Borgu
Outside the Bar at Forcados an October tornado was in full swing, huge
green seas swept past, the wind howled and the rain fell in torrents,
almost hiding from view the little black ‘branch boat’ tossing uneasily
half a mile away. We stood on the streaming deck, watching our belongings
being transferred, with the greatest difficulty, from the mail-boat to
the other, each boat-load apparently faring worse than the last as the
hurricane increased in violence, and it seemed an absolutely foolhardy
risk for us, and four other passengers for Nigeria, to attempt to
reach the _Dodo_ in an open boat. It was an _impasse_, for the tides
did not suit, and, with every desire to assist us, our Captain was not
justified in incurring the danger of trying to cross the Bar: waiting
was out of the question, even for twenty-four hours, as these tornadoes
sometimes last for days together, therefore we had to make the best of an
unpleasant situation and ‘face the music’! So the _Dodo_ steamed round
us and anchored on our lee side—at what seemed a _very_ long distance—so
as to give us, at least for the start, a certain amount of protection,
and enabling the ladder to be let down, a great consideration, which
avoids the dangerous process of being deposited in a heaving, rocking
boat by means of a ‘mammy chair’ or a bucket.
Our baggage safely (more or less!) transferred, kind friends lent us
oilskins, and we six unfortunate wayfarers cautiously crept down the
ladder, established ourselves in the boat, waved farewells to the line
of anxious faces at the rail above, and set forth, benefiting for a few
minutes by the shelter afforded by the ship, but only too soon finding
ourselves very much at the mercy of wind and waves.
Most fortunately, however, it is provided that, in the face of _real_ and
present danger, the smallest-spirited of us has no sense of fear, but
rather one of exhilaration—it is no new discovery of mine, I know, but
it is an immense comfort at the moment, and, though the chances of our
being swamped at any moment were enormous, I had the satisfaction, while
I hugged ‘Diana’ (our latest acquisition, a beautiful setter-spaniel), of
deciding that if this _was_ the end of the chapter, it was nice to finish
in such good company! I think I had just arrived at this philosophic
reflection when our boat was whirled and sucked in under the stern of
the _Dodo_, where the propeller was revolving, and the heaving sea
threatened to throw us up and crush us like egg-shells. There was just
a moment while we all stared upwards at the black stern and held our
breaths, then the wave passed and a mighty pull brought us round, just
in time, and a few minutes later we were all standing on the _Dodo’s_
dripping deck, congratulating each other on having succeeded in getting
there! It was quite the nastiest experience I have yet had, and I know
that all my companions would agree that I have by no means exaggerated
the seriousness of it. This transhipping from ‘intermediate’ boats is a
most unpleasant, and also dangerous business, ruining baggage and risking
lives; it is not too much to say that no one should be called upon to
take such a risk, and I believe that every official in Northern Nigeria
would rather sacrifice a week’s leave than do so.
We returned our borrowed oilskins by the boat-men’s hands, and groped
our way, in the driving rain, to our luggage, only to find that the
particular box we sought had been forced open and rifled, and our new
three-guinea mackintoshes had vanished! This was getting on towards ‘the
last straw,’ but the kindly skipper, after much hunting, found a large
native cloth, which I could wrap over my soaking muslin blouse, and, when
some tea had been made, and one of us had produced an immense plum-cake,
we began to forget our sorrows, and steamed up to Burutu just as the
darkness was falling, much comforted to see the smiling black face of
‘Momo,’ our faithful head steward, come down to meet us.
The next morning, as the _Empire_ fussed and paddled up the familiar
creeks, and the sunshine was bright again, we opened the boxes that
seemed to have suffered most from sea-water. My own clothes had fared
badly, and it was a little saddening to cast overboard stained sodden
masses (including my best evening frock!) which had been dainty muslins
and chiffons. Destruction to nearly all one’s possessions is all in the
day’s work in Nigeria, but it was rather saddening to see the destructive
process well begun even before arrival!
We had a coop full of English fowls, Buff Orpingtons and Black Minorcas,
and they, poor things, had very narrowly escaped drowning, and had been
so terribly knocked about that they could hardly stand for many days;
indeed, I think we were lucky in losing only two hens as a result of
their experiences.
