Bida and Egga
We spent the rest of July and August in Lokoja—my husband, as usual, full
of work; I, very busy gardening. We watched the building of the bungalow
destined for us, and, as soon as the actual building was finished, we
set to work, and made our garden, having the coarse elephant grass dug
out, and turfy ‘dhoob’ grass planted instead. Numberless seedlings and
cuttings were put in, dotted over the grass; we had scarcely one failure,
and my seedlings are now respectable sized trees!
But trouble overtook us too—our dearly-loved little Irish terrier
sickened and died, as did also my pony, ‘Mouse,’ who had carried me so
gallantly over all those miles we had travelled. Both losses, I imagine,
were the result of that ‘beautiful forest country.’
About this time the High Commissioner arrived, bringing Lady Lugard;
they paid Lokoja a short visit before going on to Zungeru, and the real
Coronation Day was celebrated. In the middle of August we moved into our
new bungalow, and, for me, naturally, the days flew until the beginning
of September.
My husband was very anxious to meet and confer with the Resident of Nupe,
who was less able to leave his headquarters at the time than we were,
and, as we were nothing loth to extend our acquaintance with Nigeria, we
packed up, and started for Bida.
We went up river on one of the stern-wheelers, as far as Dakmon on the
Kaduna River; there we found ponies, sent down from Bida to meet us, and
rode in, an easy march of about fourteen miles. We were struck with the
general air of prosperity and comfort displayed by the flourishing farms
and neat little hamlets, and were rather amused to come upon a scarecrow,
the first I had seen in this country.
It was a great day for Bida: no white woman had ever been there, and
the Emir and his people were determined to do honour to the event; so,
as we approached the town, a great concourse of people began to throng
down the hill from the Residency. At the head of the procession rode Mr.
Goldsmith, the Acting Resident, followed by the Emir, an immensely tall
and stout personage, gorgeously attired, and having a State umbrella held
over his head as he rode, and ostrich feather fans waved by attendants on
either side. Behind him followed the members of his family and ‘Court
officials,’ and the procession ended in a surging crowd, on horseback and
on foot. They made an attractive picture, splashes of brilliant colour
and snowy white robes and turbans dashing hither and thither, pulling up
their horses suddenly on their haunches, with a great display of jingling
brass and gaudy leather trappings, then darting off again, scattering the
crowd like irresponsible butterflies! After the ceremonial greetings we
all proceeded to the Residency, where more greetings ensued, and, on his
dismounting, one could get a better idea of the vast proportions of the
Emir—a truly huge man.
The city of Bida lies rather in a hollow, surrounded by low hills; its
wall extends for about nine miles, and is pierced by a number of large
gateways, most cunningly set, with dark recesses in their depths—probably
with a view to dealing effectually with unexpected or undesired visitors!
Inside, the streets are lined with shady trees, which give a delightfully
cool appearance to the thatched huts and market places. The Emir’s palace
is a great pile of clay buildings enclosed within a high wall, and on the
occasion when, accompanied by Mr. Goldsmith, we went to visit him, we had
an opportunity of inspecting the Nupe style of building and decoration.
The inner apartments were more or less like great vaults, unlighted save
by the doorways, and appeared to us, at first, to be in pitch-darkness;
but, after a time, when our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we
could follow the outline of the high vaulted roof and the massive
pillars, the surface of which is plastered and beautifully polished
(I believe with special clay, obtained from the inside of ant-heaps),
resembling black marble.
It was an odd experience, sitting in the warm scented darkness, our
host and his people more guessed at than seen, great fans softly waving
behind him, and every rustle of every gown wafting out the heavy perfume
of musk, an interpreter conveyed in a hushed, monotonous murmur endless
salutations, compliments and pious aspirations between us, the atmosphere
was highly soporific, and we were all relieved when the Emir proposed a
move to the verandah.
