Kabba, Semolika and Patti Abaja
It was not until the end of July that I found myself ‘touring’ once
again, when we started for Kabba. It was interesting and pleasant
going over the same ground that we had covered two years before; and
characteristic of the country that there was not a single change to
be noticed on the road: the little Hausa farm, somewhat expanded,
perhaps; Oduapi as loud and genial as ever, with the blue and green gown
apparently standing the test of time and wear most satisfactorily!
At Kabba things were altered for the better. The old quarters had
been pulled down and new ones built; police barracks had sprung into
existence; and a general air of progress and prosperity was there. We
stayed a few weeks, and the place took such a hold on our affections,
that, at the risk of appearing sentimental, I will give some description
of it here. My enthusiasm is the more excusable when I recall that the
High Commissioner himself expressed unqualified admiration for Kabba,
even after his long tour, during which he had visited nearly every part
of the Protectorate.
It is, in itself a small and insignificant town in the centre of the
Province, it is not on the way to anywhere in particular—anywhere, that
is, that draws the stream of Europeans so ceaselessly passing up and down
the highways of the Protectorate; it has no great political importance to
drag it into prominence, no Emirate, with all the pomp and circumstance
attending a powerful native ruler; it has none of the halo of mystery
and attraction which hovers over Kano, Sokoto and the North generally;
nor is it on the path of the immense caravans which throng the Northern
routes. These either end their journey at Ilorin, and return North,
laden with fresh merchandise, or else, passing down through Nassarawa,
divide themselves into small canoe-loads, when they meet the Niger at
Loko. Kabba only sees those humble traders, who, in twos and threes, are
carrying native-made cloth to Lokoja, or returning with loads of potash;
in fact, the little place just sits there, a tiny mouse-coloured town,
snugly tucked away on the slopes of a thickly wooded hill-side, in one
of the very quietest backwaters of all the world’s rushing and scurrying
tide.
[Illustration: MUREJI—A CARAVAN ABOUT TO CROSS THE NIGER. (p. 110)]
[Illustration: A STEAM CANOE ON THE NIGER. (p. 116)]
Picture to yourself a green—truly emerald green—plain, holding an
area of, roughly, ten square miles, dotted with palm-trees (_Elaeis
guineensis_), their tall slender stems crowned with crests of graceful
drooping plumes, and bearing a respectable fortune in the palm-oil
contained in the closely clustering bunches of nuts on each tree.
Hundreds of acres are under cultivation, mainly yams, cotton and
capsicums, the last-named glowing like little tongues of flame among
the glossy winding trails of the yams, which, at a distance, resemble
smilax on a magnificent scale. Away, beyond, rise the blue hills, in a
huge circle, jealously shutting in this little green paradise from the
tiresome world of restless white folks, who would take count of time,
make roads, try to introduce sanitation, and otherwise employ themselves
in fruitless and unnecessary works to the dire discomfort of the peaceful
denizens of peaceful places! The ancient wall stretches away across the
plain, enclosing an area of which Kabba town to-day occupies possibly
one-hundredth part. A second inner boundary wall surrounds the town
proper, excluding the steep little hill crowned by the Fort, which is
now in as bad a state of repair as the aged walls themselves, but which,
three years ago, was nevertheless the abiding-place of a small military
detachment, and a handful of native police, in fact, the English Quarter
of Kabba, whence might be heard any morning ringing words of command
in English, bugle-calls all day long, and at evening-time the native
sentry challenging all and sundry with ‘Holl!-who-go-thaire!’ in his most
awe-inspiring tone. This ‘English Quarter’ was the only aspect of Kabba
that had the power of damping my spirits, beside the literal and visible
damping of our belongings which took place pretty regularly. Our quarters
were a rambling, ill-constructed clay building, measuring a good sixty
feet from end to end; the crumbling mud walls and ant-eaten, collapsing
wooden supports surmounted by a painfully inadequate thatched roof.
This house, incredible as it may seem, was designed by an Englishman,
whose desire for spaciousness and magnificence of proportion evidently
outweighed his knowledge of elementary architecture, and blinded his
foresight. How the native labourers must have smiled, and patiently
shrugged their shoulders, as they piled up the ridiculous structure under
his imperious orders!
Meantime, the tornadoes swept up over the hills to the South and West,
tearing like a white wall across the plain, and wreaking their fury on
this ill-fated hill-top in a most thorough-going fashion. At such a time
it made one giddy to look up at the roof, while it creaked and swayed
horribly in the hurricane, each gust seeming to bring the inevitable
collapse nearer. We had spent rainy seasons in Africa before, so we took
no needless risks, and in the places most essential for our comfort,
we rigged up tents and ground-sheets, thus securing to ourselves and a
percentage of our belongings islands of comparative safety and dryness;
but, for the rest...! I never could help smiling at the sight of the
Sahib, manfully getting through his day’s work, interviewing the chiefs
and headmen of various neighbouring villages, with the rain pouring
through the roof, and an umbrella held over his head, while his guests
squatted around him, placidly enduring the ceaseless streams of water
pattering on their persons, and displaying as much polite cheerfulness as
the circumstances would permit.
