John Relleke & the Killer Bees

John Relleke was a big, blond, 6 foot Dutchman working as the foreman for the Kamativi Tin Mine about 50 miles from Zambezi Christian Mission. He was a Judo expert and met his wife when she came to his class on Judo. (That’s where she fell for himJ). John had an eidetic memory that could recall all the parts numbers of all the parts in the mine garage. He helped me with our vehicles whenever we had a problem if we could get it to him.

I preached once a month in a home at the Tin Mine and John had been to the Christmas service but that was all…until the bees. It was an incredible story that made world medical history and was reported in the Reader’s Digest.

He had come to work one Monday morning expecting to find his tea waiting only to find that Stephen, his capable assistant who always had tea ready, was not there. He had never been tardy before, so John inquired around to see if anybody knew what had happened to him. Finally he found someone who had been with Stephen the day before who told him, “We had been out, uh, hunting and were attacked by a swarm of bees. We all ran, but we have not seen Stephen.”

These were the notorious black killer bees of Africa so John quickly decided to go looking for Stephen. He might have a broken leg or something and need help. John organized a rescue party with a couple men from the mine and one of the men who had been with Stephen. Taking along his prize winning Boxer dog, Pennant, they got in John’s car and drove down to the bridge across the Gwaii river which flows into the Zambezi. Parking his car and pocketing the keys in his walking shorts, they set out along the rocky trail through the rough gorge. It was slow going with John leading the way and the guide behind him giving directions.

John was standing on a narrow ledge 30 feet above the flood-swollen river with his back to the cliff when one of the Africans behind shouted, “Bees!” A great, black cloud of angry bees came buzzing from somewhere in the rocks and settled on John. His only hope was the river, so he dived into its swirling, muddy waters.

When he surfaced, the whole swarm was with him. They covered his head and neck in a thick, fiery blanket. Thoughts of his wife and two children flashed through his mind. He realized that this must have been the fate of Stephen, his assistant. (No trace of Stephen was ever found.) He believed he was going to die, and die painfully. “Might as well drown myself,” he thought. But a powerful swimmer cannot easily drown himself. He went under and breathed in water but came up coughing.

Finally, he saw a bed of reeds on the other side of the river, so he made for them. The thick brown water made him so buoyant that he couldn’t stay under. He tried to plaster mud from the reed bed over the exposed part of his body, but he was now having fever chills, and with each chill, the mud would fall off. He pulled off his shorts and put them over his head, but the bees came in the openings. He lay back in the reeds and made just a small opening for breathing, but the bees came through this into his mouth. He chewed them up and swallowed them to get air.

He sat up and saw something arrowing through the water toward him and assumed it was a crocodile but then he saw it was Pennant. When the dog reached his side, he attacked the bees that blanketed John’s arms, tearing them off with his teeth. The whole swarm turned its attack to the do. He began to weaken. The current caught him, and just as John reached for him, he was swept into the stream and away. John never saw his faithful friend again. (He later replaced him with Pennant, Jr.)

The bees returned the full force of their attack to John. “If only it would rain,” thought John as he looked at the blue, cloudless sky. “Oh God, please let it rain,” he prayed. And it did rain. From a cloudless sky, a strange mist began to fall, and the main swarm of bees left. Finally, at dusk, after about four hours in the water, John realized he’d have to get out now or never. There were only a few bees left around him and he was past feeling their stings. He struggled up the bank and stretched out on some rocks that were still warm from the heat of the sun until he could move more easily. Realizing he had to be gone by morning lest the bees find him again, he pushed on upstream toward the distant bridge. He was on the wrong side of the river and there was no trail.

Just after dark, he heard voices and saw lights coming. His African companions had escaped from the bees and gone for help. He shouted and was found by the rescue party. They had divided up to search both sides of the river and, providentially, the mind doctor was on John’s side. He had tweezers and John directed him to start removing the stings in his eyeballs. They kept count. Then they decided to wait until daylight to make the trip to the bridge, for he would have to walk and had lost his shoes. The rocks and chasms of the river gorge would not permit the use of a stretcher. John suffered now from a burning thirst.

After a restless night, they finally made their way back to the bridge where John’s wife was anxiously waiting with other friends. He still had the car keys in his pocket. They drove him out to Wankie Hospital where all the stingers were removed and counted. One nurse enthusiastically started to pull out his blond moustache. The stinger count reached the incredible total of 2,243 bee stings. They had been in his eyeballs, face, ears, mouth, tongue, throat and body, especially his kneecaps.

About a week, later after he had somewhat recovered, he asked for me.

“The bees set you to thinking, eh?” I asked.

“Yes, I want to have my children baptized,” he told me.

Since they were just one and three years old, I said, “Let’s talk it over.”

I met with him and his pretty wife, Valerie, at their home after work.

“Now tell me why you want your children baptized,” I said.

John asked with a puzzled expression, “Doesn’t the Bible say to be baptized?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“That’s it,” he said. “So they can go to heaven.”

“John, there are lots of people here at Kamativi who haven’t been baptized Let’s baptize the older people first and then sort of work our way down to the younger ones.”

“How could we do that?” he asked.

“Not a problem,” I insisted. “You’re a big fellow and a judo expert. I’m a big guy. Between the two of us, we could baptize everybody at Kamativi if we caught them one at a time, whether they wanted it or not.”

“That wouldn’t do any good?” he laughed.

“Why not?” I asked.

He looked at me seriously and inquired, “Don’t you have to want to be baptized?”

“Oh yes,” I agreed and added, “So what good is it going to do to baptize your children?”

“I’ve wondered about that,” he said thoughtfully.

“Have you been baptized?” I asked him.

“I have,” he said proudly. “I was sprinkled when I was three days old.”

“Did you want to be?” I asked, smiling.

He grinned sheepishly and answered, “No, my mother told me about it when I got older.”

“Then you haven’t been baptized, no matter how it was done.” I insisted.

His wife said much the same thing. He was Roman Catholic and she was Dutch Reformed. So, with some more Bible teaching, we soon went down to a small, crocodile-free pool and baptized them into Christ because they wanted to be. Then they planned to teach their children so they’ll also obey the Lord when they can understand.

This was the first baptisms I did at Kamativi Tin Mines. Others were to follow.