We arrived in Lokoja on the 14th of October, and found many familiar,
kind faces to welcome us; one dear friend of mine had even delayed
her leave a few weeks so as not to miss us—a really heroic proof of
friendship, and one greatly valued! Almost immediately my husband was
ordered to take charge of Borgu, the Northernmost Province on the right
bank of the Niger, and we were jubilant at the prospect of seeing some
new country, especially as Borgu possessed a great reputation for good
shooting; but our departure was delayed unavoidably for nearly three
months, involving a state of restless uncertainty and suspense, a thing
abhorrent to us both, and which has, oddly enough, been our portion
almost continuously for the last ten years!
There came to Lokoja at this time a quaint and unusual visitor in the
person of ‘Fritz.’ ‘Fritz’ was a young hippopotamus, I can hardly call
him a baby on account of his size (about that of a very large pig),
though he was only a few months old, brought down the Benue by Captain
Stieber, the Resident of German Bornu, on his way to Berlin. He (Fritz,
I mean!) was the oddest thing in pets, for he was perfectly tame, and
could scarcely be called sharp, or even lively, but there was distinct
individuality in his wide, rather satirical smile and tiny twinkling eye
which commanded respect, though he did not lend himself to petting. For
fear of losing this valuable little person he was usually tied up when
taken down to bathe, for which purpose he wore an elegant and original
collar, made of a cask hoop; he seemed perfectly happy and contented,
wandering among the grass at the Preparanda, consuming untold quantities
of tinned milk, and rolling in awkward ecstasies in the warm sand. I
believe Captain Stieber was perfectly successful in landing his pet safe
and well at the Berlin Zoo.
In December we got our ‘marching orders,’ packed up, and—on Christmas
Day!—started on our long river journey to Bussa, our new headquarters.
When our last friend had waved ‘Good-bye’ at Mureji, and the little white
stern-wheeler swept round the bend, and swung out into the great silent,
gleaming river, where the distance was all opalescent Harmattan mist,
the water like glass and the heavy air laden with soft aromatic scents,
floating lazily out from the walls of tropical verdure on either hand, we
felt that the ‘onward and outward’ craving which so deeply possesses us
both was in a fair way to be gratified.
After the hurry and stress of departure from the busy station down river,
and the final disgorging of passengers, mails and cargo at Mureji, it was
infinitely peaceful to lie out on the now deserted deck and absorb and
drink in the matchless beauty of it all, a beauty which seems to seize
and hold one, making the blood race and pulses throb. The marvellous
colouring, the masses of vegetation hanging over motionless reflections,
clear and detailed as their originals, in the olive-hued water; the
solemn fish-eagles, sharply silhouetted against the pale sky, immovably
still and ceaselessly peering into the silent pools below; those
mysterious little creeks creeping inwards where the branches hang low
giving glimpses of flecked sunshine and shade, gloom and gold, bringing
to mind that strange indefinable world that is neither dream-land nor
fairy-land, but which very surely exists, and is sometimes momentarily
revealed to most of us.
[Illustration: ‘FRITZ.’ (p. 151)]
[Illustration: OUR START FROM BUSSA FOR ILLO. (p. 161)]
A tangible part of the universal placidity was our pilot: he would sit
crouching on the deck, hour after hour, wrapped in a white blanket, for
the morning air was very keen, his wise old face tirelessly watching
the water. They steer by sight, of necessity, as the channels shift and
change continually; not a word passed, but the slightest wave or quiver
of his slender brown hand conveyed his meaning to the stolid sailor at
the wheel, and the little boat crossed and re-crossed, dodged and curved
in perfect obedience to the silent watcher, closely noting every ripple
and swirl with his far-seeing dreamy eyes.
At Jebba the scene changed abruptly from low-lying grassy marsh land
and warm sandbanks, where the wild duck and geese were wont to gather,
to great beetling cliffs and walls of rock, which rose sheer from the
still water, seemingly shutting in the river altogether, and giving the
impression of one end of a Highland loch. Jebba struck me as rather a
dreary spot, in spite of its undoubted beauty, having been formerly the
headquarters of the Government and now utterly deserted, save for the
Niger Company’s Store, which gives it an air of some life and briskness.
