Through unknown Nigeria

“The line is the thing,” to modify Hamlet’s phrase. To get the track into working order at the earliest possible day, that is the object of all concerned in the construction of a railway, once it has been started. You must have rails laid, locomotives, carriages. All subsidiary matters can be improvised provisionally. It is not necessary to wait until “the last button on the soldiers’ leggings” has been fixed. Thus, on the section from Zungeru to Kano a number of things remain to be done before there is the completeness which is seen south of the Niger.

To anybody with whom time is a consideration, a railway, instead of the old method along the cart-road of 282 miles to Kano, is an unspeakable boon.

Some novel travelling features appear on Zungeru Station. There has not been sufficient time to enrol a full staff and therefore one must make one’s own arrangements for getting heavy packages into or from the train. First-class passengers can enjoy the unusual experience of obtaining from the Stationmaster partly printed labels, writing on them the destination, then hunting for a glue-pot and themselves affixing the labels. It is a case of every man his own porter. We are not at a fashionable resort, and all who have to do the job undertake it in a laughing spirit.

Directly the train moves off you realise you are on your own resources. Private, or even official, hospitality cannot extend to a train where everybody is expected to look after himself in all things for nearly half a week. A 50-foot coach is partitioned into four divisions, all quite bare. In a division—you may be fortunate in having two—you must rig up your little home: a sitting and dining-room by day; a sleeping apartment at night. Each end of the coach has a stove, where the cooks can prepare meals.

Minna—38 miles—is reached in two hours, and here the night is spent. In the hot weather passengers put their camp-beds on the open platform, arranging them under the projecting roof if rain threatens.

Arrival of the train at Minna marks a busy time, for the line upwards from Baro joining, passengers who have come by the river route are waiting to continue the journey northwards, or others may have come down from that direction.

Amidst all the bustle of people coming and going, of the excitement of sorting baggage for carriers, of piles of bales and boxes being moved, of loud whistling of locomotives and of shunting engines, I saw a white-robed figure go on his knees, turn his face to the east and bend his head in devotion. It was a Mohamedan silently offering up evening prayer. Religious duty was louder to him than the babel resounding around. He was not ashamed to speak with his Maker in sight of the multitude.

Yet there are worthy folks at home who seek to send missionaries to these people to teach them to worship the same God but in a different way. Why is the money and the energy expended on such missions—which are practically hopeless in Mohamedan countries like this—not deflected to the better purpose of mitigating the vice, the crime and the preventable poverty in the great cities of the United Kingdom, where the triple evils stalk abroad in the daylight, unabashed, unashamed.

At Minna Station one must see Mr A. Newport, the stalwart traffic inspector. I say one “must,” because the first time travelling over the line there are enquiries which have to be satisfied. For instance, change of train is made for the journey continued early next morning. Further, it may not have occurred to a traveller, even thinking out all requirements to the most minute detail, that wood for a fire on the train to cook food would be necessary. Finally, one’s filter may not be within easy access and condensed water be needed for preparing the evening meal.

In all these, and perhaps other instances, Mr Newport is of incalculable aid and value. Whatever the multitude of matters pressing upon him for immediate attention, he always seems willing to accept one more without impatience or irritation. But if everybody going through Minna leaves all these things to be supplied by Mr Newport, it is likely that he will not have a sufficiency of them to satisfy everybody’s expectations. Maxim and moral: When travelling in Nigeria never depend on supplying from another’s provisions that which you have wilfully neglected to provide for yourself.

At Minna Station one may also meet Mr E. H. Biffen, Traffic Superintendent of the Baro-Kano Railway, uniformly genial and courteous, and ever ready to do all in his power to help a traveller; and on the platform there will probably be Mr J. Oldfield, Traffic Assistant, who seconds the manner of his chief.

On waking up at Minna Station one realises more fully than on the previous afternoon what it is to be on one’s own resources for bodily needs. Sufficient condensed water had been economised for breakfast, but, in a tropical country above all, some kind of wash, at least once a day is almost as necessary for comfort as food, and for preference the operation is performed on getting out of bed.

Just at 6 o’clock, as I was wondering, after an hour’s cogitation, what was to be done in a distinctly uncomfortable predicament, mental relief came. Looking out of the window I saw my native servant—for the time being maid-of-all work, cook, steward, and general factotum—Oje, trudging along towards the stationary train with a pail on his head, and by the manner of balancing the utensil it was clear that it contained water. Without being told, Oje had set out and discovered water.

