A Resident's wife in Nigeria

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!

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.