Keffi
Immediately after the New Year we marched north from Egga to Pateji,
where we were to meet the Resident of Ilorin, and with him accomplish
the delimitating of the Ilorin-Kabba boundary. At one of our halts we
were lunching one day, when the servants ran in, begging us, in some
excitement, to ‘come and look!’ In the dusty roadway were a couple of
donkeys, loaded with potash, a pair of evil-looking men, and two of the
most forlorn, wretched little mites of children that it has ever been my
misfortune to see. The younger of the two was certainly not more than
four or five years old, both were crying helplessly, stumbling along in
the dust, limping and exhausted. They had begged our boys for water, and
so, most fortunately, attracted their attention.
It was the first case of obvious slavery I had ever seen, and the
terrible cruelty of it made one’s blood boil. My husband of course
detained the ‘caravan,’ the leader of which declared glibly that the
children were not slaves, but his own offspring, and that their mother
was just coming along behind. The elder toddler had spirit enough to cry
out: ‘We are not, we are not! He bought us, for a horse ... a _thin_
horse.’ ... with a mournful touch of self-pity. Presently, a young girl
came toiling along the road, and the caravan leader flung at her a flood
of a language unknown to us, so that, when questioned, she spiritlessly
agreed that they were her children. She was, herself not more than
fourteen or fifteen, and could not possibly have been the mother of
either child; her owner, when sternly reminded of this, hurriedly shifted
his ground, saying that this was not the woman of whom he had spoken,
the children’s mother was still further behind. This was greeted with
loud denials from the mites, who had already placed themselves definitely
under our protection! We had the caravan leader removed when the next
dejected figure came slowly in sight, and the new-comer immediately and
frankly described them all as slaves, confirmed the children’s story, and
with pitiful indifference remarked that they had already covered twelve
miles that day, and were prepared to travel another six, so as to avoid
the observation of the ‘White Judge.’
The men were taken into custody, the donkeys and loads confiscated, the
women elected to attach themselves to another caravan, travelling back
to their own district, and we took charge of the children. After a good
meal and twelve hours’ sleep, they were different creatures, but their
swollen feet made it almost impossible for them to walk a yard. I carried
the tiny boy on my knee, and, after a grunt or two of satisfaction,
his head dropped back on my shoulder, and he slept for hours. It was
not exactly a comfortable arrangement in a side-saddle, and we were
much relieved when we reached Pateji, and could ship our charges down
to Lokoja, where they became two of the liveliest inmates of the Freed
Slaves’ Home.
At Pateji, my husband found orders to return at once to Lokoja, hand
over the Province to a new Resident, then on his way out from England,
and start for Keffi, the headquarters of the Nassarawa Province, where
he was to take temporary charge. We crossed to Mureji, at the mouth of
the Kaduna River, and returned to Lokoja to make preparations for our
departure. There was excitement and unrest in the air, events in the
North had made the Kano-Sokoto Expedition an immediate necessity, the
greater part of the Force had already concentrated at Zaria, and the
Lokoja garrison was reinforced by troops from Southern Nigeria, under
the command of Major Moorhouse. Dr. Cargill, the Resident of Nassarawa,
was urgently needed at Kano, so, after a week spent by my husband in
initiating his successor into the mysteries of the daily work of a
Resident, we started off for Keffi, congratulating ourselves on this
opportunity of seeing a new part of the country.
We left Lokoja one hot day at the end of January, occupying a steel
canoe which was towed alongside by the steam canoe _Black Swan_. This
latter was—well, ‘occupied’ is not the word—_overflowed_ by a party of
officers and N.C.O.s; Captain Macarthy Morrogh and Mr. Steward being on
their way to join the Anglo-German Boundary Commission, Major Mackenzie
and Mr. Carré from Southern Nigeria, bound for Loko and Nassarawa to
recruit carriers. The two former had, of necessity, a great quantity of
stores and baggage, and the discomfort of that crowded canoe must have
been extreme, intensified as it was by the heat from their steam pipes: I
should imagine that on parting with four of us at Loko, the sentiments of
the remainder must have been unmixed relief!
The Benue River struck me as being remarkably clearer and purer in
colour than the Niger, and the scenery is very lovely. Each evening we
‘tied up’ by a convenient sand-bank, and the men camped there, rejoiced,
I fancy, to spread themselves out a bit. One evening the _Black Swan_
contingent gave a dinner-party, the novel feature of which was that our
menu was to consist of a ‘French dinner’—a most luxurious invention for
travellers, one large box containing five tins, each representing a
course, with fascinating French names. These only need to be heated in
boiling water—and, behold—your French dinner! As we were a party of six,
two ‘dinners’ were requisitioned, and we fared royally on delicious soup
for a start. After that, I fear the various cooks and boys got hopelessly
astray among the courses, for I found myself eating filleted sole, with
apple charlotte by way of a sauce! We gave up all attempt at sequence
after that, and simply ate our way through a list of most excellent
dainties, discovering many new and delectable combinations, and voted the
‘dinners’ an unqualified success!