How did he come to divine its presence in a place where he had not previously been and of which he had never heard? I asked him. He said he saw a footpath from the railway and sagely concluded it must lead somewhere. That somewhere, he deduced, was likely to be a native village. A village was sure to be near a stream or other water. He would go and investigate.

I do not mean that Oje argued all these points in their logical sequence, after the manner of a Sherlock Holmes; instinct told him at once.

The water had come from a shallow, stagnant, well-nigh dried-up water course. It looked yellow, and on being shaken took the consistency of thick soup. Still, it was water, and for that relief much thanks.

Oje—poor, friendless Oje, hundreds of miles from home and parents—had more prescience than his master—employer is a word I would sooner use—more prescience than any white man on the train. A chapter could easily be written of Oje. He deserves it, is worthy of it. He is always helpful, frequently a pleasant companion to speak with, and occasionally a comfort to talk to in the silent evenings when flying insects make writing impossible, in spite of his limited vocabulary of even pidgeon English. His devotion is staunch and unmistakable. I shall remember Oje with many kindly sentiments when thousands of miles of sea and land separate us, and when, perhaps, I am tramping through the lands of another continent.

The prospect of an unwashed state happily past, as the train spins along one can heartily enjoy the free-and-easy existence, as one sits on a camp chair and, facing the open door of the “saloon,” tries to catch the breeze stimulated by the running train. It seems more enjoyable than the luxury of the boat express. Your pail containing water may leak; no matter, you must effect a repair on the spot, and that is done by drawing a rag into the hole. You discover that you have no bread for breakfast and that none was to be bought at Minna Station; no matter, a tin of biscuits from your food boxes will serve instead. You find out that the firm who made up the food boxes have omitted the sugar; no matter, some other passenger will help you out. Whatever your petty troubles, they are lost sight of in the feeling that you are in your own little compartment, within its walls living in your own way, distant from the stilted and artificial manners which clog life at home.

The celerity with which the Baro-Kano Railway was constructed—its junction with the Lagos Railway is at Minna—and the instant and remarkable success it has proved have caused an “over-running of the constable” in the provision of rolling stock. You may notice that the first-class coaches are patched up in parts. As a matter of fact, I believe that a number were to have been broken up, having been discarded by home lines, but the call for accommodation was so pressing that as many as could be made serviceable were again put on the rails. So you see the result of two or three worn-out carriages being made into a single sound one; sides and floor, with some doors from other carriages screwed on to form a complete article.

The demand on the part of third-class passengers—of course, all natives—was much greater. It was not merely a case of the construction of the finished track outstripping the supply of carriages; the number of passengers carried had exceeded the utmost expectations. It was estimated that the total receipts for the last financial year, 1911-12, April to March, would amount to £10,000, but they totalled £46,000. It is clear that on this line, as in the case of most in the United Kingdom, the third-class passenger is to be the stand-by of income for human freight. Apart from the fact that there are few Europeans in the country—I should say less than 700 to a native population of 10,000,000—averaging the 255 miles between Minna and Kano, the respective proportions are: first-class, seven Europeans; second-class, two or three Europeans; third class, 150 natives.

The supply of ordinary third-class coaches was utterly insufficient. Every type of truck has had to be used in addition, or the passengers left. All canvas sheetings obtainable for roof coverings did not suffice, and as native travellers clamoured to be carried in any way so long as only they were carried, low side trucks were put on, and then high ones, containing coalite and other goods in transit on which the passengers wished to sit.

It should be borne in mind that these people have always been in the habit of moving from one place to another—these Hausa traders—and they quickly grasped the advantage and the comfort of riding in trains at a low charge instead of tramping along bush paths or caravan roads. By means of using the railway they could do as much business in one day, with less marching, as they formerly did in a month.

And how these people enjoy the train ride! No party of school-children on their one-day-a-year excursion more so. See them crowded as the proverbial sardines, laughing, joking, happy, with legs dangling over the sides of the goods trucks. When Lugard projected, Girouard put in hand, and Eaglesome carried out the railway from Baro to Kano they builded better than they knew.

