Kano
I suppose no one can approach Kano, even to-day, without a certain thrill
of excitement and interest. One’s thoughts involuntarily turn back to the
days when it was all but inaccessible to white men, and yet the mere name
of it was a kind of lodestar, irresistibly attracting travellers in the
face of almost insuperable difficulties. One thinks of Clapperton, Lander
and Barth journeying hither, and rather specially, perhaps, of Richard
Oudney, who died within a few days’ march of the goal.
I believe that every member of our party, down to the most irresponsible
‘small boy,’ had something to express in the way of satisfaction and
excitement when the long red wall began to appear above the horizon, and
we approached the very place of all others which we too had so longed to
reach and see for ourselves.
Outside the gate, the Resident, Dr. Cargill, met us and escorted us
through the city. Our way did not lie through the markets and busiest
thoroughfares, and, looking back, I think my first impression was the
surprising area of open ground inside the walls, the vast stretches of
cultivation and flourishing farms. This is intentional, and has been done
for all time, so that in the event of a long siege, the inhabitants would
be well supplied with food-stuffs, and practically independent of the
farms outside the walls.
It took us an hour to pass through the city, and I fear I carried away
only a misty impression of my first ride through Kano—blurred through
my very eagerness to see, to absorb, to miss nothing, added to my
delight at being there, and anxiety to make the most of my very special
privilege in being the first white woman to enter there! I can only
recall breathless heat, glaring sunshine on pink walls and white dusty
ground, in sudden contrast to the warm, dark purple shadows, an endless
stream of passers-by thronging to and from the various markets—hundreds
of different types, diversely clothed, speaking different languages,
but all ready with courteous salutations and friendly greetings—it made
one’s eyes ache and brain whirl, and it was something of a relief to pass
through the gloomy depths of the Nassarawa Gate, and ride up the grassy
mile leading to the Residency, formerly the Emir’s summer palace. Later
on I had opportunities of learning to know the great city better, but,
living as we did, outside the city, and quite four miles from the markets
and busy streets, each visit was somewhat of an expedition, and it was
hard to get more than cursory glimpses of the life that was lived there,
and the immense volume of trade going on daily.
In the year 1824 Clapperton recorded, in the simple, naïve fashion that
characterizes the whole of his narrative, how, on approaching Kano, he
attired himself in all the bravery of his naval uniform and rode into
the town, and not a soul in the crowded markets turned a head to look at
him, but, ‘all, intent on their own business, allowed me to pass without
remark!’
So is Kano to-day; to the casual sight-seer or the curio-hunter it has
little or nothing to offer, no beauties of architecture, no minarets,
no palaces—the smallest Indian bazaar displays more gay colours, more
material for the globe-trotter’s satisfaction. Kano is a centre of
strenuous trade, there is no dallying and chattering and laughter, no
sign of the ubiquitous hawker of trifling curios, who haunts an Indian
bungalow, and even squats below the verandah of a Lokoja house to-day.
The wares that have been brought across the Great Desert amid perils
and hazards innumerable are not to be lightly disposed of, and the
fierce-eyed swaggering Arabs do most of their bartering privately within
the square, dark, low buildings, over much coffee and many cigarettes.
The great pulse of commerce, here, is as well concealed as is the
throbbing heart in a motionless body, and gives as little sign of its
presence to the casual passer-by, unless he looks keenly enough at the
silent hurrying throng all intent on trading for a livelihood, not
sauntering, idling, gossiping, like the denizens of an Eastern city. The
sternness of the Desert influences the whole place and the people of
it. Patient seeking in the various markets reveals an almost incredible
collection and variety of wares: Turkish coffee, green tea, French sugar,
delicious rare tobacco, silks and cloth, all can be bought at a price—an
enormous price, too, be it said!
But it is Kano itself as a city, rather than as a commercial centre,
which stands out in my memory distinct, unique, with a charm all its
own, like nothing else in the world. Almost all those who saw the city
for the first time that year, when it became the youngest-born of the
Mother Government, expressed great disappointment with its appearance; I
have heard it contemptuously stigmatized as a ‘glorified mud-heap,’ and
it is often complained that the actually inhabited portions occupy so
small a space inside the huge area of those massive walls. This, to my
mind, constitutes one of the city’s greatest fascinations. There is such
infinite breadth and restfulness about those vast stretches of short,
crisp turf, surrounding the streets and alleys and humming markets; such
a wonderful peace and dignity about those two astonishing, jagged,
flat-topped hills, ‘Kazauri’ and ‘Dala,’ standing up abruptly in the
middle of the plain, like tireless mighty sentinels, watching ever, in
every direction, over the distant line of serrated pinkish wall.