I requested, and obtained permission to pay a visit to the ladies of
the harem, and, escorted by an aged—and presumably privileged—dotard, I
passed through the heavy door and found as great a contrast to the dim
quiet scene I had just left as could well be imagined! A crowd of women,
some mere girls, others middle-aged, nearly all carrying babies, and a
swarm of brown toddlers, all laughing, clapping their hands, calling
greetings and salutations incessantly. To them it was indeed a ‘bolt
from the blue,’ and, in their placid lives of seclusion, a marvellous
and startling occurrence; but, though they were frank enough in their
expressions of astonishment and pleasure, their perfect courtesy,
that fine characteristic of the African people, prevailed to restrain
them. There was no mobbing, no pushing, or crowding. I was invited to
seat myself on a large carved black stool, while the Emir’s mother, a
very aged sweet-faced woman, evidently set in authority above the rest,
crouched on the ground beside me, gently patting and smoothing my skirts
and feet, while she poured forth greetings and salutations, thanking
Allah fervently that ‘in her old age, she had been spared to see this
wonderful sight.’
[Illustration: THE EMIR ESCORTING US IN TO BIDA. (p. 27)]
[Illustration: DETAILS OF GOWN EMBROIDERY. (p. 31)]
It was very touching, and, at that time, I little thought I should ever
see her again, though, afterwards, I had frequent messages from her to
say that she still lived and still remembered, and when would I come back
and visit her again?
The Emir presented us with an enormous and almost embarrassing ‘dash’
or present—oxen, sheep, fowls and various special Bida products.
Fortunately, the custom (which hurts no one’s feelings) is to dispose of
the live stock in the market and present to the donor, in money or cloth,
the full value of his present, so I ‘bought in’ eagerly some of the
really beautiful coloured grass mats—there were seventy-five to choose
from!—and handsome brass-work, and bore them off with me when, on the
following day, we took leave of our kind host, and cantered down to the
Wonangi Creek, where our steel canoe was waiting, and slowly dropped
down stream to Lokoja.
I afterwards sent the Emir of Bida, as a token of friendship, a Hausa
gown, made for me locally, of white material, much pleated, and heavily
embroidered in white in the customary patterns, and this embroidery I
outlined and embellished with gold thread, producing a very fine rich
effect, which was highly appreciated by my friend.
A few words on the subject of Hausa embroidery may not be inappropriate
here, for it is distinctly interesting, and, in its way, artistic.
The finest and most elaborate needlework is found on the Hausa gown
or _tobe_, which, in itself, deserves a few words of description in
detail. The accompanying drawing gives an accurate idea of its shape—a
surplice-like garment of immense width, reaching to the ankles. The
material is frequently pleated all over from neck to knees, where it
falls loose, taking on a most up-to-date flow and expansion! I have
seen as much as thirty yards of wide English cloth put into one tobe;
under these circumstances, the weight of the gown is, of course, very
considerable.
These garments are made of every kind of stuff, according to the length
of the wearer’s purse; sometimes they are fashioned of European cotton
velvets, brocades and plush, and, in the districts where the Lagos trade
makes its influence felt, many of these gowns are to be seen, made,
alas, of shoddy velveteen, and the beautiful native needlework replaced
by tawdry tinsel and sequins. The vast majority, however, are composed
of country-made cloth, which is, by necessity of the tiny, primitive
looms, woven in narrow strips, some four inches wide, and laboriously
sewn together. Some of it is dyed with indigo or magenta, but the best
kind remains a creamy white, resembling a coarse heavy linen, and forms
a most desirable background for elaborate stitchery. The tobe has a deep
pocket on the left breast, reaching to the knees, and it is on this,
principally, that the embroidery is concentrated: there is also a single
circular design at the back, high on the left shoulder, which never
varies, though the decoration in front may be amplified and elaborated at
pleasure.
All the designs used in Hausa embroidery are obviously symbolical, and
their significance and history is a subject of deep interest, but it
is most difficult to acquire reliable information on the point, as the
people themselves are, for the most part, hopelessly ignorant about it,
and merely reproduce the same designs from generation to generation, for
the excellent—and, to them, conclusive reason that their fathers and
grandfathers did so!
The most frequent designs are the _Fuska_ (face) and the _Almakashi_
(scissors); these I have always found included in every decorative
scheme, however intricate and elaborate. The pattern is drawn in native
ink, with a pointed wooden pen; it is entirely free-hand, and is rather a
go-as-you-please process, with little regard for symmetry, though, in the
case of the gown I have illustrated, I think the complicated conventional
design is marvellously accurate for a free-hand performance.
