A RESIDENT’S WIFE IN NIGERIA
[Illustration]
A RESIDENT’S WIFE
IN NIGERIA
By
CONSTANCE LARYMORE
WITH FORTY-ONE ILLUSTRATIONS AND A PORTRAIT OF
THE AUTHOR
[Illustration]
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO
1908
Dedication
TO THE VERY BEST OF COMRADES AND FELLOW-TRAVELLERS
‘THE SAHIB’
Preface
In offering this little book to the public, I want to admit at once that
it is in no sense intended as a literary effort, but is merely a record,
gathered up from journals and notes of our everyday life and journeys
which have occupied the last five years.
My excuse for offering it is that I have been specially fortunate in
having opportunities and privileges of travelling about a little bit of
the world where few Englishmen have been; and though sorely handicapped
by very limited scientific knowledge, I have tried always to keep eyes
and ears open.
Only a short time ago, I read these words, written by a wise man, on this
very subject—
‘But the best way of travelling is to ride on a horse through country
where there are no railways, and no roads, and where, accordingly, the
people are rooted and untroubled in mind, and do as little work as they
can. Such travelling, it is not to be questioned, makes the best books.’
In the hope that he is right—for, as I have said, he is a wise man—I send
my little book forth, to take its chance. The last few chapters, I am
aware, should belong to a separate volume, and they were never intended
for publication in this form. But they are the outcome of _actual_
experience, and not generalizing from hearsay. Most of them, indeed,
were written originally in 1902, but they have been revised, corrected,
and corrected again, as time showed me my mistakes and failures. In
manuscript form they had been read by many of my friends who pronounced
them ‘good,’ and it is by their request that these chapters are included
here. It is to these friends that I offer my grateful thanks for the
majority and the best of my illustrations. I also have to acknowledge the
kindness of the Editors of _Chambers Journal_ and the _Pall Mall Gazette_
in permitting the reproduction of articles published by them at different
times.
CONSTANCE LARYMORE.
Contents
CHAP. PAGE
_PART I_
I. SIERRA LEONE TO LOKOJA 1
II. ON TOUR 11
III. BIDA AND EGGA 25
IV. KEFFI 47
V. TREKKING NORTH 61
VI. KANO 73
VII. KATĀGUM AND HADEIJA, AND BACK 85
VIII. KABBA, SEMOLIKA AND PATTI ABAJA 111
IX. BORGU 147
X. BIDA 185
_PART II_
I. THE HOME 195
II. THE HOUSEHOLD 205
III. DOGS, POULTRY AND COWS 221
IV. THE GARDEN 239
V. THE STABLE 257
VI. CAMP LIFE 271
VII. WHAT TO WEAR 291
List of Illustrations
FACING PAGE
Portrait of the Author _Frontispiece_
The Preperanda 8
Polo at Lokoja 8
Kuka (Baobab) Trees 14
A Hausa Beauty 14
The Emir escorting us into Bida 28
Details of Gown Embroidery 28
A Typical Hausa Gown 32
Trouser Embroidery 32
A Camp on the River Bank 40
Roofing at Keffi 40
Native Drummers at Keffi 54
A Detachment of the N. N. Regt. 54
A Kano Street Scene 76
A Kano Mounted Messenger 76
A Kano Caravan Donkey Driver 80
Bringing in Fire-wood 104
A Kano Doorway 104
Mureji—A Caravan about to cross the Niger 112
A Steam Canoe on the Niger 112
The Emir’s Band, Bida 124
My ‘Palm’ Cat (_Nandinia binotata_) 124
‘Fritz’ 152
Our Start from Bussa for Illo 152
Repairing the Bussa Residency 170
Balu (Serval cat) 170
The Steel Canoe in which we descended the Bussa rapids 184
The Tennis Court, Bida 184
The Great Salla 190
The Prostration 190
My Writing Table 198
The Residency, Bida 198
‘Amelia,’ a young Giraffe brought home by the late Captain
Phillips, D.S.O. 210
‘Chuku,’ a Native dog, rescued during the Aro-Chuku Expedition 210
Our energetic D.S.C. training bullocks (Captain Burnside) 236
Giant Sunflowers at Bussa 236
Our Gardener at Play 250
‘Jewel’ and ‘Brown Mouse’ 250
Mr. Lafone’s ‘White Mouse’ 262
Riding Astride—a locally made Skirt! 262
One of our Camps 274
The Mail-Cart, Bida 274