I climbed the hill by the old zig-zag path, now scarcely discernible,
and wandered round the remnants of ruined bungalows; of some, nothing
remained but the flight of cement steps, standing forlorn where all
else had vanished; others were the crumbling ruins of native-built
mud houses—everywhere was desolation and decay. There is something
essentially saddening about an abandoned station, and the island at
Jebba, with its traces of ‘white’ occupation, added to the impression of
melancholy desertion: the cemetery was there, a lasting and tragic record
of duty doggedly done, in the teeth of all difficulties, quiet heroism,
and true British persistence, under the inspiration of an indomitable
leader—to the end.
However, there was little time for cheerless reflection; our evening
was spent strenuously—the Sahib struggling with fever—in shifting our
belongings from the security of the _Kapelli_ which now had to turn round
and steam down river again, to carry the mails and passengers from Mureji
to Lokoja, to the narrow quarters of a steel canoe; and, in the chilly
grey dawn of the following morning, with endless unnecessary buzzing,
chatter, and running to and fro, the little paddle-wheel began to
revolve, and we were away on the next stage of our journey. The fussing
and churning of our tiny boat seemed utterly impertinent in the face of
the gigantic frowning cliffs, the ‘Ju-ju Rock’ towering grim and bare
save for a thick undergrowth, at the base, of the unsightly euphorbia,
greatly dreaded by the natives, who declare that like strophanthus, it
will cause instant blindness to all who touch it. The sun rose on scenery
resembling a mighty salmon river, the water swirling past smooth grey
rocks, sheer cliffs and overhanging verdure; this stretch of the Niger
immediately above Jebba had almost the appearance of a stone gateway,
for, later, the swift current spread itself out again, wide and placid,
to level green lowlands far away on either bank, until Badjibo was
reached, and we were once more among rocks and rising ground.
Here a halt of two days occurred, perforce, as our small craft could go
no higher, a further transfer of our possessions into native canoes being
necessary, and we had to wait until the ‘Etsu’ of Badjibo could procure
the said canoes from some mysterious direction indicated by a vague
wave of his hand. Meanwhile, we were most comfortably installed in an
excellent rest-house—excellent, that is, to African travellers’ eyes—the
square compound, encircled by a mud wall, containing four native-built
huts, might not appeal very strongly to fastidious tastes, but, to us, it
spelt something like luxury, plenty of room, a dim, cool, clean dwelling,
built solidly and well as the Nupe custom is, and a real relief after
the terribly cramped accommodation and blistering heat of a steel canoe.
Here, too, a new diversion awaited us in the shape of the undesirable
activities of an angry swarm of bees, whose advent made our household
generally move faster than I had ever seen them do—I can imagine nothing
more effective than swarming bees for making slow folks bustle!
Outside our compound were two immense trees, one covered with
creamy-white pendant blossoms, the other bearing bright yellow berries
in almost incredible profusion. It was one of our chief pleasures to
watch these trees, and find delight in the ever-varying throng of
brilliant-hued birds who came, chirped, ate and fought all the morning
long. Great plump green pigeons, with their exquisite plumage, deep
yellow breast and wings shaded mauve, green and grey, others which we
called the ‘black fidgets’ from their incessant twittering and flying,
flashing, as they went, a deep metallic blue; there were smaller birds
too, one almost entirely canary-coloured, another tiny wren-like thing,
all crimson and soft brown, hundreds of tiny atoms of bird-life, hopping
and darting so quickly that a clear view of them was almost impossible,
except in the case of the exquisite little ‘honey-birds’ who, caring
nothing for the luscious berries, frequented the other tree, and
delicately sipped the honey out of the drooping flowers, their backs
gleaming brilliant green, and breasts glowing copper—their whole persons
smaller than a cockroach! They were a busy, merry crew, children of the
sunshine, happily untouched by want or fear.
We fished the next day, without much science or skill on my part, and, to
our immense surprise, our efforts were rewarded by the landing of a most
uncanny-looking fish; indeed, as it whirled out of the water, I believed
for a moment that we had inadvertently hooked the corpse of a green
pigeon! Its length was about ten inches, the head blunt and the body very
round, gaily striped with brilliant yellow and green, the breast a paler
yellow, and protruding like a pouter pigeon. He was quite a stranger to
me, and to this day I have never discovered his name—I trust it may be
one befitting his truly gorgeous appearance! At all events, the immediate
circle of admirers of our prowess unanimously cried ‘A—a!’ (No, no!) and
assured us that our catch was bitter and uneatable; and when an African
native pronounces any living thing uneatable, it must be uneatable
indeed, so we took their word for it, and having sufficiently admired his
somewhat grotesque beauty, we carefully unhooked him and put him back.
