Once inside the hollow we were perfectly concealed from view, but by standing up we were able to look over the edge; and from our elevated position we could see a considerable distance in the direction from which our pursuers were to be expected, as we looked over the tops of the small trees with which most of the country was covered.
As it was evidently impossible that the slave dealers could overtake us for some time yet, it occurred to me to go down once more and search the stream for shell-fish, for it would probably be necessary to remain in the tree the whole day, and it was necessary that we should have food of some kind. Bidding Aminé, therefore, to keep a sharp look-out, and let me know if she saw anyone approaching, I let myself down and commenced to systematically examine the bed of the stream.
The clean silvery sand of which it was composed did not offer a very favourable hunting ground, but, after working industriously for over an hour, I managed to accumulate a dozen or two of miscellaneous shell-fish, mostly small mussels somewhat like affaní, and a kind of large water snail. These I stuffed, as I gathered them, into an empty weaver-bird’s nest, which I had fortunately found hanging from a branch near the water’s edge, and I had nearly filled this curious receptacle when I heard Aminé calling from the tree.
“Quick! Yusufu! they are coming! Leave the shell-fish and climb up quickly!”
I ran to the monkey-rope, and, grasping the narrow opening of the nest with my teeth, climbed up as rapidly as I could; and I had hardly scrambled over into the hollow when I heard the voices of our pursuers sounding from below.
Very cautiously I put my eye to a broad crack in the bark and looked out.
The search party, headed by Salifu himself mounted on his horse, was coming along at a rapid pace, and was now within a hundred yards of the tree. All the members of the party were armed to the teeth, and in an excessively bad humour; Salifu, at the loss of his prey, and the five men who accompanied him, at being hustled along in the wake of the trotting horse.
“We must soon overtake them now,” I heard Maháma say, as he wiped the sweat from his face with his wide sleeve. “They cannot have gone much farther. Canst thou see if they have crossed the stream?”
“Yes,” grunted Salifu, standing up in his stirrups, “I can see the footmarks of the infidel pig on the other side, and the girl’s, too. Hast thou put plenty of slugs in thy gun?”
“It is loaded with a double charge,” replied Maháma.
“It is good,” exclaimed the old rascal viciously. “When we overtake them, give me the gun, and I will blow the pig-faced Nazarene ape into kabobs.”
Having announced these benevolent intentions, the old gentleman urged his horse forward and splashed through the water, followed by his retainers, while I held my hands firmly over Aminé’s mouth to prevent her giggles from betraying our whereabouts.
As soon as our pursuers had passed, I turned out the contents of the retort-like bird’s nest, and we proceeded to breakfast on the shell-fish; and while I was opening the mussels with my knife, Aminé popped the snails whole into her mouth, and crunched them up in a manner that made my flesh creep.
When we had satisfied our hunger, Aminé commenced to while away our vigil by pouring out an unending stream of chatter, but this I had to stop (as she could not remember to speak softly) by sternly forbidding her to speak; upon which she yawned plaintively, and presently, to my relief, curled herself up on the soft tindery floor of our cell and fell asleep.
The hours dragged on interminably. The sun rose to the zenith and glared down upon us until I was sick with the heat, and Aminé moaned and stirred in her sleep.
A belated parrot came and looked at us, and fluttered away screeching with fright; down in the plain a herd of harnessed antelopes sauntered about picking up here and there a stray blade of grass and sniffing the air suspiciously, and just below the tree a black monkey sat at the edge of the stream and dipped up little draughts of water in the hollow of his hand.
I looked on at these various occurrences dreamily and listlessly, keeping awake with difficulty, and watching the shadows slowly lengthen on the arid ground, until at last, late in the afternoon, I heard the welcome sound of voices and the noise of a horse’s hoofs, and presently a splashing in the water told me that the party was crossing the ford.
“It is a strange thing,” I could hear one of the men say. “I cannot understand it. They did not leave the hill, for I walked all round it.”
“They were not on the hill,” said Maháma, “for I searched every part of it.”
“Chatter no more!” burst out the old man furiously. “They are gone. A hundred and twenty thousand kurdi—perhaps more—are lost. And why? Because of thy folly. Because thou must needs bring this yellow-skinned hog of an unbeliever into our camp.”
“I did it for the best, my father,” urged Maháma.
The old man made no reply, but, as I put my eye to the crack in the bark, I saw him kick viciously at the horse with his great spurs, and he soon disappeared at a brisk trot among the trees, leaving his followers to double wearily after him.
When they were gone I woke up Aminé, who sat up yawning and rubbing her eyes.
“Is it morning?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “It is not yet night, but they have gone back.”
“Is there anything to eat?” she inquired.
“Nothing,” I answered. “We ate all the shell-fish.”
“Then let us sleep,” said she, and without further parley she curled up like a dog and instantly fell asleep again.
It seemed the best thing to do, for the night was coming on, and we had large arrears of rest to make up; so stretching myself on the soft floor, as well as the space would allow, I settled myself with an unwonted feeling of comfort, and followed her example.
The sun was well up when I opened my eyes on the following morning and Aminé had evidently been awake some time, for she was standing with her chin on the edge of the rough parapet that enclosed the hollow, looking across the country and beguiling the time by slapping at the flies that settled on the bark.
“At last thou art awake!” she exclaimed, turning her head as I rose and stretched my cramped limbs. “I thought thou wast going to sleep all day. Let us go down and look for something to eat.”
My own sensations strongly seconded this suggestion, so I at once helped Aminé over on to the monkey-rope, and having passed the lashing round her and seen her safely to the bottom, I slid down myself.
The first necessity being the immediate satisfaction of our ravenous hunger, we took to the stream and eagerly searched the shallows for shell-fish, and I was filled with mingled envy and disgust at the indiscriminate way in which Aminé gobbled up every living thing that she encountered. Nothing came amiss to her. Water-snails, queer little round-bodied crabs, insect larvæ and fish spawn, all went into her mouth as soon as they were picked up, while I, more fastidious although famishing, restricted my diet to the rather scarce mussels. However, Aminé presently discovered in the forest, close to the water, a gourd-like fruit about the size of an orange, which she told me she had often eaten, and as it grew quite profusely in that spot, we were able to make a really substantial meal and a much more agreeable one than the uncooked shell-fish afforded.
The question now arose, what were we to do next, and whither should we direct our steps? We could not lurk for ever in the wilderness, and yet we hardly dared to enter any town or village.
“We certainly cannot go towards Sálaga,” said Aminé, “for there we should meet that old thief Salifu and a hundred others like him. The place is full of slave dealers.”
“Dost thou know anything of the road to the west?” I inquired.
“Not I,” she replied. “I know that somewhere in the west is Bontúku and, beyond that, Kong in the Wongára country, but how far away I cannot tell.”
“We had best walk towards the west,” I said, “for we shall at least lengthen our distance from Sálaga, and perhaps we may meet friends on the road.”
