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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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