Early next morning we left Badjibo, heading a procession of native
canoes, and a most adventurous journey we had! The river hereabouts
is split up into various channels by islands and rocks, and we found
ourselves in true Highland scenery, brown water rushing and creaming in
its fall round and over huge boulders, the river fringed on either side
by an immense growth of trees and bushes hanging above the stream, and
making it a matter of great difficulty for the canoe-men to make any
headway against the strong current, owing to the almost impossibility
of finding ground for their long palm-wood poles. They could only seize
branches and twigs, and so endeavour to haul the canoe up-stream, which
method was, naturally, productive of a rich crop of misadventures, such
as the sudden crashing down of the rotten branch to which the muscular
brown arms were clinging, and the consequent rush down-stream of the
canoe—our heads being banged and swept by branches and creepers, until
it could be brought again under control by the whole party hanging
desperately on to the nearest tree, and the strenuous effort, swirling
and rocking, had to be commenced again, till we could crawl back to the
same point, and beyond, perhaps, into smoother water, till the next rapid
appeared, and the same difficulty—and, incidentally, danger—had to be
encountered once more. I can vouch for it that we had not a ‘dull moment’
from start to finish, and one could hardly be reproached for harbouring
a slight feeling of insecurity, especially as the water continuously
bubbled in through a very inadequate mend in the bottom of the canoe,
just under my eye, and vigorous baling went on ‘amidships’ all the
time! Anything less like the lower reaches of the Niger could hardly be
imagined; in the narrow channels where the trees meet overhead and the
water tumbles, loud-voiced, over rocks and snags, it is hard to recognize
it as the same river, and only in the open reaches do the crimson and
white quisqualis and purple convolvulus remind me that I have met and
loved them some three hundred miles nearer the coast.
At the worst points, where the whole face of the river appeared to
be barred with a rush of falling waters, and no smallest passage was
visible amidst the tumbling foam, the canoes were hauled under the
steep bank, and their entire contents bundled out thereon, we, the
passengers, clambering, by the aid of roots and branches, to a place of
some security, where we sat on the warm sand and watched the manœuvres
down below. The majority of the canoe-men, divesting themselves of their
clothing, took boldly to the stream, where, with the rushing water up
to their shoulders, struggling against the current and slipping on the
stones, they deftly and manfully dragged the absurd little crafts through
the rapids by means of rope hauling, vigorous pushing, swimming, and
attempts at poling. They are practically amphibious, these men, and it
was a fine sight, the active figures swimming and wading, dark, wet skins
gleaming, white teeth flashing, while the air was full of shouts and
cries, not to mention the chorus of advice and directions from the bank,
and pious ejaculations of thanksgiving as each canoe reached a place of
safety. Once arrived in more placid waters, the re-embarkation would take
place, and the journey be resumed.
Our river trip ended at Leaba, a small village above which is the Wuru
rapid, about the worst on the river; the natives have driven great tree
trunks vertically into the rocky bed of the stream, and attached to them
a stout rope by which the unfortunate traveller must drag himself and his
canoe through the seething torrent. There is a saddening loss of life
here, and death by drowning is so frequent that the riverside folks are
perfectly stolid and unmoved by it, as we noticed when a man lost his
life that very afternoon, trying to cross the river at this spot. The
water is also infested with alligators of considerable size; possibly
they come up at high water, and are unable to get back until the next
wet season—one is told that the body of a man upset from a canoe in the
rapids is seldom or never recovered.
At Leaba we found ponies awaiting us, and did the remaining few marches
on horseback, leaving the baggage to make its way slowly up-stream, and
on the 9th of January we reached Bussa, where the Assistant Resident,
Mr. Dwyer, gave us a cordial welcome. Bussa town is a mere hamlet, or,
rather, collection of hamlets, straggling along the river bank; a place
of no importance whatever, where there is not even the mildest attempt
at a market, where trade is nil, and existence about as stagnant as the
mind can picture it.
At that time, however, we had no opportunity of making close acquaintance
with the place, as, about ten days after our arrival, we were obliged
to hurry off to Illo, as work of much urgency awaited my husband there.
