breath for one more cackle of forced hilarity. My head swam, my eyes were blinded by tears of laughter, my lungs and sides hurt. I discovered the ticklish places I never knew of - the back of my knees, my thighs, my breasts. When the shamans finally stopped I just hung there still shaking with giggles and sobbing with relief.
But it wasn’t over. I was untied and dragged, along with the poor Mashona girls, to be locked in sets of crude wooden stocks.. There our feet were additionally restrained with twine, so they can barely twitch. The warriors tying me up amused themselves by grabbing my breasts of behind, pinching me of tickling my outstretched armpits. The latest, even if not that skillful as the shaman’s work, forced me to laugh again.
Then the shamans came to us and started brushing our soles, covering them with salted water. I knew what it was because some drops from the waved brush fell on my face. This, of course, tickled horribly sending us into a new fit of involuntary mirth. But the worst was yet to be. The cows and goats were paraded to lick out feet. It tickled like nothing before, I discovered I had plenty of strength to howl with laughter and buck wildly. I think that I had to endure hundreds of beasts tongues and even that each one was allowed only a few licks, it drove me half mad with laughter.
Finally they untied me, gave me my garments and cast us away from the village. I was too weak to walk, but fortunately we drove by cart, so I could lay back, when Steven and Robert drove us home. Leaving the village I shuddered, still hearing cackles of insane glee and pitiful cries of still tickled Mashona girls.
16.11.1892
For two days I stayed in bed before I recovered from my ordeal. We discussed the leaving, but prayed it over decided to stay. I don’t know, if it was a good decision. Only a week after the ceremony a bunch of Matabele warriors arrived. They took two of our chicken and a sack of flour, then grabbed Alice and me, tied to the fence and tickle tortured us to tears of laughter. The others kept our men at the spear point. I was panicking that they will repeat my cruel ordeal and cried all the time, yet at the same time had to laugh like the happiest woman on earth. That was a very weird feeling.
The tickling didn’t last as long as during the feast, but still was torturous and left both of us exhausted. When the warriors left, our men untied us, then Robert explained that we fell in status to that of Mashona - we can be raided and robbed at any time and the women tickled to humiliate the men. I asked “Does it mean that they would be back?” and Robert answered “Inevitably”.
And he was right, God have mercy on us! Since then the warriors were back, the same or others, almost every day. Sometimes they took something, but mostly they were here just to tickle poor Alice and me. Sometimes they only hold us or pin to the floor, sometimes tie us to the fence or to the tree or spread among four stakes driven to the ground or even to our own beds . Sometimes we stayed in our clothes, but sometimes we were stripped topless or bare.
One warrior seems to “like” me. He was there in every raid and always tickles me, never Alice. To my doom he discovered my greatest weakness - being tickled with feathers on my breasts and under my arms at the same time. Many humiliating moments I spent shamelessly undressed with my breasts bare, tied with my hands above my head and laughing under that cruel torture.
A week ago Alice came to us in tears and said she couldn’t stand it no more, The poor girl is as ticklish as I am and wasn’t spared, often tickled till she fainted, especially on her feet.
John offered to take her to the Fort Murray. That’s one week in one way, so I expect him to return in a few days. I hope and pray they arrived safely. [Editorial note: They didn’t. The pair was attacked by a Matabele patrol. The man was killed and Alice Jordans abducted and gave to a local chieftain as a tickle slave. After a few months she was sold to Arab slavers and disappeared.]
25.12.1892
Sad Christmas. John didn’t return and we fear for him and Alice. The Matabele keep returning and kept tickling me. When they come I spend at least an hour laughing and writhing in ticklish agony, begging them to have mercy on me. Steven is half insane of anger and shame that he is unable to protect me. I prepared the feast, we ate and prayed, but it wasn’t much joy in this. I have to confess I live in a constant fear if the coming day brings me the dreaded torture. The last one I endured only yesterday, spending a good part of Christmas Eve having my underarms tickled for the amusement of some heathens. Moreover, they gave my feet the same awful treatment as during the infamous feast in the village - tied them to a bar in a barn, soaked in salted water and made our livestock lick it from my soles. It was a horrible tickle torture, bringing back the most unpleasant memories. I literally howled with laughter, much to the Matabeles amusement. To make matters worse they split to two teams - one guiding animals to my poor soles and supplying the salted water, the other tickling my underarms, stomach and sides to the point I barely could take a breath. I think my shrieks of “joy” were heard for miles.