CHAPTER I
Sierra Leone to Lokoja
On the 10th of April, 1902, we left Sierra Leone, embarking on the
_Sekondi_ for Forcados, _en route_ to Northern Nigeria. We had spent
seven months in Sierra Leone, my husband doing duty with a company of
native gunners, and had grown to heartily dislike the place. In spite of
its undeniable beauty, it is the possessor of a most unpleasant climate,
and the impossibility of getting horse exercise, and the necessity of
continually ascending or descending steep hills, either on foot, or,
worse still, in a hammock, was most distasteful to us both after four
years of the free and active life of Indian military stations. So we
could not help looking upon our departure somewhat as a release, and
even bidding good-bye to our many kind friends did not entirely damp our
joy as we steamed out of the harbour and passed the lighthouse, gleaming
white amidst the luxuriant greenery and bright blue water, and set our
faces and thoughts towards Nigeria, and the life of a Resident there.
It certainly was a step in the darkest dark; no Englishwoman yet had
gone where I meant to go, or done what I hoped to do: we knew little
or nothing of the conditions of life before us except that it was
‘rough, _very_ rough!’ I had met only one official from Nigeria, and he
looked at me doubtfully and in silence when I announced my intention of
accompanying my husband, much as one regards a wretched scraggy-looking
screw, sometimes produced by an Irish horse-dealer, with confident
asseverations as to his qualities as a hunter—and yet, the ‘screw’
scrambles along fairly all right sometimes! One of my friends in Sierra
Leone—having visited Accra—felt qualified to speak, and, in endeavouring
to dissuade us from this rash venture, assured me that ‘Nigeria was just
like Accra—not a tree, not a blade of grass anywhere!!’ (This is quoted
with apologies to Accra!) I have often smiled to myself over that pithy
saying, while marching through magnificent forests, and miles of open,
grassy, park-like country! Luckily, I still permitted myself to hope
for trees and grass, and felt that my four years in India, and some
experience of camping in Kashmir, would, at all events, prove to have
been a useful education, and seven months in Sierra Leone could leave one
few surprises in the shape of an unpleasant climate.
On the _Sekondi_ we were fortunate to find an old friend of Indian days,
Captain Ashburnham of the 60th Rifles, also faring forth to Nigeria for
the first time, to serve with the W.A.F.F. or, as it is called there,
the Northern Nigeria Regiment. He was armed with valuable experience,
learnt from the South African War and life in Uganda, and many were the
talks we had, and the plans we made, sitting under the awning, on the
deck, while the _Sekondi_ rolled her way south.
One of our fellow-passengers had already been to Nigeria, but I think
he had outlived his enthusiasms a little, and possibly thought me an
unlikely specimen to survive among ‘the fittest,’ for he responded but
little to my tiresome curiosity, while the ship’s officers were unanimous
in headshaking and mournful prophecies, judging Nigeria generally by
their own cursory stay at Burutu, and cheerfully promising to convey
me home ‘next trip’—_if_ I should be above ground to be conveyed! At
table I sat next to a Lagos official, who proved himself a real friend,
and I have never ceased to be grateful to him for his encouragement and
cheerful prognostications, at a time when I sorely needed them. Mr.
Stone’s work at Lagos—that of road construction—lay entirely amongst the
up-country natives, and he would tell me a thousand anecdotes of their
simple kindly ways, courteous hospitality, and child-like interest in
white people—prophesying that I should be friends with them at once, and,
if anything, get rather spoilt amongst them—a forecast which has been
amply fulfilled since.