“It is more likely that we shall meet enemies,” she answered, “for anyone can see that we are runaway slaves, and if we go into any town, the first travelling merchant that we meet will claim us and say that we have escaped from him. Now if we only had a little decent clothing according to the fashion of our country, no one would notice or molest us, but we are as naked as a pair of black bush people.”
This was only too true.
Had we been clothed in the Fulah fashion we should have presented nothing unusual, whereas, although we had as much clothing as most of the negroes of the district, our fair skins, straight hair, and regular features were quite out of character with our condition, and marked us at once as fugitives. However, some move had to be made, and as we were certainly not encumbered by baggage, we crossed the stream forthwith and took our way along the track westward; and I was pleased to see that Aminé, without any suggestion from me, now carried her sandals slung round her neck by a wisp of creeper, to avoid leaving any more tell-tale impressions on the ground.
We wandered on at an easy pace, browsing as we went. Some of the trees had ripe fruit on them—little sloe-like plums, very bitter and astringent, which Aminé devoured freely—and we met with a number of dwarf date-palms bearing small, orange-coloured dates which we both ate although they were dry and insipid; and with these and various odds and ends of wild fruit that we picked up, we postponed, rather than satisfied, our hunger for several hours.
Towards afternoon the path along which we were travelling joined a broader track, the numerous footmarks on which showed it to be a well-frequented road. Near the junction a small hill stood a few yards from the road, and, before determining our direction, I climbed to the summit and surveyed the country. Half-a-mile away on some rising ground I could see a group of conical thatched roofs, and I was just considering whether it would be wise to venture on entering the village, when I perceived a small party of travellers advancing along the road. Before I had time to examine them they were lost to view among the trees, but I had been able, in spite of the distance, to make out that they were dressed like Mahommedans, and were not natives of the district.
I communicated my observation to Aminé, and we hastily consulted as to what course we should pursue.
“Let us hide till they have passed,” she urged. “If they are Moslem they may seize us and take us to Sálaga.”
“But we cannot always hide,” I objected. “Perhaps they may befriend us seeing that we are Moslem; and they are but few in any case.”
“What shall we say to them? Shall we tell them what has happened?”
I considered, and then there occurred to me a plan which, distasteful as it was, seemed the most judicious under the difficult circumstances.
“I will tell thee, Aminé,” I said, “what we shall do. Do thou go and wait by the roadside, and when the men come, bid them be silent, for thy master, who is a holy man, meditateth and may not be disturbed.”
“But thou art not a holy man,” objected Aminé. “Thou hast not prayed once since I met thee.”
“It is no matter,” said I, rather taken aback nevertheless; “do as I bid thee and they may perchance think that I have cast away my clothing as a mark of my humility and holiness.”
“They will think thee holy indeed to have cast away my garments as well as thine own,” exclaimed Aminé laughing. “But thou art not dirty enough,” she added gravely. “I remember a holy man who came to our town, who wore only one ragged cloth, but he was very dirty and had a filthy, tangled beard. My two sisters and I threw plantain skins at him, and my father beat us.”
“I will rub some dirt upon my skin,” said I, “if thou thinkest it necessary. And now go and wait by the roadside before they come.”
She went a little distance in the direction from which the party was approaching, and began to gather some of the scanty but tall grass-stalks with which to plait a mat, while I sat myself down crosslegged a few yards off the path, and waited for the strangers.
Presently they appeared round a curve in the road—three men, a woman and a boy—and as they approached I saw Aminé come out from among the trees and hold up a warning finger, saying something to them in a low tone, on which they stopped and apparently questioned her. I sat motionless as a graven image, and, as the strangers advanced slowly along the path, I stared unwinkingly into vacancy as one who sees a vision, and totally ignored their presence.
For their part, they halted in a row opposite me and gazed at me with frank curiosity as though I were a museum specimen.
This was all very well for a minute or so, but when they all set down their burdens on the ground that they might observe me at greater ease, I felt that my position was becoming untenable. I could not maintain that wooden stare for an indefinite time, in fact, the corners of my mouth were inclined to twitch already; and as it would be fatal to laugh, it was necessary to talk: wherefore I opened my mouth and spake, as though pursuing some profound reflection.
“Moreover,” I commenced, by way of encouraging myself, “have not all things their appointed places from which they depart not? Does the river leave its bed and stray up the mountain? Does the moon outpace the sun and the night tread upon the heels of day? Surely it is not so. For if the night should struggle against the day and the stars strive with the sun, then would the earth be confounded and the infidel rejoice in the pride of his heart.”
I paused to observe the effect of my performance. The men looked at one another in blank amazement, and one asked in tones of awe:
“Dost thou understand this, Isaaku?”
“Not I,” replied the other. “I am no scholar, and his words are weighty and deep; but it is profitable to listen to the sayings of the wise.”
“It seemeth to me,” broke in the boy—an urchin of about ten—“that this yellow-skinned fellow talketh like an old woman that hath drunk too much pittu,” whereupon one of the men dealt him a hearty cuff on the head, and he hastily retreated behind his mother, from which stronghold he silently defied me by gestures and horrid grimaces.
Seeing that my audience was eager for further samples of my wisdom, I took up the thread of my reflections.
“And if these things be so; if the hippopotamus may not soar aloft with the hawk, nor the tortoise perch upon the branch and carol to his mate; so is it also with man. The housewife shall not sit in the mosque nor the mallam fetch water from the well.
“These things are known unto the wise, but the foolish regard them not, considering only the labour of the day or the profit of the market. For the foolish pile up merchandise and kurdi and gold and cattle that they may grow fat with much eating; but the wise man hearkeneth unto the words of the Prophet and giveth alms of that which is given to him, shareth his plenty with the needy, and giveth shelter and raiment unto those that are houseless and naked.”
If the first part of my discourse was rather out of the depth of my hearers, the conclusion enabled them, in nautical phrase, to “strike soundings,” which they did with a readiness that did them credit.
The eldest man of the party beckoned to Aminé, who had been standing at a little distance listening, round-eyed and open-mouthed.
“Whither does thy master journey?” he asked.
“We journey to Bontúku,” she replied, with admirable presence of mind.
“We go towards Bori,” said the man, “so for the next two days we travel the same road; and if it please thy master to walk with us we will gladly share our provisions with him.”
“I will ask him,” said Aminé; and stepping over to me she put her mouth to my ear and gave a shout that nearly stunned me, by way of arousing me from my reverie.
I staggered to my feet in quite unfeigned confusion.
“This good man,” said she calmly, “asketh if thou wilt walk with his party and rest by his fire until our ways part.”
I regarded the man with assumed surprise, as if I had not noticed him before, and then said:
“The companionship of a believer is good when one journeys through the land of the heathen. I thank thee for thy courtesy and will very gladly walk in thy company.”
The man—whose name appeared to be Isaaku—seemed highly gratified, and assured me that all that he possessed was at my service, and, when I had again thanked him, he and his party took up their burdens and resumed their journey, Aminé and I following.