Kabba itself is much the same as any of the smaller towns in the
Protectorate in appearance; a collection of clay-built thatched houses,
clustered closely together, seeming to cling affectionately to the
rocky hill-side above—the Ju-ju Hill, deeply reverenced, dearly loved,
and jealously guarded by all. There is the usual crowded market, with
low, dark booths or shelters lining the streets, where the ladies of
commercial pursuits display the invariable collection of coloured cotton
cloths, beads, miscellaneous food-stuffs, spices and capsicums. They are
some of the most light-hearted and spirited women I have met, those at
Kabba. As I rode through the busy market heads would be popped out, and
white teeth flash in smiles, calling merry greetings to ‘Uwāmu,’ and
vociferating warnings to the fat brown toddlers, rapt in wonder, and
straying perilously near my horse’s hoofs. They are dear, simple souls,
untouched by civilization, happy and unspoilt as little children, yet
self-reliant and independent withal. A scene illustrative of this was
enacted before me daily while at Kabba: the open space in front of our
quarters bathed in warm sunlight; above, blue sky and wheeling kites;
below, the valley, stretching away into purple distance. Little groups
of people, humble folk, trading in a small way between Lagos and the
Hausa States, carrying country-made cloth, palm-oil, salt and kola-nuts,
turned in here daily to disburse, with cheerful reluctance, the small
percentage then levied on each load as a caravan tax. Those moving in
the same direction were, of course, travelling acquaintances. Many were
women, and the babble of laughter and chatter in various tongues was
incessant. The tender-hearted philanthropist would have to seek far and
long in this merry crowd for the ‘down-trodden women of Africa’ and the
‘black sister in slavery’, of whom one seems to have heard. There is not
much that indicates subjection or fear about these ladies, sitting at
graceful ease among their loads, or strolling about in the hot sunshine,
polished mahogany shoulders gleaming, white teeth flashing in laughter,
while the slender perfectly-shaped hands gesticulate dramatically,
illustrating the incident of absorbing interest, which is being related
in musical sing-song Nupe, almost like a Gregorian chant in its slow
cadences. The outer garment, consisting of a gaily-tinted country-made
cloth, wrapped tightly round the body, just below the arms, is adjusted,
tightened, tucked in with lightning rapidity, and precision. The “black
sister” has a word, a joke, a stream of courteous greetings for every
individual there. As each new arrival appears upon the scene, a chorus
of salutations in Hausa, Nupe and Yoruba meets him; a dozen kindly hands
are stretched out to help him down with his heavy load; endless inquiries
are pressed upon him as to his health, the comfort of his journey, the
state of the road, etc.; and he becomes at once an honoured guest in
the cheerful coterie. Every departing traveller has the same circle of
willing friends, eager to help him to adjust his sixty or eighty pounds
of merchandise, and start him off on a fresh stage of his journey with a
shower of valedictions, good wishes and pious ejaculations and prayers
for his safety,—his replies borne faintly up to us on the warm air, as he
drops down the steep path into the valley below.
Of course, it may be called merely superficial friendliness and courtesy,
and it is quite possible that, while the latest arrival absents himself
for ten minutes or so, discoursing to the Resident, the speckled chicken
which erstwhile dangled by one leg and a piece of string from his load
_may_ not be there when he returned, and may be adorning the baggage of
the astute trader, who has just left with some alacrity; but, even so,
for myself, I would gladly take the chance of having my pocket picked,
if, on one of the many occasions when I have entered a crowded omnibus
in London, one of the row of cold, critical unfriendly faces opposite
would break into a smile, and say what I heard all round me at Kabba,
in sonorous Yoruba: ‘Akwabo! Akwabo!’ (You are welcome, very welcome!)
Indeed, I can never conquer that curious feeling of chilly depression
that overtakes me each time I return to England, and feel that, except
for the tiny minority of my own friends, I am alone in the crowd;
infinitely more alone in Bond Street, where almost every brick and stone
is familiar, than I could ever be in the busy streets of Kano, or any
other city of Nigeria, which I might enter even for the first time, where
I should find two hands and one willing tongue all inadequate for the
due return of the ceaseless shower of smiling salutations and greetings
that would be poured upon me from every side. And this is by no means a
tribute to any personal charms of mine. Any traveller, black-skinned or
white, receives the same treatment as a matter of course.
It is, however, a ‘far cry’ from Bond Street to Kabba, and I very much
doubt whether moralizing is permissible in so small and simple a record
as this. It must have been—as usual—the fault of those chattering ladies!
Outside the town, there is a little stretch of forest belt, and, as no
one has ever disputed its possession with me, I am pleased to consider
it exclusively my own property! The path is of the very narrowest, not
more than three feet anywhere, giving barely room enough for me and
my pony. On either side rises a wall of greenery, full of climbing
plants innumerable. Hanging from the branches of great trees, twenty and
thirty feet above my head, themselves loaded with ferns and parasites,
are gracefully twining creepers, swaying tantalizingly and rather
contemptuously, it seems, just out of reach of my farthest stretch. Two
months before, it was a flaming mass of glorious scarlet _Mussaenda
elegans_. Now, in July, that has passed, and the mode for the month is
a flower I dearly love, but which, owing to a miserable ignorance of
botany, I cannot address by its proper name. I think it would strike the
lay mind as a species of mimosa. The stem is thorny; the leaves, which
are minutely pinnate, close modestly at sunset. The flower smells of
a thousand sweet things, and consists of a collection of tiny florets
massed together, forming one infinitely delicate ball of slender,
silvery-white threads tipped with golden pollen. It is everywhere,
clasping the tree-trunks, foaming over the bushes, and shrouding the deep
cool recesses, where the shining dark ferns lie hidden away, scenting
the whole air, and proving itself an irresistible fascination to the
butterflies—busy gossips that they are—flashing purple and velvety black,
gleaming yellow and palest blue.