The trip was an uneventful one, though not the pleasantest I have made
down the Coast: the sole occurrence of interest that I can recall
was that we lost one of our boats overboard during the night, and
the following morning, when the loss was discovered, we turned back
and sought the open seas for the derelict—and found it! A couple of
stalwart Kru-boys were despatched overboard, and swam to the boat, only
to find there were neither oars nor paddles inside, and they presented
a comically helpless spectacle, sitting in the boat, and frantically
endeavouring to paddle with their hands! They had to do another swim, to
possess themselves of the paddles thrown from the ship before they could
bring their prize alongside. And so on—by day, sunshine, sapphire water,
the fringe of low grey coast-line, which never loses its fascination for
me, by night, glorious stars and an infant moon, and—night and day alike,
the monotonous, infinitely soothing roll of the ship, as the huge swell
swept shorewards, to break itself in thundering surf, away by the grey
palm-trees and the yellow sand.
We left the _Sekondi_ outside the bar at Forcados, transhipped ourselves
and our belongings to the ‘branch boat,’ a small steamer of light draft,
and spent four or five weary hot hours crossing the bar and finding our
way up to Burutu. Here we were most kindly and hospitably received by
the Marine Superintendent, who gave me a most welcome cup of tea, and
assisted us to arrange ourselves on the _Karonga_, one of the Government
stern-wheelers, which travel up and down the Niger, carrying mails and
passengers. These little boats consist of an upper and lower deck,
the latter loaded with cargo, fuel and native passengers, the former
reserved for European travellers, and though, nowadays, they boast of
regular cabins, when I first made the acquaintance of the _Karonga_ the
after part of the deck was merely divided off into partitions by canvas
screens, an arrangement which I still prefer to a stuffy cabin! At Burutu
we bought stores, etc., for the up-river trip, and as we had brought
a couple of native servants from Sierra Leone, we shook down quite
comfortably.
That evening we dined on board the _Jebba_, which was lying at Burutu,
and, later, embarked on our little stern-wheeler, and set out on our
river journey, under a full moon, threading our way along one of the
labyrinths of creeks—a liquid silver path, walled on each side with
straight lines of mangroves, dense black shadows, and weird, bare white
roots and stems—a scene suggestive of mystery, and full of a strange
beauty of its own.
I enjoyed every day of that trip; we were a cheery party, and all
prepared to make the best of life: as we left the Delta behind, the
country became more diversified, little villages appeared on the banks
and we were surrounded by tiny canoes, the occupants of which, boys and
girls, clamoured loudly in greeting, and fierce competition ensued over
the empty tins and bottles flung to them.
The second evening we were destined to discover the weak points of the
_Karonga_; the rain came down in torrents, poured through the roof
of the deck in vigorous streams, soaking beds and bedding in five
minutes. We stripped our beds, and sat patiently, watching the water
dripping steadily on the bare canvas, till, in sheer weariness, we
rolled ourselves up in mackintoshes, rigged waterproof sheets on top of
the mosquito nets, and slept soundly in spite of wet pillows and the
prevailing drippiness!
In the morning, however, hot sunshine turned our sorrow into joy—every
available space was employed for the drying of wet blankets and clothing,
and, with all our gloom dispersed, Captain Ashburnham and I mixed the
dough, and treated ourselves to hot scones for breakfast!
We arrived at Lokoja rather late one evening, and after sleeping that
night on the _Karonga_, the next morning we were most kindly taken in
charge by Mr. Gollan, then Chief Justice, who was temporarily filling the
place of the last Resident, just invalided home. Mr. Gollan escorted us
to our quarters, a massively built double-storeyed stone house, known as
the ‘Preperanda,’ which had previously been the Mess-house of the N.N.