We tramped on for a couple of hours through the shadeless, monotonous orchard country, until we arrived at a small hamlet which was built in the narrow strip of woodland that fringed a small stream. Here, to my unspeakable joy, Isaaku announced his intention of staying for the night, having been on the road since daybreak; and as his people piled the loads under the village shade-tree, he entered into lengthy negotiations with the headman (or village chief) with a view to obtaining the necessary accommodation for the night and permission to light a fire.
The headman, a good-natured, jocose, elderly man, readily gave permission for our party to put up for the night in his own house, and led the way into the compound, whither we removed our baggage. The house was of the type peculiar to the district of Gwandjiowa or Gonja, and quite different from anything I had previously seen. The compound or courtyard was enclosed by a low wall of clay-like mud, which connected a number of circular huts with high conical roofs of grass thatch; each hut had an oval doorway about three feet high which opened on to the compound, excepting a larger hut in the centre of the wall, which had two doorways, one opening on to the compound and the other on to the street, so that this hut formed a kind of gate-house, giving entrance to this miniature walled town.
Through this entry the chief preceded us (on all fours) and we crept through after him one at a time. There were, in all, eight huts ranged round the compound, and of these the chief assigned two to our use, one of which we allotted to the men and the other to the two women and the boy. The centre of the compound was occupied by a kind of kiln in which pottery was baked, and as we entered, one of the chief’s sons was engaged in modelling a large water pot of bluish clay, which he did very dexterously with his fingers alone, the potter’s wheel being unknown in this region.
Our people gathered round, as idle persons will, to look on as the workman’s busy fingers rapidly shaped the mass of clay; and as I had observed that my unkempt appearance had already excited unfavourable notice and comment on the part of the villagers, I thought this a favourable opportunity to assert my character. I therefore raised my hand to command silence, and proceeded to moralise.
“Behold,” said I, addressing the company in general, “how the labour of this simple workman speaketh to us admonitions to piety and good works. For this clay that he kneadeth, which under the foot is but mire and dirt, fouling the sandal of the traveller and making difficult the way, when shaped by the skilful and industrious fingers, becometh a thing of usefulness and beauty, yielding refreshment to the thirsty and making clean the body of him that laboureth.
“And what are we, my brethren, but mire and clay, until the finger of knowledge transformeth us and we become as holy vessels full of the water of wisdom? For the heathen is but the dirt that is trodden under foot, profitable to none; but when the hand of the potter hath shaped him into the comeliness of wisdom and faith, then is he fit for good works, fair to look upon, and profitable to all.
“Nor,” I continued, “is any so humble that he may not be made glorious. Behold this piece of clay!” I picked up a small pellet and held it up between my finger and thumb. “It is but a mere morsel of dirt. Yet can it be made to speak the words of the book of God and sing His praise without ceasing.” I took the pellet and pressed it upon the blade of my knife until it formed a smooth flat tablet, and on this, with the sharp point of the knife, I wrote the opening sentence of the Koran, “Praise be to God!” and held it aloft.
Our people and the villagers who had crowded round to listen—for all the Gonja natives understand some Hausa—stared at me in open-mouthed wonder; and when, at the conclusion of my discourse, I flung away the clay tablet, the entire assemblage made a wild scramble for its possession.
“What is written on this tablet?” asked Alla Karímu, one of our party, who had secured the treasure and was carefully licking the dust off it.
I told him what the inscription meant.
“I thank thee, Yúsufu,” he said. “I shall roast it in the fire and sew it up in a leather cover to wear for a laiya (amulet).”
But he was not to enjoy the distinction of being the sole possessor of an amulet, for the potter was instantly besieged by applicants for clay pellets, and for the next hour I was kept busy writing inscriptions on the little tablets, a shea butter lamp being provided when the daylight faded; and a special fire was made for hardening them, which process was conducted under the superintendence of the potter himself.
This rather absurd incident was a fortunate one for me, for by it I gained the goodwill and respect not only of our own party but of the villagers, and so far from being a burden to my hospitable host, I became a benefactor; for the gifts of fowls, yams, and fruit that poured in on me converted our evening meal into a veritable banquet.
That night, as we sat by the fire on our mats, Isaaku opened his heart to me on the subject of my appearance, which evidently troubled him not a little, for, like all Mahommedans, he had very strict ideas concerning the outward decencies of life.
“It grieveth me, Yúsufu,” said he, “to see thee go so naked and forlorn. I know thou art a holy man, modest and clean in act and thought, but I fear that strangers, who know thee not, may scoff to see one of our faith, and a wise man, walking abroad uncovered as the heathen do. Moreover, it is not good that thy wife, who is young and comely, should be seen without decent raiment.”
“Thou speakest wisely, Isaaku, and like a true follower of the Prophet,” I replied. “I will remember thy words and buy me some fitting apparel with the first money that I earn.”
Isaaku was silent for a time; then he said somewhat shyly—
“I have in my pack a riga and wondo that I do not need. They are threadbare and old, and not such as are fitting to one of thy condition, but, if thou wilt take them, they will at least serve until thou canst get thee more suitable raiment.”
“I will take thy gift and be very thankful,” I replied, concealing with difficulty my eagerness and delight; whereupon Isaaku arose and, calling his wife, went with her into the house allotted to the women. Presently he came back with a bundle in his hands, which he unrolled on the mat.
“Here are the garments,” he said. “They are but poor things, and little worth, but, such as they are, thou art welcome to them.”
I thanked him and shook them out. They were very shabby and none too clean, and they smelt most horribly of civet; but I was overjoyed at possessing them, and without more ado I stood up on the mat and put them on.
As my head came through the hole in the riga I heard Aminé give a little cry, and looking towards her, saw that she was holding out a large, blue-striped body-cloth.
“See, Yúsufu!” she exclaimed gleefully; “the good Fatima hath given me a túrkedi.”
She joyfully wrapped the cloth round her body, gave the ends a skilful little twist under her arm, and drew herself up proudly for me to see; and certainly, now that she was clothed, she appeared much more respectable if rather less handsome.
On the following morning we turned out early, and gathering up the remainder of the provisions that had been given to me, sallied forth from the village amidst the benedictions of the headman and his people. Isaaku had added to his present a cotton cap such as the Wongáras wear, so that I was completely equipped in a humble way, while, as to Aminé, she tripped along in her new túrkedi, as fine as a sweep’s apprentice on the first of May.
As we walked, Isaaku chatted pleasantly about his experiences, and the journey on which he was now engaged, and incidentally I learned a great deal about the town of Bori, whither he was bound, and other cities of the interior.
“As soon as I reach Bori,” he observed, “I shall get a mai-tákalmi (sandal maker) to sew up the clay tablet that thou gavest me, in a leather case, that it may not be broken.”
“If I had a piece of paper,” I said, “I would write thee some saying from the holy book on it, so there should be no fear of thy laiya getting broken.”
“Perhaps we shall find some tree that shall yield us paper to write on,” replied Isaaku; “then if thou wilt write some holy words on it, I shall be most thankful.”
To this I made no reply, having no idea what my host meant, and not wishing to display my ignorance; but while we were taking our midday rest in a belt of forest that fringed a small stream, the boy Ali came running to his father with the news that he had found a tree that would serve our purpose.