At Loko the party broke up; we found ponies waiting for us, and hastened
off as soon as possible, for it is a most unpleasant mosquito-ridden
spot. The road to Keffi is monotonous and wearisome, consisting of the
path cleared for the construction of the telegraph line, and it is the
dullest process following that interminable wire, winding in between
the stumps of decapitated trees. The only halt of any interest on the
way was at Nassarawa, a town which had evidently ‘seen better days,’
finely situated on rising ground above a broad river. Keffi has always
had a sinister reputation—firstly as a famous slave market, and later
on as the scene of Captain Moloney’s tragic death. The Keffi people are
queer restless folks, finding their greatest pleasure, apparently, in
_munafiki_ or intrigue of all kinds. Our native friends in Lokoja shook
their heads dismally, and deplored our being obliged to go among these
‘bad, hard-hearted people,’ I remember, and were evidently prepared for
all kinds of unpleasant developments!
As we rode in through the South Gate, and up the long sandy road through
the town, it seemed indeed a desolate spot after the teeming streets of
Lokoja; nearly all the houses were unroofed (a precaution against fire in
the dry season), many were ruinous, and scarcely a soul was to be seen.
But, glancing into the narrow low doorways, one was conscious of lurking
forms and inquisitive peeping eyes; there were subdued scufflings as,
seeing themselves observed, the peepers scuttled off into devious back
alleys, like frightened rabbits. The town had been practically deserted
since the trouble of the previous autumn, when Captain Moloney’s death
took place, and the outlook was indeed a depressing one.
The Resident was occupying the great, mud-built pile, originally the
house of the Magaji, forming one side of an open square, just opposite it
was the Mosque, and on the left the Sariki’s ‘palace.’
The Residency was, to say the least of it, a gloomy spot for a
dwelling-house—a very large compound, surrounded by a thirty foot wall,
affording, at best, a view of the sky alone, the inside occupied by
a labyrinth of houses, some mere circular huts, dark and low, others
well-built, flat-roofed cool houses. Many of the smaller huts had been
pulled down, giving more light and air and improving matters greatly.
It was very quiet, very prison-like, scarcely a sound penetrated from
outside, save the cry of the Muezzins from the Mosque opposite, and only
terrific smells from the indigo dye-pits reminded one that there was life
and industry beyond the wall.
Dr. Cargill left for Kano almost immediately, and we settled down to
await the arrival of our relief, Mr. Granville. A detachment of the
N.N.R. had ‘barracks’ near the South Gate, and Mr. Wilcox, in command,
was our daily companion when we went out shooting in the evenings, the
country round Keffi producing plenty of birds, or when we explored the
higher ground behind the town, searching for a suitable site for a new
Residency.
On the summit of a high hill, overlooking the town, was a circular wall,
enclosing a solitary grave, the resting-place of Captain Moloney, and, in
the square, outside the Mosque, stood a tall white wooden cross, marking
the spot where he died. All honour to those who placed it there—but
that cross has always been a sorrow to me: close beside the wall of the
Mosque, it could not fail to be an offence to a Mahomedan community, and,
being on the way to the market, each man, woman and child who passed,
must be reminded daily of the tragedy that had ruined the prosperity of
the town, and wrecked so many innocent, humble homes.
During the short time we were at Keffi, we spared no pains in
endeavouring to ‘re-establish confidence’ walking about the town in every
direction, and striving to make friends with the people. They were, even
then, beginning timidly to return and to come to the market, and, before
we left, we had the satisfaction of seeing hundreds of nice new thatched
roofs appearing, and the householders coming to their doors to call
greetings and salutations, instead of making panic-stricken rushes in the
opposite direction!
[Illustration: NATIVE DRUMMERS AT KEFFI. (p. 54)]
[Illustration: A DETACHMENT OF THE N.N. REGT. (p. 68)]
Our thoughts, while there, were naturally occupied with the sad events
of Captain Moloney’s death, and we heard the story in detail from the
Resident’s clerk, a native called Silva, who was present, and as his
account of it is rather a curious one, I may mention it here, though,
of course, I cannot vouch for the absolute truth of it, and give it
just as it was told to me. The main facts (I am quoting partly from the
best authority, the High Commissioner’s Annual Report for 1902) are as
follows:—
On the day in question, Captain Moloney, being anxious to ‘come to an
amicable understanding’ with this influential Chief, the Magaji, who
had apparently been giving him much trouble throughout the Province,
slave-raiding and robbing caravans, and preferring to endeavour by
argument and persuasion to win him over to the side of law and order,
and make of him a useful friend to Government, determined on a decisive
interview, while he had a large military force temporarily at Keffi, to
back up his authority if needful. The account runs thus:—
‘Captain Moloney ... went to the king’s house, and the Magaji was
summoned to attend. He declined to do so, and Mr. Webster, Assistant
Resident, was sent to fetch him. Misled by the Government native agent,
to whose intrigue and false representations it now appears probable that
the deplorable results which followed were directly due, Mr. Webster
entered the private quarters—probably the harem—of the Magaji. That Chief
was surrounded by armed retainers, who immediately set upon Mr. Webster.
