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Title: A Resident's wife in Nigeria

Author: Constance Belcher Larymore

Release date: July 19, 2024 [eBook #74070]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: George Routledge & Sons, Limited, 1908

Credits: Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A RESIDENT'S WIFE IN NIGERIA ***






A RESIDENT’S WIFE IN NIGERIA

[Illustration]




                            A RESIDENT’S WIFE
                                IN NIGERIA

                                    By
                            CONSTANCE LARYMORE

              WITH FORTY-ONE ILLUSTRATIONS AND A PORTRAIT OF
                                THE AUTHOR

                              [Illustration]

                                  LONDON
                     GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED
                       NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO
                                   1908




Dedication


TO THE VERY BEST OF COMRADES AND FELLOW-TRAVELLERS

‘THE SAHIB’




Preface


In offering this little book to the public, I want to admit at once that
it is in no sense intended as a literary effort, but is merely a record,
gathered up from journals and notes of our everyday life and journeys
which have occupied the last five years.

My excuse for offering it is that I have been specially fortunate in
having opportunities and privileges of travelling about a little bit of
the world where few Englishmen have been; and though sorely handicapped
by very limited scientific knowledge, I have tried always to keep eyes
and ears open.

Only a short time ago, I read these words, written by a wise man, on this
very subject—

‘But the best way of travelling is to ride on a horse through country
where there are no railways, and no roads, and where, accordingly, the
people are rooted and untroubled in mind, and do as little work as they
can. Such travelling, it is not to be questioned, makes the best books.’

In the hope that he is right—for, as I have said, he is a wise man—I send
my little book forth, to take its chance. The last few chapters, I am
aware, should belong to a separate volume, and they were never intended
for publication in this form. But they are the outcome of _actual_
experience, and not generalizing from hearsay. Most of them, indeed,
were written originally in 1902, but they have been revised, corrected,
and corrected again, as time showed me my mistakes and failures. In
manuscript form they had been read by many of my friends who pronounced
them ‘good,’ and it is by their request that these chapters are included
here. It is to these friends that I offer my grateful thanks for the
majority and the best of my illustrations. I also have to acknowledge the
kindness of the Editors of _Chambers Journal_ and the _Pall Mall Gazette_
in permitting the reproduction of articles published by them at different
times.

                                                       CONSTANCE LARYMORE.




Contents


  CHAP.                                       PAGE

                    _PART I_

     I. SIERRA LEONE TO LOKOJA                   1

    II. ON TOUR                                 11

   III. BIDA AND EGGA                           25

    IV. KEFFI                                   47

     V. TREKKING NORTH                          61

    VI. KANO                                    73

   VII. KATĀGUM AND HADEIJA, AND BACK           85

  VIII. KABBA, SEMOLIKA AND PATTI ABAJA        111

    IX. BORGU                                  147

     X. BIDA                                   185

                    _PART II_

     I. THE HOME                               195

    II. THE HOUSEHOLD                          205

   III. DOGS, POULTRY AND COWS                 221

    IV. THE GARDEN                             239

     V. THE STABLE                             257

    VI. CAMP LIFE                              271

   VII. WHAT TO WEAR                           291




List of Illustrations


                                                               FACING PAGE

  Portrait of the Author                                     _Frontispiece_

  The Preperanda                                                         8

  Polo at Lokoja                                                         8

  Kuka (Baobab) Trees                                                   14

  A Hausa Beauty                                                        14

  The Emir escorting us into Bida                                       28

  Details of Gown Embroidery                                            28

  A Typical Hausa Gown                                                  32

  Trouser Embroidery                                                    32

  A Camp on the River Bank                                              40

  Roofing at Keffi                                                      40

  Native Drummers at Keffi                                              54

  A Detachment of the N. N. Regt.                                       54

  A Kano Street Scene                                                   76

  A Kano Mounted Messenger                                              76

  A Kano Caravan Donkey Driver                                          80

  Bringing in Fire-wood                                                104

  A Kano Doorway                                                       104

  Mureji—A Caravan about to cross the Niger                            112

  A Steam Canoe on the Niger                                           112

  The Emir’s Band, Bida                                                124

  My ‘Palm’ Cat (_Nandinia binotata_)                                  124

  ‘Fritz’                                                              152

  Our Start from Bussa for Illo                                        152

  Repairing the Bussa Residency                                        170

  Balu (Serval cat)                                                    170

  The Steel Canoe in which we descended the Bussa rapids               184

  The Tennis Court, Bida                                               184

  The Great Salla                                                      190

  The Prostration                                                      190

  My Writing Table                                                     198

  The Residency, Bida                                                  198

  ‘Amelia,’ a young Giraffe brought home by the late Captain
    Phillips, D.S.O.                                                   210

  ‘Chuku,’ a Native dog, rescued during the Aro-Chuku Expedition       210

  Our energetic D.S.C. training bullocks (Captain Burnside)            236

  Giant Sunflowers at Bussa                                            236

  Our Gardener at Play                                                 250

  ‘Jewel’ and ‘Brown Mouse’                                            250

  Mr. Lafone’s ‘White Mouse’                                           262

  Riding Astride—a locally made Skirt!                                 262

  One of our Camps                                                     274

  The Mail-Cart, Bida                                                  274




CHAPTER I

Sierra Leone to Lokoja


On the 10th of April, 1902, we left Sierra Leone, embarking on the
_Sekondi_ for Forcados, _en route_ to Northern Nigeria. We had spent
seven months in Sierra Leone, my husband doing duty with a company of
native gunners, and had grown to heartily dislike the place. In spite of
its undeniable beauty, it is the possessor of a most unpleasant climate,
and the impossibility of getting horse exercise, and the necessity of
continually ascending or descending steep hills, either on foot, or,
worse still, in a hammock, was most distasteful to us both after four
years of the free and active life of Indian military stations. So we
could not help looking upon our departure somewhat as a release, and
even bidding good-bye to our many kind friends did not entirely damp our
joy as we steamed out of the harbour and passed the lighthouse, gleaming
white amidst the luxuriant greenery and bright blue water, and set our
faces and thoughts towards Nigeria, and the life of a Resident there.

It certainly was a step in the darkest dark; no Englishwoman yet had
gone where I meant to go, or done what I hoped to do: we knew little
or nothing of the conditions of life before us except that it was
‘rough, _very_ rough!’ I had met only one official from Nigeria, and he
looked at me doubtfully and in silence when I announced my intention of
accompanying my husband, much as one regards a wretched scraggy-looking
screw, sometimes produced by an Irish horse-dealer, with confident
asseverations as to his qualities as a hunter—and yet, the ‘screw’
scrambles along fairly all right sometimes! One of my friends in Sierra
Leone—having visited Accra—felt qualified to speak, and, in endeavouring
to dissuade us from this rash venture, assured me that ‘Nigeria was just
like Accra—not a tree, not a blade of grass anywhere!!’ (This is quoted
with apologies to Accra!) I have often smiled to myself over that pithy
saying, while marching through magnificent forests, and miles of open,
grassy, park-like country! Luckily, I still permitted myself to hope
for trees and grass, and felt that my four years in India, and some
experience of camping in Kashmir, would, at all events, prove to have
been a useful education, and seven months in Sierra Leone could leave one
few surprises in the shape of an unpleasant climate.

On the _Sekondi_ we were fortunate to find an old friend of Indian days,
Captain Ashburnham of the 60th Rifles, also faring forth to Nigeria for
the first time, to serve with the W.A.F.F. or, as it is called there,
the Northern Nigeria Regiment. He was armed with valuable experience,
learnt from the South African War and life in Uganda, and many were the
talks we had, and the plans we made, sitting under the awning, on the
deck, while the _Sekondi_ rolled her way south.

One of our fellow-passengers had already been to Nigeria, but I think
he had outlived his enthusiasms a little, and possibly thought me an
unlikely specimen to survive among ‘the fittest,’ for he responded but
little to my tiresome curiosity, while the ship’s officers were unanimous
in headshaking and mournful prophecies, judging Nigeria generally by
their own cursory stay at Burutu, and cheerfully promising to convey
me home ‘next trip’—_if_ I should be above ground to be conveyed! At
table I sat next to a Lagos official, who proved himself a real friend,
and I have never ceased to be grateful to him for his encouragement and
cheerful prognostications, at a time when I sorely needed them. Mr.
Stone’s work at Lagos—that of road construction—lay entirely amongst the
up-country natives, and he would tell me a thousand anecdotes of their
simple kindly ways, courteous hospitality, and child-like interest in
white people—prophesying that I should be friends with them at once, and,
if anything, get rather spoilt amongst them—a forecast which has been
amply fulfilled since.

The trip was an uneventful one, though not the pleasantest I have made
down the Coast: the sole occurrence of interest that I can recall
was that we lost one of our boats overboard during the night, and
the following morning, when the loss was discovered, we turned back
and sought the open seas for the derelict—and found it! A couple of
stalwart Kru-boys were despatched overboard, and swam to the boat, only
to find there were neither oars nor paddles inside, and they presented
a comically helpless spectacle, sitting in the boat, and frantically
endeavouring to paddle with their hands! They had to do another swim, to
possess themselves of the paddles thrown from the ship before they could
bring their prize alongside. And so on—by day, sunshine, sapphire water,
the fringe of low grey coast-line, which never loses its fascination for
me, by night, glorious stars and an infant moon, and—night and day alike,
the monotonous, infinitely soothing roll of the ship, as the huge swell
swept shorewards, to break itself in thundering surf, away by the grey
palm-trees and the yellow sand.

We left the _Sekondi_ outside the bar at Forcados, transhipped ourselves
and our belongings to the ‘branch boat,’ a small steamer of light draft,
and spent four or five weary hot hours crossing the bar and finding our
way up to Burutu. Here we were most kindly and hospitably received by
the Marine Superintendent, who gave me a most welcome cup of tea, and
assisted us to arrange ourselves on the _Karonga_, one of the Government
stern-wheelers, which travel up and down the Niger, carrying mails and
passengers. These little boats consist of an upper and lower deck,
the latter loaded with cargo, fuel and native passengers, the former
reserved for European travellers, and though, nowadays, they boast of
regular cabins, when I first made the acquaintance of the _Karonga_ the
after part of the deck was merely divided off into partitions by canvas
screens, an arrangement which I still prefer to a stuffy cabin! At Burutu
we bought stores, etc., for the up-river trip, and as we had brought
a couple of native servants from Sierra Leone, we shook down quite
comfortably.

That evening we dined on board the _Jebba_, which was lying at Burutu,
and, later, embarked on our little stern-wheeler, and set out on our
river journey, under a full moon, threading our way along one of the
labyrinths of creeks—a liquid silver path, walled on each side with
straight lines of mangroves, dense black shadows, and weird, bare white
roots and stems—a scene suggestive of mystery, and full of a strange
beauty of its own.

I enjoyed every day of that trip; we were a cheery party, and all
prepared to make the best of life: as we left the Delta behind, the
country became more diversified, little villages appeared on the banks
and we were surrounded by tiny canoes, the occupants of which, boys and
girls, clamoured loudly in greeting, and fierce competition ensued over
the empty tins and bottles flung to them.

The second evening we were destined to discover the weak points of the
_Karonga_; the rain came down in torrents, poured through the roof
of the deck in vigorous streams, soaking beds and bedding in five
minutes. We stripped our beds, and sat patiently, watching the water
dripping steadily on the bare canvas, till, in sheer weariness, we
rolled ourselves up in mackintoshes, rigged waterproof sheets on top of
the mosquito nets, and slept soundly in spite of wet pillows and the
prevailing drippiness!

In the morning, however, hot sunshine turned our sorrow into joy—every
available space was employed for the drying of wet blankets and clothing,
and, with all our gloom dispersed, Captain Ashburnham and I mixed the
dough, and treated ourselves to hot scones for breakfast!

We arrived at Lokoja rather late one evening, and after sleeping that
night on the _Karonga_, the next morning we were most kindly taken in
charge by Mr. Gollan, then Chief Justice, who was temporarily filling the
place of the last Resident, just invalided home. Mr. Gollan escorted us
to our quarters, a massively built double-storeyed stone house, known as
the ‘Preperanda,’ which had previously been the Mess-house of the N.N.
Regiment, but was now in a very bad state of repair. The rooms below
were used as offices, and those above as a dwelling-house. The verandah
was in a ruinous condition, and most of the glass had vanished from the
doors and windows; even the shutters had fallen off, so that, when the
tornadoes came, as they did with annoying frequency, salvation lay in one
direction only, to collect _all_ one’s belongings in frantic haste in a
heap in the centre of the floor, cover them with waterproof sheets, and
sit firmly on them till the storm had spent itself, when the floor could
be mopped up, and books, pictures, etc., returned to their places.

Still, I have always loved the Preperanda: it was almost buried in
trees, gorgeous scarlet ‘flamboyant’ (_Poinciana Regia_), red and yellow
acacias, deliciously scented frangipani, both white and pink, huge bushes
of rosy oleanders, lime-trees, mangoes, orange-trees and guavas: leaning
over the verandah railing in the fragrant soft darkness, I then and there
took to heart the lesson which I have tried to practise ever since—the
absolute _duty_ of planting trees everywhere for the benefit of one’s
successors.

At the Preperanda, I began to study the art of Nigerian housekeeping, and
forthwith engaged a cook, a most unprepossessing looking individual, a
Kru-boy, rejoicing in the name of Jim Dow; he proved an excellent cook,
as they go in West Africa, but a frail vessel where intoxicants were
concerned; nevertheless, he did us good service for three years in many
places, was untiring on the march, and, in the main, sober. The further
knowledge I acquired on this all-important subject I have gathered
together in a later chapter for the sake of convenience.

Our first month in Lokoja was, in many ways, a busy one; my husband had
his hands only too full of official work, we bought a couple of ponies,
and I set to work to organize a stable, realizing sadly in a day or two
that the amenities and conveniences of Indian life were not to be found
here, any more than inside the house. We made friends, too, with the
small community of white people in the station, the nursing sisters,
N.N.R. officers and civilian officials, and many were the helping hands
and kindly hints given to us, on all sides, and most gratefully received.

Lokoja is placed most picturesquely on a strip of level ground, encircled
by hills and the Niger. Above the native town towers the Patti Hill,
a flat-topped mountain some eight hundred feet high, on the summit of
which, originally, there was a town and many acres of cultivation. The
town has vanished, but traces of old farms can easily be seen, and the
former occupiers are, even now, anxious to return to their perch and
build a new village. They seem to have a high opinion of the soil up
there, and we have often wished that the English community might be able
to form a new station on that breezy hill-top instead of grilling down
by the river bank. Perhaps it may come to pass some day, for the present
Cantonment is, most unfortunately, down-stream from the native town.

[Illustration: THE PREPERANDA (p. 7)]

[Illustration: POLO AT LOKOJA (p. 9)]

I often wonder whether any one who had not seen the place for ten years
or so would be able to recognize it to-day! The change, even since I have
known it, has been amazing. When we landed there, five years ago, the
‘Civil Lines’ consisted of a straggling row of bungalows, rejoicing in
the significant appellation of ‘Blackwater Crescent’! In front stretched
a waste of swampy ground, thickly covered with coarse, rank grass.

To-day, with its numbers of neat bungalows, well-tended little gardens,
the swamp drained and converted into a recreation ground, containing
tennis-courts, cricket-pitch, etc., good roads, and flowering trees and
hedges, it is as pretty a little cantonment as one could wish to see, and
the view from the hills behind is extremely beautiful—the two rivers,
Niger and Benue meeting just below the cantonment, winding down to the
confluence like two silver ribbons, visible for miles up river.

The 2nd Battalion of the N.N.R. are quartered in Lokoja, with a company
of native gunners, and we still call their lines ‘the camp’—a survival of
the days when the soldiers existed in wretched discomfort, under canvas.
Behind the camp is the polo ground, and, on the farthest ridge, the new
hospital is prominent, with the Sisters’ bungalow, and medical officers’
quarters. Personally, I have always thought Lokoja a far prettier and
pleasanter place than Zungeru, the new headquarters, but comparisons are
ever ungracious, and lasting impressions of places—to me—depend so much
on associations, that Lokoja has always been more of a ‘home’ than a
‘headquarters’ to me. I have always been sorry to leave it, and always
glad and contented to see it again.




CHAPTER II

On Tour


Exactly a month after our arrival, we set forth on our first tour in the
‘bush.’ The object of our journey was the delimitation of the Northern
Nigeria-Lagos boundary, from Aiede to Owo, and at the former place we
were to meet the Lagos Travelling Commissioner.

We made our preparations mostly by the light of our Kashmir camping
experience, for, beyond generalities, none of my friends in Lokoja—with
the best will in the world—could help me very much, never yet having had
such a problem to tackle! Indeed, I think, had they advised me frankly,
they would have said, ‘Don’t go!’ and they were quite wise and kind
enough to refrain from saying that!

So, on the 28th of May, we rode leisurely out of Lokoja, about four
o’clock, having decided on a short march for the first day—a very sound
precaution, on which we have acted ever since. We jogged down to the Mimi
River, on the far side of which our camp was arranged, the carriers and
servants having been sent on ahead, so that everything was ready for us
in the little ‘rest-house’ (a thatched shelter, innocent of walls), hot
baths announced, and dinner preparing.

Things were not exactly ship-shape that night—they never are at a first
halt—and the sandflies and mosquitoes gave us a bad time; but, all the
same, we were _very_ happy at being out in camp, with a good six weeks
before us, to be crammed with novel experiences, new flowers, new birds,
new butterflies to discover, heaps to learn about everything, and no
drawbacks, saving a little physical discomfort, a comparatively trifling
matter to energetic inquisitive folks like ourselves.

‘A rare holiday’ we said, and so it proved itself, amply!

The next morning we were off early, and rode along through lovely
park-like country, wide stretches of grass, picturesquely dotted with
clumps of palms and light bushes, crossed by streams the courses of
which are marked by a broad band of thick luxuriant foliage—like a dark
green ribbon lying across the sunny plain of grass. I made delighted
acquaintance with the Gloriosa Superba lily, not the magnificent apricot
yellow climbing variety, but a more delicately regal one, with glowing
crimson petals edged with gold, standing up among the grass, slender,
tall and graceful. That night we had heavy rain, but our rest-house,
mercifully, was watertight and very cosy, and we smiled contentedly, and
promised ourselves a cool march for the morrow. And so we had:—it was a
perfect day full of joyful discoveries, climbing beside the narrow path,
like a sheet of flame, was _Mussaenda Elegans_ in full bloom, two furry
grey monkeys sitting solemnly on a rock, birds of wonderful blue, crimson
and yellow, some scarcely larger than beetles, a tiny village tucked
away at the foot of a little round hill, and, later, when we climbed
the Shokko-Shokko hill, great clumps of pure white lilies, the bulbs of
which were the size of a man’s head, as I discovered, when, afterwards,
I bore one back in triumph to Lokoja. At Shokko-Shokko we celebrated my
birthday with a dinner-party of two, and I cannot recall a cheerier or
more light-hearted birthday in my life!

The following day, I had my first view of forest country: I had listened
so often to my husband’s descriptions of the Ashanti forests and their
dreary monotony, and I was ready to cry out to him that it was, after
all, the loveliest thing in the world—though, later on, I quite came
round to his opinion!

It is a rather specially beautiful piece of forest round Oduapi; the
sunshine filters down pleasantly through the branches of huge trees and
swinging creepers, on the thick undergrowth of bushes and ferns; there
are acres and acres of pineapples, the smell of them rather overpowering,
for they are such prickly souls that the natives gather only those which
grow close to the path, while the rest rot in their hundreds; but the
sickening scent attracts perfectly splendid butterflies—positive _coveys_
of them, of all shapes, sizes and colours.

We passed a tiny farm, belonging to an ex-soldier, a Hausa; he and his
family work the little homestead, and the acres increase year by year,
I am glad to say! On this first visit he and his wife came out to greet
us, and, with the simplest kindly hospitality, offered us of their
best—kola-nuts and wild honey, both of which I ate on the spot, to their
great delight. The honey was rather a problem, on a fidgety pony, with a
twig for a fork!

The Chief of Oduapi, a most cheery old gentleman, with a loud and jovial
laugh, came out to meet us, accompanied by his ‘suite,’ and I tried hard
not to laugh—the caparisoned steeds were so quaint, and still more so
their riders, picturesque in flowing gowns, made of velvet, originally
of loud gaudy colours, but softened by time and exposure to perfectly
artistic tones. Oduapi’s gown is always a delight to me, the blue has
become the blue of Gobelin, and the green the softest of sage tints.
Their dignity was sadly impaired by the head-dress of huge flapping straw
Hausa hats, with leather strings—now perching rakishly, now pressed down,
granny-wise, now flapping wildly half-way down the rider’s back, as his
pony plunged and reared.

[Illustration: ‘KUKA’ (BAOBAB) TREES. (p. 14)]

[Illustration: A HAUSA BEAUTY. (p. 19)]

The rest-house at Oduapi is placed in a clearing in the forest—a lovely
spot, with troops of little grey monkeys chattering and swinging in
the trees, the undergrowth alive with birds and butterflies, and an
occasional ‘ough, ough,’ betraying the whereabouts of the larger
dog-faced monkeys, who, however, did not show themselves, though they
seemed to resent our intrusion.

That night, I woke suddenly, listening intently, to hear, for the first
time, the roar of a lion. It was a very awe-inspiring sound, echoing
again and again in the depths of the silent forest, followed by a deep
hoarse cough, and made one, for the moment, consider our thatched shelter
somewhat inadequate! However, we had a fire burning outside, and,
remembering the saying that no lion will tackle a mosquito curtain (and,
further, being _very_ sleepy!), I merely took the precaution of lifting
Timmie, our Irish terrier, on to my bed, and slept placidly till dawn.

After a hot march, we reached Kabba, and though we were most kindly
received by the officer commanding the detachment there we found the
ruinous tumble-down ‘fort’ so uncomfortable that we were glad to leave
again. Afterwards, I saw a good deal more of Kabba, and learnt to love
it, and think it far the most beautiful spot I have seen in Northern
Nigeria. At Lukpa, where the village nestles away among the trees, and
the rest-house is set on a hill with magnificent views all round, an
incident occurred which is worth describing in detail, for it ‘gives one
furiously to think’!

‘The Sahib’—as, from ineradicable Indian habit I still commonly call my
husband—had gone out at sunset, after deer, and, during his absence,
the entire population of the village came streaming up the hill to the
rest-house, all talking loudly and at once, and evidently under the
influence of strong excitement. I was, by that time, well accustomed to
creating a sensation wherever I appeared, no white woman having been seen
previously; but these people struck me as having more than salutations
in their minds and on their clamouring tongues. I had been six weeks in
the country, my knowledge of Hausa was confined to salutations and a
few simple words, so I summoned our interpreter to help me to entertain
my visitors. They chattered, shouted and gesticulated at ‘Paul,’ who
eventually explained to me, smilingly, that they had never seen a white
woman before, and were anxious to offer me a personal welcome. I nodded
and smiled in high gratification, thanked them cordially, and, when I
had exhausted my small stock of polite salutations, told the interpreter
to give them leave to go home. This they did, somewhat reluctantly,
I thought; but after describing the interview with some amusement to
the Sahib, I dismissed the matter from my mind. Six weeks later we
passed through Lukpa again, on our way back to Lokoja, and found it
_deserted_—not a man, woman or child, not a goat, not a fowl—all gone,
obviously fled into the bush! I felt distinctly hurt at this churlish
behaviour on the part of my late admirers, and learnt, long afterwards,
that, on our first visit, our precious interpreter and others of our
party had _seized and killed every goat and fowl in the village_! The
wretched owners had rushed up to the rest-house to complain and implore
protection, and all they got was: ‘Thank you! Thank you! Yes, that’s all
right! You can go home now!’ I am not ashamed to confess that I _cried_
when I made that discovery! The lesson, however, went home to us both,
and drove us to work ceaselessly at the Hausa language, knowing there
could be no security for ourselves, or justice for the people, until we
could be independent of dishonest interpretation.

At Ekiurin, we pitched our tent under a great shady tree in the centre of
the village, and strolled about in the cool of the evening, finding large
plantations of scarlet and yellow Cannas, the seeds of which are pierced
and threaded into Mahomedan rosaries. As a great mark of confidence, I
was shown the interior of the ‘Ju-ju house,’ and was as disappointed as
one usually is at the unravelling of a mystery! The shrine consisted of
a dark, empty room, swept very clean, the walls were roughly coloured
red, and on one was drawn an unshapely, meaningless figure, executed,
apparently, in white chalk. In the verandah, another reddened wall
was decorated with similar designs, and in a prominent place was the
sacrificial stone, black and roughly carved. In a niche in the wall
stood a carved wooden figure, some eighteen inches high, hideous and
much blackened with exposure and nasty gory smears, caused, however, by
nothing less innocent than the blood of an occasional fowl.

And so on to Aiede—the country alternating between grass-land and forest.
I found precious trophies in the shape of terrestrial orchids, varying
in hue from palest mauve to deepest purple, with delicate reddish-brown
stems, and growing about three feet high. There were yellow ones and
some were green, all most wonderfully striped, spotted and splashed with
contrasting colours.

Very prominent features of the Nigerian landscape are the red ant
hills, sometimes attaining a great height, and most fantastic in shape
and appearance. They remind me of a story told of a gallant officer,
more zealous than comprehending, who was engaged in quelling a petty
disturbance in West Africa. This hero, spying one of these queer-looking
clay erections, took it to be a ‘heathen fetish,’ and, plunging his sword
through and through the imaginary idol, exclaimed to the astonished
villagers and his troops: ‘Thus does the Great White Queen destroy the
Black Man’s Ju-ju!’ The villagers, of course, thought him mad, but were
too polite to say so, and the native soldiers must have smiled!

At one small village I created a painful impression, apparently; the
headmen, who came to the usual interview, lay on the ground, their heads
wrapped tightly in their gowns, and groaned aloud, in abject fear, and
no persuasion could induce them to speak or look up till I retired from
the scene! The scare subsided happily, before we left, and they recorded
their opinion that I had come straight from Heaven, and besought me not
to permit it to rain for a day or two. I could but hope for the best, and
felt relieved when we got away without a shower!

The roads, or rather tracks, were terribly bad going when rain caught
us on the march; we crossed mountains, stumbling along among masses of
rock, loose boulders and slippery clay, on foot, of course, riding being
out of the question, and our hearts ached for our plucky little ponies,
labouring and clambering up—the descent in each case being worse and more
dangerous. They were indeed ‘as active as monkeys and as clever as cats.’
On the return journey we tied putties on their knees to save them in case
of a slip, and felt much happier.

Aiede is a straggling, rather dilapidated Yoruba town; it looked
pretty, as there is any amount of vegetation, bright sunshine and cool
shade, but the prevailing smells are atrocious, and the people most
unattractive. They are Yorubas, but appear to be exceptionally lazy
and idle, ignorant and fetish-ridden. Strictly ‘on the quiet,’ I was
taken to see the Ju-ju stone, hidden away inside a circular enclosure:
a large rock against which was propped a roughly carved wooden image,
very ugly, smeared all over with blood, feathers, etc., as was also the
ground. I was told that a sacrifice (of a goat or a fowl) is made there
every morning, so that the image may be ‘watered with blood’; there were
indications of special oblations having been made—possibly on our account!

A compound was pointed out to me as the dwelling of their ‘Ju-ju woman,’
described as ‘white,’ held by the Aiede folks in great reverence; many
sacrifices of dogs are made to her, as she has a particular fancy for
eating them! My Irish terrier ran fearlessly in, and, lest he should get
his throat cut, I rushed in after him, and came face to face with the
old lady. She was a loathsome object, an albino negress, with snow-white
hair, skin of a horrible blanched colour, and a terrible pair of red
eyes. Her astonishment at the sight of me was quite ludicrous; she may
have considered me as a possible rival, about to set up in her line of
business! The Lagos Travelling Commissioner, who we met at Aiede, seemed
to have grave suspicions of the people there in the matter of twin-murder
and human sacrifices—they certainly looked capable of both.

Part of the road from Aiede to Alashigidi was declared impassable for the
ponies, so we sent them round by a longer road and did the eight miles on
foot. It was rather a pleasant variety, and included some rough climbing,
after which I was made acquainted with palm wine; it was icy cold and
quite fresh, and seemed to us delicious, but I suppose we were very
thirsty, for it has never seemed so good, to me, since.

After leaving Alashigidi, the country was dense forest, damp, gloomy and
utterly monotonous, only compensated for by the magnificent butterflies.
We succeeded in capturing a good many, especially of a kind that was, at
that time, new to me—a truly beautiful person, with glorious colouring,
the wings quite iridescent, appearing in one light, pale green, in
another deep glowing purple, in another shimmering white, with a general
effect of mother-of-pearl. Along the banks of the Osé River a rough path
was blazed, to mark the boundary line, and we made an expedition along it
on foot. It was a very interesting experience, penetrating this silent
forest, where no human being had passed before, and delightful to notice
how utterly fearless were the birds and butterflies, scarcely moving
at our approach. The men who hacked out the path for us had immense
difficulty in inducing a large python to ‘move on’—he had to be actually
burnt out before he would remove himself! The river itself was very
lovely, cool and silent in deepest shade, winding noiselessly through the
forest. Our objective was Iporo, a little standing camp, composed of much
dilapidated grass huts in a clearing, on the banks of a stream, really
tinkling and purling exactly like a Scotch burn, and which I flew to
sketch on the spot!

The following morning we started back on our long return journey, passing
from Alashigidi to Erun, where we spent what should have been Coronation
Day. On the strength of this, we decided to hold a _durbar_ of our own,
congratulating ourselves on being far from the crowded streets of London,
and all unconscious of the tragic shadow then hanging over England, while
the King lay dangerously ill.

A number of Chiefs came in from the surrounding villages, to pay their
respects, all arrayed in their bravest attire, and a very gaudy crowd
they were! Erun himself was arrayed in a garment composed of stripes of
crimson and gold plush, embroidered on the breast with gold and sequins;
over this was worn a long mantle of silver grey plush—it made my heart
ache to see its delicate folds trailing in the dust! On his head was a
comical high hat, shaped like a Bishop’s mitre, made entirely of white
and coloured beads; from it, all round, hung a long, thick fringe
of beads, thoroughly concealing his face. This original costume was
completed by a necklace of coral, huge slippers, also of bead-work, and a
staff completely covered with beads in intricate patterns, surmounted by
a bead dicky-bird!

He sat, with immense dignity, under a crimson and gold State umbrella,
with the other Chiefs arranged in a semicircle, strictly according to
precedence, making a brilliant splash of colour with their robes of blue,
purple and green velvet and brocade.

While my husband explained carefully to them why the day had a special
significance for us all, and described what we imagined to be going on at
Westminster, I whiled away the time by making a sketch of the old Chief,
and took some photographs, but found our guests most fidgety folks to
get into a group—at the critical moment some one was sure to get up and
stroll away, or lean across to make a remark to his neighbour!

In the evening, rather to our dismay, they all turned up again, singly
this time, and gave us a good deal of useful information. Before each
other they would say nothing, this being a matter of etiquette, but, in
private, were brimful of troubles, complaints and general talk.

From Erun we made our way back to Kabba, coming in for quantities of
rain, but usually at night, so we had little real inconvenience from
it, except in the matter of fording swollen streams. On one of these
occasions, crawling cautiously into the river, the ponies suddenly
dropped out of their depth, and were obliged to swim for it. It was
decidedly uncomfortable for ponies and riders, but the good little souls
made a valiant struggle against the rushing current, and landed us safe,
though wet, on the far side. The worst part of that business was the
struggle to get off my dripping boots!

We were delighted to leave the stuffy forest behind, and find ourselves
back in the fresh air and breezes of Kabba. It was an uneventful march,
my chief concern the catching of butterflies. We got one or two fine
“Charaxes,” and greatly exercised ourselves over the moths that thronged
the sweet-scented blossoms of the paw-paw trees at night.

We got back to Lokoja about the middle of July, having thoroughly enjoyed
our _trek_, and, myself, feeling very pleased with my initiation into the
methods of African travel.




CHAPTER III

Bida and Egga


We spent the rest of July and August in Lokoja—my husband, as usual, full
of work; I, very busy gardening. We watched the building of the bungalow
destined for us, and, as soon as the actual building was finished, we
set to work, and made our garden, having the coarse elephant grass dug
out, and turfy ‘dhoob’ grass planted instead. Numberless seedlings and
cuttings were put in, dotted over the grass; we had scarcely one failure,
and my seedlings are now respectable sized trees!

But trouble overtook us too—our dearly-loved little Irish terrier
sickened and died, as did also my pony, ‘Mouse,’ who had carried me so
gallantly over all those miles we had travelled. Both losses, I imagine,
were the result of that ‘beautiful forest country.’

About this time the High Commissioner arrived, bringing Lady Lugard;
they paid Lokoja a short visit before going on to Zungeru, and the real
Coronation Day was celebrated. In the middle of August we moved into our
new bungalow, and, for me, naturally, the days flew until the beginning
of September.

My husband was very anxious to meet and confer with the Resident of Nupe,
who was less able to leave his headquarters at the time than we were,
and, as we were nothing loth to extend our acquaintance with Nigeria, we
packed up, and started for Bida.

We went up river on one of the stern-wheelers, as far as Dakmon on the
Kaduna River; there we found ponies, sent down from Bida to meet us, and
rode in, an easy march of about fourteen miles. We were struck with the
general air of prosperity and comfort displayed by the flourishing farms
and neat little hamlets, and were rather amused to come upon a scarecrow,
the first I had seen in this country.

It was a great day for Bida: no white woman had ever been there, and
the Emir and his people were determined to do honour to the event; so,
as we approached the town, a great concourse of people began to throng
down the hill from the Residency. At the head of the procession rode Mr.
Goldsmith, the Acting Resident, followed by the Emir, an immensely tall
and stout personage, gorgeously attired, and having a State umbrella held
over his head as he rode, and ostrich feather fans waved by attendants on
either side. Behind him followed the members of his family and ‘Court
officials,’ and the procession ended in a surging crowd, on horseback and
on foot. They made an attractive picture, splashes of brilliant colour
and snowy white robes and turbans dashing hither and thither, pulling up
their horses suddenly on their haunches, with a great display of jingling
brass and gaudy leather trappings, then darting off again, scattering the
crowd like irresponsible butterflies! After the ceremonial greetings we
all proceeded to the Residency, where more greetings ensued, and, on his
dismounting, one could get a better idea of the vast proportions of the
Emir—a truly huge man.

The city of Bida lies rather in a hollow, surrounded by low hills; its
wall extends for about nine miles, and is pierced by a number of large
gateways, most cunningly set, with dark recesses in their depths—probably
with a view to dealing effectually with unexpected or undesired visitors!
Inside, the streets are lined with shady trees, which give a delightfully
cool appearance to the thatched huts and market places. The Emir’s palace
is a great pile of clay buildings enclosed within a high wall, and on the
occasion when, accompanied by Mr. Goldsmith, we went to visit him, we had
an opportunity of inspecting the Nupe style of building and decoration.
The inner apartments were more or less like great vaults, unlighted save
by the doorways, and appeared to us, at first, to be in pitch-darkness;
but, after a time, when our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we
could follow the outline of the high vaulted roof and the massive
pillars, the surface of which is plastered and beautifully polished
(I believe with special clay, obtained from the inside of ant-heaps),
resembling black marble.

It was an odd experience, sitting in the warm scented darkness, our
host and his people more guessed at than seen, great fans softly waving
behind him, and every rustle of every gown wafting out the heavy perfume
of musk, an interpreter conveyed in a hushed, monotonous murmur endless
salutations, compliments and pious aspirations between us, the atmosphere
was highly soporific, and we were all relieved when the Emir proposed a
move to the verandah.

I requested, and obtained permission to pay a visit to the ladies of
the harem, and, escorted by an aged—and presumably privileged—dotard, I
passed through the heavy door and found as great a contrast to the dim
quiet scene I had just left as could well be imagined! A crowd of women,
some mere girls, others middle-aged, nearly all carrying babies, and a
swarm of brown toddlers, all laughing, clapping their hands, calling
greetings and salutations incessantly. To them it was indeed a ‘bolt
from the blue,’ and, in their placid lives of seclusion, a marvellous
and startling occurrence; but, though they were frank enough in their
expressions of astonishment and pleasure, their perfect courtesy,
that fine characteristic of the African people, prevailed to restrain
them. There was no mobbing, no pushing, or crowding. I was invited to
seat myself on a large carved black stool, while the Emir’s mother, a
very aged sweet-faced woman, evidently set in authority above the rest,
crouched on the ground beside me, gently patting and smoothing my skirts
and feet, while she poured forth greetings and salutations, thanking
Allah fervently that ‘in her old age, she had been spared to see this
wonderful sight.’

[Illustration: THE EMIR ESCORTING US IN TO BIDA. (p. 27)]

[Illustration: DETAILS OF GOWN EMBROIDERY. (p. 31)]

It was very touching, and, at that time, I little thought I should ever
see her again, though, afterwards, I had frequent messages from her to
say that she still lived and still remembered, and when would I come back
and visit her again?

The Emir presented us with an enormous and almost embarrassing ‘dash’
or present—oxen, sheep, fowls and various special Bida products.
Fortunately, the custom (which hurts no one’s feelings) is to dispose of
the live stock in the market and present to the donor, in money or cloth,
the full value of his present, so I ‘bought in’ eagerly some of the
really beautiful coloured grass mats—there were seventy-five to choose
from!—and handsome brass-work, and bore them off with me when, on the
following day, we took leave of our kind host, and cantered down to the
Wonangi Creek, where our steel canoe was waiting, and slowly dropped
down stream to Lokoja.

I afterwards sent the Emir of Bida, as a token of friendship, a Hausa
gown, made for me locally, of white material, much pleated, and heavily
embroidered in white in the customary patterns, and this embroidery I
outlined and embellished with gold thread, producing a very fine rich
effect, which was highly appreciated by my friend.

A few words on the subject of Hausa embroidery may not be inappropriate
here, for it is distinctly interesting, and, in its way, artistic.

The finest and most elaborate needlework is found on the Hausa gown
or _tobe_, which, in itself, deserves a few words of description in
detail. The accompanying drawing gives an accurate idea of its shape—a
surplice-like garment of immense width, reaching to the ankles. The
material is frequently pleated all over from neck to knees, where it
falls loose, taking on a most up-to-date flow and expansion! I have
seen as much as thirty yards of wide English cloth put into one tobe;
under these circumstances, the weight of the gown is, of course, very
considerable.

These garments are made of every kind of stuff, according to the length
of the wearer’s purse; sometimes they are fashioned of European cotton
velvets, brocades and plush, and, in the districts where the Lagos trade
makes its influence felt, many of these gowns are to be seen, made,
alas, of shoddy velveteen, and the beautiful native needlework replaced
by tawdry tinsel and sequins. The vast majority, however, are composed
of country-made cloth, which is, by necessity of the tiny, primitive
looms, woven in narrow strips, some four inches wide, and laboriously
sewn together. Some of it is dyed with indigo or magenta, but the best
kind remains a creamy white, resembling a coarse heavy linen, and forms
a most desirable background for elaborate stitchery. The tobe has a deep
pocket on the left breast, reaching to the knees, and it is on this,
principally, that the embroidery is concentrated: there is also a single
circular design at the back, high on the left shoulder, which never
varies, though the decoration in front may be amplified and elaborated at
pleasure.

All the designs used in Hausa embroidery are obviously symbolical, and
their significance and history is a subject of deep interest, but it
is most difficult to acquire reliable information on the point, as the
people themselves are, for the most part, hopelessly ignorant about it,
and merely reproduce the same designs from generation to generation, for
the excellent—and, to them, conclusive reason that their fathers and
grandfathers did so!

The most frequent designs are the _Fuska_ (face) and the _Almakashi_
(scissors); these I have always found included in every decorative
scheme, however intricate and elaborate. The pattern is drawn in native
ink, with a pointed wooden pen; it is entirely free-hand, and is rather a
go-as-you-please process, with little regard for symmetry, though, in the
case of the gown I have illustrated, I think the complicated conventional
design is marvellously accurate for a free-hand performance.

The work is carried out in native thread, occasionally dyed with indigo,
or to the correct Islamic shade of brilliant green but usually of the
same creamy tint as the cloth itself. The stitchery is absolutely simple,
being mainly chain-stitch squares filled in with long stitches, and a
curious handsome effect is produced by a series of tiny eyelets, worked
in buttonhole stitch, giving a rich damask appearance. Couching stitch is
also used, and most patterns are outlined with French knots.

There is also another quite distinct kind of embroidery, universally
employed for decorating the enormously wide trousers worn underneath the
tobes. These voluminous garments terminate in an almost tightfitting
band, some nine inches deep, just above the ankle, and it is here, and on
the outside of the leg, that this needlework is lavished—a cunning piece
of vanity, as it is well displayed when the wearer strides about with a
sufficient swagger!

[Illustration: A TYPICAL HAUSA GOWN. (p. 30)]

[Illustration: TROUSER EMBROIDERY. (p. 32)]

The designs, as can be seen from the sketch, are quite different from
those used on the tobes; some are distinctly Masonic in character, some
are quite ecclesiastical, others suggestive of Persian embroidery. They
are carried out in gaily-coloured wools, procured from Lagos,—the usual
tints being bright crimson, royal blue, purple, orange, green and black.
The combination I am aware, sounds daring, to say the least of it, but
the result is wonderfully effective and brilliant, without being in the
least bit gaudy, and it always seems to me a thousand pities that so much
industry and real artistic effectiveness should be thrown away, usually,
on the most wretched materials, cheap cotton cloth from Manchester very
often, and on these inferior wools which will not bear the ordeal of a
single washing.

I have interested myself in collecting these designs, and have
worked them myself on the best linens with fast-dyed silks and the
equally beautiful modern flax threads, and the result is eminently
satisfactory—the designs, of course, requiring to be corrected and
straightened. Indeed, for tea-cloths, borders, cushions or doyleys,
and for an endless variety of decorative purposes, I think it would be
difficult to find embroidery of a more striking or original kind than
that peculiar to Nigeria.

In November, my husband had orders to accompany a patrol on the
Northern-Southern Nigeria frontier, and as friction with some of the
natives was a possible contingency, it was not thought advisable for me
to go too, so I remained in Lokoja alone, feeling sad and rather lonely,
and envying my better half the opportunity of finding ‘pastures new’
which I was unable to share.

On leaving, the Sahib commended me to the care of the Sariki and Chiefs
of Lokoja, mainly, I think, as a friendly joke, but they took the charge
quite seriously, dear souls, the whole cavalcade turning up regularly
each morning to make careful inquiries of the most minute description,
and to ask whether I did not ‘feel sad without the Resident!’ After a
few days they informed me that ‘it was quite impossible for them to take
_proper_ care of me while I lived so far away from them—they had a _fine_
compound swept out, next to the Sariki’s house, in the town—would I not
come and live there, till the Judge’s return?’

