people of the same sort as
those who find it difficult wholly to revere the prideless Erect when
comparing them with the prideful Fallen--and, for the life of me, I
cannot help a sneaking liking and unwilling admiration for Moussa Isa
Somali, who fell through Pride.
There was something fine about him, even as there was about Lucifer, Son
of the Morning, and one cannot avoid feeling that if both did not get
more of hard luck and less of justice than some virtuous people one
knows, they certainly cut a better figure. Of course it is a mistake to
adopt any line of action that leads definitely to the position of
Under-Dog, and to fight when you cannot win. It is not Prudent, and
Prudence leads to Favour, Success, Decorations, and the Respect of
Others if not of yourself. It is also to be remembered that whether you
are a Wicked Rebel or a Noble True-Hearted Patriot depends very largely
on whether you succeed or fail.
All of which is mere specious and idle special pleading on behalf of
Moussa Isa, a sinful murderous Somali....
Most of the memories of Moussa Isa centred round scars. When I say
"memories of Moussa Isa" I mean Moussa Isa's own memories, for there are
no memories concerning him. The might, majesty, dominion and power of
the British Empire were arrayed against him, and the Empire's duly
appointed agents hanged him by the neck until he was dead--at an age
when some people are yet at school, albeit he had gathered in his few
years of life a quantity and quality of experience quite remarkable.
'Twas a sordid business, and yet Moussa Isa died, like many very
respectable and highly belauded folk, from the early Christians in Italy
to the late Christians in Armenia, for a principle and an idea.
He was black, he was filthy, he was savage, ignorant and ugly--but he
had his Pride, both personal and racial, for he was a Somali. A Somali,
mark you, not a mere _Hubshi_ or Woolly One, not a common Nigger, not a
low and despicable person--worshipping idols, eating human flesh, grubs,
roots and bark--the "black ivory" of Arabs.
If you called Moussa Isa a Hubshi, he either killed you or marked you
down for death, according to circumstances.
Had Moussa Isa lived a few centuries earlier, been of another colour,
and swanked around in painful iron garments and assorted cutlery, he
would have been highly praised for his fine and proper spirit. Poet,
bard, and troubadour would have noted and published his quickness on th
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