[Illustration: A KANO STREET SCENE. (p. 75)]
[Illustration: A KANO MOUNTED MESSENGER. (p. 81)]
This wall itself is an object lesson to any one who grumbles at the
quality of Kano’s architecture. It is fifteen miles in circumference,
forty feet high, and wide enough to drive a motor-car round the inside
terrace, without much danger to life or limb: at the base it is not much
less than eighty feet wide. There are two deep ditches set moat-like
outside the wall; from these all the material for the huge fortification
has been taken. How many weary days of ceaseless patient labour, how many
pairs of industrious hands have gathered that incredible mass of clay,
handful by handful, carried it in miserable little grass baskets and
calabashes, piled up the walls and gates inch by inch, till Kano became
the impregnable fortress of the Western Soudan—why, the very thought is
stupendous!
Remember, these simple folks have no tools, save one roughly fashioned
implement, shaped like a pickaxe, that can do no more than loosen
the soil—beyond this, nothing but ten slim, brown fingers, and that
magnificent disregard for time which pervades Africa and makes such
marvels possible. As an achievement, I think this plain, loop-holed clay
wall compares favourably with any of the glorious monuments and fairy
palaces of Indian fame.
The gates—thirteen in number—are on the same scale, massive solid square
towers, with a narrow passage and various shadowy recesses. The slaves of
Kano in the early days must have been as the sand of the sea, for, inside
the city, the buildings are on the same plan and of the same material. In
Africa, it is only to the white man that Nature shows a brazen pitiless
face; to the child of the soil she is tenderly, munificently bountiful.
The clay for building Kano was under their feet; they dug it out, and
set up enormous dwellings, almost fortresses, masses of cool dark halls,
windowless except for slits high up near the vault of the roof, where the
temperature never varies by ten degrees all the year round. And if by
doing so they _did_ leave great deep pits everywhere, which, in the rainy
season, are filled with water, and even through the six months of deadly
drought remain stagnant and smelling horribly—well, of course these are
fearful evils from a sanitary point of view, and undeniably odoriferous,
but that they add an additional charm can hardly be disputed, the
foul surfaces hidden by a carpet of clustering water-lilies, and the
softly sloping edges clothed with velvety green grass. There is one
in particular, so large that it forms a fair-sized lakelet, once a
place of grisly association, for it was formerly the custom to execute
criminals on its banks: but now the utterly placid surface reflects,
like a mirror, its surroundings—houses, palm-trees, the splendid,
branching-horned cattle, sheep and goats cropping the smooth greensward
around the brink, and the ceaseless _va et vient_ of the passers-by.
Slender, straight-featured Fulani girls come to fill their water-pots,
balancing them on their heads with inimitable grace; the whole scene is
faintly veiled and shrouded in the milky haze of the Harmattan, and the
slow-rising aromatic smoke. Yes—it may spell malaria and miasma to some,
but if any one can pass the ‘Jakko’ as it is called without drawing rein,
I am sorry for him, for he has missed one of those special moments that
come to us all, perhaps only once in a lifetime.
One particular evening, just before sunset, as we rode slowly across
one of the great levels, sounds of trumpets and drums, mingled with
occasional explosions of gunpowder, came drifting along to us, and
presently his High and Mightiness, the Emir, came forth for his evening
ride, having duly notified his intention beforehand to the Resident—a
piece of deferential courtesy never omitted.
He was a fine specimen of the handsome Fulani, regular in features, full
of keen intelligence, and extremely dignified. He wore tobe upon tobe,
gowns ample in material, gorgeous in colouring, lavishly striped with
crimson, gold and blue—French silks which have travelled from Tripoli,
and decorated with silver Turkish embroidery. His ‘fulah’ or turban
was immense and snowy-white, the folds drawn over his nose and chin,
a necessary precaution against dust. He sat with ease and majesty on
a proud-stepping camel, head and shoulders above the surging crowd,
caparisoned and ornamented with leather, coloured red, blue, green and
yellow—a thoroughly regal figure.