The work is carried out in native thread, occasionally dyed with indigo,
or to the correct Islamic shade of brilliant green but usually of the
same creamy tint as the cloth itself. The stitchery is absolutely simple,
being mainly chain-stitch squares filled in with long stitches, and a
curious handsome effect is produced by a series of tiny eyelets, worked
in buttonhole stitch, giving a rich damask appearance. Couching stitch is
also used, and most patterns are outlined with French knots.
There is also another quite distinct kind of embroidery, universally
employed for decorating the enormously wide trousers worn underneath the
tobes. These voluminous garments terminate in an almost tightfitting
band, some nine inches deep, just above the ankle, and it is here, and on
the outside of the leg, that this needlework is lavished—a cunning piece
of vanity, as it is well displayed when the wearer strides about with a
sufficient swagger!
[Illustration: A TYPICAL HAUSA GOWN. (p. 30)]
[Illustration: TROUSER EMBROIDERY. (p. 32)]
The designs, as can be seen from the sketch, are quite different from
those used on the tobes; some are distinctly Masonic in character, some
are quite ecclesiastical, others suggestive of Persian embroidery. They
are carried out in gaily-coloured wools, procured from Lagos,—the usual
tints being bright crimson, royal blue, purple, orange, green and black.
The combination I am aware, sounds daring, to say the least of it, but
the result is wonderfully effective and brilliant, without being in the
least bit gaudy, and it always seems to me a thousand pities that so much
industry and real artistic effectiveness should be thrown away, usually,
on the most wretched materials, cheap cotton cloth from Manchester very
often, and on these inferior wools which will not bear the ordeal of a
single washing.
I have interested myself in collecting these designs, and have
worked them myself on the best linens with fast-dyed silks and the
equally beautiful modern flax threads, and the result is eminently
satisfactory—the designs, of course, requiring to be corrected and
straightened. Indeed, for tea-cloths, borders, cushions or doyleys,
and for an endless variety of decorative purposes, I think it would be
difficult to find embroidery of a more striking or original kind than
that peculiar to Nigeria.
In November, my husband had orders to accompany a patrol on the
Northern-Southern Nigeria frontier, and as friction with some of the
natives was a possible contingency, it was not thought advisable for me
to go too, so I remained in Lokoja alone, feeling sad and rather lonely,
and envying my better half the opportunity of finding ‘pastures new’
which I was unable to share.
On leaving, the Sahib commended me to the care of the Sariki and Chiefs
of Lokoja, mainly, I think, as a friendly joke, but they took the charge
quite seriously, dear souls, the whole cavalcade turning up regularly
each morning to make careful inquiries of the most minute description,
and to ask whether I did not ‘feel sad without the Resident!’ After a
few days they informed me that ‘it was quite impossible for them to take
_proper_ care of me while I lived so far away from them—they had a _fine_
compound swept out, next to the Sariki’s house, in the town—would I not
come and live there, till the Judge’s return?’
It was rather a dilemma, and I had to meet it by telling them how much
I should have enjoyed visiting them, but that I had my duty too, and I
must look after our house and garden, ponies and dogs, so as to keep
everything in order, and finally satisfied their kind hearts by promising
to send to them for all and anything that I might want! Each time a
letter arrived from the absentee, I summoned my friends, read it aloud,
translating each sentence as I went into halting Hausa; every single
word was repeated and passed round eagerly, discussed and commented
upon, amidst much chewing of kola-nuts, provided by the hostess, and
ponderous messages of an affectionate nature were impressively given me
for transmission in my reply!
The arrival of General and Mrs. Kemball cheered me greatly, and the week
they spent in Lokoja was a very happy one for me, in Mrs. Kemball’s
bright and sympathetic companionship. There was a cheery dinner-party at
the Mess in their honour, and I said good-bye very regretfully when they
went on their way to Zungeru. Shortly afterwards we had another glimpse
of them as they passed through on their way down river, and we little
thought then that our next meeting would be at Trinity Lodge, Cambridge!