It’s silly, but I have to confess I bear the grudge against our animals for torturing me so eagerly. Today I milked our cow and goats a bit harder than it was necessary
2.01.1893
The warriors didn’t come since Christmas. A hunter named Jonas Bellow came to us yesterday and gave us grave news - the order from the governor for every settlers to evacuate. Technically we are not his subjects, but Mr. Bellow explained that it is for our safety. There will be probably war and the solitary farms would be the first target.
We discussed a lot and decided it would be playing with God’s Providence to stay. We started preparing to leave and Robert went investigating. He and Mr Bellows left yesterday.
7.01.1893
God help me! I don’t know how long will I be able to write, so I write it now. Robert Mugabe is a traitor who sold us, Steven and Jolanda Hawk, to Matabeles. I am now in Lobingo kraal at the Gwai river, held prisoner by king Lobengula’s governor. My husband was brought with me, but we were separated. I am in a hut, guarded by warriors. My fate is unknown, but I guess I would be subjected to a severe tickle torture as it already happened when I was brought here.
I am writing this several hours later. I was tragically right. They came for me, undressed me and dragged to the center of the kraal. There they put me in a set of crude stocks, like during my first ordeal. Then everybody, who wanted, could torture me with wicked tickles. And believe me, they were plenty! They came with their fingers, feathers and brushes to stroke my defenseless body and all I could do was to sit there and laugh like a madwoman. No pleas of mercy could soften their cruel hearts. They enjoyed my suffering, laughing and chatting among themselves. I think they even made a kind of contest who would make me laugh and beg the most.
When they finally finished they had to carry me back to the hut, because I was too tired to walk.
8.01.1893
Sime warriors came at night, tied me to the pole at the center of the hut and tickled me almost to the dawn. Despite being so tired I found strength to laugh again. The sound of hilarity drew some more of them and soon there was a kind of party with them eating, drinking and tickling me to death. When they untied me and left I collapsed asleep.
The night ordeal didn't spare me daily torture. The only difference was that today I was stretched on a kind of altar, but the tickling was as severe as yesterday.
9.01.1893
This night a governor came to me. I was his sole property for the long hours. He tickled my body literally from head to toe, till I was hoarse with laughter and beyond any begging. He also did some vile things to me, but I loath to admit that I preferred them over the dreadful tickle torture.
11.01.1893
They tickle me day and night. Lord help me. I don't know how long can I survive this. There is no way to stop this, no confessing, no turning to their religion, no ransom. All they want from me is to laugh, beg and writhe in tickle agony and that I give them in plenty. I was so concentrated on my ticklish feelings that I forgot about Steven. Only now I realized I haven't seen him or heard anything about him since our arrival. But anything I am able to worry about is my next tickle torture.
That was the last entry. Mr and Ms Hawk were counted as victims of the first Matabele war and their exact fate was never determined. From the journal above we can guess that Steven Hawk was killed and his wife either tickled to death or sold to slavers as her maid, or maybe killed when the war erupted on the full scale.
Jolanda Hawk, a young wife for a Methodist pastor went with him on a mission to the Gwai River Valley in Southern Rhodesia. They weren’t discouraged by the news about fierce Matabele tribe and they cruel king Lobengula. Recently a fragments of Jolanda’s diary were found in Zimbabwe state archives. The document is damaged, but we publish whatever remained. Jolanda and Steven Hawk were missing during the first Matabele War and their exact fate is unknown.
12.03.1892
I am so happy. Steven just was nominated to a pastor by our congregation and it was decided that we go to Rhodesia to teach the poor, heathen souls about the Lord. We’ll go with John, our servant and Alice - our maid, all faithful and good people.
28.07.1892
We arrived at the Gwai River, our porters found a perfect place to settle. Steven and John led them to pick up tents and then to build a pen for our meager livestock. It’s called “zeriba” here and it’s made from a very dense bushes and tree branches of species possessing very sharp thorns. When it was done, we ushered our cow, goats, pigs and a few hens and ducks inside. Alice and I started feeding them and the men unloaded our luggage and supplies and set up the rest of the camp. In the evening Alice and me cooked the porridge - our first meal in our new home.
30.07.1892
Steven and John started to build a house. First we paid our porters and they left. We convinced one of them, who spoke good English, to stay as our servant and interpreter. He is a Christian. He has a Christian name - Robert and as heathen one - Mugabe. He seems intelligent and cheerful. Lord surely gave him to us to be a great help.