It was rather a dilemma, and I had to meet it by telling them how much
I should have enjoyed visiting them, but that I had my duty too, and I
must look after our house and garden, ponies and dogs, so as to keep
everything in order, and finally satisfied their kind hearts by promising
to send to them for all and anything that I might want! Each time a
letter arrived from the absentee, I summoned my friends, read it aloud,
translating each sentence as I went into halting Hausa; every single
word was repeated and passed round eagerly, discussed and commented
upon, amidst much chewing of kola-nuts, provided by the hostess, and
ponderous messages of an affectionate nature were impressively given me
for transmission in my reply!

The arrival of General and Mrs. Kemball cheered me greatly, and the week
they spent in Lokoja was a very happy one for me, in Mrs. Kemball’s
bright and sympathetic companionship. There was a cheery dinner-party at
the Mess in their honour, and I said good-bye very regretfully when they
went on their way to Zungeru. Shortly afterwards we had another glimpse
of them as they passed through on their way down river, and we little
thought then that our next meeting would be at Trinity Lodge, Cambridge!

One morning, three weeks later, I put on my riding habit with a very
light heart, and rode out, accompanied by the whole of the Sariki’s
cavalcade, to escort our ‘judge’ home in triumph. It was a glorious
morning, and perfectly delightful riding through the crops of
guinea-corn, now ripe, and standing ten feet high,—the leaves splashed
and stained with crimson, purple and gold, like gaudy, waving ribbons,
the heavy plumes of grain swaying above one’s head, brilliant red, or
black and white. Underneath the pony’s feet was a veritable carpet of
a tiny lilac blossom which always flourishes among the guinea-corn at
harvest time and hardly anywhere else. ‘The little pink flower that grows
in the wheat’ always comes into my mind, but this one happens to be mauve
instead!

We escorted our lord and master home—a most rowdy party, the boldest
spirits wildly racing their ponies along the winding track—girths
(composed of widths of ancient cotton cloth!) parting company
continually, and saddle and rider together taking a flying toss into the
grass, amid shrieks of delight from the rest of the crowd. At each tiny
hamlet the entire party would tumble off their ponies, greet and salute,
salute and greet, drink quantities of water, climb on again, set the
horns and drums braying their loudest, and gallop off irresponsibly, like
the light-hearted children that they are.

My husband afterwards told me that in the course of the patrol they
passed through a valley where the inhabitants of the rocks and hills
above apparently made their homes in holes and caves; one member of the
party idly asked what was the scientific name for cave-dwellers, it
having slipped his memory for the moment. No one appeared to be able to
supply the word, when the native interpreter, plodding along behind,
came up, saying: ‘Pardon me, sir, don’t you mean _Troglodytes_?’ The
Englishman, amazed, asked where he had ever heard such a word, and
‘George’ replied placidly: ‘I was _reading a dictionary_ one day, and I
saw it!’ I cannot imagine myself reading a German or Italian dictionary
for pleasure, and storing in my mind, for future use, conversationally, a
specially unusual scientific term; I only wish I could!

Christmas Day of that year found us at Egga, a small riverside town
on the right bank of the Niger, sixty miles above Lokoja. Canon
Robinson (in _Hausaland_) describes Egga as an island, from which one
may conclude that he only visited the place in the rainy season; we
have marched overland to Egga, and walked on dry—very dry—ground all
around it in May, and, three months later, passed over the same spots,
steaming easily in a stern-wheeler! It consists really of three or four
elevated tongues of land, with low-lying creeks in between, which are
so flooded by the rise of the river, that to traverse the town from end
to end several canoe journeys are necessary. On the high ground the
grass-roofed huts are clustered thick as bees, they perch perilously
on the very edge, threatening to topple into the creek below—perhaps
they do, sometimes, for the banks suffer considerably at each annual
rise in the water. Our domicile was perched in solitary state on one
of the small Ararats, farthest from the river bank, and that Christmas
morning, creeping from under the low verandah of the rest-house, I had
a glorious and uninterrupted view of mile upon mile of grass-land,
flanked in the distance by the curious flat-topped hills at Padda. The
distance was marked only by the ‘wire road,’ the telegraph line leaving
Egga and disappearing into the pearly iridescent Harmattan mists in an
ever diminishing perspective—the one link with civilization, unless one
counts, too, the ceaseless meagre stream of humble traders, in ones and
twos, padding in noiseless procession at the foot of our little hill,
making their way to Ilorin, at that peculiar half trot, half run, which
looks like walking, but which covers the ground in amazing fashion.

It was rather an event, this Christmas Day, the first we had spent in
Nigeria, and much care and thought had been expended on the dinner
menu. There was a plump turkey to be roasted in a native oven, a most
uncompromising-looking affair, consisting of a large earthenware pot,
half buried in the ground; this is heated by the simple process of
stuffing it full of blazing wood, and when the cook deems the temperature
high enough, he will haul out the fuel, pop in the turkey, plant a flat
piece of tin on the mouth of the oven, piling it up with much burning
wood—and, wonderful to relate, it _will_ roast the turkey to perfection!

The _chef_ had his work cut out for him that day, for the feast was to
include a most desirable fat teal, shot the day before, which had to be
similarly cooked in a similar oven; also a plum-pudding from ‘Home’,
round which most pleasurable anticipations hovered.

When the Christmas presents had been distributed to the household, the
morning spent itself peacefully in writing and sketching, the Sahib
working away, as the habit of political officers ever is out here, in
spite of my loud insistence on a whole holiday: all arrangements had been
made for an afternoon on the river, among the wild duck, and luncheon
had been despatched, when, with housewifely care, I bethought me of
making final arrangements for dinner, and summoned the cook. He was not
forthcoming, but, after much whispering and suppressed giggling among the
small boys of the household, Momo, our faithful head steward, appeared,
taking generous support from the side of the doorway, and adorned with a
vacant giddy smile that turned my heart to water!

Very slowly he spoke, and with deadly care; speech was very difficult,
but he struggled through manfully, and, though I was bubbling with wrath,
I could not help feeling sincere admiration. ‘The cook was _not at all_
well.... Yes, he certainly had drunk far too much pito (native beer)
... and he, Momo, had had a little too—for Kismiss!’—smiling vaguely
at the floor. ‘No, he did not think Jim Dow would be able to walk till
three o’clock, but’—with renewed cheerfulness, and a tremendous pull on
himself—‘Cook say he get _quite_ well very soon, cook dinner _proper_,
Missis go shoot, no fear at all.... Jim Dow fit to cook all right _very_
soon!...’

Well, there was no help for it—I certainly could not go and find the
delinquent in the purlieus of the town, nor, had I found him, could I
have done anything, so we resigned ourselves, sending the steward to
‘sleep it off,’ and reflecting that we might as well spend the afternoon
happily as not, we stepped warily into the native canoe, determined to
banish all dismal forebodings on the very slender chances of our getting
any dinner at all!

The canoe, an ordinary dug-out, about twenty feet long, contained our two
camp chairs, the guns, four polers, and Ganna.

Ganna is one of my many friends out here; he is the younger brother
of the Rogun or Chief of Egga, and has been interpreter to the late
Captain Abadie, and, like all who came in contact with him, had the
liveliest admiration and affection for him. He is in the latter stages
of consumption, poor soul, and has a thin eager face, a fair command of
English, and a terrible rending cough. He gets thinner each time I see
him, and though he sometimes comes to Lokoja, and attends the native
hospital there, the doctors can never give me any hope of his recovery.
Poor Ganna, I wonder if I shall ever see him again; the last time was
when we were poling down the river in a steel canoe, and, in the early
morning, as we drifted slowly past a tiny hamlet, a figure flew down the
bank, and the familiar emaciated face and skinny, almost transparent arms
appeared over the side, bearing a fine leopard skin, while, in a voice
saddeningly husky and laboured, Ganna explained how he had kept the
skin for us, watched for us many days, knowing of our approach in the
weird, mysterious fashion in which news travels in Africa. ‘Yes, he was
doing a little work now, but his chest hurt him, and he would come to
Lokoja when his work was finished ... he would go again to the hospital,
indeed he would, and ask the Likitor (Doctor!) for some more of that good
medicine.... Good-bye!... Sai wota rana! (lit. till another day) ...’ and
the canoe dropped down stream, leaving the sunken hollow eyes watching us
from the bank, and the painful hacking cough reaching our ears after the
corner was rounded. Poor Ganna, I wonder where our ‘wota rana’ meeting
will take place—not in Africa, I think!

[Illustration: A CAMP ON THE RIVER BANK. (p. 40)]

[Illustration: ROOFING AT KEFFI. (p. 51)]

However, this particular Christmas Day was four years ago, and Ganna
was then a stronger man, and a keen shikari, and had arranged this
shoot. I looked at him with special interest, as he crouched, smiling,
at one end of the canoe, clad in a dazzling white Hausa gown, heavily
embroidered in green—there seemed to be more of him than usual, and the
hope crossed my mind that he was perhaps gaining flesh. But, when we
had poled down the creek where the water-lilies are clustered thick,
past the Niger Company’s warehouses, and out on to the great grey river,
nearly half a mile wide, and shrouded in pale Harmattan mists, and were
sweeping rapidly down stream in the direction of the duck grounds, Ganna
dissipated my hopes by cautiously divesting himself of his white garb,
and emerging, clad in a faultless Norfolk suit of light tweed—a present
from his beloved master, as he explained proudly.

The water was like oil, greyness was everywhere as soon as the sun began
to drop into the haze, and a great silence prevailed—the loudest sound
being the crackling of numberless bush fires along the banks, for at this
season of the year the dry grass is fired, and in all directions there
are leaping tongues of flame and columns of smoke.

Presently, the ‘Quack! Quack!’ of contented ducks could be heard, and we
crept off our chairs and crouched in the bottom of our canoe, the polers
squatting motionless at either end, their wet poles slowly dripping into
the greasy-looking water, while the canoe drifted down to the sand-bank
where the ducks were—in their hundreds, some standing in the water,
preening their feathers, others solemnly waddling about on the bank—all
discoursing ceaselessly in their gossippy, monotonous language. The whole
bank was dark with them, tall, graceful ‘crown-birds’ standing motionless
or stalking thoughtfully about on the sand, plump, sturdy mallards, and
restless little teal, all busy, chatty, supremely happy, and utterly
unconscious of the danger creeping on them, in the drifting canoe.

We were so absorbed in watching the scene that we forgot the object
of our expedition, and, indeed, it seemed nothing short of criminal to
disturb a party so contented and peaceful, but the thousands of restless
little bright eyes spied the glint of a gun barrel, the alarm was given,
there was a rushing whirr, and the sky over our heads was instantly dark
with beating wings. A couple of shots brought down some victims, and
the canoe wended its way to another duck-ground, after landing me on a
sand-bank, for the purpose of sketching a picturesque little hamlet built
there by the fisher-folk during the season of low water, when they spend
their time catching and drying fish; later, when the water rises, and,
each year, sweeps away the whole colony of frail grass huts, they return
to Egga, and dispose of their season’s catch.

When the canoe, laden with further spoils, picked me up again, the sun
was just setting in the banks of mist, a gorgeous colour display of
sunset had turned the whole world rose-colour, giving to the water a
strange pale violet hue, and we had a good six miles to pole against a
swift current, so the nose of the canoe was turned up stream, and we
crept along close under the banks, where the stream is least strong, and
the edge gives some purchase for the poles.

Our progress seemed incredibly slow, but I could have sat there for ever,
slipping through the still evening, the silence only broken, away behind
us, by the faint quacking of disturbed and outraged ducks, returning
cautiously to the feeding-grounds; one felt at peace with all the world,
and I could not even bother to give an anxious thought to the complete
uncertainty of our dinner!

Ahead of us was a tiny canoe, with only one occupant, but fully laden
with newly-made earthenware pots, coming to seek a market at Egga;
steadily the man pulled, watching the sinking sun all the while; then, as
it finally disappeared, he deliberately poled into a flat sand-bank, tied
the canoe to the pole fixed in the sand, carefully washed and prepared
himself, then, with his face devoutly raised to the eastward sky, he
commenced his evening devotions. A picturesque figure with the flaming
sunset afterglow as a background, intent only on his prayer, unconscious
of our approach under the bank, alone and—to his knowledge—unseen, not a
gesture, not a movement of the hands, not a single word was omitted or
hurried over—a curious blending of simplicity and solemnity, and, as we
left him behind, I murmured, ‘Thy Father which seeth in secret ...’ and
the Sahib nodded his head comprehendingly.

It was quite dark when we slid into the Egga creek, and figures began to
move on the bank and lights flash as we pulled up; the most prominent
was a short, squat personage, clad in spotless white drill, white
shoes and a jaunty straw hat in his hand, holding the big lantern
and generally directing the disembarkation! Jim Dow, the sinner,
restored to his former greatness, perfectly sober and full of serene
cheerfulness—assuring us genially that he was ‘quite well again’ and the
dinner progressing most satisfactorily!

A scramble up to the rest-house, hot baths and a change—and Jim Dow was
quite as good as his word!




CHAPTER IV

Keffi


Immediately after the New Year we marched north from Egga to Pateji,
where we were to meet the Resident of Ilorin, and with him accomplish
the delimitating of the Ilorin-Kabba boundary. At one of our halts we
were lunching one day, when the servants ran in, begging us, in some
excitement, to ‘come and look!’ In the dusty roadway were a couple of
donkeys, loaded with potash, a pair of evil-looking men, and two of the
most forlorn, wretched little mites of children that it has ever been my
misfortune to see. The younger of the two was certainly not more than
four or five years old, both were crying helplessly, stumbling along in
the dust, limping and exhausted. They had begged our boys for water, and
so, most fortunately, attracted their attention.

It was the first case of obvious slavery I had ever seen, and the
terrible cruelty of it made one’s blood boil. My husband of course
detained the ‘caravan,’ the leader of which declared glibly that the
children were not slaves, but his own offspring, and that their mother
was just coming along behind. The elder toddler had spirit enough to cry
out: ‘We are not, we are not! He bought us, for a horse ... a _thin_
horse.’ ... with a mournful touch of self-pity. Presently, a young girl
came toiling along the road, and the caravan leader flung at her a flood
of a language unknown to us, so that, when questioned, she spiritlessly
agreed that they were her children. She was, herself not more than
fourteen or fifteen, and could not possibly have been the mother of
either child; her owner, when sternly reminded of this, hurriedly shifted
his ground, saying that this was not the woman of whom he had spoken,
the children’s mother was still further behind. This was greeted with
loud denials from the mites, who had already placed themselves definitely
under our protection! We had the caravan leader removed when the next
dejected figure came slowly in sight, and the new-comer immediately and
frankly described them all as slaves, confirmed the children’s story, and
with pitiful indifference remarked that they had already covered twelve
miles that day, and were prepared to travel another six, so as to avoid
the observation of the ‘White Judge.’

The men were taken into custody, the donkeys and loads confiscated, the
women elected to attach themselves to another caravan, travelling back
to their own district, and we took charge of the children. After a good
meal and twelve hours’ sleep, they were different creatures, but their
swollen feet made it almost impossible for them to walk a yard. I carried
the tiny boy on my knee, and, after a grunt or two of satisfaction,
his head dropped back on my shoulder, and he slept for hours. It was
not exactly a comfortable arrangement in a side-saddle, and we were
much relieved when we reached Pateji, and could ship our charges down
to Lokoja, where they became two of the liveliest inmates of the Freed
Slaves’ Home.

At Pateji, my husband found orders to return at once to Lokoja, hand
over the Province to a new Resident, then on his way out from England,
and start for Keffi, the headquarters of the Nassarawa Province, where
he was to take temporary charge. We crossed to Mureji, at the mouth of
the Kaduna River, and returned to Lokoja to make preparations for our
departure. There was excitement and unrest in the air, events in the
North had made the Kano-Sokoto Expedition an immediate necessity, the
greater part of the Force had already concentrated at Zaria, and the
Lokoja garrison was reinforced by troops from Southern Nigeria, under
the command of Major Moorhouse. Dr. Cargill, the Resident of Nassarawa,
was urgently needed at Kano, so, after a week spent by my husband in
initiating his successor into the mysteries of the daily work of a
Resident, we started off for Keffi, congratulating ourselves on this
opportunity of seeing a new part of the country.

We left Lokoja one hot day at the end of January, occupying a steel
canoe which was towed alongside by the steam canoe _Black Swan_. This
latter was—well, ‘occupied’ is not the word—_overflowed_ by a party of
officers and N.C.O.s; Captain Macarthy Morrogh and Mr. Steward being on
their way to join the Anglo-German Boundary Commission, Major Mackenzie
and Mr. Carré from Southern Nigeria, bound for Loko and Nassarawa to
recruit carriers. The two former had, of necessity, a great quantity of
stores and baggage, and the discomfort of that crowded canoe must have
been extreme, intensified as it was by the heat from their steam pipes: I
should imagine that on parting with four of us at Loko, the sentiments of
the remainder must have been unmixed relief!

The Benue River struck me as being remarkably clearer and purer in
colour than the Niger, and the scenery is very lovely. Each evening we
‘tied up’ by a convenient sand-bank, and the men camped there, rejoiced,
I fancy, to spread themselves out a bit. One evening the _Black Swan_
contingent gave a dinner-party, the novel feature of which was that our
menu was to consist of a ‘French dinner’—a most luxurious invention for
travellers, one large box containing five tins, each representing a
course, with fascinating French names. These only need to be heated in
boiling water—and, behold—your French dinner! As we were a party of six,
two ‘dinners’ were requisitioned, and we fared royally on delicious soup
for a start. After that, I fear the various cooks and boys got hopelessly
astray among the courses, for I found myself eating filleted sole, with
apple charlotte by way of a sauce! We gave up all attempt at sequence
after that, and simply ate our way through a list of most excellent
dainties, discovering many new and delectable combinations, and voted the
‘dinners’ an unqualified success!

At Loko the party broke up; we found ponies waiting for us, and hastened
off as soon as possible, for it is a most unpleasant mosquito-ridden
spot. The road to Keffi is monotonous and wearisome, consisting of the
path cleared for the construction of the telegraph line, and it is the
dullest process following that interminable wire, winding in between
the stumps of decapitated trees. The only halt of any interest on the
way was at Nassarawa, a town which had evidently ‘seen better days,’
finely situated on rising ground above a broad river. Keffi has always
had a sinister reputation—firstly as a famous slave market, and later
on as the scene of Captain Moloney’s tragic death. The Keffi people are
queer restless folks, finding their greatest pleasure, apparently, in
_munafiki_ or intrigue of all kinds. Our native friends in Lokoja shook
their heads dismally, and deplored our being obliged to go among these
‘bad, hard-hearted people,’ I remember, and were evidently prepared for
all kinds of unpleasant developments!

As we rode in through the South Gate, and up the long sandy road through
the town, it seemed indeed a desolate spot after the teeming streets of
Lokoja; nearly all the houses were unroofed (a precaution against fire in
the dry season), many were ruinous, and scarcely a soul was to be seen.
But, glancing into the narrow low doorways, one was conscious of lurking
forms and inquisitive peeping eyes; there were subdued scufflings as,
seeing themselves observed, the peepers scuttled off into devious back
alleys, like frightened rabbits. The town had been practically deserted
since the trouble of the previous autumn, when Captain Moloney’s death
took place, and the outlook was indeed a depressing one.

The Resident was occupying the great, mud-built pile, originally the
house of the Magaji, forming one side of an open square, just opposite it
was the Mosque, and on the left the Sariki’s ‘palace.’

The Residency was, to say the least of it, a gloomy spot for a
dwelling-house—a very large compound, surrounded by a thirty foot wall,
affording, at best, a view of the sky alone, the inside occupied by
a labyrinth of houses, some mere circular huts, dark and low, others
well-built, flat-roofed cool houses. Many of the smaller huts had been
pulled down, giving more light and air and improving matters greatly.
It was very quiet, very prison-like, scarcely a sound penetrated from
outside, save the cry of the Muezzins from the Mosque opposite, and only
terrific smells from the indigo dye-pits reminded one that there was life
and industry beyond the wall.

Dr. Cargill left for Kano almost immediately, and we settled down to
await the arrival of our relief, Mr. Granville. A detachment of the
N.N.R. had ‘barracks’ near the South Gate, and Mr. Wilcox, in command,
was our daily companion when we went out shooting in the evenings, the
country round Keffi producing plenty of birds, or when we explored the
higher ground behind the town, searching for a suitable site for a new
Residency.

On the summit of a high hill, overlooking the town, was a circular wall,
enclosing a solitary grave, the resting-place of Captain Moloney, and, in
the square, outside the Mosque, stood a tall white wooden cross, marking
the spot where he died. All honour to those who placed it there—but
that cross has always been a sorrow to me: close beside the wall of the
Mosque, it could not fail to be an offence to a Mahomedan community, and,
being on the way to the market, each man, woman and child who passed,
must be reminded daily of the tragedy that had ruined the prosperity of
the town, and wrecked so many innocent, humble homes.

During the short time we were at Keffi, we spared no pains in
endeavouring to ‘re-establish confidence’ walking about the town in every
direction, and striving to make friends with the people. They were, even
then, beginning timidly to return and to come to the market, and, before
we left, we had the satisfaction of seeing hundreds of nice new thatched
roofs appearing, and the householders coming to their doors to call
greetings and salutations, instead of making panic-stricken rushes in the
opposite direction!

[Illustration: NATIVE DRUMMERS AT KEFFI. (p. 54)]

[Illustration: A DETACHMENT OF THE N.N. REGT. (p. 68)]

Our thoughts, while there, were naturally occupied with the sad events
of Captain Moloney’s death, and we heard the story in detail from the
Resident’s clerk, a native called Silva, who was present, and as his
account of it is rather a curious one, I may mention it here, though,
of course, I cannot vouch for the absolute truth of it, and give it
just as it was told to me. The main facts (I am quoting partly from the
best authority, the High Commissioner’s Annual Report for 1902) are as
follows:—

On the day in question, Captain Moloney, being anxious to ‘come to an
amicable understanding’ with this influential Chief, the Magaji, who
had apparently been giving him much trouble throughout the Province,
slave-raiding and robbing caravans, and preferring to endeavour by
argument and persuasion to win him over to the side of law and order,
and make of him a useful friend to Government, determined on a decisive
interview, while he had a large military force temporarily at Keffi, to
back up his authority if needful. The account runs thus:—

‘Captain Moloney ... went to the king’s house, and the Magaji was
summoned to attend. He declined to do so, and Mr. Webster, Assistant
Resident, was sent to fetch him. Misled by the Government native agent,
to whose intrigue and false representations it now appears probable that
the deplorable results which followed were directly due, Mr. Webster
entered the private quarters—probably the harem—of the Magaji. That Chief
was surrounded by armed retainers, who immediately set upon Mr. Webster.
He very narrowly escaped with his life, and was eventually seized
and literally thrown out. Captain Moloney then sent him to call up a
detachment of troops. The Magaji, seeing his arrest was imminent, rushed
out of his house, and killed Captain Moloney and the agent, Awudu, before
the soldiers could reach the spot. He and his followers then fled, but
sent messages that they would presently return and finish their work.’

Now, this clerk, Silva, had been a hospital dresser, and the task of
preparing Captain Moloney’s body for burial, fell to him. He declared
earnestly and emphatically that there was no wound on the body
whatsoever, except an arrow wound in the neck which had pierced the
carotid artery, and caused almost immediate death. He further described
how the Magaji was armed with a ‘gun’ _only_, he did not touch Captain
Moloney, but rode straight at Awudu, the native agent, who, as described
by the High Commissioner, was the cause of the whole trouble, and, crying
out, ‘_You_ have done this! It is your fault!’—shot him dead, as he
ran, in terror, towards the barracks. The whole crowd of the Magaji’s
followers, rushing out like a swarm of angry bees, of course fired off a
cloud of arrows, more or less at random, and, from this man’s earnestly
told story, it seems fairly certain that it was one of these which killed
Captain Moloney. The old Sariki of Keffi, who was standing close by,
endeavoured to support the wounded man, but received an arrow himself, in
the foot—a slight wound, however, from which he recovered.

These differing facts do not, however, in the least remove from the
Magaji’s shoulders the indirect guilt of murder, although his hand may
not have given the actual death-blow; he was said to have been killed at
Burmi, among the army of the Ex-Sultan of Sokoto, in the following July.

We beguiled some of the long hot hours by making an effort to learn
Arabic; we did not progress very far or very fast, but, indeed, I think
circumstances were rather against us! Our teacher spoke Arabic and
Hausa—no English, of course—we spoke Hausa, much English, and, in moments
of excitement, as our habit is—voluble Hindustani! Our text-book and
dictionary were Arabic-French! Something like a miniature Tower of Babel
ensued, and we decided to postpone our studies till a more favourable
opportunity presented itself! I also amused myself by decorating the
whitewashed walls of our house with sketches, which completely depleted
my paint-box, but entertained me mightily—I believe they are still to be
seen there!

We had bought a very handsome pony in Keffi, and one day, to our
distress, he developed violent colic, and appeared to be dying. Every
available remedy was applied, and for the whole afternoon he was fomented
with hot blankets, but he lay helpless, swollen, limp and moaning. We
then resigned him, at our boy’s earnest request, into the hands of a
native horse-doctor, a wizened old individual, who stood and looked,
then, remarking laconically, ‘He will recover!’ proceeded, with great
difficulty, of course, to get the pony on to his feet. He then passed
his hands five or six times down the pony’s flanks, murmuring to himself
the while, finally taking the muzzle in both hands, he looked very hard
into the pony’s eyes, recited a string of rapid Arabic sentences and,
stooping low, blew into each nostril three times. I stood by watching and
wondering, then, in amazement, realized that _a cure had been effected_!
The ‘doctor’ stood aside, and announced as placidly as ever: ‘He has
recovered!’ directing that a bran mash should be given at once; this
‘Kim’ ate eagerly, and never showed another symptom of pain or illness! I
cannot explain this cure in any way; I can only say that I saw it done,
and done in less than ten minutes, and that the wizard stoutly declined
to give me his prescription or to share the secret!

Shortly afterwards, Mr. Granville arrived and took over, and we rode
out of Keffi, feeling distinctly light-hearted, as we had ‘Leave’ and
‘Home’ before us. But the impression of gloom and sadness left on my
mind by Keffi was deepened later, for we never saw Mr. Wilcox again, as
he died at Bauchi a few months later. Mr. Carré, one of our cheery party
on the Benue River, also died, Mr. Granville was invalided Home later,
dangerously ill, and Major Marsh, whose kind genial face was the last we
saw on leaving Lokoja, was killed in July at Burmi, to our sorrow.

We started for England at the end of March, and had a most comfortable
trip on the _Jebba_—one of the few voyages I have ever enjoyed; we were
fortunate in our weather, our fellow-travellers, and in most of the
amenities of boardship life, and I ‘lazed’ on deck, feeling very well
satisfied with my first year in Northern Nigeria. I had ridden over three
thousand miles, learnt a new language, made thousands of new friends in
the animal and flower world, as well as valued human ones, I felt as if
I had ‘enlarged my borders’ mentally, and had certainly begun to know and
love Africa with a deep affection that, I think, is never lost by those
who once acquire it.

My husband was elected to the Hausa Scholarship at Cambridge, and we
spent a truly delightful May Term there, which passed only too quickly in
the cordial friendship of charming cultured people, and among the lovely
surroundings of the University.




CHAPTER V

Trekking North


The following September we turned our faces again towards Nigeria. The
‘Home’ climate had somewhat disgusted us, exemplified as it was by
weeks of hopeless, unceasing, soaking rain in Scotland, and, but for
the horrible wrench of parting again with our nearest and dearest, we
prepared for our return in the most cheerful spirits.

My husband had been appointed to a new Province, eastward from Kano,
named Katāgum, one which had come inside the scope of the Administration
as a result of the Sokoto Expedition, and hitherto had not been
‘administered’ at all. The prospect of absolutely new ground, the North
country, people of a high-class Mahomedan type, all appealed strongly
to us both, especially as our way lay through Kano, of which we had all
heard so much during the last six months.

To our responsibilities we added an irresistible little fox-terrier,
acquiring him absurdly cheap from a dealer, on account of what the
latter called a ‘marble’ in his eye—a sort of discoloured patch, which,
although, of course, a blemish, did not appear to affect his sight,
and was almost certainly the result of a blow. This fact we were able
to deduce from subsequent events. Long before we reached Africa, we
discovered that Binkie had an undying hatred for any one who had the
temerity to wear _blue trousers_!

He commenced to act on this principle at once, by attempting to bite the
guard of the train, made unfriendly overtures to the hall-porters at the
hotel in Liverpool, although on the most affectionate terms with every
one except the wearers of these obnoxious garments; on the landing-stage,
in the intervals of caressing, and being caressed by a little girl, he
made purposeful grabs at one and all of the blue-clothed porters, and
reached the zenith of his reputation by biting two quarter-masters on
board! It was a tiresome, and, incidentally, expensive habit, as we had
no muzzle for him, and I only breathed freely on landing in Lokoja, where
the majority of the inhabitants are guiltless of blue trousers. To do
him credit, I must say he never touched a native, but I had to scan the
garments of my callers anxiously, and warn Binkie accordingly!

On the way down the Coast we were given a ten days old bull terrier pup,
a very highly-bred little person, who, having had the audacity to be
born with a fawn-coloured patch, had thoroughly disgraced himself in
his owner’s eyes. We had a difficult time rearing him, and nights in bed
became ‘things hoped for, not seen!’

On arrival in Lokoja we found Mr. Wallace there, just starting up river
to Zungeru, and he gave us a cordial invitation to visit him there,
when we had made the necessary preparations in Lokoja collecting ‘the
office furniture’ for Katāgum, and engaging carriers. While there we were
burgled in a fashion so characteristic that it may be worth describing.

My husband was known—evidently—to have a large sum of money in silver;
this he deposited, naturally, in the largest, heaviest, and therefore
least removable of our boxes, but the enterprising burglar evidently
thought that a tin uniform case (which happened to be padlocked) looked
promising, and, during a tornado at night, carried it off!

We discovered our loss early next morning, and I was utterly dismayed,
as its contents were mainly a new photographic outfit, chemicals, paper,
etc. We ‘communicated with the police,’ but, meantime, some thirty
carriers came to be enrolled, and, guided by previous experience, my
husband informed them of the loss, expressed an opinion that the box was
not far off, and, telling them to search the ‘bush,’ offered a reward
of five shillings to the finder. The grass all round was over the men’s
heads, and drenchingly wet, but they plunged gaily in, shouting and
hunting, and in less than half an hour emerged triumphant, with the box
and its contents, the latter practically ruined, having been scattered
far and wide in the frantic but unavailing search for money. It must have
been a ‘horrid sell’ for the thief; his only prize—at least, the only
article missing—was the clockwork engine of a toy train, which I had
brought out as a present for a small black friend! He had, luckily, quite
overlooked a large envelope, containing stamps to the value of £25, the
nucleus of a Katāgum post-office!

We left Lokoja, a large party of twelve or fourteen people, with various
destinations, rather tightly packed on the _Sarota_, and, during a
tornado, trying to shut a cabin window, my husband had a nasty accident,
absolutely tearing the nail right out of one finger. It was not an
auspicious moment for even a ‘partial disablement,’ and gave him a bad
time at first, but healed splendidly, and, in spite of many gloomy
prognostications, he succeeded in growing a new nail eventually!

We made our way up the Kaduna in a steel canoe, slept one night under a
corrugated iron shed at Barijuko, and the next morning started ‘by train’
for Zungeru. It was an experience quite amusing for the first time;
safely embarked in a roofed-in truck we rattled, bumped and swayed along
the tiny line, with much shouting and vociferation; various passers-by,
walking to Zungeru, placidly crossed the line in absent-minded fashion,
under the nose of the crazy little engine, and had terrific abuse and
chunks of coal hurled at them by the native engine driver. The dirt was
choking, and the noise made speech impossible, so I clutched my bull-pup
tightly, and watched with interest the flowers along the line—glowing
yellow coreopsis, tall and slender, away down below were patches of
vernonia purpurea, like a copper-coloured ‘button’ chrysanthemum, while
the grass was thickly dotted with a tiny rose-coloured flower, one which
grows in uttermost profusion there and in the North, but which I have
never seen farther South.

Some days later we had an opportunity of really appreciating the
tram-line, when we made an expedition to Wushishi on a pump trolley, and
found it a really exhilarating and delightful method of travelling!

We got a warm welcome from Mr. Wallace, and spent a few days with him,
enjoying his cordial hospitality and kindness while we made our final
preparations for our start. Government House is, indeed, an ‘oasis in the
desert’ to the weary traveller, luxuriously furnished with costly English
furniture, soft carpets, bright chintzes and silk curtains, and fitted
with electric light; it is all very charming, though, perhaps, not the
very best preparation for thirty days in the bush!

My husband had brought out from Home a couple of mono-wheel carts, his
own invention, and now had them put together preparatory to our long trek.

The cart, briefly, consisted of a single wheel, about three feet high,
which revolved in the centre of a platform six feet by four, with
ordinary wheel-barrow handles at either end. The platform was fixed
below the wheel axle, and thus lowered the centre of gravity as much as
possible, and lessened the inclination to fall over. While in England two
ordinary carpenters in the workshop where the carts were built, had taken
one with a load of about seven hundred pounds up and down streets with
ease, and we were therefore delighted, and hoped that Nigerian transport
would receive a helping hand thereby. Alas! we had not reckoned with
the carrier, who, we fondly imagined, would prefer the lesser effort of
trundling to carrying. He would have none of it! While the man behind
had to raise the handles and start, the one in front, whose duty was
only to pull and assist the balance, would also endeavour to lift! This,
naturally, threw much more weight on the back handles, with the result
that every few yards the whole thing would tumble over and have to be
reloaded. Even placing a man on either side to prevent this happening
made no appreciable difference, and, in desperation, we were finally
obliged to engage extra carriers for the contents of the carts, and
eventually marched into Zaria, the carts being triumphantly carried on
the heads of two men!

At that time the path on leaving Zungeru, was simply villainous, beset
with huge stones which even the one wheel could not avoid with the
cleverest of steering, and this increased the local prejudice immensely.
I really think that, had Fate decreed for us an ordinary, fairly level
and well-patted down bush path, some nine inches wide, miles of which
are to be found in some districts, and had our men been able to get
accustomed to the novelty under such circumstances, the invention would
certainly have proved a success and a great convenience at distant
stations, where, at present, a tin of kerosene oil, for example, adds ten
shillings or more to its original cost by the time it arrives, on account
of the carrier’s pay. Later on, while we were detained at Kano, we tried
to make a single cart out of the two, using both wheels, but with a very
narrow track, about two feet wide, and this worked excellently until
the dry wind of the Harmattan and the fierce sun heat through the day
so ruined the wood-work that the wheels came to pieces, all the spokes
falling out. Upon this we sorrowfully resigned the idea until a more
favourable opportunity, and endured the daily irritation of seeing loads
damaged by being rubbed off at each convenient tree by pack animals!

But this digression has taken me far ahead of my story, which must be
resumed at Zungeru, where, one hot afternoon, on the 29th of October,
we said good-bye to Mr. Wallace, and finally departed, while the
bull-terrier pup shrieked aloud at being immured in a basket and treated
as a ‘load’; we walked down to the river crossing, and were ferried over
in a crazy canoe half full of water, which started my new riding-boots
on their downward path! We afterwards discovered that one box had been
planted comfortably in the same water, and, on opening it some days
later, a sad scene of literal ‘blue ruin’ greeted our eyes—books,
writing-paper, photographs, clothing, all hopelessly destroyed and
mildewed—such is African travel!

We slept at Ganan Gabbas, a dirty stuffy little hamlet, and a sharp
contrast to our quarters of the night before, but, happily, we were not
in the least disposed to feel depressed over the absence of armchairs and
soft carpets!

I was interested in watching the young wife of one of the native police
among the escort, bathing her tiny baby (three months old) in the chill
morning air before sunrise, the cold water being well smeared all over
the little brown body, while the poor mite—naturally—yelled lustily! The
bath finished, no drying operations being included, the mother scooped up
a handful of water, closed her hand with the thumb pointing downwards,
and, using the latter as a kind of spout, directed a stream of water
into the baby’s mouth, slowly and steadily, totally disregarding loud
gurgles, chokes and struggles of protest: meantime she was feeling
and pressing the rapidly expanding little stomach, until convinced, I
suppose, that its limit of capacity was reached. This treatment is meted
out to all the babies, and is considered to be a great strengthening
agent! This Spartan parent, having strapped the baby tightly to her
back, and made ready for the start, stooped to lift a towering load of
calabashes and other household goods, and doing so, put her shoulder out.
She appeared to suffer a good deal of pain, but took it quite quietly,
turning meekly to her husband, who, with one bare foot planted under the
injured arm, gave a mighty pull, and with a snap the joint returned to
its place. She thanked him prettily, adjusted the load on her head, and
started off happily on her day’s march!

The march proved an interesting one, though very hot; the autumn is
almost the best time of the year to ‘see the country’; in the farms the
guinea-corn was just beginning to ripen and droop its massive plumes of
grain, underfoot was a terribly stony path, but much of the road lay over
hills, and we got magnificent views of miles upon miles of wooded hill
and plain, unrolling themselves into the dim blue distance.

At Zaria we pitched our tent on the wide plain outside the great pile
of mud buildings then used as the Residency. Every one was most kind to
us, giving us every sort of assistance. Major Hasler, then commanding
the Mounted Infantry at Zaria, specially delighted me by a present of a
huge bunch of the most splendid zinnias I have ever seen—grown in the
tiny garden round his quarters. He and a brother officer, I remember,
‘spread a banquet’ for us, as they expressed it, and a very merry party
it was. Some anxiety was experienced during the afternoon as to the
probable behaviour of a very special feature of the feast—a claret
jelly—and diligent search was made for the coolest and breeziest spot in
which to ‘set’ it. Our minds were relieved, however, by the triumphant
announcement that it had ‘jelled’ admirably in plenty of time for dinner.
We had quite beautiful table decorations of a lovely rose-coloured
shrub, cunningly set in discarded cigarette tins, and one of our hosts,
in his determination to do honour to the very first ‘Ladies’ dinner’
in Zaria, decided on most daring flights in his costume. But, alas!
difficulties intervened, and after a little delay, he appeared—full
of apologies—magnificent in regulation English evening dress, with a
peerless glossy shirt-front, a tie tied to perfection—but _no collar_!
This item was ‘lost, stolen or strayed,’ but our intrepid soldier friend
did not for a moment allow such an obstacle to defeat his original plan,
I am glad to say!

The road northward from Zaria was interesting, a regular market garden,
miles upon miles of cultivation and farms; the grass was quite fine
and short, utterly unlike the luxuriant growth down south, and tinged
with a warm brownish red shade, which made a delicious ‘colour scheme,’
stretching away under great spreading trees into the far pearly blue haze.

We found Bebeji most interesting. On approaching it, the scene seemed
familiar, and we felt convinced that we had seen it before, until
we recollected the delicately executed pencil drawings illustrating
Barth’s travels: here were the very same isolated tall palm trees, the
flat-roofed massive buildings, high clay walls, and only the shortest
and most meagre of herbage. We were given quarters in a couple of
excellent cool lofty rooms, with a vaulted roof, beamed with wood and
decorated high up with gaudy coloured earthenware plates of the commonest
description, but much appreciated for this kind of mural decoration. We
were destined to see them very often afterwards, and in any dwelling
which has been hastily quitted by the occupants during war or under the
influence of panic, almost invariably the plates are torn from the walls
and carried off.




CHAPTER VI

Kano


I suppose no one can approach Kano, even to-day, without a certain thrill
of excitement and interest. One’s thoughts involuntarily turn back to the
days when it was all but inaccessible to white men, and yet the mere name
of it was a kind of lodestar, irresistibly attracting travellers in the
face of almost insuperable difficulties. One thinks of Clapperton, Lander
and Barth journeying hither, and rather specially, perhaps, of Richard
Oudney, who died within a few days’ march of the goal.

I believe that every member of our party, down to the most irresponsible
‘small boy,’ had something to express in the way of satisfaction and
excitement when the long red wall began to appear above the horizon, and
we approached the very place of all others which we too had so longed to
reach and see for ourselves.

Outside the gate, the Resident, Dr. Cargill, met us and escorted us
through the city. Our way did not lie through the markets and busiest
thoroughfares, and, looking back, I think my first impression was the
surprising area of open ground inside the walls, the vast stretches of
cultivation and flourishing farms. This is intentional, and has been done
for all time, so that in the event of a long siege, the inhabitants would
be well supplied with food-stuffs, and practically independent of the
farms outside the walls.

It took us an hour to pass through the city, and I fear I carried away
only a misty impression of my first ride through Kano—blurred through
my very eagerness to see, to absorb, to miss nothing, added to my
delight at being there, and anxiety to make the most of my very special
privilege in being the first white woman to enter there! I can only
recall breathless heat, glaring sunshine on pink walls and white dusty
ground, in sudden contrast to the warm, dark purple shadows, an endless
stream of passers-by thronging to and from the various markets—hundreds
of different types, diversely clothed, speaking different languages,
but all ready with courteous salutations and friendly greetings—it made
one’s eyes ache and brain whirl, and it was something of a relief to pass
through the gloomy depths of the Nassarawa Gate, and ride up the grassy
mile leading to the Residency, formerly the Emir’s summer palace. Later
on I had opportunities of learning to know the great city better, but,
living as we did, outside the city, and quite four miles from the markets
and busy streets, each visit was somewhat of an expedition, and it was
hard to get more than cursory glimpses of the life that was lived there,
and the immense volume of trade going on daily.

In the year 1824 Clapperton recorded, in the simple, naïve fashion that
characterizes the whole of his narrative, how, on approaching Kano, he
attired himself in all the bravery of his naval uniform and rode into
the town, and not a soul in the crowded markets turned a head to look at
him, but, ‘all, intent on their own business, allowed me to pass without
remark!’

So is Kano to-day; to the casual sight-seer or the curio-hunter it has
little or nothing to offer, no beauties of architecture, no minarets,
no palaces—the smallest Indian bazaar displays more gay colours, more
material for the globe-trotter’s satisfaction. Kano is a centre of
strenuous trade, there is no dallying and chattering and laughter, no
sign of the ubiquitous hawker of trifling curios, who haunts an Indian
bungalow, and even squats below the verandah of a Lokoja house to-day.
The wares that have been brought across the Great Desert amid perils
and hazards innumerable are not to be lightly disposed of, and the
fierce-eyed swaggering Arabs do most of their bartering privately within
the square, dark, low buildings, over much coffee and many cigarettes.

