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.

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?’

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!

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.