“It is the kind of tree that the Ashanti people call honton,” said he, “such as we saw the heathen in Sehui use to make garments of.”
Isaaku and I followed the lad, who proudly conducted us to this treasure, a not very large tree, of a kind that I recognised as having seen in the forest.
“This will serve us well,” said Isaaku, and drawing his knife he made four deep incisions in the bark, marking off a space about three feet square.
“Thou must first bruise it, father, or it will not come off,” said Ali, and accordingly he fell to hammering the incisions with a heavy branch.
“Gently, gently, my son!” exclaimed Isaaku. “Beat not too hard, or thou wilt spoil it for writing upon. We want it for paper, not for cloth.”
He tapped the marked space with the handle of his knife until the outer bark was loosened, when he peeled it off in strips. Then, sticking the point of the knife into the incision, he prised up a corner of the inner bark, and with the aid of his finger-nails stripped off a square sheet of what looked like coarse, rather flimsy, canvas.
“See, my son,” he said, showing it to Ali, “if thou wantest it for writing thou must keep it smooth, but if it is for cloth, then must the pulp be bruised out of the meshes.”
He rolled the bark up carefully and tied it lightly on top of his load that it might dry in the sun as we went along, and we then resumed our journey, travelling on at a rapid pace until late in the afternoon, when we entered a large village on the bank of the great river. Here, while Fatima and Aminé were busying themselves with preparations for the evening meal, Isaaku borrowed a small shallow bowl in which he ground up some charcoal and a piece of gum with water, and having obtained some fowl’s feathers, laid the collection before me, with the bark, which he had cut up into pieces a few inches square.
They were not ideal writing materials, but I found that it was possible to produce with them characters sufficiently distinct to answer the purpose; so I got to work while the light lasted, and wrote, from memory, on each of the squares of bark, the short but fine and dignified introductory chapter to the Koran.
Our people gathered round and listened reverently while I read out the words of praise and exhortation, and I then distributed one of the squares to each of the men and to Fatima. The remainder, with the exception of three which I kept for my own use, I made up into a little package and handed to Isaaku, saying that perhaps he might like to give them to some of his friends. He was delighted with the gift, and most profuse in his thanks, and this being the last evening that I was to spend in his company, he directed Fatima to prepare some provisions for my use on the morrow. Then he took me aside to give me some advice as to my future proceedings.
“Hast thou any friends in Bontúku?” he asked somewhat anxiously.
“I hope to meet some of my countrymen there,” I replied.
“I trust thou wilt,” said he uneasily, “for thou hast more piety and learning than worldly wisdom, and art but poorly provided even for a short journey.”
“Man bringeth nought into the world and taketh nought away with him,” said I.
“That is true,” he replied. “But while he is in the world he needeth food and raiment. Faith is precious, but it filleth not the belly. However, here is a little store to carry thee to Bontúku, and may God prosper thee and make thee as rich in the things of this world as thou art in those of the next.”
He drew from the pocket of his riga a small wicker bag full of cowrie shells and put it into my hand.
“I like not to take thy kurdi,” said I hesitatingly. “Is it not enough that thou hast fed me since I met thee by the way?”
“Not so,” he answered. “It is thou that hast fed us; besides thou knowest that the amulets that thou hast given me shall bring a good price among the merchants at Bori.”
I had not thought of this, and now rejoiced to have a fresh means of getting a livelihood opened out to me; so I thanked Isaaku and deposited the kurdi in my pocket.
We were up at daybreak on the following morning, and proceeded in a body to the river side, where we found the ferryman whipping the sprung handle of his paddle with a thong of sheepskin.
Our household furniture had now increased to a grass mat and a wicker bag, in which the provisions were stored, and while Aminé was getting into the canoe with these, I laid my hand on the head of each of my friends in succession, and bestowed on them my solemn benediction. Then I stepped into the canoe and, as the ferryman had now completed the repairs on his paddle, we pushed off amidst a chorus of good wishes from our friends upon the bank.
On the opposite side of the river we found a broad, well-worn track, along which we took our way at a brisk pace, in a very different frame of mind from that which we had experienced before we met Isaaku and his people. Indeed, it amused me to note what a difference was made in our condition by a few poor rags of clothing. No longer did we sneak stealthily along the path, hiding ourselves from casual wayfarers, but strode forward boldly, entering the villages with confidence, and exchanging cheerful salutations with all whom we met on the road. And it was well that our affairs were in this improved condition, for we were now on the main road from Bori to Bontúku; and not only were the travellers numerous, but villages and hamlets occurred at pretty frequent intervals.
We trudged on steadily for a couple of hours, meeting small parties of travellers—mostly travelling Wongáras—and passing through two or three villages, until we came to a small stream with the usual fringe of shady woodland; and here Aminé proposed that we should halt and breakfast.
“I know not why we should push on so fast,” said she, “seeing that one place is as good for us as another,” and she sat down on a moss-covered bank and began to rummage in the provision bag.
“Is it true that thou lookest for friends in Bontúku?” she asked presently, as she pulled a leg off a spare and ascetic-looking fowl.
“I look for friends everywhere,” I replied with a grin. “Perhaps we may meet thy father there”—for she had told me that she had been kidnapped while accompanying her father on a journey to Kong.
“There is little fear of that,” she rejoined. “He will have gone back to his country long since.”
“Little fear!” I exclaimed. “Dost thou not wish to meet thy father then?”
“Not I,” she answered, “for if we should meet him he would take me back, and since thou hast not the wherewith to pay my dowry, he would perhaps give me to some other man.”
As the conversation appeared to be drifting into an undesirable channel I changed the subject.
“What hast thou in that little bag that is hanging round thy neck?” I asked.
“This?” exclaimed Aminé, taking it in her fingers. “Surely it is the little clay tablet that thou didst write the holy words upon. Thou didst not write me a laiya upon the bark as thou didst for the others,” she added, a little reproachfully.
This was a sad oversight. The fact was that I had not reckoned on her taking my performance seriously, seeing that she was more or less of a confederate, and I had forgotten how little she really knew about me. However, I hastened to retrieve the situation.
“I have kept three,” I said, taking the bundle from my pocket, and spreading out the documents before her. “Take the one that thou likest best.”
She fingered the squares of bark with childish pleasure, comparing their merits, and then handed them back to me, saying:
“Do thou choose for me, Yúsufu; thou knowest better than I which is the best.”
I selected one and held it out to her.
“Keep it for me in thy pocket,” said she, “until I can get a leather case to carry it in;” so I replaced it and resumed my assault upon the provisions.
“I wish I was able to write words as thou art, Yúsufu,” said Aminé presently, when, having finished our meal, we sat dreamily watching the little stream as it pursued its noiseless course.
“Why dost thou wish that, Aminé?” I asked.
She crept closer to me and laid her cheek against my shoulder, regarding me with an expression that filled me with vague uneasiness.