The great pulse of commerce, here, is as well concealed as is the
throbbing heart in a motionless body, and gives as little sign of its
presence to the casual passer-by, unless he looks keenly enough at the
silent hurrying throng all intent on trading for a livelihood, not
sauntering, idling, gossiping, like the denizens of an Eastern city. The
sternness of the Desert influences the whole place and the people of
it. Patient seeking in the various markets reveals an almost incredible
collection and variety of wares: Turkish coffee, green tea, French sugar,
delicious rare tobacco, silks and cloth, all can be bought at a price—an
enormous price, too, be it said!

But it is Kano itself as a city, rather than as a commercial centre,
which stands out in my memory distinct, unique, with a charm all its
own, like nothing else in the world. Almost all those who saw the city
for the first time that year, when it became the youngest-born of the
Mother Government, expressed great disappointment with its appearance; I
have heard it contemptuously stigmatized as a ‘glorified mud-heap,’ and
it is often complained that the actually inhabited portions occupy so
small a space inside the huge area of those massive walls. This, to my
mind, constitutes one of the city’s greatest fascinations. There is such
infinite breadth and restfulness about those vast stretches of short,
crisp turf, surrounding the streets and alleys and humming markets; such
a wonderful peace and dignity about those two astonishing, jagged,
flat-topped hills, ‘Kazauri’ and ‘Dala,’ standing up abruptly in the
middle of the plain, like tireless mighty sentinels, watching ever, in
every direction, over the distant line of serrated pinkish wall.

[Illustration: A KANO STREET SCENE. (p. 75)]

[Illustration: A KANO MOUNTED MESSENGER. (p. 81)]

This wall itself is an object lesson to any one who grumbles at the
quality of Kano’s architecture. It is fifteen miles in circumference,
forty feet high, and wide enough to drive a motor-car round the inside
terrace, without much danger to life or limb: at the base it is not much
less than eighty feet wide. There are two deep ditches set moat-like
outside the wall; from these all the material for the huge fortification
has been taken. How many weary days of ceaseless patient labour, how many
pairs of industrious hands have gathered that incredible mass of clay,
handful by handful, carried it in miserable little grass baskets and
calabashes, piled up the walls and gates inch by inch, till Kano became
the impregnable fortress of the Western Soudan—why, the very thought is
stupendous!

Remember, these simple folks have no tools, save one roughly fashioned
implement, shaped like a pickaxe, that can do no more than loosen
the soil—beyond this, nothing but ten slim, brown fingers, and that
magnificent disregard for time which pervades Africa and makes such
marvels possible. As an achievement, I think this plain, loop-holed clay
wall compares favourably with any of the glorious monuments and fairy
palaces of Indian fame.

The gates—thirteen in number—are on the same scale, massive solid square
towers, with a narrow passage and various shadowy recesses. The slaves of
Kano in the early days must have been as the sand of the sea, for, inside
the city, the buildings are on the same plan and of the same material. In
Africa, it is only to the white man that Nature shows a brazen pitiless
face; to the child of the soil she is tenderly, munificently bountiful.
The clay for building Kano was under their feet; they dug it out, and
set up enormous dwellings, almost fortresses, masses of cool dark halls,
windowless except for slits high up near the vault of the roof, where the
temperature never varies by ten degrees all the year round. And if by
doing so they _did_ leave great deep pits everywhere, which, in the rainy
season, are filled with water, and even through the six months of deadly
drought remain stagnant and smelling horribly—well, of course these are
fearful evils from a sanitary point of view, and undeniably odoriferous,
but that they add an additional charm can hardly be disputed, the
foul surfaces hidden by a carpet of clustering water-lilies, and the
softly sloping edges clothed with velvety green grass. There is one
in particular, so large that it forms a fair-sized lakelet, once a
place of grisly association, for it was formerly the custom to execute
criminals on its banks: but now the utterly placid surface reflects,
like a mirror, its surroundings—houses, palm-trees, the splendid,
branching-horned cattle, sheep and goats cropping the smooth greensward
around the brink, and the ceaseless _va et vient_ of the passers-by.
Slender, straight-featured Fulani girls come to fill their water-pots,
balancing them on their heads with inimitable grace; the whole scene is
faintly veiled and shrouded in the milky haze of the Harmattan, and the
slow-rising aromatic smoke. Yes—it may spell malaria and miasma to some,
but if any one can pass the ‘Jakko’ as it is called without drawing rein,
I am sorry for him, for he has missed one of those special moments that
come to us all, perhaps only once in a lifetime.

One particular evening, just before sunset, as we rode slowly across
one of the great levels, sounds of trumpets and drums, mingled with
occasional explosions of gunpowder, came drifting along to us, and
presently his High and Mightiness, the Emir, came forth for his evening
ride, having duly notified his intention beforehand to the Resident—a
piece of deferential courtesy never omitted.

He was a fine specimen of the handsome Fulani, regular in features, full
of keen intelligence, and extremely dignified. He wore tobe upon tobe,
gowns ample in material, gorgeous in colouring, lavishly striped with
crimson, gold and blue—French silks which have travelled from Tripoli,
and decorated with silver Turkish embroidery. His ‘fulah’ or turban
was immense and snowy-white, the folds drawn over his nose and chin,
a necessary precaution against dust. He sat with ease and majesty on
a proud-stepping camel, head and shoulders above the surging crowd,
caparisoned and ornamented with leather, coloured red, blue, green and
yellow—a thoroughly regal figure.

Six hundred horsemen or thereabouts accompanied this almost daily ride,
all rushing, galloping, saluting, waving arms and shouting, horses
rearing and flinging bloodstained foam around, maddened by the cruel iron
bit, sharp spurs, and metal, shovel-shaped stirrups, dashing off into the
great cloud of dust which followed them, enveloping the throng streaming
after on foot, banging drums, blowing shrill blasts on trumpets six or
eight feet long, and firing off fusilades from ancient flint-locks and
muzzle-loaders! It was a curious spectacle, widely apart from the world
of to-day, and one that might have stepped out of the Arabian Nights or
the stirring days of Shah Jehan.

[Illustration: A KANO CARAVAN DONKEY DRIVER. (p. 88)]

We watched them on their way, and rode slowly about the city, finding
something new and fascinating at every turn, till the scarlet sun dropped
behind the far-off wall, and the rugged side of Kazauri and Dala turned
rosy-red, indeed the whole city glowed suddenly pink, and the heavy
smoke wreaths twined in sapphire blue curves in the rapidly cooling
atmosphere. It was obviously time to go home; the Emir was back in his
palace, and only a few straggling horsemen and a cloud of dust marked
where he had passed; the mu’ezzins were already calling in all directions
from the summit of the Mosques, ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ and the
faithful were wending their way to evening prayer. Reluctantly we turned
our horses’ heads, passed through the Nassarawa Gate, gloomy and dark
in the fading light, cantered up the wide sandy road to the Residency,
in the swiftly falling darkness of the African night, and were suddenly
jerked back into civilization and modernity, to the dusty parade-ground,
English voices, and joyful leaping fox-terriers!

The Residency itself, our home for the time being, consisted of a very
large compound, surrounded by a high wall and entered by the usual
recessed gatehouse. Inside the courtyard were several massive buildings,
one the first two-storeyed native houses I had seen. They were great
vaulted apartments, cool and dim, eminently suited to African royalty,
but as dwellings for English folk, more than a trifle gloomy. However,
we found our spacious mansion (extremely like a crypt!) was speedily
and easily brightened by the introduction of clean matting, a few
cheerful-tinted cloths, and quantities of sketches and pictures on the
sombre brown walls. The upper storey was reached by a solid staircase
of clay, and comprised a fine large room with plenty of light and air,
commanding a splendid view over the imprisoning compound wall.

Outside were the hospital buildings, the barracks where the detachment
of the N.N.R. was quartered, and, beyond, the Mounted Infantry Lines
and officers’ quarters, all forming a sort of semicircle round the
parade-ground, where I used to sit and watch many an exciting game of
polo, rendered more eventful by sundry rather alarming obstacles on the
ground itself, in the shape of holes and tree-stumps. There was, in
particular, a cotton tree, in the buttresses of which the ball lodged
itself with malignant and unerring precision; the process of hooking it
out looked so extraordinary to an observer, that one might almost wonder
‘what the game was!’

I tried, as usual, to make a garden, but it was up-hill work—every scrap
of earth had to be carried in from outside the compound, sheep and
donkeys from the caravans regularly smashed the frail fence, and trampled
on the beds, hordes of lizards nipped the head off each seedling as it
appeared, and, the month being December, the middle of the dry season, my
efforts were utterly defeated.

I suppose there was not ‘much to do’ as a matter of fact, but the
daily stream of caravans, pausing to pay their toll, were an unfailing
interest; we were a fairly large community, amongst whom were some old
friends of Indian days, the cool hours were filled with polo, and the
horses of the Mounted Infantry proved a continual point of attraction
for an evening stroll, every one was sociably inclined, and we all gave
dinner-parties according to our several abilities. We had even a patient
in hospital to concern ourselves about—he gave us plenty of food for
thought for a time, but, I am glad to say, recovered absolutely, and has
probably completely forgotten the many evenings when he lay, weak and
helpless, in the dropping twilight, watching the flying figures in the
dust outside, and listening to the cheerful shouts as the last ‘chukker’
came to an end. I hope he has, for they must have been long weary hours.

We were very happy at Kano, and sincerely sorry when the time came for us
to pack up again and start on the last stage of our journey North.




CHAPTER VII

Katāgum and Hadeija, and Back


On December, 15 we actually left Kano. Trials and tribulations had
already been our share in more than generous measure, over the collection
of animals for transport, to replace the carriers who had brought our
belongings so far. The donkeys were difficult to obtain and wretchedly
small, and the problem of tying up miscellaneous luggage into ‘loads’ was
the hardest we had yet encountered.

It _sounds_ so simple, but I have never met any single traveller in this
country who, having once endured the ordeal—I can call it nothing else—of
‘animal transport,’ ever willingly repeated the experience! And indeed
it is, or should be, apparent to the least observant that the caravan
transport is one thing, and an Englishman’s luggage is another. I have
watched hundreds of times the arrival of caravans at their camp for
the night: the weight of the loads (salt, potash, kolas, cloth, etc.)
is regulated to an ounce, each one is packed in _exact_ similarity to
its fellow in size and shape, so that the two form a perfectly equally
balanced burden, which never slips, falls, nor worries the donkey;
moreover, once packed, so they remain, the tremendous web of string,
knotted and turned, twisted and knotted again, holds good for the entire
journey. On arrival, the two loads are simply lifted off the donkey’s
back, deposited on the ground and the _leferu_ on which they rest, laid
beside them. In the morning, the pillow is replaced, and the same loads
laid on it—the whole process taking less than five minutes.

Now observe the unfortunate European traveller! He will naturally look
round, as far as he can, for loads of an equal size, and, with luck, will
discover a couple of similar uniform cases. But who can guarantee that
the contents of each weigh exactly the same amount? Indeed, are there any
two boxes among his ‘kit’ that do? With muscular carriers, six or even
ten pounds more or less make little difference; here, it means that the
heavier box over-balances the other, drags the pillow, and incites the
donkey to quietly scrape against the nearest tree, relieving himself of
the whole thing—small blame to him!—and the crash of falling loads is a
sound only too familiar to any one who has travelled in this way.

The wayfarer next hunts round among his possessions, and wonders how he
is to unite any two of a folding bath, a camp chair, a Lord’s lantern, a
tent and an open box of cooking pots, into equal-sized and shaped loads.
The answer may, and should be, arrived at without any of the mental
strain usually devoted to it, for it is quite simple—_it cannot be done_!

The wretched little animals are small and weakly at the best, and, since
even in the caravans, with short marches and the ‘perfect’ load, they
acquire terrible sore backs, the employment of them with ill-balanced
odd-shaped burdens is simply gross cruelty. I shudder now when I remember
our donkeys’ backs, washed, dressed and cared for as they were, with
the utmost tenderness. Another serious drawback is that they travel far
more slowly than carriers; indeed, the caravans hardly ever do more than
eight or ten miles a day, and the ‘trek ox’ proceeds even more leisurely!
Unless each animal has its own driver, the accidents are incessant, and
the delay maddening, for what can be done by the driver of five, when one
donkey casts its loads and skips off into the bush? Is he to leave the
remainder of his charge, knowing as he does, for a certainty, that those
he leaves will immediately do likewise? Having captured the runaway,
how is he, unaided, to get two awkward sixty-pound loads into their
former position? It means that the traveller, his servants, escort and
staff are all compelled to crawl at the rate of two-and-a-half miles an
hour, with probably twenty miles to cover before water can be reached.
Many and many a grilling half-hour have we both spent in this agreeable
occupation; personally I preferred catching the donkeys, in spite of the
heat, to adjusting my battered belongings on their shrinking backs! I can
safely say we had more of our possessions lost and destroyed during our
journey to Katāgum and back, than we have lost in the whole of our five
years out in Africa!

On the return journey the pack oxen were our greatest trial; they had an
inveterate habit of lying down, loads and all, in any shallow river they
crossed, and once a pack ox lies down ‘all the king’s horses and all the
king’s men’ will not move him an inch until he has recovered from his
fatigue. One of our largest and best defeated us in this fashion in a
village, and no method we could devise, including the whole strength of
the village, and even, in despair, a flicker of fire just under his nose,
had the slightest effect, the latter device merely producing a faint
smell of scorch, so horrible in its suggestion that we flew to stamp it
out, and hurriedly sold the delinquent to the villagers, who, seeing us
at a distinct disadvantage in the matter, made an uncommonly good bargain
for themselves!

By ten o’clock on December 15 we had begun to get an inkling of what lay
before us; the whole of the donkeys had straggled out of the compound, we
said our last good-byes and followed them—only to find most of the loads
scattered on the road, not fifty yards away, and the donkeys careering
gladly back to their happy homes! Patience, patience, and yet more
patience! There is really nothing else for it—fury only exhausts one, and
does not catch the donkeys!

Eventually we got off, and were fairly started on the long white road,
trending south-east, winding in and out on a dead level, among miles of
farms and hamlets. Barth has remarked that ‘the Province of Kano may
truly be called the garden of Central Africa,’ and to us it appeared
marvellously fertile, especially at that season of the year, when every
river-bed was dry, and the whole land waterless, save for an occasional
well.

One evening we had rather an interesting experience: among our party we
numbered a ‘political agent,’ Ganna by name, and a strict Mahomedan,
an interpreter called Daniel, a Christian convert with more zeal than
tact or knowledge, and a Senegalese soldier, Braima, who had become a
fast friend of mine, marching always beside my pony, and giving me his
opinions on things in general, in his queerly pronounced French, while he
contentedly munched away at my kola-nuts which I scrupulously shared with
him. He had served with the French troops in Dahomey, and his stories of
their proceedings were most amusing, if slightly startling! His affection
for us became so strong that, before we severed our connexion, he
cheerfully offered to desert from the N.N.R. for my benefit, on condition
that I would install him as ‘head boy,’ and was quite mournful when shown
the impracticability of his suggestion!

In an idle moment, these three men had embarked on a theological
discussion, and, like their enlightened and highly civilized white
brethren in England, got so heated and furious in their argument that
Ganna only averted bloodshed by a happy suggestion that they should all
come to us and let us arbitrate.

Daniel had first say. He commenced by a sweeping denunciation of all
Mahomedans, and, incidentally, such dogs of heathen as Senegalese and
such like. Their hearts and consciences were of the blackest, he informed
us; and drew vivid pictures of their final fate and destination. On
being sharply pulled up, and told to confine himself to his own creed,
he unctuously explained as follows: ‘Well, God is a kind of a scorpion.
When man do bad, he turn up him tail—so—and bite him _proper_! If man do
good, then God just lef (leave) him!’ Ganna’s creed was too well known
to us to require explaining at length, and the soldier added little to
the discussion except furious indignation against Daniel for having
stigmatized him as a dog and a heathen. His own ‘views’ were ill-defined,
I fancy, except for a strong sense of personal loyalty and affection, and
a fatal passion for a row of any kind!

We then set to work to place before them all Christianity pure and
simple, untainted by creed or dogma, the plain doctrine of one God and
Father of all, Christian and Mahomedan, black and white, and every
living creature, whether known as ‘Allah’, ‘God,’ or ‘Le Bon Dieu.’ They
seemed curiously astonished at such a pronouncement, Ganna receiving
it with deep-voiced ‘Gaskia ne! Gaskia ne! Mahad Allah!’ (True, true,
thank God!) Braima, staring into the fire and grunting, ‘C’est ça!’ at
intervals; while Daniel sniffed suspiciously and with some contempt.
He retired finally with his smug complacency quite unshaken, evidently
considering our doctrines milk-and-water affairs compared with his own
fiery ultimatums!

This little episode reminded my husband of another, which took place
some years ago in Accra, when his ‘boy’, a Christian, having learned to
read at school, delighted to read Bible stories aloud to the orderly,
and on this occasion selected ‘Jonah and the Whale’ for his instruction.
The orderly listened with round eyes and growing incredulity, and at the
conclusion remarked emphatically: ‘That be dam lie!’ ‘Dam lie? You say
that? Dis be _Bible_—if you say Bible be lie, you go hell one time!’
‘Don’t care!’ said the orderly doggedly, ‘P’raps I go hell, I don’t know,
but I no fit to believe that story—dam lie!’

The outraged little reader trotted off with his Bible under his arm, and
wrath in his heart!

After a few days’ marching through rather uninteresting country, level,
sandy and treeless, we climbed on to a sandy ridge which looked exactly
as if it _must_ have the sea behind it, and continued our way along the
top for nine or ten miles, in deep sand, most fatiguing to men and ponies
alike:

    Toiling in immeasurable sand
    O’er a weary, sultry land,
    Far beneath a blazing vault.

There was a wonderful view on either side, miles and miles of plain, all
sand, low bushes and scanty grass—a veritable sea of grey-green fading
into pale blue in the far distance. When the eye became accustomed to the
vast sweep of green, one discovered innumerable tiny hamlets and farms,
all neatly fenced, and growing healthy crops of cotton and cassava,
apparently in pure sand. It was a remarkable sight, and seemed to be the
very edge of the Desert. I could image it being brilliantly beautiful in
the rainy season, but in December, with everything enveloped in a dismal
hot grey-drab mist, the scene was depressing and gloomy to a degree. Far
apart were isolated wells, some presenting quite a Biblical appearance,
with the waiting herds and flocks, and white-robed figures.

As we entered the Katāgum Province, the country changed to light
woodland, a great relief, and pleasant to march through, had it not
been for the truly terrible thorns. The trees were mostly mimosa and
camel-thorn in full blossom, the sickly-sweet scent of which is most
unpleasant and powerful. The last march into Katāgum was like entering a
new country, as rich and fertile as the last had been barren and dreary.

We arrived on Christmas Eve, and felt great satisfaction at not being
obliged to spend Christmas Day on the road. The Acting Resident was
waiting to welcome us, and we took possession of a ‘house’ of grass
matting, built round an immense Kuka tree, the trunk of which formed one
entire side. It was very spacious and really exceedingly comfortable but
for the presence of some highly objectionable large black ants, the smell
of which, should they be disturbed or crushed accidentally, was so truly
awful as to drive us all—dogs included—out into the open air to recover!
We had some really cold nights, when the temperature dropped to 54°,
and regularly, each morning, a strong chilly wind would spring up about
seven, and last till ten o’clock, when it sank away quite suddenly, and
usually some extremely hot hours followed.

From our doorway we could look for miles around, over a plain of waving
grass, dotted with palm trees, mainly the Egyptian Doum palm with its
curious bifurcations. The town was about a mile from our settlement, and
the river wound away to the south-west, bordered with brilliant green
patches of wheat and onions. Game of all kinds was very plentiful at that
time; we could always see the deer roaming fearlessly about, and, evening
after evening, we used to ride out in different directions, and had
capital sport.

My own small occupations were of quite a different nature from my usual
hobbies; gardening at this season of the year was, of course, out of the
question, but we had succeeded in conveying a few Black Minorca fowls
from England, and they behaved splendidly, laying well all the time—even
on the march, every day, we found one or two eggs in the basket! The
care of a farm-yard was quite a novelty to me. I found it a fascinating
occupation—one that grows upon one, too. We also revelled in rich milk,
and every morning I amused myself by making butter in a small plunge
churn, which I had brought with me. It was very excellent butter, and I
was equally proud of my cream cheeses! But my efforts to manage cows,
calves, and herdsmen after the manner of an English dairy, were a dismal
failure, and I gave them up, submitting meekly, but much against my will,
to the ‘custom of the country!’

The Katāgum people were specially pleasant to deal with: half Fulani,
half Beri-beri,—a combination which seems to make for unusual
intelligence, coupled with admirable spirit and innate courtesy. They
made friends at once, and the Sariki and his immediate followers were
my almost daily visitors. On one of these visits, with a sort of shy
reproach he touched the skirt of my coloured linen frock, and asked
gently why, when I came to his house to see him, I did not wear pretty
clothes like that—his people only saw me in a black _gown_ (my habit!)
After that I had to sacrifice comfort to friendship, and be careful to
ride into the town in my lightest muslin!

On another occasion, the Sariki explained to me that, as I had evidently
been ‘sent’ to them as a special mark of favour, it was quite necessary
for them to know my name;—what should they call me? ‘A man’s name,’ I
remarked, ‘is given to him by his friends. Give me a name yourselves,’
After cogitating in whispers, the old man said, smiling, that they would
in future know me as ‘Uwāmu’ (Our Mother), and so I received my ‘country’
name, one that has stuck to me ever since, and by which I am known to all
my dark-skinned friends throughout Nigeria. I am always proud of it, for
though, at the time, I felt inclined to smile at being so addressed by
men old enough to be my father, the title is recognized to be the highest
expression of respect and affection that the African man can offer to a
woman.

We were presented with a pair of tame marabouts, but their tameness
was a doubtful quantity; and though it was amusing enough to see them
dancing and playing about in the sunshine, their temper was not of the
best, and they attacked every one who approached the house, snapping
their formidable beaks angrily. The poor dogs were in absolute terror
of them, and would warily wait their opportunity outside, till the
marabouts’ attention was distracted, when a white streak of fox-terrier
would fly in, only just escaping the furious beating of wings and
clapping of beaks! They were so tiresome that we parted with them, and
replaced them by a baby ostrich, which we bought for a sovereign: a
most attractive little person, about the size of a duck, a mere ball
of soft, mouse-coloured fluff, with beautiful velvety black eyes, and
long _eyelashes_! It had never occurred to me before, that ostriches
had eyelashes! His diet consisted mainly of chopped-up onions and bran,
though he fulfilled the traditions of his race—and alarmed me horribly—by
swallowing all kinds of weird things. I have seen him devour with relish
all the pieces of a broken glass bangle; and any odd bits of china,
stone, or metal appeared to be equally tasty morsels. He became very tame
at once, and would wander about freely, and sometimes stand beside me for
an hour at a time, gently nipping at my sleeve or slippers.

Life in this rural retreat, however, did not last long, and the end of
January found us under orders to return to Zungeru, and, very sadly,
packing once more. We started, after infinite difficulty, as usual
over transport, which delayed us so long eventually that the sun was
uncomfortably high before we said our farewells and rode away from
Katāgum. We had a guide to set us on the road to Murmur, a different
route from that by which we had reached Katāgum, and he either misled
us, or was ignorant himself, for, after his last asseveration of ‘Oh! it
is _quite_ near now!’ and subsequent departure, we marched for hours,
losing the almost imperceptible path, finding it again, after collecting
our straggling party—a matter of some difficulty—all thirsty, tired and
grumbling, calling down Heaven’s vengeance on the perfidious guide, and
eventually reached Murmur after sunset.

It was a curious coincidence that we found ourselves on the spot where
Richard Oudney died, exactly eighty years before (January, 1824),
striving, in spite of desperate illness, to reach Kano, in company with
Clapperton. The latter describes the sad events—Oudney’s determination
to make a further effort, insisting on resuming the journey, for which
he was quite unfit, ministering to the needs of the natives with what
was absolutely his last flicker of strength, then reluctantly giving up
the impossible, ‘retiring into his tent’ and lying down to die. There,
Clapperton buried his beloved friend, and we were deeply interested in
the site of his resting-place. The village people were quite touchingly
surprised and delighted when we repeated the story to them; it was
obviously a familiar one. The Sariki’s father had been a boy at the time,
but such a remarkable event was not likely to be forgotten, and they
started, as one man, to conduct us to the grave. It may be remembered
that Clapperton gives minute details of its position, which accorded
exactly with the spot to which we were led, leaving no possible doubt of
its accuracy. The ‘great tree’ had fallen, and the tomb, originally a
massive erection of clay, had been worn down by rain to an insignificant
mound, round which we planted a circle of seeds of the fragrant white
acacia, or _marengo_, in the earnest hope that they might grow and stand,
for many years, a memorial to the honour of that brave unselfish soul.

At Murmur, a grave difficulty presented itself. The people told us
we were off the main road altogether, the wells were almost dry, and
we could not hope to find enough water for our party and animals
between there and Kano, save on the regular caravan road, joining
which necessitated our turning north and marching to Hadeija, a large
town twenty miles north of Katāgum. It was not a matter to be lightly
decided, adding even twenty-five miles to a march as long as ours; yet,
the responsibility of taking a large party of men and animals through
a waterless district was one from which most people would shrink, so
we assembled the whole party, explained the situation, and frankly
consulted them. They unanimously voted for the extra march to Hadeija,
knowing, I suppose, better than we did, the utter impossibility of
obtaining sufficient food and water anywhere ‘off the line;’ and probably
influenced by the fact that the carriers from Katāgum bolted in the
night, giving as their reason for so doing their determination not to
‘die of thirst.’

The decision relieved us of an immense anxiety, and we started cheerfully
for Hadeija, sleeping that night at a tiny hamlet, where we were met and
welcomed by the Emir’s messengers.

The following morning we reached Hadeija, and the scene, on our approach
to the town, was one that I shall never forget. There was the vast extent
of rose-red wall, swarming with dark figures, the river flowing between
us and the town, and, on the far bank,—a space of nearly half a mile—a
dense mass of people watching with intense interest and expectancy. They
stood, an absolutely silent, swaying crowd, as we picked our way down the
steep bank, crossed the shallow river, and scrambled our ponies up the
other side. There we saw a pathway in the crowd kept by troops—positively
_cavalry_, four or five hundred of them,—drawn up in two double lines,
rigid and motionless in their saddles, the horses loaded with jingling
brass armour, heavy breast-plates and head-pieces, neighing, squealing
and kicking, but forced to stand comparatively still, merely pawing the
ground and tossing foam from their tortured mouths; stirrup touching
stirrup with a military precision that would not have disgraced any
regiment of British cavalry. The soldiers were fine big men, splendidly
turned out, and sat like living statues, but for the bright, restless
black eyes, between the folds of white cloth _litham_, following our
every movement. I doubt, though, whether any one there could have been
half as much interested in us, as I was myself at seeing this spectacle
of truly barbaric African splendour, riding behind my husband, feeling
_very_ small, travel-stained and dusty, amid so much brilliance and
colour! It seemed to take one back centuries in the world’s civilization,
and, with a gasp, came the realization that we had stepped into a world
where time had stood still, and the ages passed over without leaving a
mark!

At the end of the long line of horsemen was a little group of the chief
office-holders, surrounding their Emir, who, as we dismounted, approached
to greet us. He was a large, powerfully-built man, with the kindliest of
faces, and the gentlest voice I have ever heard; his quiet tones, almost
a whisper, veiling an authority, the response to which, in its instant
obedience and child-like submission, was quite startling.

His voluminous garments of brilliant green and white, and towering white
_rawani_, or turban, were surmounted by a burnous of white cloth, the
hood of which, edged with silk fringe, drawn over the tall head-dress and
falling round his face, gave him a positively patriarchal expression of
benevolence and kindliness. The courteous, dignified cordiality of our
welcome was perfect, and, the ceremonial greetings over, we were escorted
to the rest-camp prepared for us outside the city. Here, a regular little
colony of grass houses had been built, large enough to accommodate a
party twice the size of ours: water, wood and provisions were ready;
not a comfort was lacking, not a detail had been overlooked. My friend,
the Senegalese soldier, having, as he frankly said, no experience of
such friendly visits while he served in the French army, harboured
suspicions of an ambush and treachery, and displayed, at first, a fierce
determination not to let us out of his sight;—suspicions which, however,
were completely dissipated when he discovered the unbounded, lavish
hospitality offered to him and his companions!

In the cool of the evening, we walked into the city, and were amazed at
the solidity and immense size of the wall, the area inferior to Kano,
but, in point of height and condition, greatly superior. The gateways
were huge, and so cunningly arranged with rectangular approaches that
no armed force could possibly rush them,—indeed, no more than three or
four men at a time could cross the narrow bridges, and, were any attempt
at defence being made inside these would probably not cross them alive.
The gates themselves had been removed, in obedience to an order issued
by my husband, while we were at Katāgum, and Hadeija, the impregnable,
the unconquered, stood friendly, smiling, open to all approach,—surely
a happy omen for the future for increased prosperity and uninterrupted
progress, we thought,—a hope, alas! not destined to be fulfilled.

Inside the gate by which we entered was an extensive space of open
ground and level turf, where the cattle were quietly grazing, and the
people passing up and down; far away in the distance were the buildings,
flushed in the sunset, overtopped by towering trees and clusters of
feathery palms. It was a sore disappointment to have to turn away
without exploring that unknown city, to turn my back on Hadeija, a
mere passing traveller, knowing that the chances of my seeing it again
were infinitesimal,—to me, it has always been the most poignant regret
of these five years spent in Nigeria. I am thankful not to have known
then, that so soon those peaceful streets would echo with war-cries, and
bloodshed and death be dealt out with a just, though unsparing hand,
for the sake of civilization and progress. I had just time to try to
make a hurried pencil-sketch of the scene before me, and the gate. This,
however, was rendered almost impossible by the friendly surging crowd,
by that time assembled,—all longing to know what in the world I was
doing, chattering, peeping, pressing forward—not mobbing, though—that
delicate attention is reserved for highly civilized countries; in Africa
it is ‘not done!’ So I gave up the attempt in amused despair, showed my
pictures to as many of my new friends as I could reach, and shut up my
sketch-book to take a last look at one of the most fascinating places of
its kind that I have ever seen.

The next morning we were up early, teeth chattering, and shivering in
the bitter chill of the winter dawn, in spite of a huge wood fire.
The Emir had announced his intention of escorting us on our way, to a
point seven miles from Hadeija, adding with emphasis, that, when the
Sariki-n-Mussulmi passed through, he only accompanied him _five_ miles!
He clattered off, surrounded by his army of horsemen and an apparently
unlimited crowd on foot, leaving us to digest the compliment, and drink
our morning coffee over the fire.

We found them all assembled under a group of trees. As we dismounted,
the horsemen formed up into a gigantic double circle, ourselves, the
Emir, his head men, and a few of our own people in the centre. When the
last farewells had been said, my husband asked that the Limam might offer
prayers for our safe journey, and—perhaps—another meeting some day, a
suggestion which evoked a deep murmur of satisfaction. The ‘cavalry’
dismounted and stood beside their horses, the Limam stood up, his
towering white head-dress and earnest dark face turned to the morning
sun, his solemn clear voice pouring out the prayer in sonorous Arabic,
every word distinct in the great silence; thousands of heads and hands
around followed every gesture, our own included, for, at that strange
moment creeds seemed very far away, and the one Father of us all, to whom
such earnest words were being addressed on our behalf, the sole reality.
It was a sight, I suppose, such as few people have ever witnessed, and it
made a very deep and lasting impression on us. I had a lump in my throat
when, as I turned to mount my pony, the stately old Emir laid his slender
brown hand, with a beautiful amber rosary twined among the fingers, on
my arm, and said gently: ‘You will come back to us; surely God will send
you back,’ And perhaps not the least remarkable incident was, when, as we
turned our horses’ heads, our escort, those who had been most suspicious,
most incredulous of our host’s good intentions, asked leave, to a man,
to fall out and obtain the Limam’s blessing, kneeling humbly at his
stirrup!

[Illustration: BRINGING IN FIRE-WOOD. (p. 103)]

[Illustration: A KANO DOORWAY. (p. 107)]

The whole circumstances of our visit to Hadeija, compared with the stormy
events which took place there two years later, are illustrative of a
point, we have frequently noticed, on hearing accounts of the peaceful
journeys of missionaries and sportsmen, and of the perfect hospitality
and friendliness they have found everywhere: that it is one thing to
travel independently through the unknown parts of Africa, and quite
another to administrate them successfully, introducing, of necessity,
unpopular measures, and restraining undesirable existing customs. One
acquaintance of ours, travelling about in search of sport, has wandered
all through the Munshi country, where the natives have proved themselves
aggressive and inimical to a degree towards any effort to establish law
and order. This is a fact, I think, commonly overlooked by those who,
with insufficient knowledge of the immense difficulties confronting
a Government in territories such as these, are inclined to condemn
wholesale and belittle the necessity of punitive expeditions and display
of force.

From Hadeija our march was perfectly ‘plain sailing,’ The Emir’s
messenger went before us and smoothed away every possible difficulty,
only leaving us on the border of the Kano Province.

One incident of the road which stands out in my memory was the ludicrous
struggles of our old cook, Jim Dow, to become an expert horseman, and to
fully enjoy the privilege of having a horse to ride. He had bought an
extremely tall horse, attracted more by its utter mildness of disposition
than by any other remarkable point of suitability. Having saddled up
his depressed-looking steed, he, being a dumpy little individual, under
five feet in height, could not possibly mount without assistance. This
he indignantly spurned, and would solemnly lead the horse, till he
discovered a likely-looking tree. The horse was placed conveniently
under it, and the little man clumsily and slowly climbed into the lower
branches, from which he hoped to drop gracefully into the saddle. But
the sad steed invariably strolled off in an absent-minded fashion at the
critical moment, leaving poor Jim Dow hanging painfully from a branch,
and using blistering language in ‘Kru’! I have seen this manœuvre
repeated four or five times on a march, and he was a never-failing source
of amusement to the whole party!

We reached Kano on Sunday, the 7th of February, having decided to sleep
the night before at a tiny village a few miles out, as one of our
ponies had broken loose and could not be re-captured until late in the
afternoon. This small mishap was extremely fortunate for us, as a matter
of fact, as we afterwards heard that at the very hour when, had we not
been delayed, we should have ridden up to the Residency gate at Kano, a
curious and unpleasant scene was taking place there.

A native soldier had been confined in the guard-room on account of
insolence and insubordination. While there, he coolly possessed
himself of a rifle and a pouch full of ammunition, and darted out of
the guard-room, the bewildering suddenness of his action apparently
paralysing the guard for the moment. He rushed out on to the parade
ground, shrieking vengeance on all ‘Batures’ (Englishmen), calling to
them to come and be shot, brandishing his rifle,—evidently quite insane
and ‘running amok.’ Taking careful aim, he shot dead five horses tethered
in the shade, belonging to his officers, and his shooting was so straight
that most natural reluctance was displayed by his comrades in the matter
of his re-capture. He actually sent a bullet through the doorway of
the hospital hut, possibly seeing some one moving there. Finally the
unfortunate lunatic was shot down, having been successfully ‘stalked’
from behind trees and other cover. It was a nasty occurrence, and much
relief was expressed at our non-appearance at such an awkward moment.

On arrival we found every one very sad and anxious about Captain
Abadie, who was lying very ill. He did not improve during the two days
we spent there, and, shortly after leaving, we heard, to our sorrow,
of his death,—a loss to Nigeria and his friends which could never be
over-estimated.

At Zaria we met many old friends, but stayed one night only, as we were
anxious to lose no time in getting down country. It was wretched there
then, in a tent, with a strong Harmattan blowing clouds of sand into our
eyes, filling every crevice, and covering our food before we had time to
eat it, even with the greatest expediency!

At Karshi we had the good fortune to meet Captain Robinson and Major
Porter, going North. We had tea with them at their camp, outside the
town, and in the evening they came and dined with us, only stipulating
that they should be allowed to contribute to the feast; and I shall
always remember the procession that preceded the arrival of our
guests,—‘boys’ carrying chairs, lanterns, Lager beer in buckets of
cold water, roast guinea-fowls, and a box of chocolates! We had a most
cheery dinner, and sat talking into the small hours, and even managed
to breakfast all together the next morning before going our several
ways. It is one of the pleasantest of my many pleasant memories in this
country,—the spontaneous friendly kindness of two complete strangers, as
they were then, coming at a time when most needed, for our spirits were
almost as low as our provisions, and the bull-terrier pup had distemper!
I do not suppose the two people concerned realized then, or do now, what
a difference they made in our outlook on life at that time,—if not, I
make them a present of the information now!

On the 28th of February, we found ourselves once more in Zungeru. A
vacant bungalow was lent to us, and we spent a few days there very
comfortably, in spite of the excessive heat. We heard with dismay of the
terrible disaster in the Bassa country, where Captain O’Riordan and Mr.
Burney lost their lives. My husband received orders to take over the
Kabba Province once again, and we started on the last stage of our long
journey. The noisy little train rattled us back to Barijuko; we embarked
in a steel canoe, and commenced to paddle and drift down the Kaduna. The
river was very low, and we stuck continually on the sandbanks, when the
polers all turned out into the water, not more than seven or eight inches
deep, and literally dug out the canoe till she was once more afloat.
We were overtaken the next day by a second canoe, containing Captain
Wright (who had won a V.C. in the Kano Expedition) invalided, home, and
three others. Each evening we ‘tied up’ in company, and had cheerful
‘sand-bank’ dinner-parties. It was very placid and delightful travelling;
I suppose we were both rather tired, and, for the first time in my life,
I found huge enjoyment in doing absolutely nothing, beyond watching the
river banks and sunlit water.

At Mureji there was quite a gathering, and—a thing unknown—a collection
of five ladies! Dr. and Mrs. Thompstone were there, on their way to
Zungeru, and three Nursing Sisters, travelling up and down. We met some
old friends, and were quite a gay party, but it was a sad day for me,—my
beloved baby ostrich was suddenly taken ill, wandering about as usual, on
the bank, and, in spite of the greatest kindness shown me by Dr. Miller
of the C.M.S., who was on board, the poor little bird died in a few
hours. It seemed piteous indeed, when he had travelled so far without a
single mishap, and I was bitterly grieved at the loss.

It was, however, a great delight, under any circumstances, to see the
Niger again; as the _Corona_ sped down stream, every bush and rock seemed
familiar, and to be welcoming us ‘home’ to Lokoja. We settled down in
our former bungalow, and, in a few weeks, I could hardly believe that we
had travelled all those hundreds of miles in the past six months. The
much-talked-of North country had considerably disappointed us in its
appearance; and, with the exception of Kano and Hadeija, I think I can
safely say that neither of us has the least desire to see any part of it
again.




CHAPTER VIII

Kabba, Semolika and Patti Abaja


It was not until the end of July that I found myself ‘touring’ once
again, when we started for Kabba. It was interesting and pleasant
going over the same ground that we had covered two years before; and
characteristic of the country that there was not a single change to
be noticed on the road: the little Hausa farm, somewhat expanded,
perhaps; Oduapi as loud and genial as ever, with the blue and green gown
apparently standing the test of time and wear most satisfactorily!

At Kabba things were altered for the better. The old quarters had
been pulled down and new ones built; police barracks had sprung into
existence; and a general air of progress and prosperity was there. We
stayed a few weeks, and the place took such a hold on our affections,
that, at the risk of appearing sentimental, I will give some description
of it here. My enthusiasm is the more excusable when I recall that the
High Commissioner himself expressed unqualified admiration for Kabba,
even after his long tour, during which he had visited nearly every part
of the Protectorate.

It is, in itself a small and insignificant town in the centre of the
Province, it is not on the way to anywhere in particular—anywhere, that
is, that draws the stream of Europeans so ceaselessly passing up and down
the highways of the Protectorate; it has no great political importance to
drag it into prominence, no Emirate, with all the pomp and circumstance
attending a powerful native ruler; it has none of the halo of mystery
and attraction which hovers over Kano, Sokoto and the North generally;
nor is it on the path of the immense caravans which throng the Northern
routes. These either end their journey at Ilorin, and return North,
laden with fresh merchandise, or else, passing down through Nassarawa,
divide themselves into small canoe-loads, when they meet the Niger at
Loko. Kabba only sees those humble traders, who, in twos and threes, are
carrying native-made cloth to Lokoja, or returning with loads of potash;
in fact, the little place just sits there, a tiny mouse-coloured town,
snugly tucked away on the slopes of a thickly wooded hill-side, in one
of the very quietest backwaters of all the world’s rushing and scurrying
tide.

[Illustration: MUREJI—A CARAVAN ABOUT TO CROSS THE NIGER. (p. 110)]

[Illustration: A STEAM CANOE ON THE NIGER. (p. 116)]

Picture to yourself a green—truly emerald green—plain, holding an
area of, roughly, ten square miles, dotted with palm-trees (_Elaeis
guineensis_), their tall slender stems crowned with crests of graceful
drooping plumes, and bearing a respectable fortune in the palm-oil
contained in the closely clustering bunches of nuts on each tree.
Hundreds of acres are under cultivation, mainly yams, cotton and
capsicums, the last-named glowing like little tongues of flame among
the glossy winding trails of the yams, which, at a distance, resemble
smilax on a magnificent scale. Away, beyond, rise the blue hills, in a
huge circle, jealously shutting in this little green paradise from the
tiresome world of restless white folks, who would take count of time,
make roads, try to introduce sanitation, and otherwise employ themselves
in fruitless and unnecessary works to the dire discomfort of the peaceful
denizens of peaceful places! The ancient wall stretches away across the
plain, enclosing an area of which Kabba town to-day occupies possibly
one-hundredth part. A second inner boundary wall surrounds the town
proper, excluding the steep little hill crowned by the Fort, which is
now in as bad a state of repair as the aged walls themselves, but which,
three years ago, was nevertheless the abiding-place of a small military
detachment, and a handful of native police, in fact, the English Quarter
of Kabba, whence might be heard any morning ringing words of command
in English, bugle-calls all day long, and at evening-time the native
sentry challenging all and sundry with ‘Holl!-who-go-thaire!’ in his most
awe-inspiring tone. This ‘English Quarter’ was the only aspect of Kabba
that had the power of damping my spirits, beside the literal and visible
damping of our belongings which took place pretty regularly. Our quarters
were a rambling, ill-constructed clay building, measuring a good sixty
feet from end to end; the crumbling mud walls and ant-eaten, collapsing
wooden supports surmounted by a painfully inadequate thatched roof.
This house, incredible as it may seem, was designed by an Englishman,
whose desire for spaciousness and magnificence of proportion evidently
outweighed his knowledge of elementary architecture, and blinded his
foresight. How the native labourers must have smiled, and patiently
shrugged their shoulders, as they piled up the ridiculous structure under
his imperious orders!