The track between Zungeru to Minna takes a gentle rise; the latter is 500 feet higher than the former. The country traversed is wooded and fertile, but depopulated, the effect of the cruel slave-raiding descents from the north, which devastated districts, leaving, as evidence of the visitation, burnt-down villages, the inhabitants all either dragged off to slavery or put to the sword on the spot. The land sunk into disuse and desolation.

British power has stopped it for ever, at least, as long as British power is supreme. But decades must pass before tillers are again on the soil. When they are the wide acres of Northern Nigeria will give agricultural produce on a scale that will bring great prosperity to the Protectorate and render it of value to territories beyond its borders, exporting perhaps foodstuffs, and certainly those essential oils for which manufacturers in Europe are searching the tropics.

Immediately after leaving Minna, in the first six miles the rise is 300 feet. The track then becomes fairly level, frequently crossing tributaries of the Kaduna River, the largest of which is the Kogin Serekin Pawa. From this the line follows the valley of the Kugo River, climbing 30 miles to the Zaria Plateau, which is touched at Bakin Kasua, 70 miles south of Zaria City and 19 before reaching the Kaduna. Then a drop of approximately 400 feet to Kaduna Station.

Over certain parts of the track, where temporary work has quite recently been superseded by that of a lasting character which has not yet hardened and settled, the train proceeds very gingerly, for it is heavily laden and must needs be hauled with caution and knowledge.

Most of the stations consist of a bank of gravel, levelled as a platform would be, with a 10 feet by 12 feet corrugated iron box, which holds telegraph instruments—the eyes and ears for safe conduct of the line—and is also the Stationmaster’s office. Two or three huts near by are the domiciles of the staff, comprising a telegraphist, a pointsman, and a labourer, all natives. A pointsman is necessary, as, although the line is a single track, every station has a loop for trains passing each other. At stations of a very minor type the Stationmaster is also telegraphist.

At intervals the engine halts for sustenance. A tank is set up, sometimes quite in bush country but always near streams which are never completely dried up, and water forced into the tank by a hand-pump worked by “boys,” who live in huts near by. The railway engineers have made small dams across the streams as safeguards for supply.

Every three or four miles are gangs of eight to ten “boys,” who live in a small settlement of their own, and, under a headman, pay attention to the track, supervised by a European platelayer, who has charge of 25 to 30 miles of line.

There is unmistakable evidence of approaching Kaduna. The line broadens out to four tracks and there are other adjuncts of a locomotive depôt. Kaduna has also the importance of being the headquarters of the Director of Railways. In the absence on vacation of Mr Eaglesome, I spent the evening—the train stays overnight—with the Deputy Director, youthful Mr E. M. Bland, referred to in the Zungeru chapter.

Among the entertainments in the way of sightseeing and instruction which he gave me was a walk across the adjacent Kaduna River railway bridge. I was lured on unsuspectingly and, I am sure, innocently on the part of Mr Bland. He never guessed—nor will he know until he sees these lines in print—of the ordeal it was to the visitor. The Kaduna Bridge is 660 feet long. The rails are fixed to sleepers the spaces between which are open to the river below.

In the middle of the track is a narrow sheeting of iron and along this Blondin-like tight-rope strode the Deputy Director, I tremulously following. Had I half an idea that he intended going beyond the first few inches I would either have invented some excuse for turning back or have boldly asked to be excused on the score of a sudden headache or something of the kind. I certainly expected every minute that this exasperatingly cruel guide would stop. When we reached midway across I wondered why on earth he was continuing the walk. Only that I did not trust myself to turn round on the narrow pathway I would have returned forthwith.

Mr Bland never ceased to speak of points of interest left and right, throwing a directing finger first in one direction and then in another, I more or less mechanically answering in monosyllables, the slippery, heavy nails in my boots striking the narrow metal pathway ominously, and, scarcely lifting my eyes from it all the time, I thought of people I knew in England, conjuring up what they would say to my having come to my end by falling through into the waters beneath Kaduna Bridge, instead of going under by the more heroic malarial fever.

Once Mr Bland, indicating a notable landmark, turned round to make the matter clearer, and on my quickly replying with a “Yes,” as though I saw and understood everything—earnestly praying he would get over the bridge at the earliest possible moment—he remarked that I was looking the wrong way and that the object to which he referred was half-a-mile off the opposite side of the bridge.