“Thou didst tell the people,” said she, “that the written words speak ever without ceasing. If I could write, I would make thee a laiya, and I would write on it, ‘Aminé loveth thee,’ and thou shouldst wear it always round thy neck.”
“It needeth no laiya to tell me of thy faithfulness,” said I. “Thy deeds speak more clearly than words written on paper or clay. Ever since I met thee thou hast been to me even as a dear sister.”
Aminé sat up with a jerk.
“God hath given me as many brothers as I want,” she said shortly. “As for thee, thou art not my brother, nor am I thy sister, of which I am truly glad, for if I were, then could I not be thy wife.”
“That is true,” said I helplessly; for this frank avowal, with its implied proposal, left me fairly dazed with astonishment, and I had barely presence of mind enough to again turn the conversation into a new channel.
“Thou art a good girl, Aminé,” I said, rather irrelevantly, “and thou art very patient with our poverty and hardship. Perhaps we shall meet with some better fortune at Bontúku. At any rate, we have enough kurdi to keep us for a day or two.”
“Thou must keep thy kurdi as long as thou canst,” said she, coming back reluctantly to the prosaic realities of our life. “For my part, I shall gather these yellow caterpillars that swarm upon the trees. If I cannot sell them in one of the villages, we can eat them ourselves.”
I made an involuntary grimace at the suggestion, which did not escape her notice, for she exclaimed somewhat severely:
“Thou art a very dainty man, Yúsufu. Thou wilt not eat snails nor crabs nor the little black plums, and now thou makest a wry face at the good, fat caterpillars, although we have but a handful of kurdi to buy us food. Thou canst teach wisdom to others, but thine own actions are full of folly.”
“He who giveth much alms leaveth his pockets empty,” said I, laughing, whereupon she slapped me smartly on the shoulder, and emptying the provision bag into my pocket, went off to collect caterpillars.
We walked on at a more easy pace for the rest of the day, for we learned from some travellers, whom we met, that the large village or town of Táari lay at no great distance ahead; and as we journeyed, Aminé’s bag became gradually filled with a writhing, squirming mass of the large, yellow caterpillars, which she persisted in thrusting under my nose at frequent intervals, by way, I supposed, of awakening in me a less fastidious appetite.
The afternoon was well advanced when we entered the village of Táari, and sat down for a brief rest under the enormous shade-tree that graced the middle of the principal street. This tree was the most wonderful specimen of vegetation that I saw in all my wanderings—more wonderful even than the colossal silk-cottons of the forest, for whereas the latter towered aloft to an immense altitude, this great banyan-like shade tree spread abroad over an area that was almost incredible. In shape it was like a giant mushroom, the flat under surface supporting multitudes of dangling bunches of aërial roots, and the shade that it cast was as profound as that of a yew tree. We sat in the deep twilight on a pile of fantastically twisted roots, and looked out into the dazzling street on to a scene of life and bustle that was new and strange to me. Hausas, Fulahs, and Wongáras in their gay rigas strode to and fro; strangely-dressed natives of unknown regions came and went, and now and again some wealthy merchant rode by upon his horse; and as we watched, a caravan, which must have followed us along the Bori road, entered the town, led by three men mounted on white, humped oxen.
“Let us go and look for the market,” said Aminé. “There are many people here; perhaps I shall be able to sell my caterpillars.”
We rose and walked down the street, which at the farther end opened out into a wide space in which the market was being held, and which was filled by a dense and motley crowd in which all the nations of Africa seemed to be represented, from the grave and dignified Fulah, richly clothed and looking out secretly through the narrow opening of his face-cloth, to the half naked natives of some neighbouring villages.
We pushed our way into the throng, and sauntered past the rows of open booths, in which well-to-do merchants from Hausa, Bornu, Kong, and even Jenne and Timbuktu, sat presiding over a rich display of clothing, leather work, arms, and jewellery.
“Look, Yúsufu!” exclaimed Aminé, halting opposite a booth where a venerable Hausa sat on a handsome rug in the midst of his wares, “what a beautiful riga saki this old man has. I wish we could buy it for thee, so that thou mightest throw aside thy old ragged riga.” She pointed to a splendidly embroidered gown that hung on the partition of the booth.
“But a day or two ago I had no riga at all,” said I, and I led her away from the tantalising spectacle.
We passed between the double rows of booths and entered the produce market, where rows of countrywomen sat on the ground behind their little stalls, with their goods spread out on mats or in baskets or calabashes. It was late in the afternoon, and many of them, having sold out their stocks, were rolling up their mats preparatory to going home. One old woman who was thus preparing for her departure, had left upon the ground one circular basket tray, on which there yet remained a couple of heaps of the identical caterpillars that formed Aminé’s stock in trade, and as we stopped before the stall, a Hausa woman came up, and, after some haggling, laid down a dozen kurdi, and gathered up the two piles of insects.
As the old woman picked up the empty tray, Aminé stepped into the now-vacant space and spread out her mat, on which she began to arrange little heaps of the caterpillars, the corpses of which she disinterred from the “black hole” of her bag. When she had set out the stall to her satisfaction she seated herself at the end of the mat to wait for customers, and I strolled off to see the “fun of the fair.” There was plenty to see, and as I looked at the strange and novel spectacle I almost forgot my forlorn and destitute condition.
I elbowed my way through the crowd, and joined the other idlers and sight-seers around the more entertaining stalls. Here was an old Hausa busily writing laiyas or amulets, and I watched him with a special interest, noting his methods and materials and the prices his trumpery fetched. Then I came to a man roasting kabobs over a pot of charcoal, and the aroma they diffused around made my mouth water, so that I hurried on. There were drinking stalls, where a kind of crude sherbet was dispensed in little calabashes from a great jar, and a stall where a man was frying masa; and the little cakes looked so tempting that I invested twenty kurdi in half a dozen for supper. From a specially dense part of the crowd came a Babel of talk and shouts of laughter, and, on pushing my way to the front, I beheld a barber plying his trade, and as he mowed the stubble from the head of a kneeling client, he kept the bystanders in a roar of merriment by an unceasing flow of jests and anecdotes.
I was absorbed in one of the barber’s not very proper stories when my ear caught the strains of what sounded like an aged and infirm piano or a spinet, and turning with the rest of the crowd, perceived a party of musicians advancing up the market. The leader of the band was hammering a rude dulcimer; one of his two assistants sawed away at a preposterous little fiddle, while the other kept time with a drum, and all three bellowed out their song as though they were fresh from the Borough market with a cargo of broccoli.
As they came opposite the barber’s stall the musicians halted, and the drummer advanced, holding out a small calabash for contributions. The pitch was well chosen, for the crowd was in high good humour, and the kurdi rattled into the calabash merrily, the barber contributing half his recently earned fee. When the drummer came to me I shook my head, for my means did not admit of my making presents, but the man was persistent, and stood before me with the calabash thrust under my nose.
“Wilt thou not give the poor musicians a few kurdi?” asked the barber, confronting me with a saucy leer. “They who swagger about in rich apparel should be generous to the needy.”
This delicate satire on my ragged appearance was greeted by a shout of laughter.