One of the huge ‘Kuka’ trees is clothed to a height of fifteen or twenty
feet in a gorgeous mantle of _Gloriosa superba_, each vivid green leaf
ending in a long tendril which clings desperately to all it meets. The
blossoms, when first opened, are of a delicate pale golden colour, daily
developing crimson splashes at the base of each petal, and later becoming
entirely an exquisite deep apricot shade—a perfect feast of daintily
varying hues.
Added to these treasures, my ‘Kingdom’ is the happy home of troops of gay
restless monkeys, seldom visible, but everlastingly on the move behind
the green curtain, swinging, leaping and chattering, ever disturbing
flights of tiny green parrots and demure little grey doves.
Skirting the crumbling wall, one follows a narrow footpath towards a
rocky eminence a quarter of a mile away, and, dismounting, explores it on
foot. It is a tiny hill of great steepness, composed for the most part
of piles of massive boulders, from which nearly all the soil has been
washed away by the rain of many seasons. An almost invisible track guides
one up the precipitous side to the summit, an area of, possibly, fifty
feet square, occupied entirely by great rocks, shady niches and coarse
creepers.
The place has a history and a reputation of its own; it is called the
‘Look-out Hill,’ and was greatly used—so runs the tradition—in the times
of Fulani slave-raiding expeditions from Bida. Once arrived at the top,
the full significance of the name is grasped. Far and wide, in all
directions, one can view the surrounding country, and command every road
leading to Kabba, without being visible from below. How vividly one
can picture the anxious watcher, crouching motionless among the rocks,
scanning with straining eyes the paths winding like white ribbons among
the peaceful yam-fields and waving grass, on the alert to detect the
first signs of the advancing Fulah army, and then flying breathless along
the scented forest ways, back to the town, his poor heart thumping on
his ribs, to carry the dread news that sounded the knell of slavery for
himself, his wives and children.
The Kabba folk are of the Bunu tribe; whence their origin I cannot
venture to say. At all events, they speak a remarkably unpronounceable
language of their own, to the utter confounding of any unfortunate
interpreter who does not happen to have been born within fifty miles of
the place. Bunu language is not precisely musical, but I have observed
with mild astonishment that these natives rather like talking it! My
friend, the Balogun, likes to chat easily with his retinue in this
tongue, which appears to have no vowels except odd sounds evolved from
somewhere in the region of the collar-bones, and which seems to demand
some special development about the nose and chest, just as Yoruba and
Kru require peculiarly shaped mouths for their correct enunciation. I
think the Balogun likes to feel that he is making an impression on ‘the
Judge’ in a small way, by this exhibition of jaw-breaking phraseology.
He, by the way, is a man of property, and, as befits the ‘second chief’,
is a leader of society in Kabba, dressing recklessly in a gorgeous black
and white velvet robe. He knows, too, what is due to a lady, even an
English one. Once, when I showed him some elaborate embroidery on which
I was working, he rose manfully to the occasion, and, making use of
his one piece of colloquial English, rather startled me by ejaculating
pleasantly: ‘My God!’
Fetish has a firm hold in Kabba, but to which ‘school’ the people belong,
I have never been able, nor indeed have I tried, to find out, as I
have some belief in treating any man’s religion with as much reverence
and reticence as he does himself. Before describing what I do know of
Bunu ceremonies, I would like to repeat here Mary Kingsley’s admirable
definition of ‘Fetish’: ‘the religion of the natives of the western coast
of Africa, where they have not been influenced either by Christianity
or Mahomedanism’: a fairer and truer view than that usually taken, as
‘rank heathenism.’ However, the whole subject of Fetish is so well and
exhaustively treated both by Miss Kingsley and Major Mockler-Ferryman
in their respective works on West Africa, that it would be as futile as
unbecoming for me to attempt to stumble and halt over the ground they
covered so royally and so completely; therefore I will content myself
with describing the Bunu funeral ceremonies as carried out in Kabba, as
these happened to come under my notice and seemed to me rather unique
and interesting.
In the first place, the corpse is wrapped in the family burying-cloth,
which is an intrinsic feature of every Bunu household. It is a large
cloth quilt, sewn and embroidered with yarns of every imaginable hue—the
wealthier the family, the more elaborate and gorgeous the burying sheet,
the value frequently running up to several pounds. As soon as one is
devoted to its special purpose, the bereaved relations immediately set to
work to provide another according to their means, against a future death.
Nature appears to be very much the same all the world over, and feeling
in Kabba, on the subject of a proper burying-sheet, runs just as high as
it does in the Mile End Road over the momentous question of coaches and
plumes!