2.08.1892
We had our first visit of the natives. A group of hunters approached our settlement. They waited in a distance until Robert came and invited them to the fire. He said there were of Mashona tribe. They didn’t look fierce or intimidating - rather small and poor fed, dressed scandalously in no more than a rag around their most private parts. For this Africa is a real terrible place. I still feel uncomfortable wearing this mid-calf skirts and dresses and such a thin blouses, but it is a must - you cannot overheat here, because you may even die. I am both startled and pleased, as Steven seems to like my new outfits. I only dare to write that our tries to make our family bigger never were so long and often, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, they sat on the ground, we gave them coffee and some sugar cane and later a meal of beans. I felt a bit ashamed, because they kept staring at me and discussing something.After a while, when I was distributing the dinner, one of them, who was sitting behind me, suddenly raised my skirt up and peeked. I shrieked, Steven yelled at him, but our Robert calmed him down and asked what it meant to be. It turned out that they were wondering if I am deformed, because I wear so many clothes! I blushed beet red. Robert of course informed them, that there is simply our custom. Then they asked him, if I am so “ukuhlekisa” because I am wearing shoes. Robert couldn’t or wouldn’t translate the term. He only was able to tell that they wonder if I laugh walking on the ground barefooted. I only shrugged, what’s funny in walking with my bare feet? Why should I laugh?
Then they told us to be wary about the Matabele tribe. Mashona are farmers, Matabele are sheepherders and warriors. They think of Mashona as a prey. Attack them, rob them, hurt their women or kidnap them. It seemed like a perfect place to come and teach about love and mercy of our Lord! A lot of work before us
14.10.1892
Two weeks after our house was finished we were visited by our first Matabele warriors. A patrol, much like our police force, arrived at our doors. They weren’t friendly or unfriendly - just checked if we are any threat. They were accompanied by a royal official of the king Lobengula. He inspected everything then gave us some kind of animal skin covered in symbols. Robert translated, that it was kind of a passport - a sign that King approves of us being here. Then he invited us to the Spring Festival. It’s funny to realize, that seasons are reverted down there. Autumn at home, spring here!
25.10.1892
What happened to us was terrible. A nightmare! We considered leaving this cursed land at once, but finally we prayed a lot and decided to stay. But I am still shaking and wake in the night crying.
It happened during the spring festival we were invited to. We went to the nearby kraal, that’s something between the town and the military fort. By “town” I mean rather a big village - a lot of huts, but the settlement itself bigger than many European towns. We were greeted by a governor and sat next to him to witness the ceremony. At first it was male and female dancing and singing, all to the beat of drums and some wild music. It was fascinating, although very indecent. The dancers wore hardly any clothes! Then four large X-cross frames were carried in and to every one of it was tied a naked, negro woman. They were all young, pretty and obviously terrified. Their only garment were lines and symbols painted all over their lush bodies.
“Mashona slaves” - whispered Robert.
Eight shamans in animal masks burst from the crowd and started dancing around the girls, two before each one. Then they came closer, reached with their animal fur covered tods and clawed fingers and started tickling the poor girls. They were obviously very sensitive, immediately bust in laughter and started shrieking something in shrill voices, obviously begging for mercy. But they got none and had to laugh and writhe under the cruel torture.
I shuddered. Being wickedly ticklish myself I could very well imagine the suffering of those poor souls. I remembered my uncle, to whom my parents brought me every summer to leave me for a month. He was very fond of tickling me and his daughters. As a girl I was totally helpless to defend myself and spent many moments squirming and laughing in his lap.
The governor noticed my distress and asked, by Robert’s translation, about the cause.
Naively I answered that I was too ticklish myself to stand even a sight of such a torture.
Robert translated this and I clearly heard the word “ukuhlekisa”. So he knew it anyway. And the Mashona hunters asked, if I was too ticklish to walk barefooted. I felt a surge of fear, but it was far too late. One order from the governor’s lips and I was grabbed by two strong warriors. Steven raised to defend me, but he was stopped by several spearheads aimed at his heart. Almost fainting with fear I was led towards the worst ordeal in my entire life.
They took me to a remote hut then gave me into the hands of several old women, they looked like witches from scary tales! Their bony, but strong hands grabbed me and started undressing me. I struggled and protested, but to no avail. Soon I stood naked before the old crones. They put me into the tub with lukewarm water and started washing me with sponges. Despite my predicament I couldn’t stop giggling, because it tickled. Then I was dried and stretched on the wooden table. Four of the women were holding my limbs and two started shaving my hair from my legs, under my armpits and, forgive me, over my private parts. Soon I was bald like a prostitute and dying of shame. Then they grabbed some kind of a volcanic rock - very soft, covered with pores and looking like a petrified sponge and started scrubbing dead skin from the soles of my feet. I started laughing and trashing, because it tickled horribly, but they paid that no heed, deaf to my pleads. Then my whole body was massaged with some oil. Then the next torture began - the painting of my body. The same symbols that were on Mashona women now were painted on my defenseless body. I couldn’t help, but laugh again. It seemed unbearable, especially when painting came to my armpits and belly.