Meantime, the tornadoes swept up over the hills to the South and West,
tearing like a white wall across the plain, and wreaking their fury on
this ill-fated hill-top in a most thorough-going fashion. At such a time
it made one giddy to look up at the roof, while it creaked and swayed
horribly in the hurricane, each gust seeming to bring the inevitable
collapse nearer. We had spent rainy seasons in Africa before, so we took
no needless risks, and in the places most essential for our comfort,
we rigged up tents and ground-sheets, thus securing to ourselves and a
percentage of our belongings islands of comparative safety and dryness;
but, for the rest...! I never could help smiling at the sight of the
Sahib, manfully getting through his day’s work, interviewing the chiefs
and headmen of various neighbouring villages, with the rain pouring
through the roof, and an umbrella held over his head, while his guests
squatted around him, placidly enduring the ceaseless streams of water
pattering on their persons, and displaying as much polite cheerfulness as
the circumstances would permit.

Kabba itself is much the same as any of the smaller towns in the
Protectorate in appearance; a collection of clay-built thatched houses,
clustered closely together, seeming to cling affectionately to the
rocky hill-side above—the Ju-ju Hill, deeply reverenced, dearly loved,
and jealously guarded by all. There is the usual crowded market, with
low, dark booths or shelters lining the streets, where the ladies of
commercial pursuits display the invariable collection of coloured cotton
cloths, beads, miscellaneous food-stuffs, spices and capsicums. They are
some of the most light-hearted and spirited women I have met, those at
Kabba. As I rode through the busy market heads would be popped out, and
white teeth flash in smiles, calling merry greetings to ‘Uwāmu,’ and
vociferating warnings to the fat brown toddlers, rapt in wonder, and
straying perilously near my horse’s hoofs. They are dear, simple souls,
untouched by civilization, happy and unspoilt as little children, yet
self-reliant and independent withal. A scene illustrative of this was
enacted before me daily while at Kabba: the open space in front of our
quarters bathed in warm sunlight; above, blue sky and wheeling kites;
below, the valley, stretching away into purple distance. Little groups
of people, humble folk, trading in a small way between Lagos and the
Hausa States, carrying country-made cloth, palm-oil, salt and kola-nuts,
turned in here daily to disburse, with cheerful reluctance, the small
percentage then levied on each load as a caravan tax. Those moving in
the same direction were, of course, travelling acquaintances. Many were
women, and the babble of laughter and chatter in various tongues was
incessant. The tender-hearted philanthropist would have to seek far and
long in this merry crowd for the ‘down-trodden women of Africa’ and the
‘black sister in slavery’, of whom one seems to have heard. There is not
much that indicates subjection or fear about these ladies, sitting at
graceful ease among their loads, or strolling about in the hot sunshine,
polished mahogany shoulders gleaming, white teeth flashing in laughter,
while the slender perfectly-shaped hands gesticulate dramatically,
illustrating the incident of absorbing interest, which is being related
in musical sing-song Nupe, almost like a Gregorian chant in its slow
cadences. The outer garment, consisting of a gaily-tinted country-made
cloth, wrapped tightly round the body, just below the arms, is adjusted,
tightened, tucked in with lightning rapidity, and precision. The “black
sister” has a word, a joke, a stream of courteous greetings for every
individual there. As each new arrival appears upon the scene, a chorus
of salutations in Hausa, Nupe and Yoruba meets him; a dozen kindly hands
are stretched out to help him down with his heavy load; endless inquiries
are pressed upon him as to his health, the comfort of his journey, the
state of the road, etc.; and he becomes at once an honoured guest in
the cheerful coterie. Every departing traveller has the same circle of
willing friends, eager to help him to adjust his sixty or eighty pounds
of merchandise, and start him off on a fresh stage of his journey with a
shower of valedictions, good wishes and pious ejaculations and prayers
for his safety,—his replies borne faintly up to us on the warm air, as he
drops down the steep path into the valley below.

Of course, it may be called merely superficial friendliness and courtesy,
and it is quite possible that, while the latest arrival absents himself
for ten minutes or so, discoursing to the Resident, the speckled chicken
which erstwhile dangled by one leg and a piece of string from his load
_may_ not be there when he returned, and may be adorning the baggage of
the astute trader, who has just left with some alacrity; but, even so,
for myself, I would gladly take the chance of having my pocket picked,
if, on one of the many occasions when I have entered a crowded omnibus
in London, one of the row of cold, critical unfriendly faces opposite
would break into a smile, and say what I heard all round me at Kabba,
in sonorous Yoruba: ‘Akwabo! Akwabo!’ (You are welcome, very welcome!)
Indeed, I can never conquer that curious feeling of chilly depression
that overtakes me each time I return to England, and feel that, except
for the tiny minority of my own friends, I am alone in the crowd;
infinitely more alone in Bond Street, where almost every brick and stone
is familiar, than I could ever be in the busy streets of Kano, or any
other city of Nigeria, which I might enter even for the first time, where
I should find two hands and one willing tongue all inadequate for the
due return of the ceaseless shower of smiling salutations and greetings
that would be poured upon me from every side. And this is by no means a
tribute to any personal charms of mine. Any traveller, black-skinned or
white, receives the same treatment as a matter of course.

It is, however, a ‘far cry’ from Bond Street to Kabba, and I very much
doubt whether moralizing is permissible in so small and simple a record
as this. It must have been—as usual—the fault of those chattering ladies!

Outside the town, there is a little stretch of forest belt, and, as no
one has ever disputed its possession with me, I am pleased to consider
it exclusively my own property! The path is of the very narrowest, not
more than three feet anywhere, giving barely room enough for me and
my pony. On either side rises a wall of greenery, full of climbing
plants innumerable. Hanging from the branches of great trees, twenty and
thirty feet above my head, themselves loaded with ferns and parasites,
are gracefully twining creepers, swaying tantalizingly and rather
contemptuously, it seems, just out of reach of my farthest stretch. Two
months before, it was a flaming mass of glorious scarlet _Mussaenda
elegans_. Now, in July, that has passed, and the mode for the month is
a flower I dearly love, but which, owing to a miserable ignorance of
botany, I cannot address by its proper name. I think it would strike the
lay mind as a species of mimosa. The stem is thorny; the leaves, which
are minutely pinnate, close modestly at sunset. The flower smells of
a thousand sweet things, and consists of a collection of tiny florets
massed together, forming one infinitely delicate ball of slender,
silvery-white threads tipped with golden pollen. It is everywhere,
clasping the tree-trunks, foaming over the bushes, and shrouding the deep
cool recesses, where the shining dark ferns lie hidden away, scenting
the whole air, and proving itself an irresistible fascination to the
butterflies—busy gossips that they are—flashing purple and velvety black,
gleaming yellow and palest blue.

One of the huge ‘Kuka’ trees is clothed to a height of fifteen or twenty
feet in a gorgeous mantle of _Gloriosa superba_, each vivid green leaf
ending in a long tendril which clings desperately to all it meets. The
blossoms, when first opened, are of a delicate pale golden colour, daily
developing crimson splashes at the base of each petal, and later becoming
entirely an exquisite deep apricot shade—a perfect feast of daintily
varying hues.

Added to these treasures, my ‘Kingdom’ is the happy home of troops of gay
restless monkeys, seldom visible, but everlastingly on the move behind
the green curtain, swinging, leaping and chattering, ever disturbing
flights of tiny green parrots and demure little grey doves.

Skirting the crumbling wall, one follows a narrow footpath towards a
rocky eminence a quarter of a mile away, and, dismounting, explores it on
foot. It is a tiny hill of great steepness, composed for the most part
of piles of massive boulders, from which nearly all the soil has been
washed away by the rain of many seasons. An almost invisible track guides
one up the precipitous side to the summit, an area of, possibly, fifty
feet square, occupied entirely by great rocks, shady niches and coarse
creepers.

The place has a history and a reputation of its own; it is called the
‘Look-out Hill,’ and was greatly used—so runs the tradition—in the times
of Fulani slave-raiding expeditions from Bida. Once arrived at the top,
the full significance of the name is grasped. Far and wide, in all
directions, one can view the surrounding country, and command every road
leading to Kabba, without being visible from below. How vividly one
can picture the anxious watcher, crouching motionless among the rocks,
scanning with straining eyes the paths winding like white ribbons among
the peaceful yam-fields and waving grass, on the alert to detect the
first signs of the advancing Fulah army, and then flying breathless along
the scented forest ways, back to the town, his poor heart thumping on
his ribs, to carry the dread news that sounded the knell of slavery for
himself, his wives and children.

The Kabba folk are of the Bunu tribe; whence their origin I cannot
venture to say. At all events, they speak a remarkably unpronounceable
language of their own, to the utter confounding of any unfortunate
interpreter who does not happen to have been born within fifty miles of
the place. Bunu language is not precisely musical, but I have observed
with mild astonishment that these natives rather like talking it! My
friend, the Balogun, likes to chat easily with his retinue in this
tongue, which appears to have no vowels except odd sounds evolved from
somewhere in the region of the collar-bones, and which seems to demand
some special development about the nose and chest, just as Yoruba and
Kru require peculiarly shaped mouths for their correct enunciation. I
think the Balogun likes to feel that he is making an impression on ‘the
Judge’ in a small way, by this exhibition of jaw-breaking phraseology.
He, by the way, is a man of property, and, as befits the ‘second chief’,
is a leader of society in Kabba, dressing recklessly in a gorgeous black
and white velvet robe. He knows, too, what is due to a lady, even an
English one. Once, when I showed him some elaborate embroidery on which
I was working, he rose manfully to the occasion, and, making use of
his one piece of colloquial English, rather startled me by ejaculating
pleasantly: ‘My God!’

Fetish has a firm hold in Kabba, but to which ‘school’ the people belong,
I have never been able, nor indeed have I tried, to find out, as I
have some belief in treating any man’s religion with as much reverence
and reticence as he does himself. Before describing what I do know of
Bunu ceremonies, I would like to repeat here Mary Kingsley’s admirable
definition of ‘Fetish’: ‘the religion of the natives of the western coast
of Africa, where they have not been influenced either by Christianity
or Mahomedanism’: a fairer and truer view than that usually taken, as
‘rank heathenism.’ However, the whole subject of Fetish is so well and
exhaustively treated both by Miss Kingsley and Major Mockler-Ferryman
in their respective works on West Africa, that it would be as futile as
unbecoming for me to attempt to stumble and halt over the ground they
covered so royally and so completely; therefore I will content myself
with describing the Bunu funeral ceremonies as carried out in Kabba, as
these happened to come under my notice and seemed to me rather unique
and interesting.

In the first place, the corpse is wrapped in the family burying-cloth,
which is an intrinsic feature of every Bunu household. It is a large
cloth quilt, sewn and embroidered with yarns of every imaginable hue—the
wealthier the family, the more elaborate and gorgeous the burying sheet,
the value frequently running up to several pounds. As soon as one is
devoted to its special purpose, the bereaved relations immediately set to
work to provide another according to their means, against a future death.
Nature appears to be very much the same all the world over, and feeling
in Kabba, on the subject of a proper burying-sheet, runs just as high as
it does in the Mile End Road over the momentous question of coaches and
plumes!

When thus suitably arrayed, the corpse is kept in the house for three
days, while four maidens of tender years are selected, and, being placed
in strictest seclusion in a house set apart, are not permitted to speak
a single word during these days. As soon as the lying-in-state is
accomplished, a great number of people from the neighbouring villages
arrive, in obedience to the Sariki’s summons; not necessarily out
of friendship for the dead man, but merely as a matter of religious
ceremonial. Each guest brings a certain proportion of gifts in cloth,
food-stuffs and cowries—especially the last-named. The whole party
having assembled, they start forth for the Ju-ju Hill, the corpse borne
in the midst, drums beating, horns hooting, women uttering mournful
cries, and general excitement prevailing. The grave has been previously
dug in a chosen spot on the hill-side (which is practically one large and
over-crowded cemetery), and is of a curious shape. After the ordinary
grave has been prepared to a depth of four feet or thereabouts, a tunnel
is dug at one end of it, and continued into the earth for a distance of
about twelve feet, the passage being wide enough to admit a man, creeping
on hands and knees.

The party at the foot of the hill seat themselves in a wide circle, and
the four silent girls, coming forward, and raising the body, bear it
away up the hill. It is lowered by them into the grave, and carefully
pushed up the tunnel, the idea being that no earth shall fall on it.
Then, in solemn silence, they return and collect the various offerings
of food, cloth, and cowries from the assemblage, and deposit them beside
and around the corpse; finally, the outer grave is filled in. I have
been told that several pounds’ worth of cowries are thus buried at each
funeral. Meantime, the folks below are holding high revel, dancing,
singing, capering, banging tom-toms, and shouting a most enthusiastic
send-off to their departed fellow-countryman, while he sleeps, all
unconscious of the fun he is missing, lying just where he would choose to
lie, on the slopes of his beloved Ju-ju Hill. Is it very different from
an Irish wake? And is it really much more ‘heathenish?’

[Illustration: THE EMIR’S BAND, BIDA. (p. 124)]

[Illustration: MY ‘PALM’ CAT. (p. 137)

(_Nandinia binotata._)]

Local funerals remind me of another Kabba story, which, though startling,
I know to be absolutely true. It is as follows—An English Police Officer,
while conducting an inquiry there, had a number of witnesses brought
before him (natives), amongst them a woman, with, as usual, a child
strapped to her back. While the inquiry was proceeding, the Police
Officer became conscious of a horrible smell, and, when he could endure
it no longer, inquired the cause among his interpreters and the people
collected around him. All sniffed incredulously, and declared that, to
their consciousness, there was no smell whatever. They could detect
nothing, and evidently put it down, in their own minds, as one more of
the imbecile fads that Englishmen are prone to! The day was warm, the
court-house crowded, the flies seemed more numerous and more maddening in
their buzzing than usual, and, the terrible odour becoming intolerable,
the Police Officer, feeling slightly sick, called for brandy and soda,
and, springing up, declared his intention of discovering the cause.
One turn round the court-house decided him that the horror was in the
neighbourhood of the female witness. He peered closer, and saw at once
that the baby on her back was _dead_! He announced his discovery in
horrified amazement, and was informed quite tranquilly, and as a matter
of course, that the child had been dead for ‘many days,’ but that,
as the mother had come from a distant village to give evidence, she
must, of course, wait till her return before she could give the body
burial! There are many minor ceremonies and festivals, connected with
matters agricultural, the ultimate success of the crops, the coming of
the new yams, etc., but there is little variety in the proceedings, the
main point being, apparently, the making of a ‘cheerful noise’ and the
sacrifice of nothing more dreadful than a few fowls!

Some distance to the south of Kabba there exists a tiny town of the name
of Semolika, curiously situated on the summit of a steep hill, below
which runs the winding bush path—the traveller’s highway. The Semolikas
are not nice characters; most of their time is spent in squatting on the
rocks, watching the road below, till they can spy a string of traders, or
a small caravan, when they swoop down like hawks, robbing and murdering
these unfortunate passers-by! At other times they amuse themselves and
‘keep their hands in’ by attacking their neighbours, who hold them in the
lowest estimation, describing them as having ‘hearts of stone,’ which
means, roughly, that they are insensible to sentiments of friendship,
honour, family ties and common humanity. No Semolika youth can claim to
be considered a man, until he is the proud possessor of a drinking-cup,
consisting of a human skull, taken with his own hand from some poor
wretch he himself has murdered!

These amiable people cherished undying resentment against the ‘white man’
in general; they claimed—rightly or wrongly—to have been unfairly treated
by him, and, having sworn to kill the very next Englishman who entered
their stronghold, they fiercely attacked a small military patrol, under a
young officer, who, on hearing continuous complaints of the Semolikas and
their behaviour from the neighbours all round, decided, with pardonable
imprudence, to march through the place as an object lesson of superior
force. The Semolikas did enough damage to the party to necessitate
reprisals, and in October of that year an expedition left Lokoja to
avenge the insult, accompanied by my husband. The force was entirely
successful in breaking up the culprits’ fastness, and as the operations
were specially interesting owing to the peculiar situation of the place,
I will quote from the Resident’s official report of the attack.

‘... On Sunday, the 16th, we marched into Igarra, which is curiously
situated, being on the opposite side of a narrow valley to Semolika;
the inhabitants of both places are therefore always in view of each
other from the summits of their respective hilltops, and sit by the hour
watching each others’ movements—the distance being about three thousand
yards. The people of these two places have never been friends, the
Semolikas, owing to their hill being the more difficult of the two to
climb, frequently raiding the Igarra farms, and, in addition to the farm
produce, as often as not carrying away women and children. As they are
known to practise human sacrifices, the Igarras are kept in constant
dread of these raids, and, on markets being held at places in the
neighbourhood, large parties arrange to pass along the road together, and
are always armed.

‘On climbing to the summit of the Igarra hill, 1,750 feet, it could be
seen what a very awkward place Semolika hill must be to ascend. The
local formation of boulder-like smooth-topped rocks appears to have been
rather concentrated in this particular mountain, and they rose, one
after another, in constant succession, at gradients varying from almost
the perpendicular, the thin silvery strip of colouring over the surface
of these slabs showing the direction of the ascending path. The Igarras
helped us tremendously, but still, when it came to asking for information
about other ways of getting up to Semolika, the ignorance was too general
to be credited, and I think that even then they were not too sure that
the “white man” would win, and were he _not_ to they might expect a
bad time for long years to come from their old enemy! So, although
much reconnoitring was undertaken, no better path could be seen. On
reconnoitring parties approaching within earshot of the many observing
points the Semolikas were continuously guarding, they would be received
with shouts of defiance and derision, the question being always asked:
“Why don’t you come and try?” etc.... The Semolikas were kept busy now,
and could be seen improving sangars, or endeavouring to make difficult
places still worse.

‘Finally, it was decided to advance on the morning of Tuesday, the 18th,
and on the night before, at 8.30 p.m., the gun detachment carried out
their gun, in order to commence the ascent of the Igarra hill, from
where it had been decided to cover the advance. Although this hill is
not so difficult as Semolika itself, still, no ordinary leather sole and
heel could ever hope to reach its summit, and it was with wonder and
admiration that I watched the manner in which the Igarra people turned
out in their hundreds on this cold and drizzling night, to help to get
the gun to its destination. At places they, accustomed as their toes have
apparently become to cling to smooth surfaces, suffered severely, and at
two points in particular one could only describe their manner of handling
by comparing the gun to a heavy beetle being carried off by a vast
company of ants! It was at one of these places that Captain Phillips, who
was commanding the detachment, had, with admirable foresight, arranged
for drag-ropes, hold-fasts and corresponding paraphernalia, but our
eager allies would brook no delay, and, literally falling on the gun and
its mounting, ran the heavy loads up the sides of this precipice by sheer
force of keen desire. After three hours’ hard climb, at each resting
interval of which the streamingly hot volunteers were most affectionately
patted on the shoulders by gunners and permanent gun carriers alike,
with many “Sanu’s!” to denote their admiration of the herculean task,
the selected ledge of rock was safely reached, and the gun duly mounted.
Heavy rain set in about 2 a.m. and without bedding or shelter of any
kind, the conditions were not pleasant.

‘The main body was supposed to leave camp at 3.30 a.m. which would
enable them to arrive at the foot of the Semolika hill at dawn. One
of the worst places where it was thought opposition might prove most
effective against our side was about one-third of the way up, and was
marked by three palm trees. Some strong sangars had been built, and the
natural features of the place certainly presented the most fearsome
difficulties. It was hoped, therefore, that the gun would succeed in
clearing this trap, and facilitate the advance for the attackers; from
about 4.30 a.m., therefore, every effort was made either to distinguish
our own men commencing their climb, or the enemy concealed in the heavy
undergrowth which was interspersed among the rocks. Unfortunately, there
was a thick mist after the night’s wet weather, and this handicapped the
gunners to a very great extent. At 6 a.m. the first Dane gun boomed out,
reverberating among the rocks and hill-side, and almost immediately after
a break occurred in the veil of mist, showing some hundreds of the enemy,
scampering, veritably like monkeys, from ledge to ledge, from boulder to
boulder, making their way to their various points of vantage, in order
to assist in the defence of their virgin stronghold. A very well-judged
shrapnel was fired at this moment, and, I think, must have checked the
enthusiasm of some at least of the defenders, who could be seen hurriedly
scuttling back. Could this have been repeated, the attackers would have
been much less opposed, except, of course, by the natural existing
difficulties which beset the path, the chief of which, was, I believe,
regarded by the Semolikas as their _pièce de résistance_, which was most
thoroughly emphasized personally, in my case, as it was while clinging to
an eight foot ledge, struggling in vain to get a foothold, that a Dane
gun was fired from most uncomfortable proximity! A long pointed boulder,
impossible to climb, terminated at the so-called path, which, at this
place, consisted of a narrow ledge close to, and under the point of, the
boulder. The defenders had ingeniously built up from this ledge, and
thus most effectually shut an apparently natural entrance gate to the
hill-side. At short distances away were stone sangars in well-selected
positions and, had they been occupied by a more modernly armed enemy, I
fear our casualties would have been very heavy. The drop to the right
from the ledge was considerable, but a small, loaf-shaped foothold
happened to be protruding some feet down, and this was the only means
of proceeding onward. A hurried one-legged balance had to be made upon
its surface when the ledge beyond had to be smartly clutched. On parting
with the perch, it was occupied by a native, who, by pushing upwards,
succeeded in precipitating the climber, on his face, on to the higher
level, once again in comparative safety, and thus every one had to take
his turn!

‘The higher level was a vast sheet of smooth rock, 100 to 150 yards in
length, sloping at a very steep gradient, and offering another deadly
opportunity to the modern firearm. But the Semolikas, at this place, were
content with stones only, and were not, apparently, good shots with these
missiles, for though many were more or less hurt, only one man was struck
in the face. After this, the defenders retired, firing continuously,
until the king’s quarter was reached, where a further determined stand
was made—and where Lieutenant Galloway received a wound. This was their
last combined effort, and for the remainder of the day only desultory
firing took place by people hidden here and there in caves and behind
rocks. A zareba was formed in the best place available ... an attack
being expected during the night, but nothing happened, the rain possibly
damping the enemy’s ardour, as well as his ammunition! For the next few
days every endeavour was made to discover the whereabouts of the fugitive
Semolikas, but without success, although acting on supposed reliable
news which was frequently brought in, the hills for miles around were
diligently searched by our troops....’

Meantime, knowing what I knew of the Semolikas and their rocky fortress,
I spent an anxious and miserable time in Lokoja, waiting for news of the
result; I also said good-bye, with much regret, to Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot,
of the Bank of Nigeria, who left for England. For two whole years Mrs.
Wilmot had remained in Lokoja, with only a few days’ change, occupying
the smallest and most uncomfortable quarters, making acquaintance with
most forms of discomfort, but ever cheery, energetic and plucky, an
object lesson to us all, and though I knew I should miss my friends
greatly, one could not help rejoicing to see their well-earned holiday
come at last.

My husband hurried back to Lokoja a day ahead of ‘the Army’ and delighted
me with a few curios he had secured for me at Semolika. One special
treasure is worth describing in detail; it was, I believe, the Chief’s
own stool, and consists of a solid block of mahogany, black and polished
from long use. The base is solid, and the seat upheld by roughly carved
kneeling figures, while the centre portion is a pillar, having four doors
which actually open and shut, turning in clever little sockets, and
revealing recesses inside, the whole thing being, as I have said, one
solid block of wood, without a join or addition anywhere. The cutting
of those little doors is a great delight to me, and I have never seen
among the many stools I have collected, another at all like it; indeed,
the servants were so impressed with the odd arrangement that nothing
would induce them to open the doors, suspecting Ju-ju, and they greatly
disapproved of my doing so!

For the next few weeks life drifted quietly along, the monotony relieved
by a passing visit from General Kemball, and very sadly, later on, by
the death of ‘Binkie,’ our dearly-loved little fox-terrier. His devotion
and faithfulness to the last was very touching; when he was too ill to
walk, he would painfully and slowly drag himself down the steps, across
the gravel, and lie, exhausted, at the gate, his head between his paws,
watching the Resident’s office with wistful eyes for the return of his
beloved master. Over and over again I carried him back to his basket,
only to see him persistently make his way out again.

I remember finding in the _Spectator_ some lines headed, ‘Modie, a
fox-terrier,’ and with the name altered to ‘Binkie,’ I have kept them
tucked away in my mind ever since. I will make no further apology for
quoting them here, beyond the hope that the author, ‘G.W.F.G.’, will
accept as a tribute the comfort they gave to a heavy heart; any dog-lover
who has not seen them before will love them as I do, and the unfortunate
person who is not a dog-lover will simply—skip them!

    Not strange, perhaps, that, on her beat,
      Nature should hush, by one wide law,
    The patter of four fitful feet,
      The scrape of a persistent paw.

    And yet the house is changed and still,
      Waiting to echo as before
    Hot bursts of purpose hard to chill,
      And indignation at the door.

    No friendly task he left unplied,
      To speed the hour or while the days,
    The grief that mourned him when he died
      Spelt out his little meed of praise.

    They say he only thought in dreams.
      What matter! Lay the silken head
    Throbbing with half a world of schemes
      Under the silent flowers instead.

    The Spring winds in the lilacs play,
      Beside the old wall where he lies:
    The ivies murmur night and day
      Their tiny lisping lullabies.

    Then ask not if he wakes again:
      He meddled not in things too deep;
    And Nature, after joy or pain
      Gives nothing half so kind as sleep.

In the beginning of December we spent a fortnight on a short tour, in the
course of which we discovered Patti Abaja, a quaint little spot just
North of Lokoja, and not more than fifteen miles from cantonments. The
path winds among rather thick bush to the foot of an abruptly-rising
lofty hill, thickly clothed with trees. Here we dismounted and sent the
ponies round to make the ascent by a longer but easier path, and after a
really stiff climb over rocks and boulders for about an hour, we arrived
at the summit, breathless but triumphant, and were confronted by miles
of an absolutely flat plain, partly cultivated, but covered mainly with
fine short grass. It looked exactly as if some playful giant had shaved
the top clean off the mountain! A further walk along the level brought us
to the little hamlet of Patti Abaja, and here was still further room for
wonderment, for, close beside it, the same playful giant had evidently
been to work again, and had scooped out a dozen or so huge handfuls of
the centre of the hill, then tired of his joke, and wandered off to seek
new occupation elsewhere! There was a completely circular basin almost
under our feet, the sides precipitous and rocky, covered with thick
greenery; down below a carpet of farms flourished, and a few figures
moving about looked like ants from our lofty perch. At a point just below
the village a stream, issuing from the rock itself, tumbled and foamed
away down into the valley, and meandered off among ferns, water plants
and grasses, supplying delicious cold water to the community above. The
air was perfectly glorious in its invigorating freshness, with the most
delightful ‘nip’ at sunset and dawn. While there we had a pair of very
fascinating little animals brought to us; they were, I think, what are
called ‘palm-cats’ (_Nandinia binotata_); at that time they were very
tiny, and, when full grown, only slightly larger than a ferret, extremely
pretty, with soft dark grey fur, marked with black spots and rings. They
were very young and helpless, and required a good deal of hand-feeding
before they got lively and independent, but they travelled round with us
in a covered basket quite safely, and, once settled in Lokoja, they were
quite at home, perfectly tame and delightfully playful. One, alas! was
killed by accident, but the other grew and flourished for some months,
till one sad day, when he caught and ate a large locust, and from that
time he refused food, drooped and died. I was sorely disappointed and
grieved at the loss of my tiny pet, who, at a call, would come flying
out from any corner, scamper up to me, run up my skirt, and sit on my
shoulder, with his little wise eyes twinkling, and tiny paws upheld.

We made a shooting camp at Patti Abaja, and spent Christmas there, in
company with Captain Phillips, of the Gunners, whose tastes were similar
to ours, and though the sport, as far as big game was concerned, was a
failure, we were all happy pottering about after guinea-fowl, etc., and
thoroughly enjoyed the difference in the temperature. It was practically
impossible to get near big game, although there was plenty about, for
the ground was as hard as iron, and the steps of a booted foot, or of a
pony, rang as though on a pavement, and must have been audible to the
animals at a great distance. We wound our way down the hill a few days
later, feeling that, even if our spoils had not been many, our Christmas
camp had, at all events, been a pleasant ending to a pleasant year.

About the middle of January we fared forth again, with the object of,
at last, accomplishing the delimitation of the Kabba-Ilorin boundary,
interrupted two years before, and went up the river to Egga, where we
were to meet the Resident of Ilorin, Dr. Dwyer, and from where the
boundary line would start. I had some misgivings, for travelling and
camping in company is not always conducive to peace and harmony; but
directly we all started off my anxieties were laid to rest, and we spent
a delightful three weeks together. If the roads were of the worst, the
camps were of the best, all the arrangements worked smoothly, and we
thoroughly enjoyed ourselves sitting cosily round huge wood fires in
the chilly evenings, chatting and exchanging reminiscences. I made some
new acquaintances in the flower world: the Mexican poppy (_Argemone
mexicana_) made me wonder how it got there; Strophanthus was in full
bloom—queer uncanny blossoms, each pinkish cream petal lengthening out
into a streamer four or five inches long, resembling a flower less than
some curious butterfly or sea anemone. The natives are terrified of it;
beside its poisonous qualities, they believe that the juice produces
instant blindness, and I could not persuade any one to break off a spray
for me to sketch, and was obliged to do it myself, amidst much alarm and
disapproval! In the forest was bright red Bryophyllum and another small
shrub, loaded with glowing flame-coloured flowers; Dr. Dwyer discovered a
specimen of Isochelis for me, and my last ‘find’ was _Kigelia Africana_,
a large tree with truly splendid blossoms of deep crimson, hanging on
pendant stems like glowing lamps set in the brilliant green foliage.

The middle of February found us back in Lokoja, with plenty of work
in the office to be ‘wound up’ before we went on leave, which kept my
husband busy until the High Commissioner arrived in March, desiring
to inspect Kabba with a view to its becoming the headquarters of the
Province. A flying visit was paid there while I packed up, the Sahib
hurrying back to catch the next mail-boat, and as—to use an Indian
expression—we had ‘laid a dak’ at various points on the road, he managed
to cover the fifty odd miles in eight hours! My bull-terrier had just
then burst a blood-vessel, and had to be destroyed, to my grief, and
on March 23 we set our faces down river and towards home, with no
more impedimenta than a parrot, a first-rate talker, who, by the way,
distinguished himself, after a few days in the neighbourhood of the
galley, by exclaiming, while I was displaying him to a friend, ‘Who the
hell are you?’ After that I was allowed to keep him in my own charge!

We had a very pleasant trip, and found a special interest in the persons
of two Arab merchants, who, trading between Tripoli and Kano, had had the
suggestion made to them at the latter place, that, instead of the long
and perilous Desert journey back, occupying seven months at least, it
would be far cheaper and more convenient for them to convey themselves
and their merchandise (ostrich feathers) to the Coast, and return to
Tripoli by sea—a most excellent plan, and one that should, and would,
be universally adopted, but for deep-rooted conservatism and distrust
of new ways. As these two men consented to make the experiment, every
assistance was given them by Government to reach Lagos, and Sir Alfred
Jones gave them and their loads free transport to Liverpool—for they
were, on this occasion, to come to London, instead of transhipping at the
Canaries, so as to test the London market for their feathers. They were
most highly intelligent men; one, ‘Nassuf,’ was the son of an extremely
wealthy Tripoli merchant, the other was a travelling acquaintance, who,
having been robbed of all his possessions in the Desert, was, with
characteristic kindliness, being taken charge of and seen safely home by
Nassuf. They were in quite prosperous circumstances, and had plenty of
money, but found themselves sorely handicapped, once they left Africa,
by speaking nothing but Arabic and Hausa. Therefore, our assistance as
interpreters was requisitioned, and we visited them daily on board,
enjoying many long talks about Tripoli, Kano and the Desert, so that
they came to look on us as their natural protectors and friends, and, on
learning that we, of course, intended leaving the ship at Plymouth, their
dismay and alarm was so deep and sincere, that we decided to go round to
Liverpool with them, and, at least, see them safely ashore with their
valuable merchandise, valued by Nassuf at £60,000!

On arrival, we were met by Sir Alfred Jones, who, with his usual
enterprise, took a keen interest in the experiment, and, at his earnest
request, we consented to take charge of Nassuf and his companion while
they were in England, and bore them off to the _North-Western Hotel_.
There they naturally attracted a good deal of attention in their
picturesque flowing white robes, but their manner of receiving it was
perfection in its well-bred unconsciousness; indeed, their simple, quiet
dignity was in marked contrast to the behaviour of the gaping crowd which
followed us everywhere, and also, alas! to that of well-dressed strangers
who thought them fair game for rude impertinence. Given a pot of coffee
and a box of cigarettes, our ‘lambs,’ as we called them, were perfectly
happy, and would sit for hours in the big hall, utterly unmoved by the
novelty of the scene of continuous bustle of arrival and departure, but
watching it all with their bright intelligent eyes, and asking numberless
shrewd questions in low-toned rapid Hausa.

We then conveyed our charges to Euston, and, on the road, Nassuf confided
to us that he much disliked being mobbed and stared at, therefore he
wished, immediately on arrival in London, to exchange his Arab dress for
orthodox English garments, and, much as we regretted the change, we could
only sympathize with the feeling that prompted him, and promised to ‘make
an Englishman’ of him without delay. At Euston we packed our ‘lambs’ into
a cab, and before getting into another ourselves, explained the situation
to the cabman, requesting him to drive to the first general outfitter
he could find in the Tottenham Court Road. Just as we were starting, he
pulled up, climbed off his box, and, putting a perturbed and puzzled
face through the window, inquired in an anxious and somewhat embarrassed
whisper: ‘Beg parding, sir, but might they be _males or females_?’
With heroic efforts to preserve our gravity, we gave the necessary
information, and were unfeignedly thankful at having escaped being driven
up to a ‘ladies’ shop,’ and the consequent explanations!

Arrived at the outfitter’s, Nassuf, treading noiselessly, and smilingly
serene, walked up to the counter, and asked us to convey to the salesman
his desire to be dressed from head to foot—‘just like him,’ indicating
my husband—‘one of everything—_good_ things,’ he added, ‘I have plenty
of money!’ and, to the bewilderment of the onlookers, he untied endless
knots in a mysterious hidden, white sash, and poured forty sovereigns
out on the counter! A kindly assistant took charge of him, and we waited
patiently, much amused at the fragments of Arabic and English, struggles
with refractory and novel garments, and suppressed chuckles that
proceeded from the little dressing-room, until Nassuf emerged radiant and
complete from his shiny boots to the gloves he so proudly carried, all
his picturesque grace vanished, alas! but quite secure from unwelcome
attention, and, to his amazement, his outfit cost him rather less than
£6! I greatly suspect that the wily young merchant retailed that costume
to great advantage when he reached Tripoli; meantime he adopted quite an
air of indulgent amusement over the appearance of his friend, who, either
from conservatism or from a chivalrous desire to spare his benefactor’s
purse, firmly declined to alter his costume!

We spent several mornings in a great feather warehouse in the City, with
a view to finding a market for Nassuf’s wares, but his hopes were rather
dashed at the sight of masses of splendid plumes from South Africa, and
the price offered for his feathers was, he declared, not half what he
could obtain in Tripoli. Even allowing for Eastern methods of striking
a bargain, he was obviously telling the truth, for, had it been at all
to his advantage, nothing would have been easier than for him to have
disposed of all his feathers then and there. I am inclined to think the
reason is that the Tripoli market, not being supplied with the really
beautiful South African feathers, possibly values more highly the
inferior sort from Nigeria—and they _are_ very inferior, possibly because
the birds are not farmed, and are plucked at any season of the year, and
in a most thorough and cruel fashion. Poor Nassuf was mournfully puzzled
to see his enormous ox-hides, in which the feathers were packed, valued
at five shillings each! In Tripoli, he explained, they are eagerly bought
for a high price, being in great request for Arab tents!

So, after every kindness and courtesy had been showered on the young
merchant—and nothing could have exceeded his grateful acknowledgment of
it—the decision was arrived at to repack his feathers, and speed him on
his journey to Tripoli, and, after a visit to the Colonial Office (when
we persuaded him to resume his national dress), we conveyed our charges
down to the Docks, much encumbered with packages of apples, razors,
cheese and a gold-topped umbrella, and saw them safely established on
the _Gulf of Suez_, _en route_ for Malta and Tripoli. It was quite a sad
parting, the two men were child-like in their grief and affection, and we
could only console them by promising, whenever the opportunity occurred,
to visit Tripoli as the guests of Nassuf’s father, and, meantime, to bear
them in mind, and send them news of ourselves.

A couple of hours later we were watching a play, our leave had really
begun, and the _Gulf of Suez_, preparing to slip down the Thames,
carrying off our ‘lambs,’ seemed already part of a passed fantastic
dream.




CHAPTER IX

Borgu


Outside the Bar at Forcados an October tornado was in full swing, huge
green seas swept past, the wind howled and the rain fell in torrents,
almost hiding from view the little black ‘branch boat’ tossing uneasily
half a mile away. We stood on the streaming deck, watching our belongings
being transferred, with the greatest difficulty, from the mail-boat to
the other, each boat-load apparently faring worse than the last as the
hurricane increased in violence, and it seemed an absolutely foolhardy
risk for us, and four other passengers for Nigeria, to attempt to
reach the _Dodo_ in an open boat. It was an _impasse_, for the tides
did not suit, and, with every desire to assist us, our Captain was not
justified in incurring the danger of trying to cross the Bar: waiting
was out of the question, even for twenty-four hours, as these tornadoes
sometimes last for days together, therefore we had to make the best of an
unpleasant situation and ‘face the music’! So the _Dodo_ steamed round
us and anchored on our lee side—at what seemed a _very_ long distance—so
as to give us, at least for the start, a certain amount of protection,
and enabling the ladder to be let down, a great consideration, which
avoids the dangerous process of being deposited in a heaving, rocking
boat by means of a ‘mammy chair’ or a bucket.

Our baggage safely (more or less!) transferred, kind friends lent us
oilskins, and we six unfortunate wayfarers cautiously crept down the
ladder, established ourselves in the boat, waved farewells to the line
of anxious faces at the rail above, and set forth, benefiting for a few
minutes by the shelter afforded by the ship, but only too soon finding
ourselves very much at the mercy of wind and waves.

Most fortunately, however, it is provided that, in the face of _real_ and
present danger, the smallest-spirited of us has no sense of fear, but
rather one of exhilaration—it is no new discovery of mine, I know, but
it is an immense comfort at the moment, and, though the chances of our
being swamped at any moment were enormous, I had the satisfaction, while
I hugged ‘Diana’ (our latest acquisition, a beautiful setter-spaniel), of
deciding that if this _was_ the end of the chapter, it was nice to finish
in such good company! I think I had just arrived at this philosophic
reflection when our boat was whirled and sucked in under the stern of
the _Dodo_, where the propeller was revolving, and the heaving sea
threatened to throw us up and crush us like egg-shells. There was just
a moment while we all stared upwards at the black stern and held our
breaths, then the wave passed and a mighty pull brought us round, just
in time, and a few minutes later we were all standing on the _Dodo’s_
dripping deck, congratulating each other on having succeeded in getting
there! It was quite the nastiest experience I have yet had, and I know
that all my companions would agree that I have by no means exaggerated
the seriousness of it. This transhipping from ‘intermediate’ boats is a
most unpleasant, and also dangerous business, ruining baggage and risking
lives; it is not too much to say that no one should be called upon to
take such a risk, and I believe that every official in Northern Nigeria
would rather sacrifice a week’s leave than do so.

We returned our borrowed oilskins by the boat-men’s hands, and groped
our way, in the driving rain, to our luggage, only to find that the
particular box we sought had been forced open and rifled, and our new
three-guinea mackintoshes had vanished! This was getting on towards ‘the
last straw,’ but the kindly skipper, after much hunting, found a large
native cloth, which I could wrap over my soaking muslin blouse, and, when
some tea had been made, and one of us had produced an immense plum-cake,
we began to forget our sorrows, and steamed up to Burutu just as the
darkness was falling, much comforted to see the smiling black face of
‘Momo,’ our faithful head steward, come down to meet us.

The next morning, as the _Empire_ fussed and paddled up the familiar
creeks, and the sunshine was bright again, we opened the boxes that
seemed to have suffered most from sea-water. My own clothes had fared
badly, and it was a little saddening to cast overboard stained sodden
masses (including my best evening frock!) which had been dainty muslins
and chiffons. Destruction to nearly all one’s possessions is all in the
day’s work in Nigeria, but it was rather saddening to see the destructive
process well begun even before arrival!

We had a coop full of English fowls, Buff Orpingtons and Black Minorcas,
and they, poor things, had very narrowly escaped drowning, and had been
so terribly knocked about that they could hardly stand for many days;
indeed, I think we were lucky in losing only two hens as a result of
their experiences.

We arrived in Lokoja on the 14th of October, and found many familiar,
kind faces to welcome us; one dear friend of mine had even delayed
her leave a few weeks so as not to miss us—a really heroic proof of
friendship, and one greatly valued! Almost immediately my husband was
ordered to take charge of Borgu, the Northernmost Province on the right
bank of the Niger, and we were jubilant at the prospect of seeing some
new country, especially as Borgu possessed a great reputation for good
shooting; but our departure was delayed unavoidably for nearly three
months, involving a state of restless uncertainty and suspense, a thing
abhorrent to us both, and which has, oddly enough, been our portion
almost continuously for the last ten years!

There came to Lokoja at this time a quaint and unusual visitor in the
person of ‘Fritz.’ ‘Fritz’ was a young hippopotamus, I can hardly call
him a baby on account of his size (about that of a very large pig),
though he was only a few months old, brought down the Benue by Captain
Stieber, the Resident of German Bornu, on his way to Berlin. He (Fritz,
I mean!) was the oddest thing in pets, for he was perfectly tame, and
could scarcely be called sharp, or even lively, but there was distinct
individuality in his wide, rather satirical smile and tiny twinkling eye
which commanded respect, though he did not lend himself to petting. For
fear of losing this valuable little person he was usually tied up when
taken down to bathe, for which purpose he wore an elegant and original
collar, made of a cask hoop; he seemed perfectly happy and contented,
wandering among the grass at the Preparanda, consuming untold quantities
of tinned milk, and rolling in awkward ecstasies in the warm sand. I
believe Captain Stieber was perfectly successful in landing his pet safe
and well at the Berlin Zoo.