He very narrowly escaped with his life, and was eventually seized
and literally thrown out. Captain Moloney then sent him to call up a
detachment of troops. The Magaji, seeing his arrest was imminent, rushed
out of his house, and killed Captain Moloney and the agent, Awudu, before
the soldiers could reach the spot. He and his followers then fled, but
sent messages that they would presently return and finish their work.’
Now, this clerk, Silva, had been a hospital dresser, and the task of
preparing Captain Moloney’s body for burial, fell to him. He declared
earnestly and emphatically that there was no wound on the body
whatsoever, except an arrow wound in the neck which had pierced the
carotid artery, and caused almost immediate death. He further described
how the Magaji was armed with a ‘gun’ _only_, he did not touch Captain
Moloney, but rode straight at Awudu, the native agent, who, as described
by the High Commissioner, was the cause of the whole trouble, and, crying
out, ‘_You_ have done this! It is your fault!’—shot him dead, as he
ran, in terror, towards the barracks. The whole crowd of the Magaji’s
followers, rushing out like a swarm of angry bees, of course fired off a
cloud of arrows, more or less at random, and, from this man’s earnestly
told story, it seems fairly certain that it was one of these which killed
Captain Moloney. The old Sariki of Keffi, who was standing close by,
endeavoured to support the wounded man, but received an arrow himself, in
the foot—a slight wound, however, from which he recovered.
These differing facts do not, however, in the least remove from the
Magaji’s shoulders the indirect guilt of murder, although his hand may
not have given the actual death-blow; he was said to have been killed at
Burmi, among the army of the Ex-Sultan of Sokoto, in the following July.
We beguiled some of the long hot hours by making an effort to learn
Arabic; we did not progress very far or very fast, but, indeed, I think
circumstances were rather against us! Our teacher spoke Arabic and
Hausa—no English, of course—we spoke Hausa, much English, and, in moments
of excitement, as our habit is—voluble Hindustani! Our text-book and
dictionary were Arabic-French! Something like a miniature Tower of Babel
ensued, and we decided to postpone our studies till a more favourable
opportunity presented itself! I also amused myself by decorating the
whitewashed walls of our house with sketches, which completely depleted
my paint-box, but entertained me mightily—I believe they are still to be
seen there!
We had bought a very handsome pony in Keffi, and one day, to our
distress, he developed violent colic, and appeared to be dying. Every
available remedy was applied, and for the whole afternoon he was fomented
with hot blankets, but he lay helpless, swollen, limp and moaning. We
then resigned him, at our boy’s earnest request, into the hands of a
native horse-doctor, a wizened old individual, who stood and looked,
then, remarking laconically, ‘He will recover!’ proceeded, with great
difficulty, of course, to get the pony on to his feet. He then passed
his hands five or six times down the pony’s flanks, murmuring to himself
the while, finally taking the muzzle in both hands, he looked very hard
into the pony’s eyes, recited a string of rapid Arabic sentences and,
stooping low, blew into each nostril three times. I stood by watching and
wondering, then, in amazement, realized that _a cure had been effected_!
The ‘doctor’ stood aside, and announced as placidly as ever: ‘He has
recovered!’ directing that a bran mash should be given at once; this
‘Kim’ ate eagerly, and never showed another symptom of pain or illness! I
cannot explain this cure in any way; I can only say that I saw it done,
and done in less than ten minutes, and that the wizard stoutly declined
to give me his prescription or to share the secret!
Shortly afterwards, Mr. Granville arrived and took over, and we rode
out of Keffi, feeling distinctly light-hearted, as we had ‘Leave’ and
‘Home’ before us. But the impression of gloom and sadness left on my
mind by Keffi was deepened later, for we never saw Mr. Wilcox again, as
he died at Bauchi a few months later. Mr. Carré, one of our cheery party
on the Benue River, also died, Mr. Granville was invalided Home later,
dangerously ill, and Major Marsh, whose kind genial face was the last we
saw on leaving Lokoja, was killed in July at Burmi, to our sorrow.
We started for England at the end of March, and had a most comfortable
trip on the _Jebba_—one of the few voyages I have ever enjoyed; we were
fortunate in our weather, our fellow-travellers, and in most of the
amenities of boardship life, and I ‘lazed’ on deck, feeling very well
satisfied with my first year in Northern Nigeria. I had ridden over three
thousand miles, learnt a new language, made thousands of new friends in
the animal and flower world, as well as valued human ones, I felt as if
I had ‘enlarged my borders’ mentally, and had certainly begun to know and
love Africa with a deep affection that, I think, is never lost by those
who once acquire it.
My husband was elected to the Hausa Scholarship at Cambridge, and we
spent a truly delightful May Term there, which passed only too quickly in
the cordial friendship of charming cultured people, and among the lovely
surroundings of the University.