One morning, three weeks later, I put on my riding habit with a very
light heart, and rode out, accompanied by the whole of the Sariki’s
cavalcade, to escort our ‘judge’ home in triumph. It was a glorious
morning, and perfectly delightful riding through the crops of
guinea-corn, now ripe, and standing ten feet high,—the leaves splashed
and stained with crimson, purple and gold, like gaudy, waving ribbons,
the heavy plumes of grain swaying above one’s head, brilliant red, or
black and white. Underneath the pony’s feet was a veritable carpet of
a tiny lilac blossom which always flourishes among the guinea-corn at
harvest time and hardly anywhere else. ‘The little pink flower that grows
in the wheat’ always comes into my mind, but this one happens to be mauve
instead!
We escorted our lord and master home—a most rowdy party, the boldest
spirits wildly racing their ponies along the winding track—girths
(composed of widths of ancient cotton cloth!) parting company
continually, and saddle and rider together taking a flying toss into the
grass, amid shrieks of delight from the rest of the crowd. At each tiny
hamlet the entire party would tumble off their ponies, greet and salute,
salute and greet, drink quantities of water, climb on again, set the
horns and drums braying their loudest, and gallop off irresponsibly, like
the light-hearted children that they are.
My husband afterwards told me that in the course of the patrol they
passed through a valley where the inhabitants of the rocks and hills
above apparently made their homes in holes and caves; one member of the
party idly asked what was the scientific name for cave-dwellers, it
having slipped his memory for the moment. No one appeared to be able to
supply the word, when the native interpreter, plodding along behind,
came up, saying: ‘Pardon me, sir, don’t you mean _Troglodytes_?’ The
Englishman, amazed, asked where he had ever heard such a word, and
‘George’ replied placidly: ‘I was _reading a dictionary_ one day, and I
saw it!’ I cannot imagine myself reading a German or Italian dictionary
for pleasure, and storing in my mind, for future use, conversationally, a
specially unusual scientific term; I only wish I could!
Christmas Day of that year found us at Egga, a small riverside town
on the right bank of the Niger, sixty miles above Lokoja. Canon
Robinson (in _Hausaland_) describes Egga as an island, from which one
may conclude that he only visited the place in the rainy season; we
have marched overland to Egga, and walked on dry—very dry—ground all
around it in May, and, three months later, passed over the same spots,
steaming easily in a stern-wheeler! It consists really of three or four
elevated tongues of land, with low-lying creeks in between, which are
so flooded by the rise of the river, that to traverse the town from end
to end several canoe journeys are necessary. On the high ground the
grass-roofed huts are clustered thick as bees, they perch perilously
on the very edge, threatening to topple into the creek below—perhaps
they do, sometimes, for the banks suffer considerably at each annual
rise in the water. Our domicile was perched in solitary state on one
of the small Ararats, farthest from the river bank, and that Christmas
morning, creeping from under the low verandah of the rest-house, I had
a glorious and uninterrupted view of mile upon mile of grass-land,
flanked in the distance by the curious flat-topped hills at Padda. The
distance was marked only by the ‘wire road,’ the telegraph line leaving
Egga and disappearing into the pearly iridescent Harmattan mists in an
ever diminishing perspective—the one link with civilization, unless one
counts, too, the ceaseless meagre stream of humble traders, in ones and
twos, padding in noiseless procession at the foot of our little hill,
making their way to Ilorin, at that peculiar half trot, half run, which
looks like walking, but which covers the ground in amazing fashion.
It was rather an event, this Christmas Day, the first we had spent in
Nigeria, and much care and thought had been expended on the dinner
menu. There was a plump turkey to be roasted in a native oven, a most
uncompromising-looking affair, consisting of a large earthenware pot,
half buried in the ground; this is heated by the simple process of
stuffing it full of blazing wood, and when the cook deems the temperature
high enough, he will haul out the fuel, pop in the turkey, plant a flat
piece of tin on the mouth of the oven, piling it up with much burning
wood—and, wonderful to relate, it _will_ roast the turkey to perfection!