Six hundred horsemen or thereabouts accompanied this almost daily ride,
all rushing, galloping, saluting, waving arms and shouting, horses
rearing and flinging bloodstained foam around, maddened by the cruel iron
bit, sharp spurs, and metal, shovel-shaped stirrups, dashing off into the
great cloud of dust which followed them, enveloping the throng streaming
after on foot, banging drums, blowing shrill blasts on trumpets six or
eight feet long, and firing off fusilades from ancient flint-locks and
muzzle-loaders! It was a curious spectacle, widely apart from the world
of to-day, and one that might have stepped out of the Arabian Nights or
the stirring days of Shah Jehan.
[Illustration: A KANO CARAVAN DONKEY DRIVER. (p. 88)]
We watched them on their way, and rode slowly about the city, finding
something new and fascinating at every turn, till the scarlet sun dropped
behind the far-off wall, and the rugged side of Kazauri and Dala turned
rosy-red, indeed the whole city glowed suddenly pink, and the heavy
smoke wreaths twined in sapphire blue curves in the rapidly cooling
atmosphere. It was obviously time to go home; the Emir was back in his
palace, and only a few straggling horsemen and a cloud of dust marked
where he had passed; the mu’ezzins were already calling in all directions
from the summit of the Mosques, ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ and the
faithful were wending their way to evening prayer. Reluctantly we turned
our horses’ heads, passed through the Nassarawa Gate, gloomy and dark
in the fading light, cantered up the wide sandy road to the Residency,
in the swiftly falling darkness of the African night, and were suddenly
jerked back into civilization and modernity, to the dusty parade-ground,
English voices, and joyful leaping fox-terriers!
The Residency itself, our home for the time being, consisted of a very
large compound, surrounded by a high wall and entered by the usual
recessed gatehouse. Inside the courtyard were several massive buildings,
one the first two-storeyed native houses I had seen. They were great
vaulted apartments, cool and dim, eminently suited to African royalty,
but as dwellings for English folk, more than a trifle gloomy. However,
we found our spacious mansion (extremely like a crypt!) was speedily
and easily brightened by the introduction of clean matting, a few
cheerful-tinted cloths, and quantities of sketches and pictures on the
sombre brown walls. The upper storey was reached by a solid staircase
of clay, and comprised a fine large room with plenty of light and air,
commanding a splendid view over the imprisoning compound wall.
Outside were the hospital buildings, the barracks where the detachment
of the N.N.R. was quartered, and, beyond, the Mounted Infantry Lines
and officers’ quarters, all forming a sort of semicircle round the
parade-ground, where I used to sit and watch many an exciting game of
polo, rendered more eventful by sundry rather alarming obstacles on the
ground itself, in the shape of holes and tree-stumps. There was, in
particular, a cotton tree, in the buttresses of which the ball lodged
itself with malignant and unerring precision; the process of hooking it
out looked so extraordinary to an observer, that one might almost wonder
‘what the game was!’
I tried, as usual, to make a garden, but it was up-hill work—every scrap
of earth had to be carried in from outside the compound, sheep and
donkeys from the caravans regularly smashed the frail fence, and trampled
on the beds, hordes of lizards nipped the head off each seedling as it
appeared, and, the month being December, the middle of the dry season, my
efforts were utterly defeated.
I suppose there was not ‘much to do’ as a matter of fact, but the
daily stream of caravans, pausing to pay their toll, were an unfailing
interest; we were a fairly large community, amongst whom were some old
friends of Indian days, the cool hours were filled with polo, and the
horses of the Mounted Infantry proved a continual point of attraction
for an evening stroll, every one was sociably inclined, and we all gave
dinner-parties according to our several abilities. We had even a patient
in hospital to concern ourselves about—he gave us plenty of food for
thought for a time, but, I am glad to say, recovered absolutely, and has
probably completely forgotten the many evenings when he lay, weak and
helpless, in the dropping twilight, watching the flying figures in the
dust outside, and listening to the cheerful shouts as the last ‘chukker’
came to an end. I hope he has, for they must have been long weary hours.
We were very happy at Kano, and sincerely sorry when the time came for us
to pack up again and start on the last stage of our journey North.