In December we got our ‘marching orders,’ packed up, and—on Christmas
Day!—started on our long river journey to Bussa, our new headquarters.
When our last friend had waved ‘Good-bye’ at Mureji, and the little white
stern-wheeler swept round the bend, and swung out into the great silent,
gleaming river, where the distance was all opalescent Harmattan mist,
the water like glass and the heavy air laden with soft aromatic scents,
floating lazily out from the walls of tropical verdure on either hand, we
felt that the ‘onward and outward’ craving which so deeply possesses us
both was in a fair way to be gratified.

After the hurry and stress of departure from the busy station down river,
and the final disgorging of passengers, mails and cargo at Mureji, it was
infinitely peaceful to lie out on the now deserted deck and absorb and
drink in the matchless beauty of it all, a beauty which seems to seize
and hold one, making the blood race and pulses throb. The marvellous
colouring, the masses of vegetation hanging over motionless reflections,
clear and detailed as their originals, in the olive-hued water; the
solemn fish-eagles, sharply silhouetted against the pale sky, immovably
still and ceaselessly peering into the silent pools below; those
mysterious little creeks creeping inwards where the branches hang low
giving glimpses of flecked sunshine and shade, gloom and gold, bringing
to mind that strange indefinable world that is neither dream-land nor
fairy-land, but which very surely exists, and is sometimes momentarily
revealed to most of us.

[Illustration: ‘FRITZ.’ (p. 151)]

[Illustration: OUR START FROM BUSSA FOR ILLO. (p. 161)]

A tangible part of the universal placidity was our pilot: he would sit
crouching on the deck, hour after hour, wrapped in a white blanket, for
the morning air was very keen, his wise old face tirelessly watching
the water. They steer by sight, of necessity, as the channels shift and
change continually; not a word passed, but the slightest wave or quiver
of his slender brown hand conveyed his meaning to the stolid sailor at
the wheel, and the little boat crossed and re-crossed, dodged and curved
in perfect obedience to the silent watcher, closely noting every ripple
and swirl with his far-seeing dreamy eyes.

At Jebba the scene changed abruptly from low-lying grassy marsh land
and warm sandbanks, where the wild duck and geese were wont to gather,
to great beetling cliffs and walls of rock, which rose sheer from the
still water, seemingly shutting in the river altogether, and giving the
impression of one end of a Highland loch. Jebba struck me as rather a
dreary spot, in spite of its undoubted beauty, having been formerly the
headquarters of the Government and now utterly deserted, save for the
Niger Company’s Store, which gives it an air of some life and briskness.
I climbed the hill by the old zig-zag path, now scarcely discernible,
and wandered round the remnants of ruined bungalows; of some, nothing
remained but the flight of cement steps, standing forlorn where all
else had vanished; others were the crumbling ruins of native-built
mud houses—everywhere was desolation and decay. There is something
essentially saddening about an abandoned station, and the island at
Jebba, with its traces of ‘white’ occupation, added to the impression of
melancholy desertion: the cemetery was there, a lasting and tragic record
of duty doggedly done, in the teeth of all difficulties, quiet heroism,
and true British persistence, under the inspiration of an indomitable
leader—to the end.

However, there was little time for cheerless reflection; our evening
was spent strenuously—the Sahib struggling with fever—in shifting our
belongings from the security of the _Kapelli_ which now had to turn round
and steam down river again, to carry the mails and passengers from Mureji
to Lokoja, to the narrow quarters of a steel canoe; and, in the chilly
grey dawn of the following morning, with endless unnecessary buzzing,
chatter, and running to and fro, the little paddle-wheel began to
revolve, and we were away on the next stage of our journey. The fussing
and churning of our tiny boat seemed utterly impertinent in the face of
the gigantic frowning cliffs, the ‘Ju-ju Rock’ towering grim and bare
save for a thick undergrowth, at the base, of the unsightly euphorbia,
greatly dreaded by the natives, who declare that like strophanthus, it
will cause instant blindness to all who touch it. The sun rose on scenery
resembling a mighty salmon river, the water swirling past smooth grey
rocks, sheer cliffs and overhanging verdure; this stretch of the Niger
immediately above Jebba had almost the appearance of a stone gateway,
for, later, the swift current spread itself out again, wide and placid,
to level green lowlands far away on either bank, until Badjibo was
reached, and we were once more among rocks and rising ground.

Here a halt of two days occurred, perforce, as our small craft could go
no higher, a further transfer of our possessions into native canoes being
necessary, and we had to wait until the ‘Etsu’ of Badjibo could procure
the said canoes from some mysterious direction indicated by a vague
wave of his hand. Meanwhile, we were most comfortably installed in an
excellent rest-house—excellent, that is, to African travellers’ eyes—the
square compound, encircled by a mud wall, containing four native-built
huts, might not appeal very strongly to fastidious tastes, but, to us, it
spelt something like luxury, plenty of room, a dim, cool, clean dwelling,
built solidly and well as the Nupe custom is, and a real relief after
the terribly cramped accommodation and blistering heat of a steel canoe.
Here, too, a new diversion awaited us in the shape of the undesirable
activities of an angry swarm of bees, whose advent made our household
generally move faster than I had ever seen them do—I can imagine nothing
more effective than swarming bees for making slow folks bustle!

Outside our compound were two immense trees, one covered with
creamy-white pendant blossoms, the other bearing bright yellow berries
in almost incredible profusion. It was one of our chief pleasures to
watch these trees, and find delight in the ever-varying throng of
brilliant-hued birds who came, chirped, ate and fought all the morning
long. Great plump green pigeons, with their exquisite plumage, deep
yellow breast and wings shaded mauve, green and grey, others which we
called the ‘black fidgets’ from their incessant twittering and flying,
flashing, as they went, a deep metallic blue; there were smaller birds
too, one almost entirely canary-coloured, another tiny wren-like thing,
all crimson and soft brown, hundreds of tiny atoms of bird-life, hopping
and darting so quickly that a clear view of them was almost impossible,
except in the case of the exquisite little ‘honey-birds’ who, caring
nothing for the luscious berries, frequented the other tree, and
delicately sipped the honey out of the drooping flowers, their backs
gleaming brilliant green, and breasts glowing copper—their whole persons
smaller than a cockroach! They were a busy, merry crew, children of the
sunshine, happily untouched by want or fear.

We fished the next day, without much science or skill on my part, and, to
our immense surprise, our efforts were rewarded by the landing of a most
uncanny-looking fish; indeed, as it whirled out of the water, I believed
for a moment that we had inadvertently hooked the corpse of a green
pigeon! Its length was about ten inches, the head blunt and the body very
round, gaily striped with brilliant yellow and green, the breast a paler
yellow, and protruding like a pouter pigeon. He was quite a stranger to
me, and to this day I have never discovered his name—I trust it may be
one befitting his truly gorgeous appearance! At all events, the immediate
circle of admirers of our prowess unanimously cried ‘A—a!’ (No, no!) and
assured us that our catch was bitter and uneatable; and when an African
native pronounces any living thing uneatable, it must be uneatable
indeed, so we took their word for it, and having sufficiently admired his
somewhat grotesque beauty, we carefully unhooked him and put him back.

Early next morning we left Badjibo, heading a procession of native
canoes, and a most adventurous journey we had! The river hereabouts
is split up into various channels by islands and rocks, and we found
ourselves in true Highland scenery, brown water rushing and creaming in
its fall round and over huge boulders, the river fringed on either side
by an immense growth of trees and bushes hanging above the stream, and
making it a matter of great difficulty for the canoe-men to make any
headway against the strong current, owing to the almost impossibility
of finding ground for their long palm-wood poles. They could only seize
branches and twigs, and so endeavour to haul the canoe up-stream, which
method was, naturally, productive of a rich crop of misadventures, such
as the sudden crashing down of the rotten branch to which the muscular
brown arms were clinging, and the consequent rush down-stream of the
canoe—our heads being banged and swept by branches and creepers, until
it could be brought again under control by the whole party hanging
desperately on to the nearest tree, and the strenuous effort, swirling
and rocking, had to be commenced again, till we could crawl back to the
same point, and beyond, perhaps, into smoother water, till the next rapid
appeared, and the same difficulty—and, incidentally, danger—had to be
encountered once more. I can vouch for it that we had not a ‘dull moment’
from start to finish, and one could hardly be reproached for harbouring
a slight feeling of insecurity, especially as the water continuously
bubbled in through a very inadequate mend in the bottom of the canoe,
just under my eye, and vigorous baling went on ‘amidships’ all the
time! Anything less like the lower reaches of the Niger could hardly be
imagined; in the narrow channels where the trees meet overhead and the
water tumbles, loud-voiced, over rocks and snags, it is hard to recognize
it as the same river, and only in the open reaches do the crimson and
white quisqualis and purple convolvulus remind me that I have met and
loved them some three hundred miles nearer the coast.

At the worst points, where the whole face of the river appeared to
be barred with a rush of falling waters, and no smallest passage was
visible amidst the tumbling foam, the canoes were hauled under the
steep bank, and their entire contents bundled out thereon, we, the
passengers, clambering, by the aid of roots and branches, to a place of
some security, where we sat on the warm sand and watched the manœuvres
down below. The majority of the canoe-men, divesting themselves of their
clothing, took boldly to the stream, where, with the rushing water up
to their shoulders, struggling against the current and slipping on the
stones, they deftly and manfully dragged the absurd little crafts through
the rapids by means of rope hauling, vigorous pushing, swimming, and
attempts at poling. They are practically amphibious, these men, and it
was a fine sight, the active figures swimming and wading, dark, wet skins
gleaming, white teeth flashing, while the air was full of shouts and
cries, not to mention the chorus of advice and directions from the bank,
and pious ejaculations of thanksgiving as each canoe reached a place of
safety. Once arrived in more placid waters, the re-embarkation would take
place, and the journey be resumed.

Our river trip ended at Leaba, a small village above which is the Wuru
rapid, about the worst on the river; the natives have driven great tree
trunks vertically into the rocky bed of the stream, and attached to them
a stout rope by which the unfortunate traveller must drag himself and his
canoe through the seething torrent. There is a saddening loss of life
here, and death by drowning is so frequent that the riverside folks are
perfectly stolid and unmoved by it, as we noticed when a man lost his
life that very afternoon, trying to cross the river at this spot. The
water is also infested with alligators of considerable size; possibly
they come up at high water, and are unable to get back until the next
wet season—one is told that the body of a man upset from a canoe in the
rapids is seldom or never recovered.

At Leaba we found ponies awaiting us, and did the remaining few marches
on horseback, leaving the baggage to make its way slowly up-stream, and
on the 9th of January we reached Bussa, where the Assistant Resident,
Mr. Dwyer, gave us a cordial welcome. Bussa town is a mere hamlet, or,
rather, collection of hamlets, straggling along the river bank; a place
of no importance whatever, where there is not even the mildest attempt
at a market, where trade is nil, and existence about as stagnant as the
mind can picture it.

At that time, however, we had no opportunity of making close acquaintance
with the place, as, about ten days after our arrival, we were obliged
to hurry off to Illo, as work of much urgency awaited my husband there.
Anticipating long marches and great heat, I decided to travel in an
improvised hammock, but the paths were so bad, and the bearers so
unskilful, that, after the first day, I gladly mounted my pony, leaving
Diana in sole possession of the hammock! It was a hot, weary journey,
the dust and glare very unpleasant; each halting-place seemed a dirtier
and more unsavoury hamlet than the last, till we reached the large
walled town of Kaoji, where our spirits, which had rather drooped at the
apparently hopeless poverty and desolation of our new province, revived
a little at the sight of brisk, intelligent Fulanis, replacing the
apathetic, ignorant, dull Borgus.

We had scarcely unpacked at Illo, when, to our intense dismay, Diana,
who, with her sweet disposition and high intelligence had made herself
very, very dear to us both, began to flag and display the usual dread
symptoms, and ten days later we miserably buried her under a great shady
tree. I do not think we have ever cared to go out shooting since.

That very day came the disquieting news of the disaster at Satiru near
Sokoto, involving the deaths of Mr. Hilary, Mr. Scott and Mr. Blackwood,
while endeavouring to effect the arrest of the ringleaders of a small
faction of malcontents, who had been spreading disaffection. Such an
event as anything resembling a native rising naturally called for prompt
action, and troops were hurriedly moved north, the Illo detachment was
ordered away at once, and, as my husband’s work called us to Yelwa, we
also prepared for departure, and, less than six hours after the telegram
had arrived, the busy ‘lines’ and fort stood empty, silent and deserted,
while a procession of canoes was rapidly descending the river.

Illo is not actually on the Niger, and at Giris, the small village where
we embarked, we noticed a quaint local custom which I do not remember to
have seen elsewhere. Some of the round huts had bunches of short, dry
bamboo twigs hanging from the apex of the thatch, rattling cheerfully in
the evening breeze, and, on inquiry, we were told that any young man who
desired to marry hung out this signal, so that all match-making parents
of daughters might take a note of his intentions, and presently parade
their most attractive daughters for his benefit! A vision crossed my mind
of this simple system adopted in more civilized circles, and harassed
mothers anxiously scanning the surrounding chimney-pots from a top window
in Grosvenor Square!

A few days later we were back at Bussa, and a time of considerable
discomfort arrived for all of us. March and April are always the hottest
and most unpleasant months in Nigeria, but Bussa seemed to me to be much
hotter and more unpleasant than any other spot I know. This was partly
due to our wretched houses—badly built, ill-thatched mud dwellings,
which afforded little protection from the heat, the inside temperature
reaching 103° and 104° every afternoon. The nights were oppressively
hot. We used to move our beds all over the compound in order to catch
the least particle of breeze, and were out each morning at five o’clock
to get an hour’s ride in the cool—for by half-past six no one would care
to be out in the sun. Perhaps the worst feature of these months was the
‘dry tornadoes,’ violent dust-storms, when the clouds would roll up with
most hopeful rapidity and inky blackness, and a hurricane of wind would
tear through the house for an hour or so, laden with dust, dirt and sand,
almost instantly covering every thing with a deep layer, at the same time
usually removing a good deal of the flimsy thatch. One could only sit and
endure, protecting eyes, mouth and hair from the flying grit by means of
a motor veil, and longing for rain till the hurricane passed and died
away, leaving us _very_ miserable and uncomfortable—and as dry as before!

However, the 30th of April brought the first rain, and we thankfully
put the ‘hot weather’ behind us for the rest of the year. At the end
of May we started on a visit to Ilesha, a customs station in the south
of the province, to inquire into a serious theft of Government money
which had occurred there. It was infinitely pleasanter marching than our
last journey northward, and the paths were good enough to allow of our
cantering a great part of our long marches. From Bussa we were escorted
to the Meni River, some three miles, by the Sariki and all his myrmidons
on horseback, and, as we had a march of twenty-two miles before us, and
a good road, we drove the whole party in front of us at a sharp canter.
It is curious and amusing to notice how utterly uncongenial to the
native and his horse is a steady canter—they simply cannot do it, their
horsemanship consisting entirely of furious sprinting and a dancing sort
of walk, varied by plunges into the high grass, and rushes back on to the
road. We had the greatest difficulty in keeping our escort going, and, to
our surprise, men and horses were quite blown when we reached the river
bank. Here we said our farewells, crossed the river in canoes—the ponies
swimming—mounted again and rode off.

We had a capital sandy track through shady forest country, the young
green grass seemed absolutely _made_ to be a background for primroses
and bluebells—instead it was thickly sprinkled with delicate mauve
terrestrial orchids, and the deeper purple iris-like flowers of ‘ground
ginger,’ while feathery asparagus fern climbed and trailed everywhere.
We crossed two deep rocky rivers with some difficulty, lunched and
rested awhile on the shady bank of the second, and late in the afternoon
reached our first halt, a town named Wa-wa. One incident of that day’s
march which comes back to me was my dismounting to lead my pony across
an awkward deep cleft in the road; he jumped very wide, dragging the
rein from my hand, broke away and cantered gaily off up the path towards
Wa-wa, leaving me to contemplate ruefully the joys of a five-mile walk
to complete a long march! Nevertheless, recollecting an insatiable
greediness to be one of the culprit’s chief characteristics, I set
off along the path at a leisurely walk, and, as I expected, very soon
discovered him, grazing to his heart’s content, and so pleased with his
surroundings that he submitted most placidly to be captured and mounted.

Wa-wa is a large town of rather unusual appearance, consisting of
groups of tiny hamlets separated by wide green spaces, at this season
of the year covered with delightful short turf. Narrow red gravel paths
connecting these clusters of houses gave quite a cultivated air, and the
spacious green stretches were very pleasant to look at. The trees, too,
were unusually large, and each hamlet rejoiced in spreading ‘shedia’ and
‘durmi’ trees. We had a roomy and comfortable rest-house, which unluckily
admitted a fair share of the torrential rain which fell during the night!

The following day we found the rivers much swollen, and crossing them by
means of fallen trees and rickety native bridges savoured somewhat of
Blondin’s feats. Between Kali and Vera we had quite a special piece of
good fortune; cantering through the cool shady woodland, we both pulled
up suddenly, noticing two large animals moving among the trees and high
grass. We had barely exchanged a whisper when, as they bounded across an
open grassy space, we discovered, to our delight, that we were watching
two large lions! There was no possibility of doubt, the ground was quite
open and the animals were distinctly in view, in brilliant sunshine—and
the tail of a lion is quite unmistakable, with its odd little bunch
of hair at the end! The road itself was crossed and re-crossed with
numberless tracks of deer, so, no doubt, the lions found it a profitable
hunting-ground. We watched the bush intently on the chance of getting
another glimpse of the splendid creatures, but the few stragglers who
had come up did not apparently sympathize with our desire, and displayed
unusual activity about reaching the camp!

As we approached Kaiama, the old Sariki came out with all his people,
and the usual accompaniment of beating drums and blowing horns, and
escorted us to the confines of the town, where we turned off, and, after
following a path in the bush for about a mile, came upon a clearing, some
eight or ten acres in extent, in the centre of which stood, bare and
solitary, a double storeyed brick bungalow—the Residency! Formerly Kaiama
was the provincial headquarters, and the staff inhabited a clay-walled
enclosure in the town, containing a few wretched huts, originally a
French fort. Here, the site was low and unhealthy, and a change was
decided on; the brick bungalow was built, but was never finished or
permanently occupied, as a further decision was arrived at to move the
headquarters altogether to Bussa! It is regrettable that the bungalow
could not have been removed too! It was very comfortable, of course,
to find oneself on a wooden floor, and under a watertight roof, but
the situation was so ill-chosen, so utterly lonely and desolate, that
it was depressing to a degree. Absolutely nothing was in sight but the
monotonous endless bush, not a sound, not a single habitation, not even a
breath of rising smoke, for the town was distant and invisible. Scarcely
a soul ever came or went, for the path to the town was said to be
infested by leopards and hyænas, and was sedulously avoided, even before
sunset.

We visited the grave of Mr. Ward-Simpson, a young police officer who
died there three years ago; it was a very peaceful spot, in the deep
shade of a spreading tree, and we satisfied ourselves that it was
well-cared for, and neatly fenced in.

The Sariki of Kaiama is a highly intelligent old gentleman, though he
bears a distinctly bad character among all his neighbours for high-handed
bullying and dishonesty. We found it very interesting listening to his
stories of past years, which he delighted to tell with a considerable
sense of humour, while he turned the leaves of the _Spectator_ with a
great air of interest and appreciation. He had rather a special connexion
with the late High Commissioner, Sir Frederick Lugard, having, years ago,
when the latter was travelling through Borgu, making treaties, saved his
life by warning him of an ambush prepared for him. He has always been
very loyal to the Government, and it is a pity that he is held in such
detestation by his own people, though, perhaps, only natural that, with
native cunning, he should have used his boasted friendship with the High
Commissioner as an universal threat to all whom he wished to intimidate.
He goes in terror of death by witchcraft or ‘medicine’ (i.e. poison) and
solemnly assured us that quite lately he had had a wonderful escape—a
woman in the town having actually _kept an iguana_, and, of course,
everybody knows that to touch an iguana with any article belonging to
the Sariki would cause the latter’s instant death! This well-known fact
was warmly upheld by many of our own following, so it evidently behoves
one to choose one’s pets carefully in Kaiama! The Sariki had, however,
soothed his shattered nerves by relieving the conspirator of every bit of
‘real estate’ that she possessed!

A few days’ marching through the cool green woods, lavishly decorated
with what the florists call ‘stove plants,’ white and crimson striped
lilies, and the earliest Gloriosas, unfolding their delicate crimson,
gold-edged petals—for, in June, the ‘mauve’ season is over, and the
‘scarlet-and-gold’ time coming, brought us to Bodebere, a pretty little
hamlet where we camped under a huge shady tree, and had the benefit of a
truly magnificent view of miles of wooded country, sloping away to the
south, where some blue peaks were faintly visible. We were much struck
with the quantity of young life around us—beside the human babies, there
were lambs, kids, ducklings and chickens scuttling about under our feet.
The sheep and goats in this country are extremely small, for the most
part, and their babies are the most fascinating, absurd little furry
bundles imaginable, about nine inches high, and needing only a green
painted stand to make them perfect toyshop treasures!

On the road into Ilesha we noticed that almost every third bush was a
custard apple, loaded with fruit. We gathered them as we passed, and
thoroughly enjoyed their delicious creamy golden-hued pulp. The people
call them ‘Gwando-n-daji’ (wild paw-paw), and, judging by the hundreds
of skins and stones scattered on the road, they greatly appreciate them
also. The custard apple is almost the only wild fruit in the country
which is really palatable, except, perhaps, the tamarind, which, though
very refreshing, is terribly acid when eaten raw.

We found Ilesha a wretched ruinous-looking town, dirty and unattractive;
there was no rest-house on the high ground where the police detachment
is quartered, so we descended, rather disgustedly, into the town, quite
fifty feet lower, and, after winding amongst grubby little lanes and
evil-smelling narrow byways, emerged upon an open space beside the
market, where a fair-sized native house was got ready for us.

There was a general air of disturbance, quite contrary to custom no one
had come to welcome us, the markets were deserted, hardly an individual
was to be seen—obviously there was trouble in the air! Presently a string
of most forlorn-looking, decrepit old men limped, crawled and hobbled up,
and, when they had, with immense difficulty, doubled up their rheumatic
limbs into a sitting posture before us, they poured forth their tale of
woe. A misfortune unprecedented, unheard-of, beyond the experience of
even the most aged of them, had occurred in the night—the old Sariki had
died! ‘Full of years’ he must have been—our toothless, palsied visitors
mumbled that he was much older than any of them, and one amongst them was
actually the heir!

[Illustration: REPAIRING THE BUSSA RESIDENCY. (p. 170)]

[Illustration: BALU. (p. 180)

(SERVAL CAT.)]

Their sorrow and dismay was truly pathetic, as they lamented that ‘all
the people were bewildered ... they could do nothing ... they knew not
what to think....’ We offered our condolences and sympathy, and when they
had asked and received permission to carry out the funeral ceremonies
exactly as if we were not there, they departed somewhat cheered and
comforted.

The three next days were rather a trial—the drumming day and night,
the incessant wailing and shrieking of the women, the entire cessation
of business of all kinds, and the consequent difficulty of obtaining
supplies, made me watch the digging of the huge grave with rather a
personal interest. It was done in a manner exactly similar to the Kabba
custom which I have already described in detail. By the evening of the
third day all the people from the surrounding villages had arrived, the
last comer being the special person entrusted with the duty of actually
laying the dead man in his grave, a duty which might be performed only
by one who had never seen the Sariki’s face in life. The funeral was
accompanied by much firing of Dane guns, a terribly noisy performance,
and we felt sincerely thankful to hear before long that the ammunition
had given out. But the drums and horns lasted all night, and were used
with untiring vigour!

The curious custom ordains that the women of the establishment must
‘wail’ in idleness for three months, and, further, that no head of a
household may sleep inside his own house for the same period. Therefore,
immediately the burying was accomplished, a large camp of little grass
huts sprang up all round the grave, outside the ‘royal’ compound. It
seemed to me very touching, the absolutely conscientious way these
simple souls obeyed the ‘custom’ at what must have been the greatest
inconvenience and discomfort to themselves, many of them infirm old men,
bent and crippled with rheumatism, sleeping for many weeks in miserable
little grass shelters, in the torrential rains just then commencing.

Some days were spent in endeavouring to get light upon the robbery
of money from the toll-clerk’s house, but with little or no success.
It was rather defeating, at the outset, to be gravely assured by the
clerk himself, an intelligent, educated native, that ‘the robbery was
undoubtedly effected through the wicked machinations of these evil-minded
Borgus—they having placed ju-ju or medicine in his dwelling, so that
he—and the police guard!—should so soundly sleep that the unprincipled
thieves were enabled to pass over his prostrate body, and remove the
box!’ This perfectly lucid and apparently satisfactory explanation was
borne out by the production of the said ju-ju, consisting of little balls
of grass containing horrible mixtures of various ingredients, which
had been found stuffed into the thatch of his house. Such overwhelming
reasons for successful burglary had, in every one’s opinion, rendered
all inquiry useless, and the thief had had plenty of time to carry his
prize out of Northern Nigeria altogether, which made the investigation
rather a hopeless task. Not a clue of any kind could be obtained, and
all examination produced nothing but the wearying reiteration of the
bewitchment story.

On our way back to Bussa we spent two days at Kaiama, and while there a
terrific tornado came up one afternoon, and we were very thankful for
the solid protection of the bungalow there. We stood on the verandah,
watching the magnificent lightning, as the storm passed away over the
town, and, simultaneously with a blinding flash, came a report like a
Howitzer, which made us both wonder if anything had been ‘struck.’ Early
the next morning arrived the Sariki himself, and with an air of mystery
and some trouble, informed us that ‘a stone from God’ had fallen during
the storm, burning and wrecking a hut—happily unoccupied at the time—and
had buried itself at some depths in the ground. His people were scared
and worried, and were already ‘making ju-ju’ and preparing offerings
of blood and oil on the spot where the ‘demon’ lay buried. They seemed,
in a dim sort of way, to connect the event with our visit, and when we
suggested digging up the stone, they obeyed with the greatest alacrity,
and the ‘devil’ was accordingly exhumed and handed to us, while we, in
return, made a present of money to remove unpleasant impressions by means
of a little feast.

The find _appeared_ to be an aerolite of most singular appearance, and I
cannot describe it better than by quoting a letter written by my husband
to the _Spectator_ on the subject:—

‘It is shaped like an axe-head, or like a slightly flattened egg, with
the broad end sawn off and filed to an edge. It is four inches in length,
and two and a quarter inches wide at its widest end, gradually narrowing
to a blunt point. At its greatest depth, about three and a quarter inches
from its point, it measures an inch and a half; from this point its
curves to both ends are beautiful. It has a smooth mottled surface, is
non-magnetic, and weighs a little over half a pound.’[1]

    [1] This ‘aerolite’ has subsequently been examined by the Royal
    Meteorological Society, and pronounced to be ‘a very good
    specimen of a Celt.’

We bore this treasure off in high delight at acquiring so unusual a
curiosity, and found ourselves back at Bussa by the end of the month. By
that time the rains were in full swing, and the surrounding country had
become a marsh, rendering walking impossible, and riding dangerous and
unpleasant. It was, however, a good opportunity for closer study of the
primitive Bussa folks, and their town—the scene of Mungo Park’s tragic
death. I spent much time endeavouring to elicit details on this latter
subject, which might have more resemblance to the probabilities, and even
the truth, than the published and accepted accounts. I am now convinced
of what I had always suspected, that Mungo Park’s death was a purely
accidental one, due entirely to ignorance of the dangers of the river in
the neighbourhood of Bussa. The statement that ‘armed natives, seeing
the predicament the strangers were in, hurled their weapons in showers
on them,’ is, to any one who knows the geography of the place, bordering
on the ridiculous, and is strenuously denied by the natives of Bussa,
who declare that the correct version of the tragedy is that said to have
been given to Major Denham in Kuka by the son of a Fulah chief, who had
come from Timbuctoo. This man ‘denied that the natives who pursued the
boat in canoes had any evil intention; their object was mere curiosity
to see the white men, and the canoes that followed Park from Timbuctoo
contained messengers from the King, who desired to warn the strangers of
the dangers of navigating the river lower down!’ More than this, the
Bussa people tell how, at every hamlet by the riverside, the inhabitants,
seeing the travellers speeding to almost certain death among the rapids,
rushed to the bank, gesticulating and shouting warnings, which, alas!
misunderstood by the Europeans, doubtless hastened the tragical climax.
And this is by far the most reasonable hypothesis, for, had any of these
natives desired to compass the destruction of the exploring party, there
was no need for them to raise a finger or a voice—the rocks in the river
would accomplish all that was necessary. That they had no sentiments of
ill-will towards Park is manifest from the fact that the Sariki-n-Yauri
(king of Yelwa) had provided him with all necessary transport, and was
himself a heavy loser in canoes and men by the disaster. I laboured
patiently to obtain the true facts of the story, and felt rewarded by the
hope that, in the future, the Bussa folks may be acquitted of so cowardly
and cruel a deed.

Another theory about the Borgus which, to the best of my belief, is
entirely erroneous, is their supposed connexion with early Christianity.
Major Mockler Ferryman remarks that ‘they (the Borgus) themselves assert
that their belief is in one Kisra, a Jew, who gave his life for the sins
of mankind.’ I was much astonished to find that this idea is utterly
fallacious, and is not even known to the people. In the first place,
Kisra, or rather Kishra, is buried close to Bussa, and his tomb can be
seen by any one, which immediately disposes of the possibility that the
Borgus, in honouring him, refer in any way to Jesus Christ.

Kishra was a Mahomedan pure and simple; he lived—so the tradition runs—in
Mecca, during the lifetime of Mahomed, and beginning to prove himself
positively a rival to the Prophet, was driven forth, with his large
following, and apparently drifted eventually down to Borgu. His memory
is deeply honoured and revered, but entirely as a warrior king, and
in no sense as the pioneer of any special religion. Certain rites and
ceremonies of the most frankly Pagan description are still performed
at his burying-place, the site of which is well-defined and, as I have
already said, visible to all.

The Borgus to-day, whatever their previous record may be, could not, by
any stretch of imagination, be called a war-like race. They are absolute
Pagans, and appear to be still very low in the order of civilization;
their progress has perhaps been hindered by their being somewhat apart
from the large Emirates and busier centres of the Protectorate: they
are also separated by their peculiar language and customs. In Bussa
itself a language quite distinct even from Borgu is spoken, which
greatly increases the difficulty of obtaining reliable historical
information from them. They are the quietest and most law-abiding folks
imaginable—indeed, I have heard it said of them that ‘they have not
the intelligence to commit a crime!’ They do not trade, and appear to
have an unlimited capacity for sitting silent and motionless, dirty and
unclothed, before their huts, gazing vacantly into space. Their farming
is as scanty as their need for food-stuffs will permit; just sufficient
is grown to save the little communities from want, and not a square yard
more! The villagers on the river-bank are fishermen, and live greatly
on river oysters, as is attested by the enormous heaps of oyster-shells
surrounding each hamlet. These oysters are found on the rocks at lowest
water, and though we never attempted to eat them, the shells interested
us greatly, answering exactly to the description of the _Aetheria
semilunata_, having very rough outsides, and the interior showing a very
beautiful mother-of-pearl appearance—exquisitely iridescent, with raised
pearly blisters. We cherished visions of discovering ‘Niger pearls,’ but
that dream, I fear, will have to be realized by some one else!

Sir Frederick Lugard was perfectly correct in ascribing the invincibility
of the Borgus to their reputation for a knowledge of witchcraft and
deadly poisons; they are more deeply steeped in ‘Ju-ju’ and superstition
of all kinds than any African natives I have come across. One firm
article of their faith is the ‘Tsafi’ or ‘speaking of oracles,’ the
message being received by a ‘priest’ who, while holding a freshly killed
fowl in one hand and rattling a calabash full of seeds in the other,
announces that the ‘god’ speaks to him in these sounds. A curious test
for ‘false witness’—a matter of very frequent occurrence—is for the two
people concerned to mix a handful of earth taken from in front of the
Sariki’s compound in a bowl of water: a portion of this mixture is drunk
by the disputants, and also by the Sariki himself, to prove that it is
not poisoned. Shortly, very shortly, he who has sworn falsely swells up
to an enormous size and dies in torment! Such implicit faith is placed
in this method of ascertaining the truth that my husband was frequently
implored to make use of it, for it is said that no man who has not a
clear conscience would dare to submit to it—and this I quite believe.

On one occasion while we were at Bussa, a prisoner was brought in with
terrible festering wounds on his arms and wrists, the explanation—quite
placidly given—being that his captors (the inhabitants of a remote
village) having secured him with ropes, and so cut into the flesh, became
aware that he was a ‘witch’ and _would fly away_; to avoid which disaster
they had ‘made medicine’—some unspeakable compound—and poured it over
the prisoner’s head and shoulders. This treatment had produced appalling
blood-poisoning, and though I cannot vouch for what he can do from a
flying point of view, the poor witch will never use his hand and arm
again.

The most precious and sacred possession of the Bussa people is a couple
of drums said to have been brought by Kishra from Mecca and treasured
ever since. These drums are kept in a small house built for the purpose,
and watched over day and night by their own keepers, rigorously and
jealously guarded; and, but for a lucky accident, we might have left
Bussa without obtaining a glimpse of them. Most fortunately a festival
occurred, when the drums were exhibited in the open, and we seized the
opportunity of inspecting them. Their antiquity was undoubted, and
we decided that they had a distinctly Egyptian appearance, being, in
reality, I think, great water basins; they were made of solid brass,
and were about the size of large wash-tubs, covered roughly with
ox-hide, to convert them into drums. We hunted eagerly for inscriptions
or hieroglyphics, of which there were none whatever, and one of us
ventured to photograph them, but owing to the crowd and the dust, and the
universal reluctance to have their ‘Ju-ju’ submitted to the higher Ju-ju
of the camera, we felt obliged to respect the people’s feelings and make
no insistence on obtaining a successful photograph.

On the morning of October 4, while we sat at breakfast in the verandah,
appeared a ragged, scantily-clothed native, with a sheepish smile,
holding in his hand a tiny bunch of long, soft, pale fawn-coloured
fluff—a ‘bush’ kitten of some kind evidently, scarcely a week old, blind
and helpless, chiefly remarkable for his large round ears, conspicuously
barred with black and cream-colour. Delightedly, I seized him, and
overwhelmed the bringer with streams of eager questions, which he, good
man, was quite unable to answer, and, having rewarded him with the sum
of eighteenpence (which produced transports of gratitude) we applied
ourselves to the task of ‘bringing up’ our new acquisition. His sole
desire, poor mite, was to crawl to warm darkness, so we arranged for him
a small wooden box filled with cotton wool, and here he slept away the
first week or two of his existence, while we anxiously improvised for
him a feeding-bottle out of an empty eau-de-Cologne bottle, fitted with
a piece of rubber tubing! This device proved brilliantly successful, and
‘Balu,’ as we called him on account of his woolly, bear-like appearance,
throve and grew, gaining strength and spirits daily. His education was
confided to an orange-coloured domestic cat, who had been presented to
the household, and though the latter laboured under the disadvantage
of being a kitten himself—and a male kitten, too, and presumably
unacquainted with nursery customs—he devoted himself absolutely to the
new-comer, and would spend hours licking the long pale fur, which puzzled
and concerned him sorely. But he stuck manfully to his task, and we
usually had to rescue Balu, a miserable little object like a drowned
rat, with wet hair clogged all over his shivering body. We discovered him
to be the Serval or Tiger cat (_Felis Serval_), and he speedily proved
himself the most fascinating and playful of pets. He showed the most
furious antipathy to natives—in his earlier days fleeing at the sight of
one, and later, standing his ground, spitting and growling, his ears flat
on his head, and a relentless little paw ready to strike at the intruder.
But of white people he had no fear, and would walk up to any stranger to
inspect and sniff him, and usually began inconsequently to play with him
or sharpen his claws in his putties!

He showed high intelligence when quite tiny, and when hungry he would
trot off and try to fish his ‘bottle’ out of the water-cooler, where it
was kept, which effort usually ended in over-balancing and an impromptu
bath!

To assure ourselves of his whereabouts and safety, we had a couple of
shillings beaten out into tiny silver bells, which were tied round his
neck, and greatly assisted us to find him when he was leading us wild
dances, hiding under bushes, tearing up and down the borders and in and
out of the sunflowers.

His first essays towards solid food were somewhat disastrous, taking
the form of catching and eating large locusts, with an accompaniment of
furious growls. Doubtless he found some which were not wholesome, for we
rescued him twice when almost dead—the result of nocturnal expeditions,
followed by violent sickness and exhaustion. This decided us to ‘wean the
infant,’ which we accomplished by means of tiny spoonfuls of porridge,
gradually progressing to scraps of lightly cooked chicken. Once he
commenced to lap milk and eagerly eat cooked meat and eggs we heaved a
gigantic sigh of relief, for our rearing troubles were ended, and Balu
fattened and grew—almost visibly—his kitten fluff gradually disappeared,
and he emerged a most beautiful little animal, bearing a magnificent coat
of tawny colour, striped and marked with black, the chest and stomach
being pure white with black spots and stripes.

I have thought it worth while to describe our pet at this length as his
kind is, I believe, extremely rarely seen, and is considered absolutely
untameable. Our success in this direction we owe, no doubt, to the fact
that, by a most lucky accident, we obtained him so extraordinarily young,
and, with unremitting care, were fortunate enough to bring him safely
through his babyhood.

As he grew older his play naturally became rather fierce, as his teeth
and claws developed; but his temper was always perfectly sweet, and the
manifold scratches with which we were both adorned were all the results
of the glorious games he would play by the hour, and regularly, each
night, little paws would scratch at my mosquito net, and urgent demands
for admission would be made, when a tired happy kitten would creep in,
curl himself on the blanket at my feet, and sleep blissfully, till ‘early
tea’ brought milk and more play-times!

At this time we were greatly cheered and enlivened by the arrival of the
British Commissioners of the Anglo-French Boundary Commission, on their
way up river. They spent two days with us—on their part, I think, rather
glad to ‘spread’ themselves after their cramped journey up the river, and
for us it was a ‘whole holiday’ and one we thoroughly enjoyed, so that
it was with real regret that we speeded them on the next stage of their
travels.

But we had no chance of further stagnation, as, to our great delight,
orders had even then arrived transferring my husband to the Nupe
Province, and the prospect of making a home for ourselves at Bida was as
pleasant an undertaking as we could possibly have desired. In December
Mr. Fremantle arrived, and, after handing the Province over to him, we
left Bussa on the 21st, and, as we dropped down the swift stream, we
forgot, as one always does, all the disappointments and drawbacks of
Borgu, and remembered most distinctly all its charms and the kindly
friendships we had formed there.

[Illustration: THE STEEL CANOE IN WHICH WE DESCENDED THE BUSSA RAPIDS.
(p. 184)]

[Illustration: THE TENNIS COURT, BIDA. (p. 188)]




CHAPTER X

Bida


The journey down river was less eventful than the one we had made the
previous January; it commenced with an eight mile walk round the Mullale
Rapid, while the steel barge, emptied of most of its contents, plunged
and tossed like a small Noah’s Ark on the rushing river. The rest of the
‘bad water’ we negotiated in the barge ourselves, and some of it was
quite exciting, the fall of the water being quite appreciable.

Christmas Day was spent on the river below Jebba, and on the 27th the
familiar outline of the hulk at Mureji loomed large ahead, and we found
ourselves among our old friends. We met Captain Mercadier, one of the
French Commissioners of the Anglo-French Boundary Commission, on his way
up to Bussa, which meeting was fortunate, as we were able to give him all
necessary information about his journey and the transport arrangements
made for him before we left. For this he expressed his gratitude with all
the delightful courtesy so characteristic of our French neighbours, a
courtesy we had more than once experienced in Borgu, where our Province
marched with part of French Dahomey.

We paddled up the Kaduna in a steel canoe, slept at Dakmon, and in the
morning mounted the horses sent for us and rode along the shady road
winding away from the river and over the low hills to Bida.

The first instalment of our ‘welcome’ was a dainty breakfast on the road
spread under the shady trees and greatly appreciated after a ten mile
ride, and that disposed of, Mr. Lafone, the junior Resident, who had been
in charge of the Province, arrived, escorting the Emir, accompanied by
his ‘Court’ and, it seemed to us, most of the inhabitants of the city.
It was an interesting meeting; one’s mind went instinctively back to the
occasion of our last visit to Bida, when something of the same sort had
happened, and one realized that five years in the placid lives of these
simple people make little or no mark. But the Emir himself had aged very
remarkably, having passed, seemingly, out of vigorous manhood into more
than middle age, but his proportions were, if anything, more generous
than ever, and his emotion and pleasure at seeing us was touching and
sincere.

While ‘the Sahib,’ with his unerring memory for faces, that most precious
gift, recognized and saluted the various officials of the Emir’s Court, I
noticed unmistakable surprise mixed with the cordiality of the greeting
offered to me. I suppose the dear souls had expected me to have been
divorced or sold long ago!

After a few minutes’ chat with the European officers who had so kindly
come out to welcome us, we all remounted and commenced the hot dusty
ride to Bida, drums banging, horns braying, ‘praises’ shouted in hoarse
stentorian tones, the usual dashing about of horsemen, and breathless
rushing to and fro of the crowd on foot, a curious kaleidoscope of varied
colours appearing and disappearing in the glittering haze of dust.

Though we both felt the sincerest pleasure and contentment with all
things, it was a relief to all of us when the police guard of honour had
been inspected, we had passed through the Residency Gateway and the gay
crowd was wending light-heartedly towards the city, and we six white
folks sat down in the cool bungalow, and gaily drank to ‘Bida and the New
Year’ in cool and delicious champagne cup which our hosts had provided in
honour of our arrival and the festive season.

We settled down at once in our new and comfortable quarters, which
seemed actually luxurious after the mud houses of Borgu, and, when we
had time to inspect the compound, found a great interest in noting the
changes and improvements since our last visit. It was charmingly laid
out and thoroughly well planted with orange, lime, and mango trees,
showing every sign of care and interest, a thing extremely comforting to
a gardener who had always struggled against ‘fearful odds’; an excellent
lawn tennis court had been made of ‘native cement,’ formed in the first
instance of mud patted and beaten to the solidity almost of stone,
then washed over with a solution of locust beans, soaked in water for
forty-eight hours, a dark-coloured evil-smelling mixture which served to
bind all the loose particles on the court and gave it a black metallic
shine. I, of course, found endless occupations in a field so desirable
as my new home, while my husband bent all his energies to studying the
different conditions of a new Province; in this work he had the most
loyal help from every one, and I fancy that we shall always look back on
our four months at Bida as a time instinct with warm friendship and good
feeling.