The _chef_ had his work cut out for him that day, for the feast was to
include a most desirable fat teal, shot the day before, which had to be
similarly cooked in a similar oven; also a plum-pudding from ‘Home’,
round which most pleasurable anticipations hovered.
When the Christmas presents had been distributed to the household, the
morning spent itself peacefully in writing and sketching, the Sahib
working away, as the habit of political officers ever is out here, in
spite of my loud insistence on a whole holiday: all arrangements had been
made for an afternoon on the river, among the wild duck, and luncheon
had been despatched, when, with housewifely care, I bethought me of
making final arrangements for dinner, and summoned the cook. He was not
forthcoming, but, after much whispering and suppressed giggling among the
small boys of the household, Momo, our faithful head steward, appeared,
taking generous support from the side of the doorway, and adorned with a
vacant giddy smile that turned my heart to water!
Very slowly he spoke, and with deadly care; speech was very difficult,
but he struggled through manfully, and, though I was bubbling with wrath,
I could not help feeling sincere admiration. ‘The cook was _not at all_
well.... Yes, he certainly had drunk far too much pito (native beer)
... and he, Momo, had had a little too—for Kismiss!’—smiling vaguely
at the floor. ‘No, he did not think Jim Dow would be able to walk till
three o’clock, but’—with renewed cheerfulness, and a tremendous pull on
himself—‘Cook say he get _quite_ well very soon, cook dinner _proper_,
Missis go shoot, no fear at all.... Jim Dow fit to cook all right _very_
soon!...’
Well, there was no help for it—I certainly could not go and find the
delinquent in the purlieus of the town, nor, had I found him, could I
have done anything, so we resigned ourselves, sending the steward to
‘sleep it off,’ and reflecting that we might as well spend the afternoon
happily as not, we stepped warily into the native canoe, determined to
banish all dismal forebodings on the very slender chances of our getting
any dinner at all!
The canoe, an ordinary dug-out, about twenty feet long, contained our two
camp chairs, the guns, four polers, and Ganna.
Ganna is one of my many friends out here; he is the younger brother
of the Rogun or Chief of Egga, and has been interpreter to the late
Captain Abadie, and, like all who came in contact with him, had the
liveliest admiration and affection for him. He is in the latter stages
of consumption, poor soul, and has a thin eager face, a fair command of
English, and a terrible rending cough. He gets thinner each time I see
him, and though he sometimes comes to Lokoja, and attends the native
hospital there, the doctors can never give me any hope of his recovery.
Poor Ganna, I wonder if I shall ever see him again; the last time was
when we were poling down the river in a steel canoe, and, in the early
morning, as we drifted slowly past a tiny hamlet, a figure flew down the
bank, and the familiar emaciated face and skinny, almost transparent arms
appeared over the side, bearing a fine leopard skin, while, in a voice
saddeningly husky and laboured, Ganna explained how he had kept the
skin for us, watched for us many days, knowing of our approach in the
weird, mysterious fashion in which news travels in Africa. ‘Yes, he was
doing a little work now, but his chest hurt him, and he would come to
Lokoja when his work was finished ... he would go again to the hospital,
indeed he would, and ask the Likitor (Doctor!) for some more of that good
medicine.... Good-bye!... Sai wota rana! (lit. till another day) ...’ and
the canoe dropped down stream, leaving the sunken hollow eyes watching us
from the bank, and the painful hacking cough reaching our ears after the
corner was rounded. Poor Ganna, I wonder where our ‘wota rana’ meeting
will take place—not in Africa, I think!
[Illustration: A CAMP ON THE RIVER BANK. (p. 40)]
[Illustration: ROOFING AT KEFFI. (p. 51)]
However, this particular Christmas Day was four years ago, and Ganna
was then a stronger man, and a keen shikari, and had arranged this
shoot. I looked at him with special interest, as he crouched, smiling,
at one end of the canoe, clad in a dazzling white Hausa gown, heavily
embroidered in green—there seemed to be more of him than usual, and the
hope crossed my mind that he was perhaps gaining flesh. But, when we
had poled down the creek where the water-lilies are clustered thick,
past the Niger Company’s warehouses, and out on to the great grey river,
nearly half a mile wide, and shrouded in pale Harmattan mists, and were
sweeping rapidly down stream in the direction of the duck grounds, Ganna
dissipated my hopes by cautiously divesting himself of his white garb,
and emerging, clad in a faultless Norfolk suit of light tweed—a present
from his beloved master, as he explained proudly.