When thus suitably arrayed, the corpse is kept in the house for three
days, while four maidens of tender years are selected, and, being placed
in strictest seclusion in a house set apart, are not permitted to speak
a single word during these days. As soon as the lying-in-state is
accomplished, a great number of people from the neighbouring villages
arrive, in obedience to the Sariki’s summons; not necessarily out
of friendship for the dead man, but merely as a matter of religious
ceremonial. Each guest brings a certain proportion of gifts in cloth,
food-stuffs and cowries—especially the last-named. The whole party
having assembled, they start forth for the Ju-ju Hill, the corpse borne
in the midst, drums beating, horns hooting, women uttering mournful
cries, and general excitement prevailing. The grave has been previously
dug in a chosen spot on the hill-side (which is practically one large and
over-crowded cemetery), and is of a curious shape. After the ordinary
grave has been prepared to a depth of four feet or thereabouts, a tunnel
is dug at one end of it, and continued into the earth for a distance of
about twelve feet, the passage being wide enough to admit a man, creeping
on hands and knees.
The party at the foot of the hill seat themselves in a wide circle, and
the four silent girls, coming forward, and raising the body, bear it
away up the hill. It is lowered by them into the grave, and carefully
pushed up the tunnel, the idea being that no earth shall fall on it.
Then, in solemn silence, they return and collect the various offerings
of food, cloth, and cowries from the assemblage, and deposit them beside
and around the corpse; finally, the outer grave is filled in. I have
been told that several pounds’ worth of cowries are thus buried at each
funeral. Meantime, the folks below are holding high revel, dancing,
singing, capering, banging tom-toms, and shouting a most enthusiastic
send-off to their departed fellow-countryman, while he sleeps, all
unconscious of the fun he is missing, lying just where he would choose to
lie, on the slopes of his beloved Ju-ju Hill. Is it very different from
an Irish wake? And is it really much more ‘heathenish?’
[Illustration: THE EMIR’S BAND, BIDA. (p. 124)]
[Illustration: MY ‘PALM’ CAT. (p. 137)
(_Nandinia binotata._)]
Local funerals remind me of another Kabba story, which, though startling,
I know to be absolutely true. It is as follows—An English Police Officer,
while conducting an inquiry there, had a number of witnesses brought
before him (natives), amongst them a woman, with, as usual, a child
strapped to her back. While the inquiry was proceeding, the Police
Officer became conscious of a horrible smell, and, when he could endure
it no longer, inquired the cause among his interpreters and the people
collected around him. All sniffed incredulously, and declared that, to
their consciousness, there was no smell whatever. They could detect
nothing, and evidently put it down, in their own minds, as one more of
the imbecile fads that Englishmen are prone to! The day was warm, the
court-house crowded, the flies seemed more numerous and more maddening in
their buzzing than usual, and, the terrible odour becoming intolerable,
the Police Officer, feeling slightly sick, called for brandy and soda,
and, springing up, declared his intention of discovering the cause.
One turn round the court-house decided him that the horror was in the
neighbourhood of the female witness. He peered closer, and saw at once
that the baby on her back was _dead_! He announced his discovery in
horrified amazement, and was informed quite tranquilly, and as a matter
of course, that the child had been dead for ‘many days,’ but that,
as the mother had come from a distant village to give evidence, she
must, of course, wait till her return before she could give the body
burial! There are many minor ceremonies and festivals, connected with
matters agricultural, the ultimate success of the crops, the coming of
the new yams, etc., but there is little variety in the proceedings, the
main point being, apparently, the making of a ‘cheerful noise’ and the
sacrifice of nothing more dreadful than a few fowls!
Some distance to the south of Kabba there exists a tiny town of the name
of Semolika, curiously situated on the summit of a steep hill, below
which runs the winding bush path—the traveller’s highway. The Semolikas
are not nice characters; most of their time is spent in squatting on the
rocks, watching the road below, till they can spy a string of traders, or
a small caravan, when they swoop down like hawks, robbing and murdering
these unfortunate passers-by! At other times they amuse themselves and
‘keep their hands in’ by attacking their neighbours, who hold them in the
lowest estimation, describing them as having ‘hearts of stone,’ which
means, roughly, that they are insensible to sentiments of friendship,
honour, family ties and common humanity. No Semolika youth can claim to
be considered a man, until he is the proud possessor of a drinking-cup,
consisting of a human skull, taken with his own hand from some poor
wretch he himself has murdered!
These amiable people cherished undying resentment against the ‘white man’
in general; they claimed—rightly or wrongly—to have been unfairly treated
by him, and, having sworn to kill the very next Englishman who entered
their stronghold, they fiercely attacked a small military patrol, under a
young officer, who, on hearing continuous complaints of the Semolikas and
their behaviour from the neighbours all round, decided, with pardonable
imprudence, to march through the place as an object lesson of superior
force. The Semolikas did enough damage to the party to necessitate
reprisals, and in October of that year an expedition left Lokoja to
avenge the insult, accompanied by my husband. The force was entirely
successful in breaking up the culprits’ fastness, and as the operations
were specially interesting owing to the peculiar situation of the place,
I will quote from the Resident’s official report of the attack.
‘... On Sunday, the 16th, we marched into Igarra, which is curiously
situated, being on the opposite side of a narrow valley to Semolika;
the inhabitants of both places are therefore always in view of each
other from the summits of their respective hilltops, and sit by the hour
watching each others’ movements—the distance being about three thousand
yards. The people of these two places have never been friends, the
Semolikas, owing to their hill being the more difficult of the two to
climb, frequently raiding the Igarra farms, and, in addition to the farm
produce, as often as not carrying away women and children. As they are
known to practise human sacrifices, the Igarras are kept in constant
dread of these raids, and, on markets being held at places in the
neighbourhood, large parties arrange to pass along the road together, and
are always armed.