The Residency stood considerably higher than the surrounding country,
and I never tired of the picture from our verandah, where the city lay,
about a mile distant, in a gentle hollow outlined by the pink wall, and
crowded inside with dense and luxuriant trees and clusters of closely-set
thatched roofs with, here and there, the more imposing buildings rising
rosy-red among the humbler grass roofs.

We made close acquaintance with the market, which, in its way, interested
me even more than that of Kano, being less extensive and so more
accessible. It was always a pretty and animated scene, the open squares
and spaces crowded at sunset with a dense throng of happy folks, selling,
buying, chattering, shouting, and laughing, moving in a haze of dust, all
apparently giving far greater heed to the social aspect of the gathering
than any serious commercial enterprise. The market continued until long
after dark, and the flares and native lamps made a weird and fascinating
effect. The goods offered were of the most varied description, articles
of brass and leather work, grass mats, fishing nets, cloth, beads,
sugar-cane, and food-stuffs of all kinds—even wooden doors were for sale,
ready to be fitted to any clay hut, in fact a highly representative
collection of the heterogeneous miscellany presented in any West African
market.

On January 25 occurred the ‘Great Sallah,’ a Mahomedan festival which
appears to commemorate the Sacrifice of Isaac—a sheep being killed
ceremonially on the occasion. We assembled ourselves outside the city
wall, and, sitting under an improvised shelter, watching the seated
thousands waiting patiently in the sunshine, it would not have seemed
strange to me to see the Disciples passing down the irregular lines,
distributing the loaves and fishes to the hungry listeners.

Presently the Limam’s voice rose clear and shrill, away in the distance,
under the shade of a mighty tree where the Emir and his court had their
places; the thousands rose to their feet, and as the sonorous Arabic
pealed out on the hot still air, the prayers began. It was a wonderful
and moving spectacle; the reverent responses rose from the assemblage
like a muffled roar, but perhaps the most astonishing feature of all was
the prostration when the huge throng fell on their faces as one man,
reminding us of a vast field of corn swept by a sudden gust.

The prayers finished, we were conducted to the Emir’s seat, where special
prayers were offered for us all, each being named in turn, strictly in
order of precedence, not forgetting the High Commissioner and the two
former Residents of the Province, Major Burdon and Mr. Goldsmith, both
dearly loved and remembered.

[Illustration: THE GREAT SALLA. (p. 189)]

[Illustration: THE PROSTRATION. (p. 190)]

Shortly after this festival our little community was reinforced by Mr.
and Mrs. Bargery of the C.M.S. They occupied a large compound outside
the city, and we all admired the business-like energy with which they
settled down and ‘got square,’ turning two unattractive mud houses into
a bright pretty home in an incredibly short time. The days slipped
away, February drifted into March, and March into April, clouds began
to gather in the hard blue sky, and lightning and distant thunder
proclaimed the approaching rains; our thoughts turned towards ‘leave,’
and only one event, but that an important one for us, remained before
we left Nigeria—the arrival of our new High Commissioner, Sir Percy
Girouard, who had succeeded Sir Frederick Lugard. He arrived at Katcha
on the Niger on April 13, where my husband was ready with two members
of his staff, to receive him. About twenty of the highest officials of
the Bida Court and their followers had been despatched also by the Emir
as a mark of his fealty and loyalty to the Government. By all these,
the High Commissioner was escorted to within ten miles of Bida, where
the remainder of the European staff and the police guard of honour had
assembled. The Emir, with the rest of his Court and five or six thousand
followers, mounted and on foot, was also waiting to receive him, and
accompany him triumphantly to the Residency. The cloud of dust raised by
the horsemen was visible for three or four miles as they approached, so
the High Commissioner must have had a choky time, to say the least of
it! We did our best to induce him to remain for the night, but with his
characteristic energy he determined to push on the same evening, and camp
five or six miles further on, to the north of the town, towards Zungeru.

My husband’s leave had already been sanctioned, and, on mentioning the
fact, his dismay can be imagined when Sir Percy Girouard apparently
demurred, saying that all the senior officers appeared to be proceeding
on leave directly he arrived! I need hardly say, however, that he would
not hear of our remaining longer, as we had already completed eighteen
months, and we therefore left Bida, as we had arranged on April 20.

It was, in truth, disappointing to have to come away at such an
interesting stage in Nigeria’s development; a page was being turned
in its history, the old order was changing, and the long projected
railway was to become a solid fact, a change that could not fail to
prove an immense advantage. Caravan trading, so far, had attracted all
the energies of many thousands of the inhabitants, who had employed
their time in lengthy journeys from the interior to the coast and back;
with the railway in operation this anachronism would lose its _raison
d’être_ and gradually cease to exist; much greater numbers would then
be available for cultivation, a gain of the highest importance, as the
future prosperity of the country must depend greatly on its agricultural
success, especially in the direction of cotton. As one who has watched
its growth and steady advance during the last five years, I should like
to close my book with the heartiest good wishes for the future success
and advancement of the country we both love so well.




Part II

HOUSEHOLD HINTS




CHAPTER I

The Home


This chapter is, of necessity, addressed chiefly to those who are
permanently settled at headquarters, either Lokoja or Zungeru, as the
Political Officer and his wife will, naturally, have to abandon all hopes
of conveying household furniture, etc., to a far distant objective, owing
to the great difficulty and expense of transport; the chapter on Camp
Life will be found more useful by them.

The house itself is a wooden bungalow, or, at the out-stations, a
native-built clay house; in either case it consists of four walls,
a ceiling and a floor—and a wide shady verandah. In the distant
out-stations, of course, there is no furniture at all, to speak of,
except the camp outfit belonging to each official, which he carries with
him, and which includes a camp bed, wash-stand, bath, one small table,
one chair and a Lord’s lantern. But we are ‘getting on’ in Nigeria, and
it is now found possible to do a little more for every one in the way of
plain furniture at headquarters, so that I do not think any one need walk
into an utterly empty bungalow nowadays. However, it is obvious that
anything in the way of ‘home comforts’ must be brought out independently
from England, as there is not even the opportunity, which occurs
constantly in India, of buying second-hand furniture from neighbours on
the move.

Fortunately, very little is needed: I should advise investing in a few
wicker chairs and light tables either at Madeira, or at home; they are no
trouble to bring and are very cheap. It is worth noting that the faster
line of steamers do not always call at Madeira now, so that, unless one
is certain of calling at the Canaries, it is wisest to bring wicker
furniture direct from England.

A few yards of a pretty, light chintz or cretonne can be converted into
chair cushions, stuffed with native cotton, and will furnish a room
amazingly. It is well, too, to bring out some lengths of cheap muslin,
coloured or white, as fancy dictates, for curtains, etc. A coarse kind
of muslin can be bought locally, and, when faintly dyed with indigo,
it becomes quite a pretty pale blue, very cool-looking, and can be
constantly renewed when faded. A barrel, containing a small outfit of
crockery and glass, makes one quite independent of the local stores,
which, at most, may be able to replace breakages—after a fashion! A
supply of enamel paint will enable you to give quite an ‘air’ to the
rough shelves which can be made locally, beside lengthening their
lives considerably. For the floor, nothing is nicer or cheaper than an
Indian _dhurri_ or cotton carpet, but, as the bungalows are all fitted
with linoleum, no more is really needed than a few of the artistically
coloured grass mats, made chiefly at Bida, and found almost everywhere;
they cost about three shillings each, rising to six shillings, according
to the distance from Bida, and are quite delightful. No one could fail
to be pleased with the brightly coloured native cloths, or to find them
useful for covering rough ugly tables and unsightly deck-chairs, and for
making portierés, etc. You will also find Bida brass-work of a highly
decorative sort, charming, quaintly-shaped little burnt earthenware
jugs from Ilorin, carved wooden stools, boasting of from ten to twenty
legs—cut from one solid block of wood—from Ibi, queer carvings from away
down south of Kabba, the brilliantly tinted Hausa leather work, fashioned
into cushion covers, bags, purses, and an endless variety of articles,
and carved and ‘poker-worked’ calabashes, etc., all of which will help to
cover the walls and give the room a home-like, or, at least, an occupied
look.

At Kano, we lived in a great vault-like apartment in the Residency
(formerly the Emir’s summer palace), and though, at first, it presented
an appearance of utter gloom and desolation, an extraordinary improvement
was effected in a couple of hours by an improvised sideboard, boxes piled
up to serve as tables, and covered with gaily-coloured cloths, the
pinky-red walls decorated with sketches and prints, a few gorgeously hued
Japanese paper wall hangings scattered about, and the clay floor covered
with grass mats.

The walls of a wooden bungalow are usually of boarding, either painted
white or a horrible ‘duck’s egg’ blue, or else varnished a rather
dark and monotonous brown, so the whole room will need colour as much
as possible. A few pictures are an immense help in decorating, and,
nowadays, such beautiful and artistic framed prints can be bought so
cheap, it would be well worth while to bring out half a dozen. Of course,
if you sketch yourself the problem of wall decoration is solved; polished
brown boards make a perfect background for water-colour sketches,
unframed, but placed in gilt mounts, so that all you need is a packet of
tacks and a hammer. If you cannot do your own sketching, make a point,
before leaving England, of pillaging those among your friends who do;
no one, I think, could resist a pathetic appeal for a pretty sketch to
carry away into far Africa! And, indeed, it is a joy sometimes, when the
temperature is unpleasantly high, little worries abounding, and _Africa_
asserting itself unduly, to be able to glance occasionally at a sketch of
some English woodland, or a corner of a picturesque village.

[Illustration: MY WRITING TABLE. (p. 198)]

[Illustration: THE RESIDENCY, BIDA. (p. 200)]

Whilst we were in India, we had, among our treasures, a most beautifully
executed water-colour sketch of one or two deodars, standing out from
a cool, wet, grey mist on some hill-side in Kashmir, and we used to
consider this picture as a most valuable tonic during a Punjaub ‘hot
weather.’ While on this subject, let me add, from personal experience,
that sketch-books and blocks will be ruined during the rainy season,
unless carefully wrapped in waterproof paper, and the best kind of paints
for standing the climate are the ‘slow-drying’ kind, in tubes, sold by
Windsor & Newton.

If lamps are brought out, they should be plain metal ones, with punkah
tops; extra wicks must not be forgotten, and at least a dozen spare
chimneys are quite necessary, on account of breakages—the simple plan
of boiling the chimneys before using them should never be neglected, as
they do not break nearly so easily. A folding wire frame with three or
four simple paper shades is a more simple arrangement than a globe, and
far more serviceable. The servants will be found absolutely omnivorous
over kerosene oil; they spill it, they light the kitchen fire with it,
and I have heard a despairing bachelor housekeeper declare that they
_drink_ it, so rapidly does it disappear! Kerosene is, of course, very
dear, and more so up country than in Lokoja; I have often found it a
distinct economy to insist on the pantries and kitchen burning native
oil in native lamps when far away from headquarters; these little lamps
give quite a bright light and do not smoke—they are also most useful for
night-lights.

It will be found better and far cheaper in the end to bring out all house
and table linen from home, even dusters and chamois leathers, though the
coarsest sort of native cloth makes excellent kitchen cloths and stable
rubbers. Plate powder is still, I think, practically an unknown luxury
in Northern Nigeria, and silver is usually cleaned with bath-brick! A
process which may well be substituted is to wash the silver well in hot
water, containing a little Scrubb’s Ammonia, and then polish it with a
chamois leather; nothing keeps it in such good order, and the average
‘boy,’ though untiring in putting _on_ the plate powder, feels no
inducement to take it _off_. But, alas! the friendly ‘Scrubb’s’ is not
always available, so that, as far as possible, articles of real silver
should be confined to toilet things and tea-spoons. A plated tea-spoon is
a horror, but I once had the pleasure of seeing four of my silver ones
light-heartedly thrown into the Niger, along with a basin of soapy water!

A set of carpenter’s tools, and a collection of hooks, screws, nails
and tacks will be found perfectly invaluable; armed with these, and,
I hope, the help of the foregoing hints, the little bare room can be
transformed into a bright pretty sitting-room where every one will enjoy
coming, and will feel it more ‘like home.’ Sometimes space does not
admit of a separate dining-room, but this need not necessarily spoil the
appearance of the sitting-room. The dinner-table, when not in use, can
wear a gaily coloured native cloth, a few books, photographs, etc., and a
well-polished, neatly arranged sideboard is no eyesore. This latter, by
the way, must have its legs placed in saucers or tins fitted with water,
with a little kerosene added, to save the sugar, jam, cake, etc., from
the incursions of millions of hungry ants.

Let the filter stand on a box or table on the breeziest side of the
verandah; almost every one has a special plan, or a pet filter, so that
no rule can be laid down to suit everybody. I think that, perhaps,
the evolving of cool drinks is more a matter of personal endeavour
and experience than almost any other department of housekeeping: it
is an attainment so very necessary that it is attempted by every one,
more or less, and the best advice I can give is to seize upon the host
who provides you with really cold soda or sparklets, and find out how
he arrives at them! In Lokoja and Zungeru there is a supply of water
condensed from the river; this we have poured at once into a Berkefeld
drip filter, merely with a view to getting rid of the ‘condensed’ taste,
though this can also be accomplished as well by pouring the water from a
good height several times from one vessel to another. Ordinary water can
be boiled, then pumped rapidly through the large foot-pump Berkefeld
filter into the drip filter; this first filtering saving much wear and
tear to the candles of the latter. The water is then drawn off into
bottles and placed in native earthenware coolers, which, being porous,
keep it delightfully cool. These coolers are extremely cheap; they can
and must be frequently renewed to ensure perfect cleanliness, and can be
employed most usefully for cooling butter and cream as well as soda-water.

In one’s bedroom, little furniture is needed; in fact, I think the less
one has the better. This is distinctly fortunate, as there is none
forthcoming! In Nigeria, we have not yet arrived at the stage of walnut
wardrobes and pier-glasses, and a new-comer may be appalled at the lack
of accommodation for stowing clothes. I have found that clothing is
much better not shut up in boxes, unless they are damp-proof tin ones,
and even these must be carried out into the sunshine, and the contents
sunned nearly every day in the rainy season. It is almost incredible how
quickly clothes will acquire a mouldy smell, and appearance of mildew,
unless they are constantly looked at and aired. Any native carpenter
will be able to make rows of stout wooden pegs for hanging clothes, and
it is far better to have them so, as, when disturbed daily, and hung out
in the sun for an hour or so, they will not harbour mosquitoes to any
great extent. Where one is dealing with a clay wall, it answers well
to stretch a length of native cloth tightly along the wall, immediately
below the nails or pegs, to protect light coloured clothes from the
reddish dust, always rubbing off. All boxes should be placed on blocks
of wood or bricks, on account of white ants, and all boots and shoes on
shelves, _never_ on the floor; foot-gear must be kept in constant wear,
and also be inspected carefully and polished daily. Insects of all kinds
abound; there is one whose special aim in life is to build little mud
palaces in any quiet spot, boots, shoes, folds of gowns, keyholes—even
in the bowl of a pipe, unused for a day or two. No corner of any room
can be left undisturbed even for a few days, and it is advisable to have
each room completely cleared once a week, and the floors washed with a
weak solution of creolin. It has a pleasant tarry smell, and acts as an
excellent deterrent to mosquitoes and sandflies.

While on the subject of mosquitoes, I should like to mention (what I
imagine to be a small discovery of our own five years ago) that it is an
excellent plan to sew a strip of calico or nankeen, about eighteen inches
deep, all round the mosquito net, just above where it tucks in under the
mattress. This greatly protects one’s hands and feet, should they touch
the net during the night, otherwise they will be devoured. Moreover, the
strip is not wide enough to keep away any air or make one feel ‘stuffy.’
An air-cushion is a most useful possession, being so easy to stow away in
a bedding valise; ours, we found, were greatly coveted by the boys, who
regarded them with some awe, and designated them as ‘breeze pillows’!

The whole subject of small comforts and house decoration is a most
fascinating one, but it is so much a matter of personal taste and
activity that it does not seem to me to be necessary to add more to
these very general hints than to express the conviction that no English
housewife in West Africa—if she is ‘worth her salt’—will spare herself in
the endeavour to, at least, turn ‘quarters’ into ‘home,’ even if only for
a few months.




CHAPTER II

The Household


The household in Nigeria, and indeed, all over West Africa, is by no
means the complicated affair that one has to cope with in India, and
housekeeping is reduced to the greatest simplicity.

The staff consists of a cook, with an attendant satellite, called a
‘cook’s mate,’ a steward, or ‘boy,’ with usually, in a married household
at least, an under steward, or perhaps a couple of small boys to assist
generally in the housework and table service. There may be an orderly
attached, but his duties consist rather in the airing of clothes and
boxes, cleaning of guns and boots, and carrying of letters, etc.

Each pony has his own ‘doki-boy,’ whose duties are fully described in the
chapter on the stable, and the mistress may, in her enthusiasm, decide to
employ a regular gardener. All these good people live in the compound,
the only outside servant being the laundress. This lady is only to be
found at headquarters (she is usually a Coast woman), in out-stations,
and in the bush the washing is done—generally with inconspicuous
success—by one’s own boys, or the wife of a doki-boy. It is distinctly
useful to bring out from home one or two flat-irons, and make a point of
‘getting up’ one’s most cherished muslin blouses, etc., oneself.

Wages are high, absurdly so, but the demand for fairly capable servants
is so great, and the supply so small, that there is little prospect
of the present scale of pay being reasonably reduced. Also, alas! in
many bachelor establishments, the standard of excellence in service is
not high enough to produce a really good class of servants, and I am
quite certain that any Englishwoman who has kept house in India would
absolutely _gasp_ at the quality and quantity of work done by a highly
paid ‘boy,’ in possession of most eulogistic testimonials from previous
masters. The following is a fair average of wages paid, per month, all
over the country: in some cases, servants of an undesirable kind may be
engaged for less, but this is no real economy, while in some other cases
even higher wages are paid.

                                            £   _s._ _d._

    Cook                                    2    0    0
      (If an Accra boy £3 or £3 10_s._)
    Cook’s Mate                             0   15    0
    Head Steward                            2    0    0
    Under Steward                           1    0    0
    Laundress                               1    0    0
    Doki-boy                                1    0    0
    Gardener                                1    0    0

Roughly £100 a year, for the services of seven people, all lazy and
stupid, mostly untruthful, and frequently dishonest, ignorant of the
first principles of order and cleanliness, and, unmistakably, considering
Missis rather a bore when she insists on trying to inculcate these.

My personal experience with house servants is not a very varied one, as
we still have some of those we engaged on first coming to West Africa
five years ago; but, in fairness to them, I must not omit to say that
I have only _very rarely_ found any one of them in the least degree
untruthful, and that I know them to be absolutely honest; they have never
stolen a single article or a halfpenny from either of us during these
years.

Servants may be of all languages and tribes, and they have no ‘caste.’
Some are Mahomedans, some Pagans, some professing Christianity, but their
religious convictions do not appear to affect any of them very seriously.
One important point for the new-comer is, that one servant, at least—the
head steward for choice—should speak good, intelligible English; most of
the Coast boys, and those trained by the Roman Catholic missionaries at
Onitsha, can do so.

With the exception of the cook and steward, our household is required
absolutely to speak Hausa, and nothing else, to us and each other, which
saves endless confusion, and gives a comfortable sense of security that
one’s orders are correctly transmitted to doki-boys, gardener, etc.

It is the custom to pay a certain percentage of the wages weekly, usually
two shillings per head, for ‘chop money’ (subsistence allowance), and the
balance at the end of each month, which arrangement shows ingenuously
what a solid, clear profit the household makes. This balance of pay is
generally expended, on the spot, in the acquiring of such luxuries as a
gaily striped umbrella, or a smart pair of ‘English’ boots.

The majority of servants are reckless gamblers, and a perfect network
of lending, borrowing, and extorting of an exorbitant rate of interest,
prevails amongst them, in spite of strictest prohibitions on the subject.


THE COOK AND HIS KITCHEN

The Nigerian kitchen is arranged on the Indian plan—apart from the house,
and just as much inspection and supervision will have to be exercised.

Kitchen appliances of a rough-and-ready kind can be bought at the local
stores, but it is far more satisfactory to bring most of them direct from
England, especially a nest of aluminium saucepans, their lightness being
a great advantage while marching.

At headquarters, a kitchen table, some rough shelves and pegs will be
available, and a meat-safe, which, however, has to be accommodated on
the breeziest corner of the verandah.

The mistress will do well to walk into the kitchen, as a matter of
course, at any hour of the day: the cook and his mate will, possibly,
like to sleep there, and if the visit is made regularly, after breakfast,
the beds or mats can be whisked out of sight, for the time being, and the
malpractice never discovered. In Lokoja and Zungeru the kitchens are now
fitted with very good little ranges, which are a great improvement on the
open, brick fireplaces of earlier days. I remember well, the day that
mine was first put in, going to the kitchen to see how it worked, and
finding the cook, radiant with pride and pleasure, lighting the fire _in
the oven_. The fuel consists entirely of wood. In out stations, the poor
_chef_ has a good deal to contend with, usually an open fire for ordinary
cooking (on the floor) and for an oven, an ingenious arrangement of a
large country pot half buried in the ground; into this, blazing wood is
thrust until the interior is quite hot, when the fuel is hauled out, the
cake or bread popped in, a flat piece of tin or iron laid on the top, and
piled up with burning wood. It can be readily understood that an oven of
this description makes successful baking a matter of some uncertainty.

The kitchen table must be scrubbed with soap and water daily, the pans
and utensils scoured, and the walls occasionally whitewashed. You will
find your cook slightly bored with your insistence on these small
details, but always polite, cheerful and amenable. He is a teachable
person, too, and takes a kindly interest in one’s making of cakes,
sweets, etc., but his knowledge of cookery is strictly limited—the
veriest tyro in India earning ten rupees a month is a _cordon bleu_
compared with him.

Housekeeping in his department is of the utmost simplicity: he turns
up immediately after breakfast, smiling genially, usually arrayed in
a spotless white suit, or a suit of pyjamas of striking pattern and
colouring, a jaunty straw hat in his hand, and immaculate white shoes
on his feet. He gives you the account of the previous day’s marketing,
you reproach him for the toughness of the mutton, the heaviness of the
bread, and the total absence of the savoury; all of which he takes most
philosophically, and explains glibly, to his own entire exoneration. You
then give him half-a-crown (or, to save trouble, ten shillings twice a
week), and indicate tentatively what you would prefer for luncheon and
dinner. It is no use ordering dishes definitely; they never appear,
and when you indignantly demand the devilled kidneys arranged for, the
tranquil answer: ‘Cook say, kidney no live for market to-day,’ defeats
without soothing you.

So you let him depart, to work his wicked will, stalking off under
a patriotic sun umbrella, striped in sections of red, white and blue
cotton, followed by the satellite, bearing the market basket, while you,
the anxious housewife, must simply put your trust in Providence and hope
for the best.

[Illustration: ‘AMELIA,’ A YOUNG GIRAFFE BROUGHT HOME BY THE LATE CAPTAIN
PHILLIPS, D.S.O. (p. 210)]

[Illustration: ‘CHUKU,’ A NATIVE DOG—RESCUED DURING THE ARO-CHUKU
EXPEDITION. (P. 223)]

The average cook has little or no discrimination, if the menu is
left entirely to him: we once found ourselves guests at a bachelor
dinner-party, where the feast commenced with chicken soup, followed by
stewed chicken, which was, in its turn, succeeded by minced chicken;
finally, to our despair, the board was graced by a couple of roast
chickens—and this with an unlimited supply of mutton and beef in the
market.

You must be prepared to get very indifferent meat; the animals are
badly slaughtered, and cut up without any regard to joints, etc., so
that beef is really useless, except for making soup or mince, so tough
is it. The mutton usually grows on a goat, and is also tough, which, I
suppose, accounts in part for the eternal chicken taking so prominent a
place in the day’s menu. Tough meat, by the way, can be much improved
by wrapping the joint in paw-paw leaves for an hour or two; if left too
long it will decay altogether, so personal supervision is necessary—the
cook does not profess to understand such faddy nonsense! Turkeys can be
reared in the compound quite easily, also ducks; both are excellent, and
there is always a pleasant possibility of occasional additions to the
larder, in the shape of guinea fowl, bush fowl, pigeons, and venison,
which, when hung for twenty-four to forty-eight hours (according to the
temperature), is absolutely delicious. The menu can always be kept from
monotony by small dishes, such as sheep and ox tongues, brain cutlets,
stuffed paw-paws—an excellent substitute for vegetable marrow—tomatoes,
‘farcies,’ or garden eggs, treated in the same way.

Personally, I do not care for native dishes, and ‘palm-oil chop’ is, to
my mind, an abomination; but ground-nut soup is very good indeed, and
should not be overlooked, especially as it is a delicacy that every cook
understands how to make. Fish can nearly always be had, so that once one
has taught the cook how to make real curries—as they are made in India—a
fair variety can easily be had, with little or no assistance from odious
and unwholesome tinned food.

I fear the _chef_ will not be found a great hand at puddings: his
inspirations do not soar much higher than banana fritters and cornflour
mould. I remember a painful incident which occurred at the commencement
of my career as a West African housekeeper, when the appearance of
an unexpected guest caused me to order an impromptu pudding, a sweet
omelette. When, in due course, the pudding appeared, looking deliciously
light and frizzling hot, a curious smell accompanied it, and the first
mouthful revealed it as a savoury omelette, highly seasoned with onions
and fresh chilis, filled with apricot jam! I have since heard of an
enterprising cook, who artistically tinted a cornflour mould bright blue,
with indigo. He can be taught to make very fair tart pastry, but, as a
rule, it is safer to confine oneself to fruit salads, trifles, and other
cold sweets, which one can prepare oneself. The impossibility of getting
fresh milk is, naturally, a great handicap in cooking, but ‘Ideal’ milk
is quite useful in preparing mayonnaise and many other sauces, and the
tinned cream (Golden Butterfly brand) sold by the Niger Company is almost
as good as the fresh article, as it can be whipped quite stiff if kept in
cold water for a few hours before opening.

Vegetables cannot be had regularly, unless the housekeeper is also a
gardener, and grows them herself. There is, however, a native spinach,
which is quite as good as the English kind, and grows like a weed.
Country tomatoes, garden eggs, okros, sweet potatoes, green paw-paws,
and yams are all of great use in supplying the table with the necessary
green food; but I feel sure that the housekeeper who reads the chapter
on Gardening will instantly decide to do better than tamely submit to
limiting her household to country produce of this kind.

At a pinch (when touring in forest country) we have found young Indian
corn, or maize, well boiled, not at all a bad substitute for other
vegetables, and, when the corns are boiled, then lightly browned over the
fire, they are excellent, eaten with butter, pepper and salt.

In the way of fruit, there are usually bananas to be had, pineapples in
the spring and summer, and occasionally oranges. In Lokoja the mangoes
are quite good, and I have had guavas and custard apples. The country
abounds in tiny limes, which are sold in great quantities, very cheap,
and make most delicious lemon squashes.


THE STEWARD AND HIS DUTIES

The head steward, or ‘boy,’ must be carefully chosen, and is worth
training, for in his hands lies the greater part of your daily comfort,
and to his shortcomings can be traced most of the irritability which is
recognized as a natural weakness of the dweller in West Africa.

He will require endless patience, and daily insistence on small details
of cleanliness and order, for he has a happy knack of carrying out an
order for five or six days, then quietly discontinuing it, and trusting
to his mistress’ preoccupation not to observe the omission. Never flatter
yourself that any system you have introduced, with apparent success, will
continue to work for a week without some supervision and inspection.
The genus ‘head boy’ is a light-hearted, easy-going, tractable sort of
creature; some are masterful and quarrelsome, some are placid and lazy,
but all of them like to have one or two small boys about the house, to
whom they can relegate most of their work, while they are swaggering in
the market, in spotless raiment, with redundant watch-chain and a sun
umbrella. Some, I am sorry to say, are bad, very, very bad, and I cannot
help feeling most strongly that more than one vigorous, valuable young
life has succumbed out here to sickness and death, mainly for the want
of proper attendance—better cooking and the small comforts and niceties
that every man requires, but is, usually, helpless to obtain and insist
upon for himself. I have seen unspeakable habits of dirt and slovenliness
prevailing amongst bachelors’ boys—yes, and dangerous ones too, tinned
food kept for days in open tins, and served up again to the unfortunate
master, cups and plates washed and wiped—well, it serves no purpose of
mine to recount these horrors, and it is only fair to add that I have
known boys whose skilful care, devotion and unselfishness towards sick
masters could hardly be excelled. I only hope that every Englishwoman who
spends even a few months in Nigeria will leave behind her two or three
servants inoculated with habits of scrupulous cleanliness, thoughtfulness
and common sense, to lighten the lot of some lonely man who now feels
uncomfortably that in his mother’s house at home the table-cloth is
_not_ hideously grubby and crooked, the milk and jam served in messy
tins, the glasses cloudy, and the forks and spoons more than doubtful,
but vaguely supposes all this is necessary in West Africa—_it isn’t!_

As a rule, I suppose the Coast boy makes the best head steward: he
speaks English, and has usually served a white master before. He acts
as housemaid and parlourmaid in one, starts his day with energetic
sweeping and some sketchy dusting, waits at table, cuts his master’s
hair, acts as valet generally, and is the spokesman and middle man
between his mistress and the rest of the household. He is responsible
for the existence and condition, good or otherwise, of nearly all of
your possessions; therefore, it really answers best to have the actual
work of laying tables, cleaning knives, lamps, etc., performed by the
under steward, so as to leave your major-domo free to superintend and
investigate the working of the whole establishment, down to the stable,
and report on it to his mistress; he should be taught to do this without
fear or prejudice, or any suspicion of sneaking or mischief-making:
obviously he cannot, with any show of dignity, rebuke the misdeeds of
the cook or orderly; if he has to wash plates and scrub out the pantry,
equally obviously he _must_ be honest and, as far as possible, superior
to bribery. Not being embarrassed with caste prejudices, he will
concern himself with the feeding and washing of the dogs, the care of
the poultry-yard, and our faithful head boy has, more than once, been
employed to shoot a hopelessly sick pony.

There is little more to add on the subject of the household staff. The
cook’s mate is but an embryo cook, who presently emerges from his modest
position and blossoms into a cook, with a satellite of his own. I believe
that, as a matter of fact, the cook’s mate does a fair share of the
cooking: this will be readily ascertained when the cook gets helplessly
drunk and dinner is forthcoming all the same!

The small house boys are equally budding stewards, and, if well looked
after, it is amazing how they sprout, physically and mentally, and how
soon they find out that a rise in pay is merited.

One word of advice to housekeepers, masculine and feminine—_don’t_ beat
the boys. There is still a prevailing idea that the master who wields the
_bulala_ (whip) with most vigour gets best served. But this I beg leave
to doubt. For the time being, fear may make them move faster and remember
longer, but there is, deeply implanted under every woolly, black scalp,
the sacred duty of reprisals, and the boy who is frequently flogged will
take it out somehow, sooner or later—be sure of that. Moreover, the
servant who really needs constant hitting is not worth keeping; and,
indeed, were he, through such a process, to be evolved into a perfect
treasure, he would be bought too dear, at the cost of so much irritation
and mental stress. For, it must be admitted, that for one occasion when a
boy really deserves a flogging he gets _bulala_ ten times, because Master
is feverish or worried, or ‘jumpy’; and poor Master seldom thinks, till
afterwards, of the spectacle he presents, pursuing a fleeing boy, and
vociferating—because he cannot find his shirt-stud. Alas, for ‘British
prestige’!

I was told, a short time ago, by one such master, whose naturally sweet
disposition had doubtless been tried by time and circumstances, that he
had had his boy severely flogged (‘six dozen’), _because the salt on his
dinner table was damp_. As a rule, a little mild sarcasm, or a ridiculous
nick-name bestowed is far more efficacious than a scolding, and if a
severe reminder is necessary, judicious fining has the greatest effect,
for the most sensitive bit of a house boy’s soul lives just underneath
his belt: when this is done, the culprit must _see_ the fine, in money,
thrown into the river, or placed in the kitchen fire, and know that it is
gone beyond recall, or else he merely credits you with making money out
of him, and is rather shocked at your meanness.

We want, do we not, to raise their standard, not to lower our own, and
though, of course, there are black sheep, many of them, I do believe that
good treatment evokes good service. The householder who, remembering how
comparatively new to the country the art of domestic service is, shows a
little consideration, never breaks a promise, and does not scold or whack
all round, because it happens to be a hot morning, will probably fare
best, after all; moreover, on returning from leave, he or she will be
sure to find ‘Audu’ or ‘Ibrahim’ smiling a welcome at Burutu, all anxious
to take up service again with such a desirable Master or ‘Missis.’




CHAPTER III

Dogs, Poultry and Cows


DOGS

This collection of notes, which aims at giving assistance to English men
and women in Nigeria, would, to my mind, fall miserably short of the mark
if it failed to include within its scope some practical suggestions for
the provision of comfort and the preservation of health of their dogs.

That West Africa is _not_ a healthy country for English dogs is only too
sadly certain, but it is equally certain that they will continue to come
as long as Englishmen do, therefore it is not worth while giving sage
advice as to the wisdom and true kindness of bringing or not bringing
them—especially as I like to try and be consistent, and I cannot picture
myself taking ship at Liverpool without one, or even two of my own!

I have met a variety of English dogs out here, from massive bull-terriers
down to the most fascinating little person, a tiny Yorkshire terrier;
but, to those who, coming out for the first time, are puzzled in the
selection of a dog, I would like to say:—let him be a young dog and a
small one. A puppy, well over distemper, aged from six to twelve months,
will suffer far less from the change of climate, food, etc., than an
older dog, and, when he does not weigh more than twenty or thirty pounds,
his lightness makes it a simple matter for him to be carried on the
march—for no dog should ever be allowed to run all through the hot hours
of a long march. We, who are a long way off the ground, on horseback,
occasionally grumble at the heat; what must be the sensations of the
faithful little follower padding wearily along, close to the baking
earth, all chance of breeze kept from him, as a rule, by high grass on
either side, and a pitiless sun scorching his spine all the time?

We learnt this lesson through sad experience, the loss of a dearly loved
little Irish terrier, who marched always on his own feet. He had lived
in perfect health for four years in India, and had even weathered eight
months in Sierra Leone, but died in Lokoja, after three months almost
continuous touring in the bush.

Since then our dogs have never been allowed to run; we have had two
carried all the way from Zungeru to Katāgum and back, a distance of eight
hundred miles. They very soon got accustomed to the confinement; one was
usually carried on the saddle of one of our mounted servants, and, after
a few days, he learnt to appreciate the arrangement and to jump up at
the pony, begging to be picked up as soon as the sun got hot. The other
dog, a bull-terrier, had an ordinary square provision box filled with
grass, its cover, a native-made wicker basket, having a small goat-skin
fastened just on the top to keep off the sun. The cover fitted loosely,
admitting plenty of air and was easily secured to the box by a few
strings. After the dog had run three or four miles in the fresh early
morning, and hunted and amused himself to his heart’s content, he was
usually very ready to pack himself into his box, especially as there were
invariably a few toothsome bones to be found there, and he then slept
peacefully in it, until his carrier dumped him down in camp.

The feeding of dogs is naturally a great factor in the preservation of
their health, and it will require supervision. The main difficulty is to
give them sufficient bulk of food without including too much meat; here,
we have no fresh potatoes, etc., and porridge becomes rather an expensive
article of dietary, as oatmeal costs a shilling for a small tin, which
disappears at once! I have been told that two large dogs required a
tin of oatmeal and a tin of army rations daily to feed them. I think
they must have become very bilious bull-terriers, and a serious item of
expense to their owner! We allow threepence a day per dog; this buys a
piece of meat and some bone, also a fair quantity of ‘gari’ (native
flour). The gari is well boiled with the meat, and appears looking like
a brownish sago pudding. The mixture is then flooded with milk and much
appreciated by the dogs. Every few days a little powdered sulphur is
mixed up with the feed, and is highly beneficial. Afterwards, they get
their bones, and the fare seems to suit them admirably. We always make a
point of giving our dogs, especially young puppies, weak tea if they will
drink it. In India I was told that it would prevent distemper altogether,
and, though I cannot vouch for the truth of this, it seems to be a
harmless little indulgence, and every mistress will, I expect, like to
see the little wistful faces asking ever so plainly for a saucer of tea.

Dogs are all the better for a dose of castor oil about once a week; it
improves their appearance and condition immensely, and it is a perfectly
simple matter administering it—when one knows how—so a short explanation
of the process may not be misplaced here. One person, kneeling down,
holds the dog’s body firmly between his knees to prevent him from
backing, and, putting his left forefinger gently into the corner of the
dog’s lips, pulls out his cheek, forming a sort of pocket into which the
oil is gently poured by another person, thus avoiding all forcing open of
the teeth and the consequent struggle and horrors of spilt oil. As a rule
the patient does not object in the least; the oil quietly filters through
his teeth, and down his throat; if he does not seem to be swallowing
it readily a little pressure on his nostrils closes them, and compels
him to open his throat. When a dog’s coat becomes ‘staring,’ his eyes
lustreless, and he appears generally spiritless and feverish, castor oil
is indicated, after which quinine must be given—five grains daily is
not too much—until he recovers. One of our dogs swallowed a tabloid of
quinine, wrapped in a slice of meat, every day, without detecting its
presence; but some are tiresome in this respect, and the only alternative
is to open their mouths and drop in a salt-spoonful of sulphate of
quinine. This they cannot get rid of except by swallowing it, and the
bitter taste is soon forgotten in the joy of a rewarding tit-bit of some
sort. We had a small fox-terrier who knew the very sight of the quinine
bottle, and bolted at once out of the room! The foregoing suggestions,
however, are intended only for occasions when the dog’s owner is quite
convinced that treatment of this kind is absolutely necessary; failing
that, I would most earnestly say, leave drugs alone, merely permit no
neglect, for, assuredly, a comfortable dog will be a healthy dog!

Another point of the utmost importance to a dog’s well-being and comfort,
is to keep him, as far as possible, free from fleas and ticks. Fleas, I
suppose, dogs _will_ have for all time, no matter how carefully they are
washed and brushed; the great enemy in Nigeria is the tick. During the
rains the grass swarms with them, and, as one cannot walk along a bush
path for a hundred yards without finding several of them on one’s skirts,
the number acquired by the dogs on a ten minutes’ hunt after a mouse or
a lizard can be well imagined. Each dog must be most carefully searched
and the pests removed at least twice a day, special care being taken to
inspect the inside of his ears, the little ‘pocket’ on them, between
his toes, and underneath his collar. There is none so wily as the dog
tick in choosing secluded nooks in which to suck his victim’s blood. The
inside of the dog’s ears should be smeared over with carbolic or sulphur
ointment applied with a feather; both are abhorrent to ticks, and it is
really a kindness to rub his whole body lightly with these ointments
or a very weak solution of creolin or ‘Jeyes’ Fluid.’ It will be found
that flies attack and bite dogs’ ears to a quite serious extent; I have
seen native dogs with their ears positively eaten away, but this can, of
course, be prevented by persistent care and perseverance. Carbolic or
sulphur ointment must be rubbed on thickly, daily, and at night-time, but
unless notice is taken of the very first few bites, it is most difficult
to effect a cure.


POULTRY

The keeping of poultry is certain to become, in the near future, a
feature of every English household in Nigeria, therefore the subject may
as well have its place in this chapter, though I do not, in the least,
feel qualified to offer any ‘counsels of perfection,’ as, so far, we have
been able to make only two efforts to introduce English fowls into this
country, and I must frankly confess that there are many difficulties in
the way of a complete success.

However, the class of fowl bred in the country is such a wretched one,
the birds are small, skinny and tasteless, and the eggs no larger than
bantams’, that the importation of good breeds is a very real necessity.
Here, as in other matters, the periodical leave to England after twelve
or eighteen months has prevented the rearing of chickens from being very
seriously undertaken, but I have a strong impression that if every one
will, at all events, ‘make a start,’ the good work will be carried on,
and it will not be long before the miserable ‘country fowl’ is a thing of
the past.

My personal experience on the subject of English fowls is as
follows:—Five years ago, we brought out four Black Minorca hens and one
cock; the latter died shortly after his arrival in Nigeria, but, on our
way up country, we had the good luck to be presented with a very fine
Plymouth Rock cock. The hens behaved beautifully; they travelled in a
large wicker basket, and regularly laid eggs in it during the daily
march. A fortnight later, alas! the Plymouth Rock died, and two hens
succumbed also, all dying from the same complaint, dysentery. After
six months, we brought our remaining two hens back to Lokoja, and they
survived for the rest of the tour, but they greatly deteriorated, both
in their appearance and in their laying, the eggs diminished in size and
lost their flavour.

On our return from leave, we brought a fresh consignment of fowls, and
if I call them ‘a mixed lot’ it is not intended altogether as a term of
disparagement, for we had purposely selected mixed breeds. A fine Buff
Orpington cock with a slight Black Minorca strain, two Black Minorca
hens, a handsome Houdan hen, and two highly indiscriminate ‘would-be’
Orpington hens made up the party. Further fortified by an incubator, a
kindly gift of Sir Alfred Jones, we fared forth to Bussa, firmly intent
on poultry rearing.

This time, our efforts were distinctly successful; in six months our
stock of six had increased to twenty-three, and had it not been for the
persistent and endless depredations of hawks, we should have reared a
far greater number. We found the Houdan an admirable and devoted mother,
and her progeny were our delight, so handsome were they, with a slight
Orpington strain added to their own beautiful spangles and jet-black
crest. Before a year was out all the original hens except one died, quite
suddenly and mysteriously, pointing to poisonous food or snake-bite;
but still, to-day, I am glad to think that we have distributed four
fine English cocks in different parts of the country, and have, at all
events, contributed our mite to the all-important task of improving the
food supply in this country. It is not in the least sublime to say that
empires are built on men’s stomachs, but, indeed, they form a surer
foundation than their gravestones to my un-soaring mind!

The incubator—owing to our peculiar circumstances—but to no fault of
its own, was not a great success. Our manner of living was, however,
exceptional, and did not give the incubator a ghost of a chance.
During the day the lamp could not be lighted at all, and in spite of
all ventilation, etc., the atmospheric heat in the room itself ran the
thermometer higher than it should be. Almost every night violent gusts
of wind, sweeping through the house, extinguished the lamp two or three
times, thoroughly chilling the eggs. Another difficulty was the obtaining
of really fresh eggs; the only successful hatchings I accomplished were
with guinea-fowls and eggs obtained from our own hens: but, as the
action of the incubator was so uncertain, we were reluctant to risk many
eggs, when the hens were ready and willing to sit. It was, however, a
great amusement and delight to us, and the hatching process was one
of absorbing interest—to our native friends it appeared a piece of
paralyzing Ju-ju—the newly born chick gracefully dropping from the tray
above to the softer floor below with a comical air of bewilderment and
surprise! Under more normal circumstances I am certain that incubators
(which can now be bought very cheap) would be of the greatest value in
chicken rearing out here: a ‘foster-mother’ or ‘breeder’ is _quite_
necessary to avoid the terrible infant mortality resulting from careless
mothers and prowling hawks.