The water was like oil, greyness was everywhere as soon as the sun began
to drop into the haze, and a great silence prevailed—the loudest sound
being the crackling of numberless bush fires along the banks, for at this
season of the year the dry grass is fired, and in all directions there
are leaping tongues of flame and columns of smoke.
Presently, the ‘Quack! Quack!’ of contented ducks could be heard, and we
crept off our chairs and crouched in the bottom of our canoe, the polers
squatting motionless at either end, their wet poles slowly dripping into
the greasy-looking water, while the canoe drifted down to the sand-bank
where the ducks were—in their hundreds, some standing in the water,
preening their feathers, others solemnly waddling about on the bank—all
discoursing ceaselessly in their gossippy, monotonous language. The whole
bank was dark with them, tall, graceful ‘crown-birds’ standing motionless
or stalking thoughtfully about on the sand, plump, sturdy mallards, and
restless little teal, all busy, chatty, supremely happy, and utterly
unconscious of the danger creeping on them, in the drifting canoe.
We were so absorbed in watching the scene that we forgot the object
of our expedition, and, indeed, it seemed nothing short of criminal to
disturb a party so contented and peaceful, but the thousands of restless
little bright eyes spied the glint of a gun barrel, the alarm was given,
there was a rushing whirr, and the sky over our heads was instantly dark
with beating wings. A couple of shots brought down some victims, and
the canoe wended its way to another duck-ground, after landing me on a
sand-bank, for the purpose of sketching a picturesque little hamlet built
there by the fisher-folk during the season of low water, when they spend
their time catching and drying fish; later, when the water rises, and,
each year, sweeps away the whole colony of frail grass huts, they return
to Egga, and dispose of their season’s catch.
When the canoe, laden with further spoils, picked me up again, the sun
was just setting in the banks of mist, a gorgeous colour display of
sunset had turned the whole world rose-colour, giving to the water a
strange pale violet hue, and we had a good six miles to pole against a
swift current, so the nose of the canoe was turned up stream, and we
crept along close under the banks, where the stream is least strong, and
the edge gives some purchase for the poles.
Our progress seemed incredibly slow, but I could have sat there for ever,
slipping through the still evening, the silence only broken, away behind
us, by the faint quacking of disturbed and outraged ducks, returning
cautiously to the feeding-grounds; one felt at peace with all the world,
and I could not even bother to give an anxious thought to the complete
uncertainty of our dinner!
Ahead of us was a tiny canoe, with only one occupant, but fully laden
with newly-made earthenware pots, coming to seek a market at Egga;
steadily the man pulled, watching the sinking sun all the while; then, as
it finally disappeared, he deliberately poled into a flat sand-bank, tied
the canoe to the pole fixed in the sand, carefully washed and prepared
himself, then, with his face devoutly raised to the eastward sky, he
commenced his evening devotions. A picturesque figure with the flaming
sunset afterglow as a background, intent only on his prayer, unconscious
of our approach under the bank, alone and—to his knowledge—unseen, not a
gesture, not a movement of the hands, not a single word was omitted or
hurried over—a curious blending of simplicity and solemnity, and, as we
left him behind, I murmured, ‘Thy Father which seeth in secret ...’ and
the Sahib nodded his head comprehendingly.
It was quite dark when we slid into the Egga creek, and figures began to
move on the bank and lights flash as we pulled up; the most prominent
was a short, squat personage, clad in spotless white drill, white
shoes and a jaunty straw hat in his hand, holding the big lantern
and generally directing the disembarkation! Jim Dow, the sinner,
restored to his former greatness, perfectly sober and full of serene
cheerfulness—assuring us genially that he was ‘quite well again’ and the
dinner progressing most satisfactorily!
A scramble up to the rest-house, hot baths and a change—and Jim Dow was
quite as good as his word!