‘On climbing to the summit of the Igarra hill, 1,750 feet, it could be
seen what a very awkward place Semolika hill must be to ascend. The
local formation of boulder-like smooth-topped rocks appears to have been
rather concentrated in this particular mountain, and they rose, one
after another, in constant succession, at gradients varying from almost
the perpendicular, the thin silvery strip of colouring over the surface
of these slabs showing the direction of the ascending path. The Igarras
helped us tremendously, but still, when it came to asking for information
about other ways of getting up to Semolika, the ignorance was too general
to be credited, and I think that even then they were not too sure that
the “white man” would win, and were he _not_ to they might expect a
bad time for long years to come from their old enemy! So, although
much reconnoitring was undertaken, no better path could be seen. On
reconnoitring parties approaching within earshot of the many observing
points the Semolikas were continuously guarding, they would be received
with shouts of defiance and derision, the question being always asked:
“Why don’t you come and try?” etc.... The Semolikas were kept busy now,
and could be seen improving sangars, or endeavouring to make difficult
places still worse.
‘Finally, it was decided to advance on the morning of Tuesday, the 18th,
and on the night before, at 8.30 p.m., the gun detachment carried out
their gun, in order to commence the ascent of the Igarra hill, from
where it had been decided to cover the advance. Although this hill is
not so difficult as Semolika itself, still, no ordinary leather sole and
heel could ever hope to reach its summit, and it was with wonder and
admiration that I watched the manner in which the Igarra people turned
out in their hundreds on this cold and drizzling night, to help to get
the gun to its destination. At places they, accustomed as their toes have
apparently become to cling to smooth surfaces, suffered severely, and at
two points in particular one could only describe their manner of handling
by comparing the gun to a heavy beetle being carried off by a vast
company of ants! It was at one of these places that Captain Phillips, who
was commanding the detachment, had, with admirable foresight, arranged
for drag-ropes, hold-fasts and corresponding paraphernalia, but our
eager allies would brook no delay, and, literally falling on the gun and
its mounting, ran the heavy loads up the sides of this precipice by sheer
force of keen desire. After three hours’ hard climb, at each resting
interval of which the streamingly hot volunteers were most affectionately
patted on the shoulders by gunners and permanent gun carriers alike,
with many “Sanu’s!” to denote their admiration of the herculean task,
the selected ledge of rock was safely reached, and the gun duly mounted.
Heavy rain set in about 2 a.m. and without bedding or shelter of any
kind, the conditions were not pleasant.
‘The main body was supposed to leave camp at 3.30 a.m. which would
enable them to arrive at the foot of the Semolika hill at dawn. One
of the worst places where it was thought opposition might prove most
effective against our side was about one-third of the way up, and was
marked by three palm trees. Some strong sangars had been built, and the
natural features of the place certainly presented the most fearsome
difficulties. It was hoped, therefore, that the gun would succeed in
clearing this trap, and facilitate the advance for the attackers; from
about 4.30 a.m., therefore, every effort was made either to distinguish
our own men commencing their climb, or the enemy concealed in the heavy
undergrowth which was interspersed among the rocks. Unfortunately, there
was a thick mist after the night’s wet weather, and this handicapped the
gunners to a very great extent. At 6 a.m. the first Dane gun boomed out,
reverberating among the rocks and hill-side, and almost immediately after
a break occurred in the veil of mist, showing some hundreds of the enemy,
scampering, veritably like monkeys, from ledge to ledge, from boulder to
boulder, making their way to their various points of vantage, in order
to assist in the defence of their virgin stronghold. A very well-judged
shrapnel was fired at this moment, and, I think, must have checked the
enthusiasm of some at least of the defenders, who could be seen hurriedly
scuttling back. Could this have been repeated, the attackers would have
been much less opposed, except, of course, by the natural existing
difficulties which beset the path, the chief of which, was, I believe,
regarded by the Semolikas as their _pièce de résistance_, which was most
thoroughly emphasized personally, in my case, as it was while clinging to
an eight foot ledge, struggling in vain to get a foothold, that a Dane
gun was fired from most uncomfortable proximity! A long pointed boulder,
impossible to climb, terminated at the so-called path, which, at this
place, consisted of a narrow ledge close to, and under the point of, the
boulder. The defenders had ingeniously built up from this ledge, and
thus most effectually shut an apparently natural entrance gate to the
hill-side. At short distances away were stone sangars in well-selected
positions and, had they been occupied by a more modernly armed enemy, I
fear our casualties would have been very heavy. The drop to the right
from the ledge was considerable, but a small, loaf-shaped foothold
happened to be protruding some feet down, and this was the only means
of proceeding onward. A hurried one-legged balance had to be made upon
its surface when the ledge beyond had to be smartly clutched. On parting
with the perch, it was occupied by a native, who, by pushing upwards,
succeeded in precipitating the climber, on his face, on to the higher
level, once again in comparative safety, and thus every one had to take
his turn!