“I am but a poor man, and must needs feed myself before I give to others,” said I gruffly, rather nettled at the barber’s impudence.
“Feed thyself!” ejaculated the barber. “What need to feed thyself when thou art bursting with fatness already? Give alms to the poor, and let thy belly have a rest.”
Fresh shouts of laughter greeted these exhortations, for my late experiences had left me as emaciated as a Cape Coast chicken, and I felt strongly disposed to pull my tormentor’s nose; but, apart from the unsuitability of the organ—which was as flat as a monkey’s—I saw that it would be the height of folly to lose my temper, for the crowd was growing every moment.
“Let the Moor sing us a song if he will not pay,” suggested a broad-faced Bornu.
“Good!” exclaimed the barber. “I have never heard a Moor sing. Sing us a good song, and I will shave thee for nothing—and not before thou needest it either.”
The suggestion was received with acclamation by the crowd, including the musicians, so I determined to fall in with their humour.
“Very well,” said I. “Give me thy instrument and I will sing.”
I took the dulcimer from its owner, and slung it over my shoulder, and with one of the rubber-tipped hammers banged out the scale to try the range of the instrument and find the sequence of the notes. It had twenty notes, and was tuned sufficiently well to produce an intelligible air upon, and as I had been used to strum a little upon the piano in old days, this simple instrument presented no difficulties.
I struck out boldly the opening phrase of “Tom Bowling” as a prelude, and then burst into song with a roar like the hail of a Channel pilot.
I had expected to be stopped in the first bar, but, to my astonishment, as I proceeded, the grins of derision on the faces of my audience gave place to an expression of wondering admiration, and when I had let off the final yell and thumped out a brief postlude, I was overwhelmed with congratulations. The sherbet merchant ran off to fetch me a bowl of his muddy, sour beverage, and the barber dragged me on to his mat and commanded me to kneel.
“Art thou going to shave me then?” I asked.
“Shave thee!” he exclaimed. “I would shave a porcupine to hear a song like that thou hast sung.”
He whisked off my cap, and set to work on my scalp with a clumsy little razor, but very skilfully and easily, while the crowd pressed round the mat until I was nearly suffocated.
“Thou singest sweetly,” said the barber, as he mowed away, “and thy song was most tuneful, but I could not understand thy words. Was it a Moorish song?”
“No,” said I, “it is a song that I heard a Christian sing when I was at Ogúa (Cape Coast).”
“It is true,” broke in the Bornu. “I have been to Ogúa, and there I heard the masu-bíndiga (soldiers) of the Christians play much fine music, and this song I heard also.”
An earnest discussion on the white men and their customs followed, and was still going on when I arose with smooth and tingling head and chin, and, thanking the whimsical barber, made my escape. I was hurrying away when I felt someone pluck me by the sleeve, and, turning, found the dulcimer player at my elbow.
“That was a good song of thine,” said he, “and right well sung. Dost thou know any more of the songs of the white people?”
“Yes. I know a few,” I replied cautiously.
“Then perhaps thou understandest their language?” said he.
“I speak it a little,” I answered. “Why dost thou ask?”
“Because,” he replied, “I and my brothers think of journeying to Ogúa. I have heard that the white people are rich and generous, and we think we might earn enough there to buy some of the Christians’ merchandise, and bring it back to our country. Now, if thou canst sing their songs and speak their language, we would be glad to have thee with us, and would share our earnings with thee if thou wouldst come.”
This was an offer not to be lightly rejected, for it promised immediate subsistence and an escort and guides to the Coast, whither I desired to journey as quickly as I could.
“It is a long journey,” said I. “I should like to think about it.”
“Where dost thou stay?” asked the musician.
“I have but just arrived,” I replied, “and have yet to find a place to sleep in.”
“I stay with a countryman of mine, a man of Kong, and I doubt not he will let thee sleep in his house. Come, and I will take thee to him.”
“I must first go to my wife, whom I left in the market,” said I.
“Shall I come with thee?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “I will come back to thee anon.”
“Very well,” said he, “I will wait for thee at the corner here by the mosque.”
I found Aminé sitting patiently on her mat with a row of little heaps of caterpillars spread before her, and I feared that her speculation had failed. She brightened up when she saw me, and beckoned me to her side.
“Thou hast been a long time, my Yúsufu,” said she, laying her hand fondly on my arm. “My caterpillars are nearly all gone. See! we are quite rich,” and she proudly displayed a pile of kurdi that was hidden beneath her bag.
“I shall not sell any more now, I think,” she continued, “for it is getting dark, and the people are going home. Hast thou found us a place to sleep in, where we can get some food?”
I told her of my appointment with the musician and the proposal he had made, on which she pursed up her lips rather doubtfully.
“We can hear what the fellow says,” she said; “and thou knowest what is best to do better than I. But these minstrels are a worthless set of vagabonds as a rule.”
However, she put the caterpillars back into her bag, and, bidding me take up the heap of kurdi, rolled up her mat and followed me. We found the minstrel waiting by the door of the mosque, looking out for us with some eagerness, and when we came up he regarded Aminé with undisguised admiration.
“Thou art a lucky fellow to have such a handsome wife,” said he. “Not but that thou art a proper fellow thyself. But come and let us see if we can find thee a place to sleep in.”
I noticed that Aminé appeared to relish the man’s compliments as little as I did, but we walked after him, as there seemed nothing else to do.
Our conductor, who seemed to know the place well, led us through a maze of foul-smelling alleys until we came to a high mud wall, in which was a doorway closed by a gate of palm leaf. Entering through this, we found ourselves in a spacious but dirty compound, in the middle of which a Wongára woman was attending to some cooking pots, assisted by her two daughters. The women rose from the fire and stared at us inquisitively, and when our acquaintance had explained who we were, the elder woman shouted gruffly to her husband, who at that moment emerged from the house.
“This is my countryman, Osumánu Wongára,” said our friend, introducing us, “a most excellent man and my trusted friend.”
“Spare thy compliments, and tell me who these people are,” growled Osumánu, looking at us sourly enough.
“They are friends of mine who would lodge in thy house, most worthy and respectable people, my brother,” replied the minstrel suavely.
“Then they are not like most of thy friends,” retorted the other; “but they can have a room if they are able to pay for it.”
“I should not come to the house of a stranger if I could not pay,” said I stiffly.
“Thou wouldst not remain long if thou didst,” he replied pleasantly. “How much wilt thou give for a room?”
“Show me the room,” I said.
He fetched a shea butter lamp and led me into a filthy little cell with black mud walls and smoke-blackened rafters, the rustlings and cracklings from which hinted broadly of mice and cockroaches. There was no window nor any opening but the unguarded doorway.
“Pooh!” exclaimed Aminé, turning up her nose in disgust, “it is better to sleep in the wilderness than in this stinking little hole.”
“No doubt thou art more used to the wilderness,” replied Osumánu drily.
“How much?” I asked.
“Fifty kurdi,” answered Osumánu.
“I will give thee twenty,” said I.