When the painting was over, women called loudly and four Matabele warriors entered, I cried and blushed from shame, but could do nothing to cover myself from their eyes. They took hold of me and dragged towards the entrance. As I feared I was to be exposed naked to the whole crowd. I struggled and pleaded, but to no avail. As the addition to my shame the warriors amused themselves by grabbing and pinching my bottom and breasts and even putting their hands between my legs. Then I was led outside and was paraded naked among the cheering crowds towards the festive ground.
Even despite the crowd cheering and singing and drum beating I still heard the Mashona girls pitiful laughter and pleas. Soon we saw them and were approaching their writhing forms rapidly. To my horror the fifth X-cross was erected next to them and I was led just there. I did what I could to avoid my fate, but my struggles fell for nothing and soon I was bound to the rash wood. I started pulling my bonds and begging to be released. Among the wild music I heard Steven shouting angrily, also 0demanding me being released.
But it all went for naught, as two shamans jumped on me and attacked my defenseless armpits and soles, tickling them with cruel efficiency. Being excruciately ticklish I had no choice but to burst in hysterical laughter. I struggled in a futile attempt to protect my sensitive parts, but the bonds held me tight. The torture was unbearable, but I had to bear it. It became even worse when the third black joined the others and started titillating my sides and stomach. I howled with laughter, unable even to beg and barely able to breath, but the brutes didn’t care. They just tickled and tickled and I laughed to tears and beyond. I thought I’d die, but I survived. I often thought about martyrs and even wondered how I would perform in time of such a need, but I never imagined the threat would be in a form of the tickle torture.
I don’t know, how long it took. I could think only how to catch the next breath for one more cackle of forced hilarity. My head swam, my eyes were blinded by tears of laughter, my lungs and sides hurt. I discovered the ticklish places I never knew of - the back of my knees, my thighs, my breasts. When the shamans finally stopped I just hung there still shaking with giggles and sobbing with relief.
But it wasn’t over. I was untied and dragged, along with the poor Mashona girls, to be locked in sets of crude wooden stocks.. There our feet were additionally restrained with twine, so they can barely twitch. The warriors tying me up amused themselves by grabbing my breasts of behind, pinching me of tickling my outstretched armpits. The latest, even if not that skillful as the shaman’s work, forced me to laugh again.
Then the shamans came to us and started brushing our soles, covering them with salted water. I knew what it was because some drops from the waved brush fell on my face. This, of course, tickled horribly sending us into a new fit of involuntary mirth. But the worst was yet to be. The cows and goats were paraded to lick out feet. It tickled like nothing before, I discovered I had plenty of strength to howl with laughter and buck wildly. I think that I had to endure hundreds of beasts tongues and even that each one was allowed only a few licks, it drove me half mad with laughter.
Finally they untied me, gave me my garments and cast us away from the village. I was too weak to walk, but fortunately we drove by cart, so I could lay back, when Steven and Robert drove us home. Leaving the village I shuddered, still hearing cackles of insane glee and pitiful cries of still tickled Mashona girls.
16.11.1892
For two days I stayed in bed before I recovered from my ordeal. We discussed the leaving, but prayed it over decided to stay. I don’t know, if it was a good decision. Only a week after the ceremony a bunch of Matabele warriors arrived. They took two of our chicken and a sack of flour, then grabbed Alice and me, tied to the fence and tickle tortured us to tears of laughter. The others kept our men at the spear point. I was panicking that they will repeat my cruel ordeal and cried all the time, yet at the same time had to laugh like the happiest woman on earth. That was a very weird feeling.
The tickling didn’t last as long as during the feast, but still was torturous and left both of us exhausted. When the warriors left, our men untied us, then Robert explained that we fell in status to that of Mashona - we can be raided and robbed at any time and the women tickled to humiliate the men. I asked “Does it mean that they would be back?” and Robert answered “Inevitably”.
And he was right, God have mercy on us! Since then the warriors were back, the same or others, almost every day. Sometimes they took something, but mostly they were here just to tickle poor Alice and me. Sometimes they only hold us or pin to the floor, sometimes tie us to the fence or to the tree or spread among four stakes driven to the ground or even to our own beds . Sometimes we stayed in our clothes, but sometimes we were stripped topless or bare.
One warrior seems to “like” me. He was there in every raid and always tickles me, never Alice. To my doom he discovered my greatest weakness - being tickled with feathers on my breasts and under my arms at the same time. Many humiliating moments I spent shamelessly undressed with my breasts bare, tied with my hands above my head and laughing under that cruel torture.