‘The higher level was a vast sheet of smooth rock, 100 to 150 yards in
length, sloping at a very steep gradient, and offering another deadly
opportunity to the modern firearm. But the Semolikas, at this place, were
content with stones only, and were not, apparently, good shots with these
missiles, for though many were more or less hurt, only one man was struck
in the face. After this, the defenders retired, firing continuously,
until the king’s quarter was reached, where a further determined stand
was made—and where Lieutenant Galloway received a wound. This was their
last combined effort, and for the remainder of the day only desultory
firing took place by people hidden here and there in caves and behind
rocks. A zareba was formed in the best place available ... an attack
being expected during the night, but nothing happened, the rain possibly
damping the enemy’s ardour, as well as his ammunition! For the next few
days every endeavour was made to discover the whereabouts of the fugitive
Semolikas, but without success, although acting on supposed reliable
news which was frequently brought in, the hills for miles around were
diligently searched by our troops....’
Meantime, knowing what I knew of the Semolikas and their rocky fortress,
I spent an anxious and miserable time in Lokoja, waiting for news of the
result; I also said good-bye, with much regret, to Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot,
of the Bank of Nigeria, who left for England. For two whole years Mrs.
Wilmot had remained in Lokoja, with only a few days’ change, occupying
the smallest and most uncomfortable quarters, making acquaintance with
most forms of discomfort, but ever cheery, energetic and plucky, an
object lesson to us all, and though I knew I should miss my friends
greatly, one could not help rejoicing to see their well-earned holiday
come at last.
My husband hurried back to Lokoja a day ahead of ‘the Army’ and delighted
me with a few curios he had secured for me at Semolika. One special
treasure is worth describing in detail; it was, I believe, the Chief’s
own stool, and consists of a solid block of mahogany, black and polished
from long use. The base is solid, and the seat upheld by roughly carved
kneeling figures, while the centre portion is a pillar, having four doors
which actually open and shut, turning in clever little sockets, and
revealing recesses inside, the whole thing being, as I have said, one
solid block of wood, without a join or addition anywhere. The cutting
of those little doors is a great delight to me, and I have never seen
among the many stools I have collected, another at all like it; indeed,
the servants were so impressed with the odd arrangement that nothing
would induce them to open the doors, suspecting Ju-ju, and they greatly
disapproved of my doing so!
For the next few weeks life drifted quietly along, the monotony relieved
by a passing visit from General Kemball, and very sadly, later on, by
the death of ‘Binkie,’ our dearly-loved little fox-terrier. His devotion
and faithfulness to the last was very touching; when he was too ill to
walk, he would painfully and slowly drag himself down the steps, across
the gravel, and lie, exhausted, at the gate, his head between his paws,
watching the Resident’s office with wistful eyes for the return of his
beloved master. Over and over again I carried him back to his basket,
only to see him persistently make his way out again.
I remember finding in the _Spectator_ some lines headed, ‘Modie, a
fox-terrier,’ and with the name altered to ‘Binkie,’ I have kept them
tucked away in my mind ever since. I will make no further apology for
quoting them here, beyond the hope that the author, ‘G.W.F.G.’, will
accept as a tribute the comfort they gave to a heavy heart; any dog-lover
who has not seen them before will love them as I do, and the unfortunate
person who is not a dog-lover will simply—skip them!
Not strange, perhaps, that, on her beat,
Nature should hush, by one wide law,
The patter of four fitful feet,
The scrape of a persistent paw.
And yet the house is changed and still,
Waiting to echo as before
Hot bursts of purpose hard to chill,
And indignation at the door.
No friendly task he left unplied,
To speed the hour or while the days,
The grief that mourned him when he died
Spelt out his little meed of praise.
They say he only thought in dreams.
What matter! Lay the silken head
Throbbing with half a world of schemes
Under the silent flowers instead.
The Spring winds in the lilacs play,
Beside the old wall where he lies:
The ivies murmur night and day
Their tiny lisping lullabies.
Then ask not if he wakes again:
He meddled not in things too deep;
And Nature, after joy or pain
Gives nothing half so kind as sleep.
In the beginning of December we spent a fortnight on a short tour, in the
course of which we discovered Patti Abaja, a quaint little spot just
North of Lokoja, and not more than fifteen miles from cantonments. The
path winds among rather thick bush to the foot of an abruptly-rising
lofty hill, thickly clothed with trees. Here we dismounted and sent the
ponies round to make the ascent by a longer but easier path, and after a
really stiff climb over rocks and boulders for about an hour, we arrived
at the summit, breathless but triumphant, and were confronted by miles
of an absolutely flat plain, partly cultivated, but covered mainly with
fine short grass. It looked exactly as if some playful giant had shaved
the top clean off the mountain! A further walk along the level brought us
to the little hamlet of Patti Abaja, and here was still further room for
wonderment, for, close beside it, the same playful giant had evidently
been to work again, and had scooped out a dozen or so huge handfuls of
the centre of the hill, then tired of his joke, and wandered off to seek
new occupation elsewhere! There was a completely circular basin almost
under our feet, the sides precipitous and rocky, covered with thick
greenery; down below a carpet of farms flourished, and a few figures
moving about looked like ants from our lofty perch. At a point just below
the village a stream, issuing from the rock itself, tumbled and foamed
away down into the valley, and meandered off among ferns, water plants
and grasses, supplying delicious cold water to the community above. The
air was perfectly glorious in its invigorating freshness, with the most
delightful ‘nip’ at sunset and dawn. While there we had a pair of very
fascinating little animals brought to us; they were, I think, what are
called ‘palm-cats’ (_Nandinia binotata_); at that time they were very
tiny, and, when full grown, only slightly larger than a ferret, extremely
pretty, with soft dark grey fur, marked with black spots and rings. They
were very young and helpless, and required a good deal of hand-feeding
before they got lively and independent, but they travelled round with us
in a covered basket quite safely, and, once settled in Lokoja, they were
quite at home, perfectly tame and delightfully playful. One, alas! was
killed by accident, but the other grew and flourished for some months,
till one sad day, when he caught and ate a large locust, and from that
time he refused food, drooped and died. I was sorely disappointed and
grieved at the loss of my tiny pet, who, at a call, would come flying
out from any corner, scamper up to me, run up my skirt, and sit on my
shoulder, with his little wise eyes twinkling, and tiny paws upheld.