Regiment, but was now in a very bad state of repair. The rooms below
were used as offices, and those above as a dwelling-house. The verandah
was in a ruinous condition, and most of the glass had vanished from the
doors and windows; even the shutters had fallen off, so that, when the
tornadoes came, as they did with annoying frequency, salvation lay in one
direction only, to collect _all_ one’s belongings in frantic haste in a
heap in the centre of the floor, cover them with waterproof sheets, and
sit firmly on them till the storm had spent itself, when the floor could
be mopped up, and books, pictures, etc., returned to their places.
Still, I have always loved the Preperanda: it was almost buried in
trees, gorgeous scarlet ‘flamboyant’ (_Poinciana Regia_), red and yellow
acacias, deliciously scented frangipani, both white and pink, huge bushes
of rosy oleanders, lime-trees, mangoes, orange-trees and guavas: leaning
over the verandah railing in the fragrant soft darkness, I then and there
took to heart the lesson which I have tried to practise ever since—the
absolute _duty_ of planting trees everywhere for the benefit of one’s
successors.
At the Preperanda, I began to study the art of Nigerian housekeeping, and
forthwith engaged a cook, a most unprepossessing looking individual, a
Kru-boy, rejoicing in the name of Jim Dow; he proved an excellent cook,
as they go in West Africa, but a frail vessel where intoxicants were
concerned; nevertheless, he did us good service for three years in many
places, was untiring on the march, and, in the main, sober. The further
knowledge I acquired on this all-important subject I have gathered
together in a later chapter for the sake of convenience.
Our first month in Lokoja was, in many ways, a busy one; my husband had
his hands only too full of official work, we bought a couple of ponies,
and I set to work to organize a stable, realizing sadly in a day or two
that the amenities and conveniences of Indian life were not to be found
here, any more than inside the house. We made friends, too, with the
small community of white people in the station, the nursing sisters,
N.N.R. officers and civilian officials, and many were the helping hands
and kindly hints given to us, on all sides, and most gratefully received.
Lokoja is placed most picturesquely on a strip of level ground, encircled
by hills and the Niger. Above the native town towers the Patti Hill,
a flat-topped mountain some eight hundred feet high, on the summit of
which, originally, there was a town and many acres of cultivation. The
town has vanished, but traces of old farms can easily be seen, and the
former occupiers are, even now, anxious to return to their perch and
build a new village. They seem to have a high opinion of the soil up
there, and we have often wished that the English community might be able
to form a new station on that breezy hill-top instead of grilling down
by the river bank. Perhaps it may come to pass some day, for the present
Cantonment is, most unfortunately, down-stream from the native town.
[Illustration: THE PREPERANDA (p. 7)]
[Illustration: POLO AT LOKOJA (p. 9)]
I often wonder whether any one who had not seen the place for ten years
or so would be able to recognize it to-day! The change, even since I have
known it, has been amazing. When we landed there, five years ago, the
‘Civil Lines’ consisted of a straggling row of bungalows, rejoicing in
the significant appellation of ‘Blackwater Crescent’! In front stretched
a waste of swampy ground, thickly covered with coarse, rank grass.
To-day, with its numbers of neat bungalows, well-tended little gardens,
the swamp drained and converted into a recreation ground, containing
tennis-courts, cricket-pitch, etc., good roads, and flowering trees and
hedges, it is as pretty a little cantonment as one could wish to see, and
the view from the hills behind is extremely beautiful—the two rivers,
Niger and Benue meeting just below the cantonment, winding down to the
confluence like two silver ribbons, visible for miles up river.
The 2nd Battalion of the N.N.R. are quartered in Lokoja, with a company
of native gunners, and we still call their lines ‘the camp’—a survival of
the days when the soldiers existed in wretched discomfort, under canvas.
Behind the camp is the polo ground, and, on the farthest ridge, the new
hospital is prominent, with the Sisters’ bungalow, and medical officers’
quarters. Personally, I have always thought Lokoja a far prettier and
pleasanter place than Zungeru, the new headquarters, but comparisons are
ever ungracious, and lasting impressions of places—to me—depend so much
on associations, that Lokoja has always been more of a ‘home’ than a
‘headquarters’ to me. I have always been sorry to leave it, and always
glad and contented to see it again.