A Resident's wife in Nigeria

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.

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!

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]

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.