“Albérika!” replied mine host, using the courteous stereotyped form of refusal.
“Give him twenty-five,” suggested the minstrel.
“That is five for the smell,” said Aminé, sniffing disdainfully. “Thou wilt get plenty for thy money, Yúsufu.”
“Thou saucy jade!” exclaimed Osumánu. “If thou wert my wife thou shouldst know the feel of a hippo hide whip.”
“If I were thy wife,” retorted Aminé, “I would put something into thy soup that would make me a widow, and go and look for a man.”
The Wongára raised his fist as though to strike Aminé, but I caught him by the wrist.
“If thou layest a finger on my wife I will stick my knife into thy belly,” said I.
“These are pleasant friends that thou hast brought, Ali,” grumbled the Wongára, licking his wrist where I had gripped it.
“Give him a price and have done with it,” said Ali, as the minstrel appeared to be named, grinning with secret enjoyment.
“Very well. Thirty-five, and I will not take one less.”
I pulled out my bag and counted out thirty-five shells into Osumánu’s hands, whereon he departed.
“If thou wilt sup with us we can share our provisions,” suggested Ali.
“We will sup by ourselves,” Aminé put in quickly, evidently suspecting that we should not be the gainers by this arrangement. “We have just enough for ourselves, and no more.”
Accepting the hint, Ali took himself off, and Aminé immediately set about preparing our supper. With some trouble she obtained the loan of a flat cooking pot from the uncivil Wongára woman, purchased a little shea butter and other materials, and took temporary possession of the fireplace, while I spread the mat on the ground and sat looking on.
“What hast thou in thy pocket?” she asked, as she rose from the frizzling pot.
“I have the remainder of what Fatima gave us and some masa that I bought in the market.”
“Then we shall do well for to-night,” said she gleefully, “and to-morrow we can think of when it comes.”
And, in fact, we supped royally. A substantial remnant of Fatima’s gift was yet unconsumed, and I had brought quite a little pile of masa from the market. But the crowning glory of the feast was the product of Aminé’s cookery, which she turned out of the pot with a flourish on to a flat basket tray, and laid before me all crisp and smoking. I knew that the brown, whitebait-like objects were caterpillars, and tasted a few with shuddering trepidation, but I ended by greedily devouring more than half of the pile, to Aminé’s joy and pride.
During our repast Ali came to our quarters, and we thought he had brought us some additions to our meal; but he had only come to beg a couple of masa, and when I had given them to him, we saw him go and devour them in a corner before going back to his comrades.
We sat for a long time after supper discussing our future movements.
“I like not these new friends of thine, the Wongáras,” said Aminé; “nor does it seem good that a wise man as thou art should be seen abroad with a pack of ragamuffin minstrels. Still, thou knowest best.”
“I like them not myself,” said I, “but they go to the settlements of the Christians, where I have many good friends, and I see no other means of getting a livelihood.”
Our talk was interrupted by Ali, who came over to us with his clumsy-looking instrument, which he set down upon the mat before me.
“I have brought thee the balafu that I may show thee how to play on it, since I know not thy songs,” said he. “Although thou didst very well to-day, and hast, no doubt, played on one before.”
I made no reply, but taking up the instrument, examined it curiously. It consisted of a light framework of sticks fastened together with lashings of fibre, which supported twenty rods of hard wood, suspended above the frame on two tightly stretched strings; these diminished progressively in length from two feet at one end to six inches at the other, and under each rod was hung a flask-shaped calabash of a corresponding size, to act as a sound box. The whole contrivance was about a yard long, and the ingenuity with which it was constructed, and the musical knowledge that its design displayed, filled me with surprise and admiration. I took the two hammers—carved sticks with knobs of native rubber at the ends—and struck the rods in succession, eliciting the clear, wiry, dulcimer-like tone that I have described, and I now found the range of the instrument to be two octaves and five notes, the order of succession being similar to that of European keyed instruments, and the tuning remarkably correct.
Having thus made my acquaintance with the balafu, I placed myself under Ali’s tuition, and, as the vagabond minstrel was a really skilful player and a musician of some taste, I made such progress that, when the lesson was finished, I could accompany one of my simple English airs in quite a proficient manner.
We were up betimes on the following morning, and shaking off the abundant dust of Osumánu’s inhospitable abode, sallied forth with our companions. It was Ali’s plan to give an entertainment in the market before leaving Táari, that we might start with replenished purses, but the people were now busy with the commencement of the day’s work, and no strangers had yet arrived; whence the performance—in which I took no part—fell rather flat, and was brought to a premature close; so, having invested the meagre collection in a small stock of provisions, we took to the road.
It had been our original intention to pass through Bontúku on our way south, but the fiddler, Osman, who knew the country well, urged us to turn south-east by way of Banda, as we should thus considerably shorten our journey through the forest; and, as my recollections of the horrors of forest travelling were most vivid, I supported Osman in his contention that we should keep as long as possible in the orchard country. We therefore turned off from the Bontúku road and took a smaller path, which led through Banda to Ashanti.
Along this road we met but few travellers, and, although the villages were pretty numerous, they were small and poverty-stricken. We gave a performance in one of them, but the result was not encouraging. It is true that there was no lack of an audience, for every person in the village attended; but when Baku, the drummer, went round with his calabash, the people merely peered into it, and not a single shell was forthcoming. Baku pointedly suggested that a few plantains or beans would be acceptable, but the hint was received with surly derision, and, when at length the minstrels assumed a bullying manner and Osman attempted to snatch up a stray fowl, the women and children vanished as if by magic, and the men, marshalled by the chief, assumed such a threatening attitude that we were glad to take ourselves off.
It being thus pretty evident that we should not make much profit out of the villages, we pushed on at a rapid pace towards Banda, which town, I gathered, was about forty miles distant from Táari. As we went along, my companions enlivened our journey with an unceasing flow of talk, but, like many public performers, they were a little disappointing in private life, and their conversation was often of a kind that would have deeply shocked the pious and patriarchal Isaaku; indeed, the more I saw of my new associates, the less I liked them; and I could not but admit the justice of Aminé’s estimate of them. They had all the faults of the strolling Bohemian, with perhaps some of his virtues, for they were certainly gay, careless fellows, taking little thought for the morrow, and making light of present discomforts; but they were greedy though extravagant, grasping though improvident, coarse in their manners, lax in morals, and very obscure in their ideas of honesty.
When we came to prepare our evening meal at the village in which we intended to sleep, Ali spread out a mat, and the three minstrels, to Aminé’s astonishment and mine, began to unship from their enormous pockets various odds and ends of food—one or two plantains, a few sweet potatoes, a couple of red yams, loose handfuls of beans, millet and maizemeal; and Osman produced a large lump of fufu wrapped in leaves.
“Where didst thou get all these things?” Aminé asked the latter as he laid down the fufu. “I did not see thee buy anything.”
The three men looked at one another and laughed long and loud.
“Didst thou not see Osman go a-marketing at the last village we passed?” asked Ali with a sly leer.
“I did not see him at all there,” replied Aminé.