Far the easiest and most paying is the rearing of ducks; they give no
trouble, and seem to require none of the coaxing and attention apparently
necessary for the hens; quite quietly they appear to make their own
arrangements, and in due time emerge with an eminently attractive and
satisfactory family of sixteen or thereabouts. Except for a tendency to
walk the babies off their legs, ducks are devoted and excellent mothers.

An extremely useful scrap of knowledge we have picked up, is, when the
hatch is due, or nearly so, to seize the opportunity, when the hen or
duck is off the nest, to immerse the eggs gently in hot water (105°);
almost immediately the ‘live’ eggs begin to roll about and dance in the
most exciting fashion, and those which, after a few minutes, make no
movement at all may be safely considered as ‘wrong’ and removed from
the hatch, as their presence is injurious to the hatching chicks, and
embarrassing to the mother.

I have found that the chief difficulty lies in finding enough _boiled_
food for the fowls; the victims of dysentery undoubtedly got the disease
from eating too much whole grain, but it is a grave problem to give them
enough of anything else. There is, at present, in this country, nothing
available to answer to the regular ‘chicken’s food’ mixture, provided
at home, consisting of boiled turnip cuttings, potato peelings, cabbage
leaves, sharps, etc. Perhaps when our vegetable gardens are on a firmer
basis we shall be able to lavish green food on our fowls; at present,
there are but boiled yams and sweet potatoes to be had, but the fowls do
not take kindly to them, nor to boiled rice, which, by the way, does not
agree with them. On the whole, I think they prefer boiled _gari_ to any
other cooked food; I have seen them enthusiastic over _aggidi_ (a native
food) mixed up with maize and a few odds and ends from the breakfast
table. Guinea-corn thus becomes their staple article of diet, and it
is only by giving them full liberty all day long, and allowing them to
procure their own grass and insect food, that the enemy, dysentery, is
avoided.

We were wrong, I suppose, in selecting Black Minorcas, from a sitting
point of view, as I believe that, even at home, they are non-sitters,
and they certainly are in Nigeria! However, with an incubator this is
a matter of no importance, and it would be difficult to find a more
satisfactory breed from a laying point of view. I should say, most
decidedly, that Dorkings or Plymouth Rocks would be found excellent
breeds to bring to this country, the latter being good sitters and a
hardy breed; but they must be kept free from damp, which is, I fancy,
the cause of their frequently contracting disease in the legs and feet.
I have also heard an authority on different sorts of poultry describe
Dorkings as ‘the very best breed for amateur poultry keepers,’ they are
excellent mothers, and quite the best kind for table purposes.

I cannot feel that I am able to give any very practical advice on this
subject; my own experience has been too limited to build a theory on, but
as the chicken, in one guise or another, is bound to appear so frequently
on our tables, it is more than advisable, it becomes a positive duty, to
endeavour to encourage all newcomers to help, by importing fowls from
England, to improve the Nigerian species. When next I come out I shall
certainly bring a collection of Dorkings and another incubator, for it
is worth remembering that the hen of the country is such a tiny creature
that she cannot possibly cover more than three or four good-sized eggs.

I also cherish golden dreams of bringing out English geese, as I believe
they would succeed, and repay, a hundred-fold, the trouble of bringing
them. Geese are less troublesome to feed than fowls, as they find so much
for themselves roaming about; they are also good sitters (I am speaking
of the white Embden geese), and, of course, a great delicacy for the
table. They should be brought out in the proportion of two geese to one
gander.

It is, perhaps, worth mentioning that bringing out live stock entails
little or no trouble; any large dealer will ship the birds in strong
coops with a supply of grain for the voyage, and their owner will find
them established on deck, and requiring nothing more than a daily visit,
and a little arrangement with the ship’s cook or butcher, as to their
cleanliness and a small supply of boiled food. These good folks are so
accustomed to the care of all kinds of live stock, domestic and wild,
being carried to and from West Africa, from a full-grown giraffe to tiny
gazelles, no larger than a rabbit, that they are invariably most ready
and willing to supervise anything of the sort.

All this considered, I am sure that every one will agree with me that it
is worth while giving a trial to imported live stock for the farm-yard;
my ambition even soars—in secret, and in fear and trembling—to the
importation of a few rabbits, for experimental purposes. I am aware
that the indiscriminate introduction of rabbits has caused unpopularity
elsewhere before now, but I should suggest their being kept in
confinement at first, and I should not think that the provision of green
food need be a difficulty, as they would almost certainly enjoy the
young leaves of Indian Corn, which can be grown anywhere. I will venture,
finally, to say, that, in my opinion, the humble bunny would prove a most
welcome addition to the Nigerian menu!


COWS

To mention the subject of dairy management may seem rather unnecessary,
and cause a smile when it is realized that cows cannot be persuaded to
live and flourish in Lokoja, or any of the southern districts of Nigeria,
and that for the most part one’s sole anxiety, as a dairy expert,
consists in the selection of sound tins of preserved milk! But, as the
joys of possessing one’s own cows, and obtaining a sufficiency of milk,
cream, and butter, can be realized by those whom kindly Fortune allows to
live in the Hausa States, far removed from the deadly Coast, and further
north still, it seems to me as well to set forth my own very small
experience in the matter.

My first step towards keeping cows—and that a veritable step in the
dark—was the selection of a churn. At this point, the eternal difficulty
of transport loomed into view as uncompromisingly as usual, and I decided
on a small tin, plunge churn. It consisted of a tin cylinder about
eighteen inches long, and four inches in diameter, with a cover, through
which passed a tin plunger, with flanges at the lower end. This churn
has the advantage of being very light and portable, and we found it a
complete success; it was perfectly easy to clean, and did its work most
rapidly, turning out a pound of butter in fifteen minutes.

The next necessary point is to possess _your own_ cows; the usual
plan of receiving a daily dole of a bottle full of milk, Heaven knows
how or where obtained, cannot be sufficiently condemned. Out of my
own experience I have known the simple Fulani cow-keeper to half fill
the basin before milking with extremely dirty water, and this I only
discovered by the merest accident. One would hardly expect to find such
up-to-date practices as ‘watering the milk’ in Nigeria, but it is done!

I know that milch cows are not at all easy to come by out here; the
Fulani, the only herdsman in the country, knows the value of his stock,
and will not sell, for there is a tremendous trade done in the markets in
sour milk and rancid butter.

I started with a stock of five cows, each with a small calf, and in full
milk: I then, with a lamentable want of foresight and proper humility,
decided on, and attempted to carry out all kinds of innovations and dairy
principles, such as separating the calves from the cows, endeavouring
to pacify the former with milk mixed with _dusa_ (bran)—which I could
never induce them to touch—and treating in a high-handed manner the
remonstrances of the _mai-sanu_ (cowman or head dairymaid). I may say at
once it was a dead failure; the cows went off their milk immediately,
and from all of them I did not get more than a quart twice daily, and
the mai-sanu ran away, appalled at my wicked violation of immemorial
customs! My courage, born of ignorance, ran into the soles of my shoes,
I obtained a new mai-sanu, and, bowing my head in chastened submission,
I resigned into his hands the whole outside arrangements of the ‘dairy,’
only stipulating that his hands should be scrupulously clean before
milking, and the udders wiped with a damp clean cloth—also that he should
produce a large basin full of milk morning and evening. This was done;
how and when the calves were tied or separated, I did not inquire. I
am quite sure that, one day, a more strong-minded and conscientious
fellow-country-woman will know all about it, and reform things
magnificently; meantime—cleanliness and purity assured—I was content to
leave ‘pretty well’ alone, and let the mai-sanu make his own arrangements.

The cows of Northern Nigeria are splendid animals, of great size, with
enormous branching horns, but their udders are very small, and English
dairy folks would doubtless smile at the idea of extracting milk at
the rate of one quart only, daily, per cow! But so it was, and when
due allowance is made for inferior grazing and the dry season, perhaps
it was not so astonishing. At any rate, the supply proved ample for
our requirements, so I felt it would be both ungracious and foolish to
grumble. I found the milk very rich and delicious, and from the special
pan set aside each evening for cream to set, a good pint and a half of
thick cream was forthcoming the next morning, yielding roughly a pound of
excellent butter. There was always cream for the porridge at breakfast,
plenty for puddings and mayonnaises, and even for cream cheeses, which I
made every few days.

[Illustration: OUR ENERGETIC D.S.C. (CAPTAIN BURNSIDE) TRAINING BULLOCKS.
(p. 236)]

[Illustration: GIANT SUNFLOWERS AT BUSSA. (p. 243)]

We marched our cows down country from Katāgum on our return, and they
gave us a capital supply of milk on the road; but, once established in
Lokoja, they fell off in appearance and milk. The calves sickened and
died, as well as the cows, and, much to our sorrow, we had to recognize
that, obviously, the only thing to do was to dispose of the remainder,
alas! to become tough beef in the market. It was, I suppose, inevitable,
owing to the total change of diet to green, luxurious grass, which the
cows devoured eagerly, to their own undoing; but I parted very sadly from
my philanthropic dream of providing the English community in Lokoja with
a regular supply of fresh milk, etc. It was a plan I had very much at
heart, and I have not altogether forsaken it, but I quite recognize that
it cannot be done with the Hausa cow.

It is a matter for great regret, this difficulty of keeping cows alive
in Lokoja; many a ‘bad case’ in hospital longs for fresh milk—as
unobtainable, unfortunately, as ripe strawberries or blocks of ice.

Possibly, one fine, _very_ fine day, when, in our wisdom, we remove our
cantonment to the breezy heights of the Patti plateau (six hundred feet
above, and perfectly accessible), all these good things may be ours.
Meantime, unless you are going to the Hausa States, and away north, the
only dairy equipment you will need to bring is—a tin-opener!




CHAPTER IV

The Garden


I remember that my opinion of the possibilities of gardening successfully
in Northern Nigeria expressed itself in three stages: first, on arrival,
with joyful confidence: ‘I am certain _anything_ will grow out here!’
Secondly, after six months, in despair: ‘_Nothing_ will grow out here!’
Thirdly, after a year, with renewed but chastened cheerfulness: ‘_Some_
things will do all right!’

The subject was more or less unexplored ground when I arrived in the
country five years ago; I could get little or no gardening information,
except that one or two enterprising spirits had tried—and failed. Perhaps
the chief reason for this was that the amount of work to be got through
in each day makes it practically impossible for any Government official
to give the personal attention absolutely necessary to the making of a
garden.

The country produces no native gardeners, similar to the _mali_ of India;
the utmost one can extract from the local artist is that he will scratch
up weeds and grass, and faithfully water everything daily in the dry
season. The tour of service of from twelve to eighteen months, followed
by leave home and an uncertain prospect of returning to the same station,
has, I suppose, prevented any attempt at all being made in the majority
of cases, and the very few spots that have been started as gardens seem
to have flourished until their owners left, when they were utterly
neglected, the bush claimed its own, and all traces of cultivation
vanished far quicker than they had appeared.

But now that things are progressing generally in Nigeria, life conditions
improving somewhat, and each station containing a larger number of white
men, willing to carry on each others’ labours in this line, the gardening
problem comes nearer solution, though I fancy that, for all time, it will
need a stout heart and endless perseverance.


THE FLOWER GARDEN

The first ‘don’t’ that occurs to me under this heading is on the subject
of English out-door flowers. One’s natural instinct is to try and
surround oneself with the old favourites, sweet-peas, mignonette, poppies
and pinks, but the attempt, I fear, is sheer waste of time and trouble;
hardly any will come to maturity and blossom in the verandah; they will
grow up cheerfully to a certain point, then wither off, and transplanting
seedlings in the open is out of the question, unless permanent shade can
be given.

I think I can claim to have given them a fair trial—I brought out the
usual ‘collection’ from England, made experimental sowings in boxes on
the verandah, nursed and watched them tenderly, but I got no results in
the blossom line except from the convolvulus. I then tried a collection
from a French firm, and from these seeds, I succeeded in coaxing
blossoms, from zinnias, marigolds, nasturtiums, balsams and petunias—the
rest were a complete failure.

My third experiment was with acclimatized seeds from India, and these
gave far the best results. The first success was a splendid bed of
portulacca, blazing with crimson, white, mauve and gold, rejoicing in the
sun which shrivelled everything else. I should like every one to make a
point of raising this beautiful little flower, for it is easily grown,
and gives a real reward for very little trouble. It should be sown at the
end of the rains, in boxes on the verandah, sheltered until the little
plants look sturdy and fleshy, then planted out in bed or border, and
shaded from the sun for a day or two, until growth is started, the plants
will then begin to spread and blossom into a carpet of glowing colour.

Balsams, marigolds, sunflowers, vinca and zinnias will do well sown out
in the open, under moderate shade, especially the last-named; the finest
zinnias I have ever seen were a bunch presented to me out of a bachelor’s
little garden at Zaria. Sunflowers attain an immense height and blossom
magnificently; I had huge plants, almost trees, at Bussa, fourteen and
sixteen feet high, bearing masses of flowers. Balsams I have always been
a little contemptuous over, but the best double kinds are well worth
while cultivating. A special packet from Sutton, called, I think, ‘Rose,’
gave splendid results, thick clusters of delicate rosy pink blossoms,
resembling pink carnations or rosettes of chiffon, flowered in one bed
continuously from July to December, and established themselves on the
firmest basis in my affections. All varieties of convolvulus can be sown
outside, and will climb and twine and riot delightfully everywhere,
clothing hideous walls and bare fences. In Lokoja I have taken great
pains to cultivate freely that most charming creeper, the sapphire blue
Clitoria, a climbing pea of the greatest beauty, and a free grower,
bringing, in the first instance, _twenty seeds_ from Government House in
Sierra Leone! It has rewarded my efforts so well that now no one need
want for quantities of seed; there is also a white variety which is just
as beautiful and satisfactory. Cannas flourish, and make capital patches
of colour, the finer kinds, some of which are very gorgeous, doing just
as well as the ordinary scarlet sort, which grows all over the country,
and from the seeds of which Mahomedan rosaries are made. Phloxes,
nasturtiums and asters can be induced to flower with a good deal of
preliminary care and watering; but those who, not unnaturally, desire
to achieve the maximum result with the minimum effort, will do well to
concentrate their endeavours on zinnias and sunflowers, especially the
single Japanese sunflowers, as they are eminently decorative. Vinca is a
flower which might be dubbed uninteresting, but it has a special virtue,
that of blossoming practically all the year round, and being available,
when everything else is shrivelled and dead, in the dryest season.

Another public benefactor is salpiglossis, an exquisite plant with
velvety glowing flowers of all shades—no well-regulated Nigerian garden
should be without it.

To my mind the wild flowers of the country are by no means to be despised
in the garden, many are really extremely beautiful; all are indigenous to
the soil and therefore no trouble to grow, and I believe that the main
reason that they are not more frequently seen in gardens is that the
gardeners have never had the opportunity of noticing them in the ‘bush.’

There is a splendid coreopsis with golden daisy-like blossoms some three
or four inches in diameter, the seed of which I gathered on the march a
year ago, and subsequently sowed in large round beds. The result was a
perfectly glorious blaze of brilliant yellow blossoms for weeks together,
when the rains had finished. Terrestrial orchids in their mauve, purple,
yellow and green beauty would be exquisite dotting the grass, as would
the crimson and white striped lilies, fragile babianas, and the lesser
gloriosa, which is not a creeper. A tiny scarlet salvia has often
appealed to me and the little plant, _Striga Senegalensis_, would form a
carpet of deep cool mauve, delightful to see.


THE LAWN

It is said to be very dear to the heart of every Englishman to own a
lawn, and it certainly should be doubly so to John Bull in exile; in a
tropical country well-kept turf is much to be desired, there is nothing
so cool and refreshing to tired eyes dazzled with the glare of sunshine
and baked earth, and, perhaps, nothing that gives such a home-like and
cared-for look to a West African compound. This demesne is usually
reclaimed bush, which in nature grows rank, reed-like, coarse grass, and
the ground destined for a lawn must be thoroughly and deeply _dug up_. It
is worse than useless to attempt to remove it by merely pulling up the
grass. After digging and turning, all the roots must be picked out most
carefully, for it is indeed heartbreaking to see the enemy reappearing
all over your infant lawn.

If the fine short grass, called in India ‘dhoob’ grass, can be found
in the neighbourhood, and it usually can be, especially along the
edges of roads, it should be brought in quantities (with its roots),
planted closely in tiny bunches all over the prepared ground, watered
daily, patted down to encourage spreading, and your lawn will be fairly
started. Another method is to chop up the grass in lengths of about four
inches, mix it with good soil and water, and spread the mixture all over
the lawn, but, on the whole, I think the planting will be found most
satisfactory. If ‘dhoob’ grass is not to be had, English grass seed must
be sown, but this is an experiment I have never had occasion to make. I
have seen what is called Bahama grass grown with great success in Sierra
Leone, and fashioned into lovely velvety croquet lawns.


TREES AND SHRUBS

The planting of useful and ornamental trees is no less than a positive
duty incumbent on every householder in West Africa; they are infinitely
less trouble, and give far more lasting satisfaction than flower growing;
besides, even in this most selfish of all selfish countries, it behoves
us all to think of those who will come after us, and not neglect to plant
a mango stone because we ourselves may scarcely hope to gather fruit from
the tree that will result. I do not think I am exaggerating when I say
that I suppose that every flowering tree and shrub in Lokoja, and many
in Zungeru, owes its existence to the wise labours of those ‘old hands’
who, years ago, planted out the ground around the old Preparanda with
trees, from which innumerable cuttings have been obtained; at all events,
I have never forgotten to feel grateful to them.

Orange and lime trees grow readily from pips, mangoes and date palms from
stones, pineapples can be raised from the leafy crowns on the fruit,
paw-paws spring up wherever the seeds are scattered, but they, like
bananas, are not ornamental, and should be relegated to the back garden.

During the rainy season slips of flowering trees and shrubs never
fail to strike; ‘frangipani’ with rosy blossoms and delicious scent,
_Poinciana Regia_, better known as ‘flamboyant’ on account of its regal
scarlet flowers, three kinds of acacias, red, yellow and white, fragrant
rose-coloured oleanders, and many others, can be put in wherever your
fancy dictates, and will certainly reward your patience—usually by
endeavouring to flower before putting out a single leaf!

There is a delightful, sweet-scented golden allamanda, growing in sturdy
bushes, and forming an ideal hedge, as it is loaded with blossom for
more than half the year. Another somewhat similar flower is _Thevetia_,
which sows itself pertinaciously from its poisonous seeds, and
_Tabernaemontana_ is another most decorative shrubby plant, with shining
dark foliage, and a flower resembling a gardenia.

Nigeria abounds in indigenous blossoming trees and creepers, all
beautiful, and mostly sweet-scented, from the gorgeous _Spathodea
Nilotica_, _Erythrina_ and _Kigelia Africana_ downwards; indeed, no one
who travels about with open eyes can fail to acquire enough seeds, pods
and stones to plant acres with beauty and fragrance; day after day, on
the march, I have filled my pockets.

The bush, too, is full of flowers well worth cultivating, as I have
before remarked. There are creepers and climbing plants innumerable,
including _Mussaenda elegans_, bearing handsome flame-coloured blossoms,
crimson _Caconia paniculata_, Strophanthus with its fantastic, trailing
creamy petals, delicate asparagus fern, and _Landolphia owariensis_
(the rubber vine), queen of climbers, a sheet of snow-white, intensely
fragrant flowers. And if Landolphia is the queen of climbers, surely the
king is a gorgeous apricot-hued _Gloriosa Superba_, which fastens its
delicate persistent tendrils round every available support, and when the
flowering season is over is beautiful still with bursting pods full of
scarlet seeds. In the forest, beside the river one finds clerodendron,
bryophyllum, quisqualis, and a thousand others; indeed, I only wish I had
enough botanical knowledge to name half the native flowers and trees I
have raised from seed collected casually on the march.


THE VERANDAH GARDEN

Perhaps the verandah garden is one’s dearest and closest interest; wise
people may shake their heads, and mutter about the number of mosquitoes
attracted by the watering of ferns and flowers, but, after all, when
there are at least two millions of mosquitoes about, a thousand more or
less makes very little difference, and I am certain no Englishwoman in
Africa will forgo her verandah garden for so trifling a reason!

I have had orchids and ferns, all varieties of so-called crotons, for
they are really codeums, hundreds of sturdy little orange trees, raised
from pips collected at the luncheon table, cannas and caladiums, and
tubs of the invaluable aromatic-scented occimum viride, whose virtues
saved us endless annoyance from mosquitoes. Here a few English flowers
blossomed, one tiny rose bush, petunias, balsams, Japanese sunflowers,
etc., creepers of all kinds flourished, sky-blue, rose-coloured and
yellow convolvuli climbing and clasping the verandah posts, sapphire
blue clitoria twisting and twining in beautiful confusion, mingled with
a brilliant scarlet convolvulus-like climber, while tiny, starry _Ipomea
quamoclit_, crimson and white, wound slender feathery arms round every
available twig and stem.

The bath-water must be kept every morning to water the verandah garden,
the soapiness and especially the suspicion of Scrubbs ammonia, if that
is used, are most beneficial, and by doing the watering yourself you
can ensure a due proportion and see that ferns are not starved while
seedlings are drowned.

I have always longed to have _real_ roses in my verandah garden, but I
fear they would but add one more to the long list of disappointments.
Though they do well in Southern Nigeria, I have so far seen only one rose
tree here at Zungeru; it was growing an immense height, full of green
leaves and long stalks, an infallible sign that the general temperature
is too high, and its blossoms have been few and poor. Still, I believe
with much care and pruning the more delicate kinds might succeed; I hope
to try one day. Last year I devoted my energies to the cultivation of
geraniums and pelargoniums, which were only a partial success, but were
handicapped by being carried about the country. I also experimented with
tuberoses, which were an immense success, growing freely as if they
really liked the soil and temperature. I _have_ great hopes that the more
delicate bulbous plants _will_ flourish in Nigeria during the rains,
therefore I have included a few of them in the list at the end of this
chapter.


THE VEGETABLE GARDEN

It seems to me a matter for the gravest regret that the culture of
vegetables is not more seriously undertaken in this country where fresh
vegetables are so essential to health, and such a priceless addition to
the daily menu of tough and tasteless meat. To any one who has lived in
the tiniest Indian station, and seen the Government garden supplying each
household with an enormous basket of vegetables for the noble sum of
1_s._ 6_d._ per month, it seems as incredible as it is almost criminal
that West Africa is not as well catered for; it _could_ be done, as
many private gardens in the country have amply proved, but—it is _not_
done! To quote Major Ronald Ross:—‘Government sometimes maintains, at
considerable cost, botanical gardens for various economical purposes. I
was told that these gardens used to grow vegetables for the Europeans,
until stopped by a mandate from England, on the ground that a Government
botanist is not a market gardener!’ Comment is quite needless, but there
is some comfort in reflecting that if we cannot all soar to the giddy
eminence of a ‘Government botanist’ we may yet emulate, more or less, the
humble market gardener, and to this end I am offering my small experience
in this line.

[Illustration: OUR GARDENER AT PLAY. (p. 250)]

[Illustration: ‘JEWEL’ AND ‘BROWN MOUSE.’ (p. 258)]

Growing vegetables is, to my mind, the most satisfactory part of garden
work in West Africa; the percentage of failures is certainly smaller, and
the results so entirely to be desired. But, like the rest of your garden,
it will have to be _made_ before you can set to work to grow vegetables.
Divide the ground into beds as long as space will allow, and not more
than three feet wide, with paths between. Every bed must have a roof or
shelter, consisting of matting or palm branches, fastened to uprights
four or five feet high, and the earth must be well banked up so as to be
quite a foot above the ground level.

Vegetables do best when sown in September, when the heaviest rains are
over, though a few kinds can be sown even in the dry season with some
success if care and regular watering are given to them; I have sown
vegetables in May, August and December, always with satisfactory results,
my object being to secure fresh vegetables nearly all the year round.

The most important factor in the success of the vegetable garden (and,
indeed, amongst the flowers too) is that the seed should be quite fresh
from England. A small quantity arriving twice a year will give far better
results than one of the large ‘collections’ which, moreover, invariably
contain many items that are quite useless in this country. I had a huge
tin of vegetable seeds given me last year—a precious prize—only to find,
to my dismay, that it consisted mainly of strawberries and peas! I have
heard of English peas being grown and eaten in the Bornu country; my own
experience has been that they grow most hopefully until they are about
two feet high, they then begin to wither off and disappear.

Tomatoes will be found to succeed admirably; if they are inclined to
grow too luxuriantly and to run to leaf rather than to fruit, this can
be checked by cutting off half the leaves and snipping away many of the
flowers. I have never seen better tomatoes than those grown in Nigeria.

French beans and scarlet runners are most successful; the young plants of
the latter shoot up in the most amazing ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ fashion,
and the dwarf beans are quite loaded with beans six weeks after sowing.

Cucumbers give excellent results, also vegetable marrows. These should
be sown in boxes on the verandah, and planted out when they attain the
dignity of four leaves. Let them be planted close to the uprights so that
they can commence climbing at once instead of sprawling along the ground.
I found it quite a good plan at Bussa to plant these vegetables out
beside a low clay wall, and, after assisting them to reach the top, to
leave them to their own devices; it was always an amusement to hunt for
and happen upon unexpected ripe cucumbers!

Lettuces, radishes and cress may all be relied upon, also spinach (the
native sort) and carrots; kohl rabi, the turnip-rooted cabbage, is a most
excellent and useful vegetable eaten quite young; we found it one of our
best crops, and beyond the thinning out required no attention at all. My
beet-root, cabbages, Brussels sprouts and rhubarb all failed, but that
I strongly suspect was in some degree due to the incursions of greedy
fowls. In this connexion, I may mention that a low close railing, made
even of guinea-corn stalks, is most useful to fence in each bed if there
is a farm-yard loose in the compound.

English potatoes have been grown at Zungeru, I believe, but rather as
an interesting experiment than as an article of diet. Onions are so
extensively grown by the natives that they are hardly required in the
garden, except the tiny spring onions for use in a salad.

I do not think it is widely enough known that, when English vegetables
are ‘out’ the native bean (_wake_) if gathered very, very young, is
practically indistinguishable from French beans, and a tuber (_tumuku_)
in appearance and taste closely resembles new potatoes; both plants
grow like weeds and are immensely prolific; I have seen fifty pounds of
tumukus gathered from _seven plants_!

I should say, from my study of the climatic effect on plants generally,
that hardly any of the really hardy English vegetables would ever reward
one for the trouble of growing them in Nigeria, such as cauliflower,
turnips, etc. Sea kale might do well, and such a delicacy would be well
worth striving after. A valiant effort has been made to grow mushrooms
from imported spawn, but the process entailed a good deal of rather
elaborate arrangement, and the result was nil. But I see no reason why
they should not be cultivated in grass; I have eaten quite delicious tiny
mushrooms which I gathered myself on the polo-ground at Lokoja. It seems
to me that if a crisp fresh salad and cucumber can be produced daily,
with a dish of tomatoes and another of French beans, one may well be
grateful for small mercies, and concentrate attention on growing these,
experimenting meanwhile with everything and anything that comes to hand.

I am specially anxious to see the Avocada pear grown freely in Northern
Nigeria; it flourishes on the coast, and a more delicious fruit could
hardly be desired. I raised four strong little trees in Lokoja, which,
alas, went the way of all things in my absence, and I believe there are a
few at Zungeru. It is a very easy matter to bring a quantity of the large
seeds from Sierra Leone, or from off the ship, where they usually appear
at table.

In conclusion, I am appending a list of flower and vegetable seeds which
I hope will find their way into every one’s baggage, for they will,
according to my small experience, reward the amateur gardener best; also
a few of the flowering shrubs and creepers which ought to have a place in
the garden, and which would, I feel sure, flourish in Nigeria.


FLOWER SEEDS

    Convolvulus, of all kinds.
    Zinnias.
    Sunflowers.
    Portulacca.
    Marigolds.
    Balsams.
    Phlox.
    Vinca.
    Petunias.
    Cannas.
    Dahlias.
    Sweet-scented Tobacco.
    Cinerarias.
    Aquilegia.
    Heliotrope.
    Asters.
    Coleus.
    Pelargoniums.
    Carnations.
    Nasturtiums.
    Sweet Sultans.
    Gaillardias.
    Salpiglossis.
    Geraniums.

It will be observed that many familiar garden flowers are omitted from
this list; this is not an oversight, simply—they will not thrive. I am,
moreover, drawing on my own limited experience only, and that not merely
of successes, but also of failures and disappointments.


BULBS, ETC.

    Tuberoses.
    Achimenes.
    Eucharis, and various hot-house lilies.
    Freesia.
    Agapanthus.
    Monbretia.
    Ixia.
    Amaryllis.


FLOWERING SHRUBS, CLIMBERS, ETC.

    Poinsettias.
    Hibiscus.
    Stephanotis.
    Tacsonia, and other Passion flowers.
    Lapageria.
    Roses
      Princess Alice of Monaco.
      Comtesse Riza du Parc.
      Ma Surprise.
      Comtesse d’Auerstadt.


VEGETABLES

    French Beans.
    Scarlet Runners.
    Broad Beans.
    Cucumbers.
    Melons.
    Sea Kale.
    Spinach.
    Egg Plant.
    Tomatoes.
    Cress.
    Lettuces.
    Radishes.
    Marrows.
    Carrots.
    Parsley.
    Spring Onions.




CHAPTER V

The Stable


My feminine readers may feel inclined to ‘skip’ this chapter with the
remark: ‘Well, the stables are not in my department’; but I think the
wife of an official in Nigeria will usually find that her husband has
more work of his own to do than he can well squeeze into each day,
and, however slight her previous knowledge on the subject may be, the
certainty that, unless she bestirs herself and gives personal attention
and supervision, the ponies will be neglected, ill-fed and uncleanly,
will, I feel sure, be sufficient stimulus to any true Englishwoman.
For she naturally loves horses, and cannot but be fond of her wiry
little thirteen-hand ponies in Nigeria; because they are, as a rule,
sweet-tempered, willing, honest little souls, whose mistress will, in
almost every case, have reason to remember how gallantly they carried her
on such and such a march, and how cleverly they climbed and negotiated
the nasty places, and forded uncertain-looking rivers. This alone will
give them a strong claim on her loving care, and she will admit, after
a time at all events, that it is worth while to learn all she can on
the subject, and to spend half an hour every morning at the stables,
inspecting each pony and his house, and another half-hour after the
evening ride to see them dried, rubbed down and fed. For ourselves, I
hardly think we could sleep in peace unless we had paid our usual visit
to the stables to satisfy ourselves that all was well there, the ponies
comfortable and well supplied with grass.

The morning visit may well be spent in what would appear to the new-comer
to be childish reiteration of most elementary instruction to the man who
makes a profession of looking after your horse. For instance, it is quite
necessary to demand to be shown the inside of your ponies’ feet every
day: your horse-boy—until trained—takes no personal interest in them,
and assuredly will not clean them out on his own initiative, so, without
your daily examination, a tiresome attack of thrush may lay your pony up
for weeks or months, or a painful little stone, picked up perhaps in the
last canter home, may remain there all night to his great discomfort.
At present the ponies are not shod in this country, and though we may
advance to metalled roads I hope for the sake of their owners and
themselves they will never require it, for I can see heavy additional
trials in store for them both, when the shoeing art is imperfectly
learned and slovenly applied.

Each horse has his own attendant, but the grass-cutter of India is
not kept, as the grass is so near and in such quantities that it can
usually be cut from one’s own compound, or at least from a few yards
off. Here the watchful eye is necessary; the ‘_doki_ (horse) boy’ (who,
as a rule, is a combination of utter incapacity, laziness and complete
ignorance) likes immensely to be left at home when you go for a ride. He
will then cut a bundle of the coarsest and wettest marsh grass he can
find—naturally—as ten minutes’ work will produce a bigger bundle than
half an hour’s cutting of the fine, short grass which is so infinitely
better. He will then squat down on the ground and engage in a process
that is absolutely blood-curdling to the unaccustomed onlooker; the grass
is taken in small bundles, grasped by his left hand, while his right foot
is firmly planted on the ends of the stalks; he then chops up the grass,
a most murderous-looking weapon falling rapidly, and without, apparently,
any special aim, within half an inch of his foot at each blow. I used
to feel quite sick with apprehension, and even now I always expect to
see five brown toes fly up into the air! The doki-boy forthwith conveys
this mass of wet stuff into the pony’s stable for his consumption during
the night, thus forming a sound basis for colic in the morning. _Don’t
let him do it._ Even if dhoob grass is not to be had, make him cut the
grass before midday, and have it well spread out in the sun, so that the
pony gets it thoroughly dried. Remember, he does not want real _food_
at night, only something comforting to munch, that will employ his mind
harmlessly and happily, and divert his attention from trying to break
loose and go off to fight any other pony he can find near at hand.

The main horse food out here is guinea-corn simply shredded off the
large stalk, the little stems being left, to ensure the pony eating
slowly, and thus digesting his meal. It is not easy to lay down a rule
for quantity, as ponies vary, and the size of stalks of guinea-corn also
varies; the best thing for the pony’s owner to do is to ask the advice
of the neighbour who appears to have the best-kept ponies, or, if there
are no neighbours, let him or her ask the ponies themselves by watching
them feed. It soon becomes easy to determine whether they are getting
enough; that is the main point, for I believe that a pony can scarcely
be over-fed in this country. Try them with twelve large stalks of
guinea-corn for each feed, i.e. about half a bundle per day to each pony.
The guinea-corn is sold in bundles, varying a little in size and price,
according to whether the district is a corn country or not; as a rule a
fair-sized bundle costs, roughly, a shilling.

On tour, in places where guinea-corn was not to be had, and the ponies
doing hard work, we have given them crushed Indian corn (maize); they
liked it and throve on it. _Dusa_ (bran) should invariably be mixed with
the feeds, be they of maize or guinea-corn, three large handfuls to each
feed; the ponies are fond of it, nothing is better for them, and it can
always be obtained easily. The majority, too, will drink far more readily
and copiously if a handful of dusa is stirred into the water.

Country potash (_konwa_) is a daily article of diet with the Nigerian
pony. He has it, a piece about the size of a walnut, thoroughly dissolved
in his water, and he thinks so much of it that often he will not drink
without it. N.B.—Keep the konwa yourself and give it out every day, for
it is also an article of diet for the doki-boy!

I expect the ponies would much enjoy lucerne if the garden could be made
to produce it, but I am sorrowfully compelled to admit that after growing
a crop of carrots with infinite care, and triumphantly bearing them off
to the stables as a wonderful treat, the ungrateful ponies spit them out
contemptuously and would have none of them!

The stables themselves must be rather a shock to an English mind:
they are just circular huts—one for each pony—either with mud walls
and a conical thatched roof, or else with walls of grass matting. Mud
walls have the advantage of windows, which give a breeze, but bring
possibilities of flies and wasps at the same time. Doors are usually
wanting; the pony is picketed by one of his feet to a wooden post about
two feet high, round which he can circle by means of a ring upon it. The
post is driven into the ground in the middle of his stable. The ponies
are quite accustomed to this method; they have their heads free, and
they can lie down or walk around as they feel inclined. We always prefer
the plan of fixing three bars firmly in the doorway, dispensing with the
picketing arrangement, and thus giving the ponies the luxury of a loose
box. The stable floor is of ordinary hardened mud, and should be freshly
sanded every day. Bedding is not required.

A few words as to the doki-boy. He is lazy, and utterly ignorant of his
job, usually downright frightened of his pony, and at every whisk of
the latter’s tail, will make agonized appeals to his better feelings,
uttering apprehensive clucks the while. Still, even the raw material,
if he is docile and willing, is quite teachable, and he is, I think,
invariably kind to his pony. His sins are mostly those of omission.

You will have to begin from the very beginning in your education of him,
and see all his work, for your own sake and the pony’s. For instance,
I remember one evening, when a pony came in much heated after polo,
we stood by while our horse-boy, quite our best and most intelligent,
proceeded to rub him down as usual, after which, to our horror, he shook
out a clean rubber and began to fan the sweating pony with it! This, on a
distinctly chilly evening after sunset!

[Illustration: MR LAFONE’S ‘WHITE MOUSE.’ (p. 261)]

[Illustration: RIDING ASTRIDE—A LOCALLY MADE SKIRT! (p. 265)]

Hand-rubbing is quite unknown, and will be most unwillingly adopted, but
it is worth any amount of tiresome teaching and repetition of the same
order; there is absolutely nothing that will so quickly improve the looks
and condition of ponies. We have them tethered close to the verandah each
morning and afternoon, and superintend the hand-rubbing ourselves, no
pony’s toilet being considered complete till his doki-boy is himself in
a healthy perspiration. The ponies, too, enjoy the process, especially
if they are rewarded for steadiness and patience by many pieces of juicy
sugar-cane, which, by the way, is most useful for fattening up a thin
pony, as well as being a handy little delicacy to carry on one’s visits
to the stables. It should be peeled and cut in small pieces three inches
long.

The new doki-boy, too, has no idea how to put on a saddle and bridle,
and for many days I fear you will have to take them off, as every strap
will be united to the wrong buckle, and put them on yourself before him,
which usually ends in broken nails, dirty hands, much heat and a lost
temper. But never trust the doki-boy’s powers until you are quite sure
of them, as it is really dangerous to life and limb; you can hardly
imagine how many subtle ways he can invent of putting on a bridle the
wrong way. He also prefers to drag it off without undoing the curb-chain
or throat-lash, a most reprehensible piece of laziness that has to
answer for many a docile pony showing temper and refusing to be bridled
without an unpleasant struggle. It is an excellent thing to cultivate
an unforgettable habit of loosening girths, curb-chain and throat-lash
oneself on dismounting.

One word more of warning: water must _not_ be given after food. It
seems an absurdly superfluous caution, but I can assure you it has been
done, is done to-day, and will be done as long as the pony’s welfare
is not cared for personally by his owner. It is, as every one knows,
most dangerous, on account of colic and indigestion, and may frequently
account for the ingenuous statement of the doki-boy that ‘Allah has given
the doki a pain in his stomach!’ Water should be given quite half an hour
before the corn, the latter being well spread out on the ground to ensure
slow feeding and thorough digestion.

Saddlery must, of course, be brought out from England, and should be
selected with the greatest care; all metal work must be non-rusting, and
head-stalls and girths chosen to fit ponies from thirteen to fourteen
hands. I have found it a very satisfactory plan to adopt the Richards’
numdah (I believe the patent is called the ‘Wykeham’); the saddle itself
has no stuffing and fits on to the numdah, which, being specially soft,
adapts itself to the shape of the pony, and thus avoids the only too
frequent cause of a sore back or wither. It is about three inches in
thickness and, having absorbed all the perspiration, can be easily dried
in the sun, the under surface being well beaten and brushed to prevent
it from getting hard or caked. I have ridden over two thousand miles on
one of these numdahs, and I will venture to say that it is practically
impossible to give a pony a sore back. It can be imagined what a blessing
that is on the march, when it is so difficult to lay him up for a few
days even; besides, all the bother of continually re-stuffing a saddle
is done away with. Any saddle can be fitted with a ‘Wykeham’ numdah by
Messrs. Richards, at Winchester, for a guinea.

When choosing a saddle, take care to select one (with a cut-back tree, of
course) that is not longer than necessary; the Nigerian ponies are much
shorter in the barrel than English horses, and are apt to get their backs
rubbed with a long saddle.

As the result of my own experience, I _most_ strongly advise every
woman who intends to do much riding out here, especially in the way of
marching, to abandon her side-saddle altogether, and adopt the ‘astride’
position. In the first place, it is far more comfortable and less tiring
on a long march; secondly, it does away with the necessity of bringing
out special saddlery for oneself, it makes one quite independent of
being ‘put up,’ and also enables one to march in the most comfortable of
clothes, a short divided skirt or bloomers, putties and shooting boots;
thirdly, and most important of all, it is the greatest blessing to the
pony. No matter how straight you sit, sooner or later the strain of a
side-saddle begins to tell on a pony, from the mere fact that the weight
of the rider’s two legs is on one side of him! I noticed this especially
at Katāgum when riding horses which had never carried a side-saddle
before, and so sensitive were they to the innovation that it was almost
impossible to keep them in the road at all—they bored so badly to the
near side.

Bring out also picketing gear; it is much more durable than country
rope, and does not rub the hair off the ponies’ feet. It consists of a
stout iron ring, with a short chain, attached to a wide padded leather
bracelet, buckling round the pony’s fetlock. You will have to teach
the horse-boys how to clean saddlery; I think there is nothing better
than beeswax and soft soap, but saddle soap can usually be bought. The
mai-doki’s incorrigible laziness comes out here; unless frequently
watched and stood over, he confines himself to giving the seat of one’s
saddle a polish like a mirror, and never touches one of the out-of-sight
straps and parts, which need far the most care and softening. Bits must
be well dried and wiped directly they are taken out of the pony’s mouth,
and the whole of the saddlery should be kept _in the house_. A saddle
stand is easily made by any native carpenter, and is by no means an
eyesore in the verandah, if the saddles are well polished and the bridles
shining.

Only on one occasion on the march I lost sight of my saddle, which was
carried off to the doki-boys’ quarters, and to what use it was put I
cannot fathom; I only know that, the next morning, it appeared with the
seat deeply scratched and scored, and looking five years older! The
African servant is utterly devoid of respect for valuable belongings; he
possesses nothing himself that is worth taking care of, and he listens
with polite but bored submission while you very forcibly point out his
crimes of destruction, but he is obviously indifferent, really, to the
damage done, and thinks it all rather a silly fuss. ‘Is not a saddle
still a saddle even if it is hideously scratched and ill-treated?’ When
removing a saddle from a pony, he delights to dump it down on the ground,
_anywhere_, in sand, dust or mud, the side flaps crushed underneath
anyhow, although there may be half a dozen people standing by, ready to
carry it off to its proper place.

I fear these pages may seem full of dismal discouragement and gloomy
warnings, so, before leaving the subject, I will repeat once more that
the doki-boy is a criminal only from ignorance, that he is teachable, and
that, possibly, he appears a greater sinner because his evil deeds, as a
rule, are—or should be—committed before his master’s eyes, which is, in
itself, some little comfort!