We made a shooting camp at Patti Abaja, and spent Christmas there, in
company with Captain Phillips, of the Gunners, whose tastes were similar
to ours, and though the sport, as far as big game was concerned, was a
failure, we were all happy pottering about after guinea-fowl, etc., and
thoroughly enjoyed the difference in the temperature. It was practically
impossible to get near big game, although there was plenty about, for
the ground was as hard as iron, and the steps of a booted foot, or of a
pony, rang as though on a pavement, and must have been audible to the
animals at a great distance. We wound our way down the hill a few days
later, feeling that, even if our spoils had not been many, our Christmas
camp had, at all events, been a pleasant ending to a pleasant year.
About the middle of January we fared forth again, with the object of,
at last, accomplishing the delimitation of the Kabba-Ilorin boundary,
interrupted two years before, and went up the river to Egga, where we
were to meet the Resident of Ilorin, Dr. Dwyer, and from where the
boundary line would start. I had some misgivings, for travelling and
camping in company is not always conducive to peace and harmony; but
directly we all started off my anxieties were laid to rest, and we spent
a delightful three weeks together. If the roads were of the worst, the
camps were of the best, all the arrangements worked smoothly, and we
thoroughly enjoyed ourselves sitting cosily round huge wood fires in
the chilly evenings, chatting and exchanging reminiscences. I made some
new acquaintances in the flower world: the Mexican poppy (_Argemone
mexicana_) made me wonder how it got there; Strophanthus was in full
bloom—queer uncanny blossoms, each pinkish cream petal lengthening out
into a streamer four or five inches long, resembling a flower less than
some curious butterfly or sea anemone. The natives are terrified of it;
beside its poisonous qualities, they believe that the juice produces
instant blindness, and I could not persuade any one to break off a spray
for me to sketch, and was obliged to do it myself, amidst much alarm and
disapproval! In the forest was bright red Bryophyllum and another small
shrub, loaded with glowing flame-coloured flowers; Dr. Dwyer discovered a
specimen of Isochelis for me, and my last ‘find’ was _Kigelia Africana_,
a large tree with truly splendid blossoms of deep crimson, hanging on
pendant stems like glowing lamps set in the brilliant green foliage.
The middle of February found us back in Lokoja, with plenty of work
in the office to be ‘wound up’ before we went on leave, which kept my
husband busy until the High Commissioner arrived in March, desiring
to inspect Kabba with a view to its becoming the headquarters of the
Province. A flying visit was paid there while I packed up, the Sahib
hurrying back to catch the next mail-boat, and as—to use an Indian
expression—we had ‘laid a dak’ at various points on the road, he managed
to cover the fifty odd miles in eight hours! My bull-terrier had just
then burst a blood-vessel, and had to be destroyed, to my grief, and
on March 23 we set our faces down river and towards home, with no
more impedimenta than a parrot, a first-rate talker, who, by the way,
distinguished himself, after a few days in the neighbourhood of the
galley, by exclaiming, while I was displaying him to a friend, ‘Who the
hell are you?’ After that I was allowed to keep him in my own charge!
We had a very pleasant trip, and found a special interest in the persons
of two Arab merchants, who, trading between Tripoli and Kano, had had the
suggestion made to them at the latter place, that, instead of the long
and perilous Desert journey back, occupying seven months at least, it
would be far cheaper and more convenient for them to convey themselves
and their merchandise (ostrich feathers) to the Coast, and return to
Tripoli by sea—a most excellent plan, and one that should, and would,
be universally adopted, but for deep-rooted conservatism and distrust
of new ways. As these two men consented to make the experiment, every
assistance was given them by Government to reach Lagos, and Sir Alfred
Jones gave them and their loads free transport to Liverpool—for they
were, on this occasion, to come to London, instead of transhipping at the
Canaries, so as to test the London market for their feathers. They were
most highly intelligent men; one, ‘Nassuf,’ was the son of an extremely
wealthy Tripoli merchant, the other was a travelling acquaintance, who,
having been robbed of all his possessions in the Desert, was, with
characteristic kindliness, being taken charge of and seen safely home by
Nassuf. They were in quite prosperous circumstances, and had plenty of
money, but found themselves sorely handicapped, once they left Africa,
by speaking nothing but Arabic and Hausa. Therefore, our assistance as
interpreters was requisitioned, and we visited them daily on board,
enjoying many long talks about Tripoli, Kano and the Desert, so that
they came to look on us as their natural protectors and friends, and, on
learning that we, of course, intended leaving the ship at Plymouth, their
dismay and alarm was so deep and sincere, that we decided to go round to
Liverpool with them, and, at least, see them safely ashore with their
valuable merchandise, valued by Nassuf at £60,000!