“Then thou mightest have known that he was gone a-marketing,” rejoined the balafu-player, and the minstrels all roared with laughter again.
“I like not these Wongáras,” said Aminé to me when we had retired that night to the hut that the headman had lent us. “They are but a party of thieves, and will get us into trouble; and that old ape, Ali, trieth to make love to me when thou art not looking. As though I would look at a black, monkey-faced Wongára, who have a husband like thee!”
There was much truth in these observations, and the conduct of our companions caused me some anxiety. But what troubled me much more was the attitude of Aminé herself. Her calm adoption of me as her husband was beginning to be a very serious matter. Of course, her position was a perfectly reasonable one from an African point of view. A Mahommedan is not restricted to one wife, and certainly no countryman of Aminé’s would have hesitated a moment to snap up such a prize as this handsome Fulah girl. Nevertheless, the position was a very awkward one, for while, on the one hand, my acceptance even of the outward appearance of the relationship was an affront to Isabel and a reproach to my love and fidelity, on the other it was unfair to the poor girl herself, a fact that was impressed on me anew by every fresh instance of her simple faith and devotion. Yet I could not bring myself to the point of dispelling her delusion, and when my conscience rebuked me, as it often did, I was apt to put myself off with the hope that when we arrived at the Coast, Aminé’s fancy might be captivated by some gaudy sergeant-major or native officer of the Hausa force.
As we marched along next day I kept a sharp eye upon our companions, and soon had an opportunity of observing the manner in which their “marketing” was conducted; which was characterised by masterly simplicity. As we neared the first village, Osman began to lag behind, and I presently noticed the handle of his fiddle sticking out of Baku’s pocket. On entering the village street Ali and Baku began to thump their instruments vigorously, and both the rascals burst into song, shouting at the very tops of their voices. As an inevitable result, the people came running from every part of the village, and crowded round us as we sauntered slowly down the street; and when we halted near the end, we were surrounded by a mob that, no doubt, included every living soul in the place. Here we stood for some minutes with drum and balafu in full blast, until Osman strolled up and began to beg from the bystanders; on which Ali and Baku shouldered their instruments, and we all moved briskly out of the village.
This performance was repeated at every hamlet through which we passed, each of the rascals taking his turn at the “marketing,” so that as the day went on, the pockets of each became more and more portly. For my part, as I had no intention of sharing the plunder, I gave Aminé my cowrie-bag, and told her to buy what was necessary for us from the villagers.
It was already dark when we reached Banda, and as we had covered in the day considerably over twenty miles, we were all very tired. Fortunately we had no difficulty in finding lodgings for the night, and our good-natured landlady even agreed to prepare us a meal, so that we spent the remainder of the evening pleasantly enough; and as we learned that the market day was on the morrow, and that many strangers had already arrived in the town, we turned in betimes with the intention of making an early start with our business in the morning.
Nevertheless the sun had been up a long time when we strolled out into the street and looked round at the scene of bustle that it presented. The market women were already streaming into the town in long files, and many had taken their places and were setting out their stalls, while the strangers roamed about in little groups, chattering, laughing, eating, and examining the wares of the market people. We had joined the throng of idlers, and were slowly making our way up the market place, when our attention was attracted by a person who was approaching from the opposite direction. This was a tall and powerful elderly man, who stalked along at the head of a small party of followers, pausing now and again to bestow on them a few words of abuse. His aspect was fierce and forbidding, and one blind eye, white and opaque, did not increase his attractions. Although he wore but a single cloth or ntama after the fashion of the pagans, he was evidently a person of consequence, for he was followed by a stool-bearer, a pipe-bearer, and numerous other dependents, on two of whom he leaned heavily—for early as it was, he was considerably the worse for liquor.
As he came up to us he stopped and regarded us with a drunken stare.
“Who are you, my fine fellows?” he asked gruffly in very bad Hausa, “and what do you do in this town?”
“We are musicians, most mighty chief,” replied Ali in his oiliest manner, and bowing to the ground before the old reprobate, “and we have come to sing to the people in the market, if it please the valiant chief to graciously permit us.”
“We want no wandering vagabonds here,” exclaimed the old man fiercely. “More likely ye have come to thieve than to sing. Still, I will hear your singing, and if it please me not I will fling this bottle at your heads. Now! begin! Do you hear me?” he shouted. “Sing!”
The stool-bearer planted the seat upon the ground, and the old ruffian dropped upon it heavily, and sat swaying from side to side, scowling at us, and holding a square gin bottle poised ready to throw.
My companions were in such a hurry to obey that they all commenced simultaneously with different songs, but perceiving their mistake before it was noticed by the chief, Osman and Baku stopped, leaving Ali to sing alone; which he did with surprising spirit, pouring out a torrent of extemporised ribaldry of a foulness beyond belief. He had, however, hit off the taste of his audience to a nicety, for, as the performance proceeded, the old chief lowered the gin bottle and shouted with laughter and enjoyment.
“Thou art a proper singer,” said he, as Ali struck out a few concluding flourishes. “Now let us hear that long-nosed Moor who is with thee. He looketh as sour as a monkey-bread; if his song is not more pleasant than his face he shall have the bottle at his head. Come, sing, thou yellow-skinned baboon, before I smash thy ugly face.”
“Sing, in the name of God!” exclaimed Ali, tremblingly slinging the balafu from my shoulders. “He is the chief of the town, and will certainly kill us if we cross him.”
I was much disposed to consign the old savage to Hades or its pagan equivalent, but I smothered my wrath as well as I could, and hammered out a flourish on the balafu, while I decided on a suitable song. After a moment’s consideration I hit upon the “Leather Bottél” as being specially appropriate to the old rascal’s condition, and began forthwith to bellow it out. The crowd rapidly increased, and gave manifest signs of approval, for the melody had in it just that swinging rhythm that is so grateful to the African ear; but the old chief evidently found it a dull performance, for in the middle of the second stanza he staggered to his feet, and roaring out, “I understand not one word of thy gibberish!” lurched off. However, I did not allow his departure to interrupt my performance, for Baku was already busy with the calabash, and I could hear the kurdi rattling into it; so I worked my way through stanza after stanza until I reached the last; and I was just considering the advisability of beginning over again when I was startled by the apparition of a man’s head and shoulders standing up above the heads of the onlookers. For an instant I supposed that it was some idler who had raised himself upon a stool or case that he might get a better view, but at a second glance I recognised with a thrill of astonishment my old friend Abduláhi Dan-Daúra. The recognition was mutual, and in a moment the genial “child of the elephant,” with a cry of joy, pushed his way through the crowd, and folded me in his enormous arms.
“And is it indeed thou, Yúsufu, child of my mother!” he exclaimed, almost weeping with delight. “Little I thought ever to set eyes upon thy face again. We had given thee up for dead long since, and now here thou art, all alive and singing like a cricket in a meal pot! Musa will rejoice to see thee, and so will the others.”
“Are they in this town then?” I asked, rubbing the hand that he had pressed in the exuberance of his affection.