The rainy season, from June till November, is the most unhealthy time
for ponies, especially in the Niger valley. They are very subject to
colic and to the peculiar form of horse-sickness which is attracting
so much attention from the medical and veterinary officers. It shows
itself in fever, weakness of the loins, swollen glands, and wasting away,
accompanied by a voracious appetite, and, so far, has not been definitely
diagnosed, though every effort is being made to understand its nature by
examining specimens of blood, etc. Arsenic has been suggested as a cure,
but at present it seems to me that, once the doctor or veterinary surgeon
has discovered the peculiar bacillus in the blood, there is little or
no hope of the pony’s complete recovery, and the best thing for the
unfortunate owner to do is to sell him for what he will fetch, or give
him away to a native. The native can frequently patch up a sick pony
till he is quite fit enough for the light work they give him, though he
would be quite useless for polo or hard marching. I have seen only too
many good little ponies die, and, once they sicken, I always feel that
the dosing and nursing is rather hopeless work, and the sure bullet the
kinder way; though, if it is determined to make a fight for the pony’s
life, the only way is to employ a native horse-doctor—he _may_ know more
about it than we do, and he certainly cannot well know less!

There are very few other ills that the West African stable is heir to,
if ordinary care and supervision are given. It is worth mentioning that
the mai-doki will ascribe everything that he cannot account for as the
result of cold, from a mosquito bite up to a serious sprain, and ‘Sainye
ya kamma shi!’ (‘he has caught cold’) will become a familiar sounding
phrase, and will have to be politely but firmly discouraged.




CHAPTER VI

Camp Life


After a year spent in Nigeria, I am sure you will agree with me, on
looking back, that the time spent ‘on tour’ was the happiest and
most enjoyable of all. The life in the open air, the constant change
and variety of scenery, the daily march that makes one so hungry at
meal-times and so sleepy long before recognized bed-time, the incessant
items of interest, among people, animals, birds, butterflies and
plants—all combine to make one think it an ideal existence, and one where
it is almost impossible to be cross, bored, or grumbly, in the clear
sunlight, and amongst some of the loveliest surroundings imaginable.
But this charming state of things is not to be reached all at once. To
begin with, you must start with a firm determination to make the best
of everything and anything: your unselfishness must be untiring and
your cheerfulness infectious; your husband is certain to have a little
leaven of difficult and possibly tiresome work mixed with his share of
the picnic, so at these times, at least, the give and take of daily life
may well be enhanced by lavish giving on your part. Here, no one can
help you but yourself; but I can do something else for you, and that is,
to supply you with a few hints, gathered from our own experience, which
will make the camp arrangements run smoothly, and ensure your comfort in
the remotest ‘bush.’ For it is not a sound argument to say, ‘If we get
so hungry, we shan’t be particular what we eat’—it is just when one is
famished that one wants a good, simple, well-cooked meal, not tough meat
and eggs of doubtful freshness. Do not be discouraged at the start; it
seems a colossal undertaking to calculate full provisions for some weeks,
but it is really a simple matter after a little practice. At the end of
this chapter you will find a list of stores necessary for the use of two
people going to camp, and out of reach of European stores, for a month.
The quantities are of necessity rather approximate, depending, as they
must in some cases, on individual taste. Wherever you go, the villages
can usually supply sheep, fowls, eggs, maize and yams, sweet potatoes and
fruit and guinea-corn, and in many places there is excellent bush-fowl
and guinea-fowl shooting to be had, thus adding the best of all dishes,
game, to the larder.

Stores are carried in ‘chop-boxes,’ i.e. deal boxes, with hinged lids,
hasps and padlocks, and with handles. For size, 18 in. × 10 in. × 8 in.
is about right, for they must be considered as loads, and it is no use
having them larger, as you will only have to leave them half empty, on
account of the weight, and things will tumble about and bottles get
broken. Even the size I have just mentioned cannot be packed full, but
when one wants to carry fruit, or any light addition, the space comes in
handy. We have found it useful, when bringing stores out from England (a
proceeding much to be recommended to the economical housekeeper), to have
a few of the cases made as described above, so as to have them ready for
touring after their contents have been removed. Three should be enough,
and one may usefully be devoted to rice alone, unless you are satisfied
with and sure of being able to obtain the native sort: a 50 lb. bag of
rice just fits in, and is invaluable, as fresh vegetables are almost
impossible to come by. We have a fitted chop-box, made to our own design,
containing a tray, and divers divisions, to accommodate china and glass.
Below, there is one space which holds the plates and dishes, another
that just fits two sparklet bottles, and a third which usually carries
the day’s supply of bread or biscuits. The tray contains the teapot,
four cups and saucers, milk-jug and sugar-basin (all china), and four
tumblers, all in their own partitions; the cruet-stand has also a little
corner to itself, where nothing ever upsets, and we are saved the eternal
worry of unscrewing patent receptacles to get at the salt, etc. This
leaves an empty space in the middle of the tray, where the small tins of
tea, sugar, milk, tea-cloth, etc., live, the idea being that breakfast,
luncheon, or tea, can be prepared at once, without touching the other
chop-boxes, if so desired. Knives, forks and spoons all have their own
separate spaces, a better arrangement than the usual leather straps in
the lid. The divisions are lined with felt, so that china tea-things and
glass tumblers (all of thickish material, of course), which, to my mind,
are so infinitely preferable to ironware as to make ‘all the difference,’
can be carried in safety for many months, even allowing for unlikely
accidents, such as a carrier slipping on a stone while fording a river,
etc.

On coming out here, we had ordered a costly luncheon basket from England
but, before it arrived we had done our first tour of some weeks’ duration
with the chop-box I have just described, and instantly decided that we
could not be bothered with the dainty, but much less serviceable little
arrangement of wicker, etc., so we rifled it of its least complicated
fittings, and wrote it down under the heading of ‘Experientia docet’ in
the household accounts.

[Illustration: ONE OF OUR CAMPS. (p. 275)]

[Illustration: THE MAIL-CART, BIDA. (p. 280)]

I will make no apology for having discussed this subject at such length,
for I know, from personal experience, what an immense difference to
one’s comfort a really practical chop-box makes; it is, therefore, worth
describing in detail, as such an article cannot be bought ready-made. It
is only necessary to add that the dimensions should be about 32 in. × 14
in. × 14 in., and the weight should not exceed 50 to 55 lb.

Don’t forget to take the indispensable mincing-machine; if necessary at
headquarters, it is doubly so in the bush, where you frequently have
to eat meat an hour or so after it has been killed. A Berkefeld filter
is the best, easily carried, simple and quick to work, beside being
simplicity itself to clean and fix up: there is another, on the foot-pump
principle, which saves labour, or at least exertion, but its extra weight
is a great drawback.

We will suppose, you are able to provide yourselves with two 80 lb.
Regulation Officer’s tents; Government supplies one, and you would do
well to bring a second as a private possession: one tent is quite too
small for two people, and it is a pity to lose so much comfort for a
detail so easily carried out. Have them pitched one behind the other,
the front one to serve for meals and daily occupation, the back one as
sleeping quarters. You can always get a small, roofless attachment, with
matting walls, erected in a few minutes, at the back of the sleeping
tent, to act as a bathroom. At times, when we felt fairly secure from
possible rain, we pitched the outer fly of the front tent in front again;
it is quite a simple matter, with the aid of a few extra poles, supplied
from the village, and extends one’s quarters delightfully, for a stay of
any length, if the camp is in a shady spot—otherwise, of course, it makes
the tents warm.

For camp furniture, none is better than the ‘X’ patent. The beds are most
comfortable, and are by no means the Japanese puzzle that some camp beds
are: there are excellent little tables, that can be put together in a
couple of minutes, and a canvas basin and bath of the same pattern. With
reference to the bath, I may say, that we have found it more convenient
to carry with us a regular tin, travelling bath, with cover and strap,
containing a wicker lining; it is so immensely useful for holding all
kinds of odd things: an enamelled washing-basin, fitted with a canvas
or leather cover and a strap, is also a great comfort, as, inside it,
the whole of your washing paraphernalia travels, and it is such a joy to
find everything you want under your hand, when your bath is temptingly
ready—the towels having been thrown over the bathroom wall to sun
themselves till you are ready for them.

Two really comfortable chairs of the ordinary, canvas, deck-chair pattern
are most desirable, in addition to the regulation, little sit-up armchair
affairs; a _lounge_ is what one wants after a long, hot march. We have
found it very useful to bring out, ‘on our own,’ an extra, small ‘X’
table, and a second armchair; the table being precious to a degree as a
dressing-table.

When the chop boxes are neatly ranged round the sides of your tent, and
the furniture, above mentioned, opened out, you will not care to fill up
any more space with unnecessary articles. But never allow yourself to be
uncomfortable for the want of things you are certain to miss every day:
it will spoil half your pleasure, and it is well worth the cost of an
extra carrier, if necessary, for the purpose. I fancy that every one,
after one tour in the bush, will find that experience teaches that a few
things taken, were useless, and some left behind were sorely wanted, and
a little judicious sorting and arrangement will ensure the second trip
being far more comfortable, without in the least increasing the bulk of
your _personnel_.

Personal clothing can be carried in tin uniform cases, and it should
be reduced as far as is compatible with the foregoing axiom. I have
found that a touring wardrobe, consisting of a habit skirt, boots,
etc., two coats, one short holland skirt, a plain tea-gown, two changes
of underclothing, a few muslin stocks, one pair of thick boots, and,
instead of slippers, long, loose, Hausa boots, can be easily packed into
a fair-sized uniform case. I always take, too, a folding Panama hat,
for wearing in camp (one marches, of course, in a solar topee); a very
small dressing-case, which is a great comfort, as it keeps all one’s
toilet necessaries together; a writing-case, tiny work-box, and sketching
materials, all packed in the one box.

The servants do the washing, in a rough and ready fashion, so that many
changes are absolutely unnecessary, especially as the items are not “got
up” at all, and can be washed and dried in an hour or two.

It is useful to have one extra tin case, not dedicated to any special
purpose: it acts as a sort of overflow box, and, indeed, one usually
finds it overflowing. One or two favourite books, sketching, or
photography, butterfly catching, and a small but “lasting” piece of
needlework, will amply fill up your leisure hours in camp. I remember a
friend of mine in India worked a quantity of very beautiful point lace
during a shooting trip in Kashmir; she used to sit on a box and stitch,
while the camp was being pitched and struck. Personally, I find, as a
rule, that after the inevitable preliminary arrangements and luncheon,
a change and a rest, a couple of sketches, and a stroll through the
village, tea-time and twilight come long before I am ready for them.

The camp kitchen requires a little special arrangement, and both mistress
and cook will have to employ their utmost ingenuity to prevent all the
culinary operations from being conducted on the bare ground. The cook
will not grumble, he rather enjoys squatting on his heels, balancing
pots and pans on a pile of blazing wood, and surrounding himself with a
charmed circle of feathers, egg-shells and onions. But as long as he
sees that all his implements are thoroughly cleansed and scrubbed—and
one need not go far to find sand in Africa—there need be no real
uncleanliness, however primitive the conditions; indeed, I always find
my camp kitchen far more accessible than the one at headquarters, where
a dash has to be made across a scorching compound at each visit. Many
a simple cooking lesson have we jointly given, in the open air, under
some shady tree, seated on boxes, wrestling with a wood fire in a light
breeze. A wide smooth board, scrubbed spotless every day, makes quite a
useful kitchen table, placed across two provision boxes; one side being
kept, scrupulously, for bread-making, etc., the other used for operations
involving meat, onions, etc. Another detail that requires the mistress’
assistance is a camp meat-safe—a few yards of mosquito netting or muslin,
and the frame of an old umbrella, will solve the difficulty at once. The
muslin must have a drawstring at the top and bottom, and the birds or
joints hung on to the ribs of the open umbrella, which swings gracefully
from the nearest tree.

For light, you cannot improve on the “Lord’s” lantern, issued by
Government: it gives a splendid light, and travels in its own case, which
also contains a canister, holding kerosene; this latter, however only
carries enough oil for about a fortnight, so it is necessary to take a
tin of kerosene as well. It is not wise to economize much over oil, for
a light should be kept burning all night where you sleep. We usually
carry also an excellent little lantern, fitted for candle or lamp, and
are therefore never condemned to that ‘dim, religious light’ which is so
conducive to most irreligious exclamations, when the master falls over a
gun-case in the dark, or wants to read a paper.

During our last leave we had made, to our own design, a small
arrangement, which, from personal experience, we can recommend most
strongly. It is a light wooden box, measuring about 18 in. × 14 in. ×
7 in.; with a hinged lid, lock and key. Inside it is lined with padded
baize, and divided into compartments, containing, respectively, a pair of
candle lamps, four glass globes, two punkah tops, and a box of candles.
This box travels everywhere in perfect safety, and is an endless comfort:
amongst other advantages, it saves the inconvenience of placing a heavy
“Lord’s” lantern on a small camp dinner-table, which always seems to
attract instantly every flying pest for a radius of fifty miles at least.
Moreover, during more than six months of almost incessant travelling,
only one globe has been broken.

The actual marching will, of necessity, and from choice too, be done in
the early morning, but if possible, when making the first start, let
it be in the afternoon, a short march of only an hour or two (this is
nearly always possible from any large centre), getting to your camp well
by daylight. This is essential; the carriers will not be accustomed to
their loads, they will all squabble and fight for the lightest ones,
and, even did you purpose a morning start, an early one would be an
impossibility. Then, on arrival in camp, no one knows where to put
anything, and there is certain to be much to arrange and alter, for the
West African servitor will, for the whole of your trip, place each chair
and box exactly where he planted them that first evening, so be warned
and, on that momentous occasion, insist upon having everything placed
exactly where you hope to find it every day for the next few weeks—so
much comfort depends on this. If you are accompanied by a military or
police escort, the tents will be pitched without any difficulty; but
otherwise, I fear that a little trouble and patience must be expended in
teaching the carriers this most important accomplishment.

But do not lose heart, and feel miserable and disappointed, if things
are rather in a muddle, the servants slow and unmethodical, the carriers
disposed to dump down their loads anywhere, and disappear into the
village. Take the word of a fairly old camping hand, things will be
better to-morrow, and better still the day after. Meantime, a kettle
can be boiled in a few minutes, and, though you are probably fatigued,
yourself, after much packing, and perhaps a longer ride than you have
taken for some time, a cup of tea will make a wonderful difference.
The mistress, who, after half an hour’s rest for every one, gets up
cheerfully from her comfortable chair, saying brightly, ‘Now then, Suli,
or Mohammadu, I am going to help you,’ can reduce chaos to order and
comfort in no time, and will find her servants willing to assist; for,
as I have said before in this chapter, cheerfulness is infectious, and
nowhere more so than amongst Africans. I have often seen a crowd of
sullen, angry faces suddenly break into happy, childish laughter, moved
by one well-timed joke.

Speaking from my own experience, I can only say that I consider the
carriers to be a much maligned set of folks; they are very easy to deal
with, and after the first march, there is never a dispute—except, of
course, over ‘chop’—the carrier fraternity would wrangle in Paradise over
the possession of half a yam. I have known most of them by name; on one
long tour they used to come and say ‘Good-morning’ with broadest smiles,
and, even after long and trying marches, they would go out into the bush,
entirely on their own initiative, and collect bunches of flowers for
‘Missis’ to decorate her tent and dinner-table with. Their affectionate
impulses went so far as to induce them to rifle birds’ nests and bring me
the fledglings, until I had to be severe about it. A little sympathetic
attention to their various ailments and wounds, makes them consider one
as a valuable ally and friend.

Once shaken down into the routine of marching, you will elect to get
up at dawn, your toilet will take about twenty minutes, and a simple
breakfast, consisting of coffee and eggs, or grilled chicken, should then
be ready. During breakfast, the carriers will pounce upon, and whisk
away, the whole contents of the camp, and in less than an hour from the
time you woke the long line will have streamed away into the distance,
the head-man having instructions where to pitch the next camp, and to
have a good supply of water and fire-wood ready. Your better half will
probably have a little work to do, in the shape of a final interview with
the Chief of the place, so the carriers can always get a good half-hour’s
start.

You will then begin your march, walking in the fresh, cool, morning air,
through the loveliest, greenest, dew-soaked country possible to find,
along the tiny footpaths, which constitute the ‘high roads’ in Nigeria.
I believe some people never walk a yard on the march, but I always
thoroughly enjoy it; it breaks the monotony of many hours in the saddle,
and, I think, must be good for one, as riding at a snail’s pace is not,
after all, very violent exercise.

If a march is extremely long, it is quite easy to keep the cook and a
few carriers, with table, chairs, etc., behind the others, have a cold
luncheon prepared the day before, and select a shady spot near water,
about half-way, for luncheon and a rest—as a rule, you will find that the
carriers have already selected it with some discrimination. The ordinary
day’s march occupies five or six hours, and averages from fifteen to
eighteen miles. This sounds very little, but it is as much as your
carriers and ponies (and yourself) are able for, without distress, and,
unless time is a serious consideration, I do not advocate marching again
in the afternoon. A Political Officer will usually have ample work at
each halting-place to occupy the hours of daylight. I have done seven and
eight hours in the saddle many a time, but it is tiring, hard work for
every one, and makes the whole thing a weariness, instead of a pleasure.

You will, I think, find, when you ride in, that tents have been pitched,
everything unpacked and made ready for you, the servants will have
rested, the cook will be hard at work, preparing luncheon, and the staff
will assure you, with smiling faces, that the march has been ‘not far too
much at all.’ If one anticipates several weeks of hard marching, it is
a good thing to hire small ponies for the cook and head steward, as it
ensures their arriving first, and arriving fresh.

The evening stroll at sunset is always full of interest for me. There
is the village to inspect, cloth-making and cotton-spinning to admire,
and, perhaps, many little trifles of Hausa leather work, etc., to buy.
In places where a white woman has never been seen before, she may cause
a panic among the simple souls. In one remote little Pagan village,
I remember, the men came, as usual, headed by their Chief, to the
‘palaver,’ and, at sight of me, they fell prostrate, covered their heads
with their flowing garments, lay on the ground and _moaned_ in fear,
refusing to be comforted till I retreated from the scene. I have since
discovered that an occasional albino negress (truly, a fearsome sight) is
held by them in great reverence, and practically worshipped!

In another village the people fled at the sight of me, the only person
holding his ground being a man, nursing a sick baby, who had high fever,
from teething pain. We prescribed, and supplied, for the poor mite,
a remedy so old-fashioned, that I almost blush to record it—a nicely
smoothed and rounded chicken bone! And, when the incessant wail of pain
died away, and the baby chewed contentedly at its ‘comforter,’ the
frightened women and children crept back and smiled, and told each other,
doubtless, that we were physicians of a very high order!

One can always, I find, gain the confidence of the women-kind, by taking
notice of the ‘pikkins,’ or by a little care and solicitude for a wound
or sore. Merely the applying of a clean bandage, personally, establishes
your position in the village as the ‘Godsent,’ and, which matters
more, as the friend of the ladies—for I have a strong conviction that
(in spite of the laments indulged in by good people at home, over the
sad position of the down-trodden woman of Africa) the ladies rule the
villages and set the public tone: I have seen most lively rows and free
fights started by one lady’s uncontrolled tongue, or quarrelsome temper.

You will, of course, like to see that your ponies are properly housed,
well-fed, and comfortable for the night. It is as well to take blankets
for them, in case they have to sleep in the open, or stand in the rain.
When possible, it is a great comfort to have an extra pony, to march
along with you—one of them may go sick or lame, on a rough road, and
have to be put out of work. Ponies usually fatten and thrive well on the
march, possibly because guinea-corn, etc., is so much more plentiful in
the bush than at headquarters; but it is decidedly anxious work, taking
horses one values into thick, forest country, where guinea-corn is not
obtainable and grass rank and scarce. Great care should be exercised over
the ponies’ drinking water, and they should _by no means_ be allowed to
drink at any pool or stream they may cross. I firmly believe that bad
water is one of the causes of much of the horse sickness so prevalent
here, and unless I can see clearly up and down stream for some distance,
and satisfy myself that the water is not full of decaying vegetation, nor
stagnating under overhanging branches, my pony has to wait for his drink
until a healthier state of things can be found.

Where roads are rough and stony, extra care is, of course, needed in
searching the ponies’ feet for stones—it may not occur to the doki-boys.

In some parts of the country tents are seldom necessary, as there are
rest-houses at all the halting-places on the main roads, and very
delightful they are to spend a day or two in, when they are watertight
and in good repair—simply shelters, with a very deep, low, thatched roof
coming to within four feet of the ground, no walls (grass ones can be
added by the villagers in half an hour, if desired), cosy, yet airy from
their great height, very roomy, and usually watertight; though, to ensure
this, when there is rain about, it is a good thing to pitch the outer fly
of a tent over your bed, thus securing a dry, comfortable night, even in
a tornado. In a few places, where the rest-house is placed in a forest
clearing, outside the village, it seems rather confiding to sleep so
insecurely, but I have been told that a lamp and mosquito curtains will
daunt any but the hungriest lion.

I have only one or two more suggestions to offer before closing this
chapter: the first and most important may not sound attractive, but it is
absolutely necessary—to put all the clothing you intend wearing the next
day _under your pillow at night_. Indeed, it is the only way to ensure
its being dry, the damp penetrates everywhere, and at 5 a.m. one does
not feel disposed to walk about, lightly clothed, unlocking boxes, and
extracting one’s garments.

Another small point, which is useful to know and act upon, is, that a
very small quantity of powdered alum will clear dirty, brackish water
very quickly; all the solid matter sinks to the bottom, and the clear
water can be poured off, thus saving the unpleasant necessity for a
muddy-looking, uninviting bath: a few crystals of permanganate of potash
are rather nice in a bath, too, when the water is unpleasant to smell and
look at.

On long marches it is worth while trying to cultivate a taste for Kola
nuts: they are marvellously refreshing and stimulating, and the clean,
bitter flavour is rather delightful once one is accustomed to it. I have,
often and often, staved off the pangs of hunger, thirst and fatigue, with
a Kola nut, the sharpness tempered by a piece of chocolate munched along
with it.

For the benefit of your servants and carriers, a few simple remedies,
easily obtained from the medical officers, should be taken into the bush;
they are tabulated below, with a list of stores. This last, it must be
remembered, is confined severely to necessaries; it can be supplemented
by all kinds of luxuries, such as tinned sardines, cheese, butter, potted
meat, etc., always bearing in mind that the total transport allowed by
Government, at present to each official on the march, is an average of
twelve to fourteen loads of fifty-six pounds each.


PROVISIONS NECESSARY FOR TWO PEOPLE FOR ONE MONTH

    4 lb. sugar.
    4 lb. tea.
    14 lb. flour.
    4 tins biscuits.
    18 tins milk.
    6 tins lard.
    6 tins jam.
    2 tins baking-powder.
    2 tins coffee.
    2 packets candles.
    1 packet matches.
    1 tin kerosene.
    12 boxes sparklets.
    2 bars soap.
    1 bottle curry-powder.
    12 soup squares.
    1 case whisky.
    1 case limejuice.
    salt, pepper, mustard, etc.


MEDICAL STORES

    1 roll lint.
    1 roll cotton-wool.
    1 packet bandages.
    1 tin Epsom salts.
    1 tin boracic powder.
    1 tin sulphur ointment.
    2 bottles liniment.
    1 bottle chlorodyne.
    A small quantity of iodoform ointment.




CHAPTER VII

What to Wear


I approach this subject with some diffidence, as it is one so differently
regarded by different individuals. No two people ever seem to agree about
clothing for the tropics, so I shall not attempt to offer opinions on the
merits or demerits of ‘flannel next the skin,’ etc., but shall confine
myself to a few general hints, which, I hope, may be equally useful to
the disciple of Jaeger and Viyella, and to the advocate of muslin and
cambric.

One broad axiom that none will dispute, I may give safely: in all kinds
of clothes, aim at variety rather than at super-excellence of quality
and delicacy of trimming. Remember that you have to wear washing gowns
all the year round, and their constant attendance at the wash-tub will
destroy them very quickly if you have only three or four to ring the
changes on. This applies especially to white gowns, which, cool and
dainty as they are, I do not recommend very strongly, as a dusty path or
a shower of rain will make them unwearable after half an hour, and back
they must go to the washerman, who proceeds to forcibly illustrate the
meaning of ‘wear and tear.’

Linen skirts of any colour that is not too delicate are invaluable; half
a dozen of them, one or two holland, and a couple of simple muslins or
cool cottons, should carry you triumphantly through your time. The woman
endowed with clever fingers can, of course, add to her stock, armed with
good paper patterns, lengths of unmade material, and, if she is lucky,
a sewing-machine, and she will probably be very glad of the occupation
for her spare time. Shirts and blouses of thin flannel, washing silk
and muslin can be brought in any number that space allows—the more the
better, but the local laundry cannot goffer frills and almost always
tears lace! Cambric and muslin blouses of the ‘shirt’ order are the
most useful kind, as silk rots almost at once. For this reason let your
smarter blouses be of _crêpe de chine_ rather than silk. Evening gowns
you will scarcely want; one, or at most two simple dinner frocks, and
a tea-gown to wear for dinner at home, will be ample. For the benefit
of those who may have to spend some time on tour, I may mention that I
derive the greatest comfort from a very thin cashmere or nun’s veiling
tea-gown, or rather an elaborate dressing-gown for dinner in camp, and
also find it useful as a dressing-gown during the colder part of the
voyage. You will want one warm dress of the coat-and-skirt description
to start your voyage in, for it is usually quite cold from Liverpool
to the Canaries. It should be of the plainest tailor-made sort; once
arrived in Africa you will not wear it again, probably, until you reach
the same point on your way home. The same may be said of what was once
described to me as a ‘human’ hat, unless it is of the very plainest; for
some reason which I cannot quite define, but can nevertheless thoroughly
appreciate, a ‘smart’ hat looks absolutely ludicrous out here: in fact,
any tendency to over-dressing has only one effect, that of making your
company, usually a few hard-working men, feel thoroughly uncomfortable.
All one wants, after all, is to appear fresh, spotless and dainty, which
can be best accomplished by a clean linen frock, a shady simple straw
hat, a sensible sunshade and garden gloves.

If it will not quite break your heart, be advised and brush back your
fringe, if you have one; it is quite impossible to keep it in curl or
tidy, and the peace and comfort you will get from the absence of clammy
dank wisps of short hair will amply repay you for what you may think
an unbecoming change. May I also whisper that no one should allow her
friends at home to persuade her to invest in an ‘artistic and invisible’
‘transformation’; they are all too visible, and, for this country, are
simply waste of money.

In Nigeria there is nearly always a breeze modifying the damp
heat, which reminds me that a light cloth or flannel coat is rather
indispensable for sitting outside after tennis, on cool evenings; and,
when it sets to work to rain after a sultry day, one finds it very chilly
in muslin, the temperature drops so suddenly and considerably, that a
thin serge or flannel skirt is exceedingly comfortable.

Your riding-habit should consist of a very short skirt of moderate
thickness; I am no believer in what tailors call ‘Colonial’ habits, they
very seldom set so comfortably, and never wear so well as a good solid
cloth; moreover, the gain in coolness is not perceptible: at least, that
has been my experience, after some years in India. For underneath you
will find rather loose knickers most comfortable, made of dark coloured
washing material; the best is called ‘moleskin’ by breeches-makers, and
is used for the thinnest kind of riding-breeches for men. Don’t have your
knickers made by a habit-maker, simply have a good pattern of bicycling
knickers copied; two pairs should be quite enough. A cloth coat is
unnecessary; a few holland and white drill loose coats will answer much
better, and, as starched collars are somewhat at a discount, soft white
muslin scarves, worn like a hunting-stock, look neat and are comfortable.
I think it is a considerable advantage to have your habit very short
indeed, as, while touring, it is a great pleasure and variety to walk the
first few miles of the march, a pleasure which is completely spoilt if
you have to hold up a heavy habit skirt. Riding on tour is such crawling
work, that, if you prefer it, you could quite well ride your marches in
an ordinary short walking skirt, though personally I think there is no
garb so entirely comfortable as well-fitting riding garments.

For those wise women who adopt the ‘astride’ position, a divided skirt
is, of course, necessary. The very best is, I believe, made by Ross of
Bond Street, but that, being the perfection of cut and smartness, is,
naturally, an expensive investment, and for rough work in this country
an ordinary divided bicycling skirt would answer perfectly, or else full
bloomers worn with shooting boots and putties and a rather long-skirted
coat—personally, I should advocate the latter.

Bear well in mind, there must be no trifling with your mackintosh! When
it rains in West Africa, it _does_ rain, and you want the most serious
and really waterproof mackintosh obtainable. I have found that the
essential point is to have it of a light weight, loose and easy to slip
into, at a moment’s notice, even on a plunging frightened pony, when
the tornado catches one on the march. _The_ firm of all others for this
purpose is Burberry, in the Haymarket. I doubt whether any umbrella
really keeps out the rain; for ordinary use, I should advise a strong
silk _en-tout-cas_ of a dark colour that will serve equally well for sun
or shower. You will also want a really big cotton umbrella, lined with
green—in fact, it would be a graceful attention to bring a second one for
your better half, as they are quite necessary for and constantly used by
men who have to go out in the sun in the middle of the day.

It will be wise to stock yourself before leaving home with all small
etceteras, such as ribbons, laces, buttons, thread, needles, etc. We
cannot yet buy ‘chiffons’ in Nigeria, and, unless you bring them all with
you, it entails writing home, and waiting two months for a reel of silk
or a packet of needles. I remember well being utterly unable to get from
market or stores a single reel of white cotton, for weeks, and my husband
being reduced to wearing a highly decorative but somewhat unusual pair of
amateur boot-laces made of bright crimson Hausa leather!

Boots must be fairly solid as to soles; the soil of West Africa seems
to have a specially destructive effect on English leather. In Sierra
Leone, for instance, the soles are worn out in a few weeks, though in
Nigeria things are not so bad; for while in Sierra Leone, I walked
because I loathed crawling in a hammock, here, with ponies, walking is
not a bit necessary. Still, it is impossible to get boots resoled, so
as to be wearable, therefore do not economize in this direction, only
remember that all your foot-gear must be constantly worn or it will
spoil. Blacking boots are only a vexation, they always seem sticky,
and dirty one’s hands and skirts; I should recommend a stout, _really_
stout, pair of tan laced boots for heavy walking, about half a size
larger than usual, a lighter pair for ordinary wear (tan buckskin is
delightfully cool and soft for the dry weather), and a couple of pairs
of walking-shoes of tan or black glacé kid. It is useless to lay down
anything definite, as people use their feet so differently; some are hard
on boots, while others can wear them for years apparently. Of course,
boot-trees have a good deal to say to the longevity of foot-gear, and,
now that such light ones are to be had, three or four pairs would not
be too many. I have heard it said that walking-shoes are dangerous on
account of snakes, but they are far cooler than boots, and one really
does not have to pick one’s way among snakes as a rule, and I have
always found them a pleasant variety. About indoor shoes you will, of
course, decide for yourself; I think perhaps they wear out quicker than
at home—mine do, at all events, but my incessant perambulations in the
garden, stables, etc., may have something to do with that! They should be
glacé kid, not patent leather, on account of coolness.

Riding-boots ought to be tan, and a very easy fit; I have been told that
stiffened canvas uppers and tan-leather feet constitute delightfully cool
riding-boots, but I have no personal experience of them, and think one
can hardly improve on good tan leather: I have never desired anything
cooler, even in a Punjab hot weather. A little toilet powder sprinkled
inside makes them much easier to pull on.

Mosquitoes do not deal more gently with us here than they do elsewhere;
all the men wear long loose boots, made in this country, of Hausa
leather; they are an absolute protection, and, if somewhat too clumsy
for a lady’s wear, as a rule, they are exceedingly useful in camp. For
ordinary use, a pair of black canvas gaiters, buttoned and reaching to
the knee, can be worn over ordinary evening slippers. They are so neat
as not to be noticeable at all, and are an absolute protection when
mosquitoes are numerous and hungry.

So much for your outer woman. At the end of this chapter, I am giving a
list of what appears to me the least possible supply of clothes to make
you comfortable, and, bearing in mind that it takes two months to get
additions out from Home, even to Lokoja, and much longer up country, you
will doubtless agree that it is best to be independent. You will want a
large quantity of underclothing, and, first of all, you must decide for
yourself about the solidity of vests, etc. I cannot suggest hygienic
principles, as I never practise them; do as you are accustomed to do,
as that appears to make for comfort. I met one lady in Africa, who told
me she wore _merino combinations_, because, having worn them always in
England, she felt cold without them—and this in a mean temperature of
eighty or ninety degrees!

I think perfect comfort and happiness can be found in fine cambric or
nainsook combinations, or spun-silk vests and cambric knickers. I rather
doubt the desirability of washing-silk under-garments, chiefly because
the art of laundry work is in its infancy, and the silk shirts that I
have had washed have returned distinctly hard and harsh. But the main
point, in a climate like this, is to have enough of whatever you decide
to wear; you will probably change everything two or three times a day,
and washing is not done here in a day or two, as it is in India. Let
everything be of the thinnest texture, compatible with bad washing.
The Lahman underwear is excellent in its thinnest qualities, and is
invariably praised by those who wear it.

A supply of old underlinen to wear on the voyage and throw overboard is
invaluable; I dislike nothing more than arriving at one’s destination
with a bulging soiled-linen bag, and an uncertain prospect of getting
it converted into clean clothes. On the way home this is quite a simple
matter; after twelve months in the hands of the gentle African laundry
folk, most of your underlinen will be fit for nothing else!

At least six pairs of corsets are necessary, the coolest kind obtainable,
certainly, but I can assure you that to leave off wearing them at any
time for the sake of coolness is a huge mistake: there is nothing so
fatiguing as to lose one’s ordinary support even with a view to being
‘comfy,’ _Always_ wear corsets, even for _tête-à-tête_ home dinner on
the warmest evenings; there is something about their absence almost as
demoralizing as hair in curling-pins!

I should avoid expensive and ‘faddy’ varieties of underclothing. I
remember when I first went to India, I was induced to buy, at a guinea
each, four night-dresses of some special mixture of silk and wool,
which, I was told, would be ‘ideal wear’ for the Red Sea and other
warm localities. Perhaps I am hopelessly prejudiced against anything
resembling flannel, but I thought them _horrible_, and after enduring
one for half an hour, they were all stowed away, to be presented to my
‘ayah’ at the first opportunity. If you think fit to wear a kamerband at
night (a distinctly prudent proceeding), a yard or two of white flannel,
simply torn into lengths about eighteen inches wide, and worn outside the
nightdress, answers the purpose better than anything else; the nights are
almost invariably cool, and usually breezy towards dawn.

With these few hints, aided by your own common sense, I think your outfit
is sure to be successful and satisfactory, and your comfort and dainty
appearance assured; so I need say no more, except a word or two on the
subject of a sun-hat, which you _must_ have, no matter how much your
artistic feelings may rebel against it. Be sure it is large enough, for
the part that needs most protection is the back of the neck, and no
helmet-shaped ‘topi’ will give you real shade there. I like best the
spreading, mushroom shaped wide-brimmed hat, which will fit well down
over back hair and all, so that hat-pins and chin-strap can be dispensed
with. A grey hat, with a grey silk puggaree looks—well, as nice as a
solar topi can be made to look! With this and a couple of simple straw or
Panama hats, you will need no more; the appearance of the latter can be
varied by different ribbons and scarves to relieve the monotony.

If you have any favourite kinds of scent, soap or powder, bring them with
you; scent and powder are not to be bought here, of course, and one’s
‘very own’ soap is a delightful small luxury everywhere. I should like
to say a word for ‘Papier poudre.’ It is the greatest boon in a hot damp
climate, which gives a tendency to greasiness to the best complexions,
and does far less harm than the use of powder; moreover, it never leaves
white streaks on nose or cheeks, even if you pass the little, scented,
absorbent leaf over your face without a mirror.

Now as to boxes, and I have done.

I should strongly advise against the usual leather cabin trunks; they are
so heavy that, although it is true that they fit under a berth, it is a
herculean task to pull them out for anything you may happen to want.
They are likewise too heavy and too large for one carrier’s load, and so
are useless for camp travelling; they wear badly too under rough usage,
which they are quite certain to get. Use regulation tin ‘uniform cases,’
sized approximately 36 in. × 12 in. × 15 in. This is the ideal size for
a carrier’s load, which he carries on his head, steadied with one hand,
so you can imagine that anything much wider than the above dimensions
is a great sorrow to him. But I think, for the sake of your skirts, you
might be allowed one box a little longer, say 42 in., or just long enough
to take a skirt without folding; for the average carrier will make no
objection as to length, so long as you consider his feelings as to width.
You will find these boxes handier too in the cabin; you can put a couple
of them under the sofa-berth, and feel fairly independent of the sea
that comes in once or twice on every voyage. On the journey up river,
on the little stern-wheelers, space is a great consideration, and a big
trunk quite un-get-at-able; one feels less compunction in improvising a
seat out of a tin box than out of a leather one, and seats have to be
improvised very often on these occasions!

The following list is only intended as a basis to work on, and to be
added to as your fancy dictates and your purse allows:—

    Six cambric night-dresses.
    Two flannel night-dresses.
    Twelve cambric combinations.
    Six pairs cambric knickers.
    Twelve spun silk vests.
    Six pairs tan thread stockings.
    Six pairs black thread stockings.
    Three white petticoats.
    Two silk moirette petticoats (wears much better than silk).
    Two dozen handkerchiefs.
    Six pairs corsets.
    Twelve camisoles.
    One white (washing) dressing-gown.
    One woollen dressing-gown.
    Four linen skirts.
    Two holland or drill skirts.
    Two muslin dresses.
    One cloth gown.
    One tea-gown.
    Two evening gowns.
    Blouses _ad. lib._
    One habit skirt.
    Four riding coats.
    Two pairs riding breeches.
    Two Panama hats.
    One solar topi.
    One light coat.
    One _en-tout-cas_.
    One sunshade.
    One mackintosh.
    One pair thick tan boots.
    One pair tan walking boots.
    One pair tan glacé walking shoes.
    One pair black glacé walking shoes.
    Six pairs house slippers.
    One pair tan riding boots.




INDEX


  A

  Abadie, Captain, 107

  “Aerolite,” 174

  Aiede, 19

  Albino, 20

  Anglo-French Boundary Commission, 184, 185

  Anglo-German Boundary Commission, 50

  Ant hills, 18

  Arab merchants, 140

  Ashburnham, Captain, 2

  Astride, riding, 265


  B

  Badjibo, 155

  Balu, 181

  Bargery, Mr. and Mrs., 190

  Bebeji, 71

  Benue, river, 50

  Bida, 27, 185
    market of, 189

  “Binkie,” 62

  Bird-life, 156

  _Black Swan_, 50

  Borgu, 147
    people of, 177
    superstitions of, 178

  Boxes, 301

  “Boys,” 214

  Bryophyllum, 139

  Bunu language, 121
    funeral ceremonies, 122

  Burglary, 63

  Burutu, 3

  Bussa, 160


  C

  Camp life, 271
    kitchen, 278
    provisions, 289

  Cannas, 17

  Carriers, 282

  Carts (mono-wheel), 66

  Chop-boxes, 272

  Churn, 234

  Cook, native, 208

  Coronation Day, 22, 25

  Cows, 234


  D

  Dogs, 221
    feeding of, 223
    dosing of, 224

  “Doki boy,” 259, 262

  Duck-shooting, 42


  E

  Egga, 37

  Ekiurin, 17

  Erun, 22


  F

  Filter, 201

  Fish, 157

  “Flamboyant,” 7

  “Fritz,” 151

  Fruit, 214

  Furniture, 196
    bedroom, 202


  G

  Ganna, 40, 89

  Garden, 239
    flower, 240
    verandah, 248
    vegetable, 249

  Girouard, Sir Percy, K.C.M.G., 191

  Gloriosa Superba, 12

  Goldsmith, Mr., 26


  H

  Hadeija, 99
    Emir of, 100
    departure from, 104

  Hasler, Major, 70

  Hausa embroidery, 30
    scholarship, 59

  Home, the, 195

  Horse-doctor, native, 57

  Horses, feeding of, 260

  Household, 205
    wages of, 206
    servants, 207

  Housekeeping, 210


  I

  Igarra, 127

  Ilesha, 170
    funeral at, 171

  Illo, 161

  Incubator, 229

  Isochelis, 139


  J

  _Jebba_, the, 58

  Jebba, 153

  Ju-ju hill, 124
    house, 17
    rock, 154


  K

  Kabba, 15, 112, 115
    Ilorin boundary, 138

  Kaiama, 167
    Sariki of, 168

  Kano, 73
    Emir of, 79
    residency, 82

  _Karonga_, the, 5

  Karshi, 108

  Katāgum, 92

  Keffi, 47

  Kemball, General and Mrs., 35

  _Kigelia Africana_, 139

  Kishra, 176

  Kitchen, Nigerian, 209


  L

  Lawn, 244

  Lions, 166

  Lokoja, 8

  Look-out hill, 120

  Lukpa, 15


  M

  Marabouts, 96

  Meat, 211

  Mexican poppy, 138

  Moloney, Captain, 54

  Momo, 39

  Mosquito net, 203

  Mungo Park, death of, 175

  Mureji, 110

  Murmur, 97

  _Mussaenda Elegans_, 13


  N

  Nassuf, 140


  O

  Oduapi, 13

  Osé River, 21

  Ostrich, tame, 96

  Oudney, Richard, 97

  Oven, native, 38

  Oxen, pack, 88

  Oysters, 178


  P

  Palm-cats—_Nandinia binotata_, 137

  Patti Abaja, 136

  Patti hill, 8

  Phillips, Captain, D.S.O., 129

  Poultry, 226
    feeding of, 231

  Preperanda, 6


  R

  Rapids, ascending, 159

  Rapids at Wuru, 160
    at Mullale, 185

  Riding habit, 294
    boots, 297


  S

  Saddlery, 264

  Salla, great, 189

  _Sekondi_, the, 1

  Semolika, 126
    attack on, 131
    stool, 134

  Serval cat, 182

  Sierra Leone, 1

  Slaves, 47

  Sokoto, disaster at, 162

  Stable, the, 257

  Stern-wheelers, 5

  Steward, duties of, 214

  Stone, Mr., 3

  Strophanthus, 138


  T

  Tornado, dry, 163
    at Kaiama, 173

  Transhipping, 147

  Transport, animal, 85

  Trees and shrubs, 245


  U

  Underclothing, 298

  “Uwāmu,” 95


  V

  Vegetables, 213


  W

  Wa-wa, 165

  Wear, what to, 291

  Wilmot, Mr. and Mrs., 133


  Z

  Zaria, 70

  Zinnias, 70

  Zungeru, 65

[Illustration: BUTLER & TANNER

THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS

FROME]





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