On arrival, we were met by Sir Alfred Jones, who, with his usual
enterprise, took a keen interest in the experiment, and, at his earnest
request, we consented to take charge of Nassuf and his companion while
they were in England, and bore them off to the _North-Western Hotel_.
There they naturally attracted a good deal of attention in their
picturesque flowing white robes, but their manner of receiving it was
perfection in its well-bred unconsciousness; indeed, their simple, quiet
dignity was in marked contrast to the behaviour of the gaping crowd which
followed us everywhere, and also, alas! to that of well-dressed strangers
who thought them fair game for rude impertinence. Given a pot of coffee
and a box of cigarettes, our ‘lambs,’ as we called them, were perfectly
happy, and would sit for hours in the big hall, utterly unmoved by the
novelty of the scene of continuous bustle of arrival and departure, but
watching it all with their bright intelligent eyes, and asking numberless
shrewd questions in low-toned rapid Hausa.
We then conveyed our charges to Euston, and, on the road, Nassuf confided
to us that he much disliked being mobbed and stared at, therefore he
wished, immediately on arrival in London, to exchange his Arab dress for
orthodox English garments, and, much as we regretted the change, we could
only sympathize with the feeling that prompted him, and promised to ‘make
an Englishman’ of him without delay. At Euston we packed our ‘lambs’ into
a cab, and before getting into another ourselves, explained the situation
to the cabman, requesting him to drive to the first general outfitter
he could find in the Tottenham Court Road. Just as we were starting, he
pulled up, climbed off his box, and, putting a perturbed and puzzled
face through the window, inquired in an anxious and somewhat embarrassed
whisper: ‘Beg parding, sir, but might they be _males or females_?’
With heroic efforts to preserve our gravity, we gave the necessary
information, and were unfeignedly thankful at having escaped being driven
up to a ‘ladies’ shop,’ and the consequent explanations!
Arrived at the outfitter’s, Nassuf, treading noiselessly, and smilingly
serene, walked up to the counter, and asked us to convey to the salesman
his desire to be dressed from head to foot—‘just like him,’ indicating
my husband—‘one of everything—_good_ things,’ he added, ‘I have plenty
of money!’ and, to the bewilderment of the onlookers, he untied endless
knots in a mysterious hidden, white sash, and poured forty sovereigns
out on the counter! A kindly assistant took charge of him, and we waited
patiently, much amused at the fragments of Arabic and English, struggles
with refractory and novel garments, and suppressed chuckles that
proceeded from the little dressing-room, until Nassuf emerged radiant and
complete from his shiny boots to the gloves he so proudly carried, all
his picturesque grace vanished, alas! but quite secure from unwelcome
attention, and, to his amazement, his outfit cost him rather less than
£6! I greatly suspect that the wily young merchant retailed that costume
to great advantage when he reached Tripoli; meantime he adopted quite an
air of indulgent amusement over the appearance of his friend, who, either
from conservatism or from a chivalrous desire to spare his benefactor’s
purse, firmly declined to alter his costume!
We spent several mornings in a great feather warehouse in the City, with
a view to finding a market for Nassuf’s wares, but his hopes were rather
dashed at the sight of masses of splendid plumes from South Africa, and
the price offered for his feathers was, he declared, not half what he
could obtain in Tripoli. Even allowing for Eastern methods of striking
a bargain, he was obviously telling the truth, for, had it been at all
to his advantage, nothing would have been easier than for him to have
disposed of all his feathers then and there. I am inclined to think the
reason is that the Tripoli market, not being supplied with the really
beautiful South African feathers, possibly values more highly the
inferior sort from Nigeria—and they _are_ very inferior, possibly because
the birds are not farmed, and are plucked at any season of the year, and
in a most thorough and cruel fashion. Poor Nassuf was mournfully puzzled
to see his enormous ox-hides, in which the feathers were packed, valued
at five shillings each! In Tripoli, he explained, they are eagerly bought
for a high price, being in great request for Arab tents!
So, after every kindness and courtesy had been showered on the young
merchant—and nothing could have exceeded his grateful acknowledgment of
it—the decision was arrived at to repack his feathers, and speed him on
his journey to Tripoli, and, after a visit to the Colonial Office (when
we persuaded him to resume his national dress), we conveyed our charges
down to the Docks, much encumbered with packages of apples, razors,
cheese and a gold-topped umbrella, and saw them safely established on
the _Gulf of Suez_, _en route_ for Malta and Tripoli. It was quite a sad
parting, the two men were child-like in their grief and affection, and we
could only console them by promising, whenever the opportunity occurred,
to visit Tripoli as the guests of Nassuf’s father, and, meantime, to bear
them in mind, and send them news of ourselves.
A couple of hours later we were watching a play, our leave had really
begun, and the _Gulf of Suez_, preparing to slip down the Thames,
carrying off our ‘lambs,’ seemed already part of a passed fantastic
dream.