A week ago Alice came to us in tears and said she couldn’t stand it no more, The poor girl is as ticklish as I am and wasn’t spared, often tickled till she fainted, especially on her feet.
John offered to take her to the Fort Murray. That’s one week in one way, so I expect him to return in a few days. I hope and pray they arrived safely. [Editorial note: They didn’t. The pair was attacked by a Matabele patrol. The man was killed and Alice Jordans abducted and gave to a local chieftain as a tickle slave. After a few months she was sold to Arab slavers and disappeared.]
25.12.1892
Sad Christmas. John didn’t return and we fear for him and Alice. The Matabele keep returning and kept tickling me. When they come I spend at least an hour laughing and writhing in ticklish agony, begging them to have mercy on me. Steven is half insane of anger and shame that he is unable to protect me. I prepared the feast, we ate and prayed, but it wasn’t much joy in this. I have to confess I live in a constant fear if the coming day brings me the dreaded torture. The last one I endured only yesterday, spending a good part of Christmas Eve having my underarms tickled for the amusement of some heathens. Moreover, they gave my feet the same awful treatment as during the infamous feast in the village - tied them to a bar in a barn, soaked in salted water and made our livestock lick it from my soles. It was a horrible tickle torture, bringing back the most unpleasant memories. I literally howled with laughter, much to the Matabeles amusement. To make matters worse they split to two teams - one guiding animals to my poor soles and supplying the salted water, the other tickling my underarms, stomach and sides to the point I barely could take a breath. I think my shrieks of “joy” were heard for miles.
It’s silly, but I have to confess I bear the grudge against our animals for torturing me so eagerly. Today I milked our cow and goats a bit harder than it was necessary
2.01.1893
The warriors didn’t come since Christmas. A hunter named Jonas Bellow came to us yesterday and gave us grave news - the order from the governor for every settlers to evacuate. Technically we are not his subjects, but Mr. Bellow explained that it is for our safety. There will be probably war and the solitary farms would be the first target.
We discussed a lot and decided it would be playing with God’s Providence to stay. We started preparing to leave and Robert went investigating. He and Mr Bellows left yesterday.
7.01.1893
God help me! I don’t know how long will I be able to write, so I write it now. Robert Mugabe is a traitor who sold us, Steven and Jolanda Hawk, to Matabeles. I am now in Lobingo kraal at the Gwai river, held prisoner by king Lobengula’s governor. My husband was brought with me, but we were separated. I am in a hut, guarded by warriors. My fate is unknown, but I guess I would be subjected to a severe tickle torture as it already happened when I was brought here.
I am writing this several hours later. I was tragically right. They came for me, undressed me and dragged to the center of the kraal. There they put me in a set of crude stocks, like during my first ordeal. Then everybody, who wanted, could torture me with wicked tickles. And believe me, they were plenty! They came with their fingers, feathers and brushes to stroke my defenseless body and all I could do was to sit there and laugh like a madwoman. No pleas of mercy could soften their cruel hearts. They enjoyed my suffering, laughing and chatting among themselves. I think they even made a kind of contest who would make me laugh and beg the most.
When they finally finished they had to carry me back to the hut, because I was too tired to walk.
8.01.1893
Sime warriors came at night, tied me to the pole at the center of the hut and tickled me almost to the dawn. Despite being so tired I found strength to laugh again. The sound of hilarity drew some more of them and soon there was a kind of party with them eating, drinking and tickling me to death. When they untied me and left I collapsed asleep.
The night ordeal didn't spare me daily torture. The only difference was that today I was stretched on a kind of altar, but the tickling was as severe as yesterday.
9.01.1893
This night a governor came to me. I was his sole property for the long hours. He tickled my body literally from head to toe, till I was hoarse with laughter and beyond any begging. He also did some vile things to me, but I loath to admit that I preferred them over the dreadful tickle torture.
11.01.1893
They tickle me day and night. Lord help me. I don't know how long can I survive this. There is no way to stop this, no confessing, no turning to their religion, no ransom. All they want from me is to laugh, beg and writhe in tickle agony and that I give them in plenty. I was so concentrated on my ticklish feelings that I forgot about Steven. Only now I realized I haven't seen him or heard anything about him since our arrival. But anything I am able to worry about is my next tickle torture.
That was the last entry. Mr and Ms Hawk were counted as victims of the first Matabele war and their exact fate was never determined. From the journal above we can guess that Steven Hawk was killed and his wife either tickled to death or sold to slavers as her maid, or maybe killed when the war erupted on the full scale.
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