At last we were across, and I glanced around to discover a boat by which we could row or paddle back. Before I could gain breath to utter a word out spake Mr Bland. He said how sorry he was that he could not indulge in canoeing, as he did at home—he is a Canadian—as there was no craft of any kind for miles.

Then we must go back over that few-inches-wide iron path! Why were engineers so madly stupid as to place such an ordeal under the uncertain feet of an enquiring journalist? However, there was no alternative. A repeated 660 feet of mental tribulation and we were safe on the other bank.

Immediately I developed a wonderful power of conversation and comment on all the Deputy Director had told me during those horrible perambulations from bank to bank. In my exuberance of spirits I felt I wanted to slap him on the back. Oh, yes, I now saw quite distinctly and with eagerness the concrete piers on which the temporary bridge was laid for construction purposes, and a little higher up the river I recognised, visually, the ford used in the old days of the caravan road from the north.

Kaduna is left at 5.45 a.m., and 13 miles further on is Rigachikun, remembered as the former point of departure from the train for the tin fields. It was from Rigachikun the Government made a 12 feet wide roading for transport to the fields.

A further higher altitude is reached at Dumbi, 12 miles south of the station of that name. The native village is 6 miles nearer the station. From Dumbi there is again a descent. The land is open, with trees in some parts singly and occasionally in clusters, but never in the jungle density which flanks most of the line of another West African railway, the one from Secondee to Coomassie. The park-like appearance of this Province of Northern Nigeria makes the view indistinguishable from English scenery. The fields are in a bright, in fact brilliant, green from the overnight rain; the tall, waving grass brushes the carriages as they roll past. Sheep and herds of cattle are on the pasture land. One crowd of them merely gaze at the passing train; another batch, more apprehensive, scamper away. Their colours contrast with the uniformity of the green ground: brown, black, and a drove of about 30 all white. So the landscape continues until Zaria is reached. Here is a branch line—the Bauchi Light Railway—to the tin fields. To that I shall return for the Bauchi Plateau trek.

Proceeding northwards, after half-an-hour’s stop at Zaria, 25 miles further on, for the third time since leaving Minna, there is a rise to over 2,400 feet above sea-level, at Anchou, and from here all the rivers and their tributaries flow into Lake Chad, those previously passed going to the Gulf of Guinea. Twelve miles south of Kano, which is 90 from Zaria, the Shallawa River—a broad, sandy stream—is spanned by the largest bridge on the Baro-Kano Railway. From Anchou there is a gradual fall, amounting to 700 feet, to Kano.

As one approaches the 50 miles radius from Kano City one sees evidence of close cultivation of the soil which marks that Province of Northern Nigeria. The land is flat, open, and in parts fairly well wooded. There appears to be no barren waste soil within sight. Plots, varying in size, are clearly marked off and separated by 2 feet high straw fences, close-growing grass of the same height, or neatly-trimmed bushes. The fields are green—freshened by recent light rains—and occasionally the bright colour merges into a fainter tint, whilst tracts are yellow with the ripened crops shortly to be harvested.

As the eye is cast across the level plains, now and again backgrounded by hills and small mountains, the scene might be taken for one in an English agricultural county. The illusion would the more readily be accepted, for the circular clumps in the fields might easily pass as small haystacks. They are native houses, and a fuller understanding of the situation is grasped as the busy figures hoeing the furrows look up and it is seen that they have black skins.

Are these busy groups of men industriously winning produce from the soil the “lazy negroes” in whom we—new-comers to the land—are to inculcate “the dignity of labour”? Can it be that we have as little to teach them in that respect as in several others?

The scenes of sowing, planting, reaping, gathering, are repeated in various forms as the train rolls on until, there in the distance, is a greyish line which must be the walls of famed Kano City. The engine heads straight for the wall, as though it would impatiently break down whatever should stand in the way of modern ideas of advancement; but as we draw nearer it would seem wiser councils prevail, and, bearing to the right, we swing past the city walls, showing that by tact, sympathy, imagination, and judgment the two civilisations can exist side by side.

Speed is being reduced, but a couple more miles are to be covered, and as we go slowly a clearer view of the stout encircling wall is discerned. First to relieve its evenness is the Dan Agundi Gate, and near that opening—between it and the railway—is the discarded mission house, where a few months ago poor Fox died. Next we pass the Nassarawa Gate, then the Mata Gate, and a few yards further on the train pulls up at the spot where Kano Station is to be built.