Anticipating long marches and great heat, I decided to travel in an
improvised hammock, but the paths were so bad, and the bearers so
unskilful, that, after the first day, I gladly mounted my pony, leaving
Diana in sole possession of the hammock! It was a hot, weary journey,
the dust and glare very unpleasant; each halting-place seemed a dirtier
and more unsavoury hamlet than the last, till we reached the large
walled town of Kaoji, where our spirits, which had rather drooped at the
apparently hopeless poverty and desolation of our new province, revived
a little at the sight of brisk, intelligent Fulanis, replacing the
apathetic, ignorant, dull Borgus.
We had scarcely unpacked at Illo, when, to our intense dismay, Diana,
who, with her sweet disposition and high intelligence had made herself
very, very dear to us both, began to flag and display the usual dread
symptoms, and ten days later we miserably buried her under a great shady
tree. I do not think we have ever cared to go out shooting since.
That very day came the disquieting news of the disaster at Satiru near
Sokoto, involving the deaths of Mr. Hilary, Mr. Scott and Mr. Blackwood,
while endeavouring to effect the arrest of the ringleaders of a small
faction of malcontents, who had been spreading disaffection. Such an
event as anything resembling a native rising naturally called for prompt
action, and troops were hurriedly moved north, the Illo detachment was
ordered away at once, and, as my husband’s work called us to Yelwa, we
also prepared for departure, and, less than six hours after the telegram
had arrived, the busy ‘lines’ and fort stood empty, silent and deserted,
while a procession of canoes was rapidly descending the river.
Illo is not actually on the Niger, and at Giris, the small village where
we embarked, we noticed a quaint local custom which I do not remember to
have seen elsewhere. Some of the round huts had bunches of short, dry
bamboo twigs hanging from the apex of the thatch, rattling cheerfully in
the evening breeze, and, on inquiry, we were told that any young man who
desired to marry hung out this signal, so that all match-making parents
of daughters might take a note of his intentions, and presently parade
their most attractive daughters for his benefit! A vision crossed my mind
of this simple system adopted in more civilized circles, and harassed
mothers anxiously scanning the surrounding chimney-pots from a top window
in Grosvenor Square!
A few days later we were back at Bussa, and a time of considerable
discomfort arrived for all of us. March and April are always the hottest
and most unpleasant months in Nigeria, but Bussa seemed to me to be much
hotter and more unpleasant than any other spot I know. This was partly
due to our wretched houses—badly built, ill-thatched mud dwellings,
which afforded little protection from the heat, the inside temperature
reaching 103° and 104° every afternoon. The nights were oppressively
hot. We used to move our beds all over the compound in order to catch
the least particle of breeze, and were out each morning at five o’clock
to get an hour’s ride in the cool—for by half-past six no one would care
to be out in the sun. Perhaps the worst feature of these months was the
‘dry tornadoes,’ violent dust-storms, when the clouds would roll up with
most hopeful rapidity and inky blackness, and a hurricane of wind would
tear through the house for an hour or so, laden with dust, dirt and sand,
almost instantly covering every thing with a deep layer, at the same time
usually removing a good deal of the flimsy thatch. One could only sit and
endure, protecting eyes, mouth and hair from the flying grit by means of
a motor veil, and longing for rain till the hurricane passed and died
away, leaving us _very_ miserable and uncomfortable—and as dry as before!
However, the 30th of April brought the first rain, and we thankfully
put the ‘hot weather’ behind us for the rest of the year. At the end
of May we started on a visit to Ilesha, a customs station in the south
of the province, to inquire into a serious theft of Government money
which had occurred there. It was infinitely pleasanter marching than our
last journey northward, and the paths were good enough to allow of our
cantering a great part of our long marches. From Bussa we were escorted
to the Meni River, some three miles, by the Sariki and all his myrmidons
on horseback, and, as we had a march of twenty-two miles before us, and
a good road, we drove the whole party in front of us at a sharp canter.
It is curious and amusing to notice how utterly uncongenial to the
native and his horse is a steady canter—they simply cannot do it, their
horsemanship consisting entirely of furious sprinting and a dancing sort
of walk, varied by plunges into the high grass, and rushes back on to the
road. We had the greatest difficulty in keeping our escort going, and, to
our surprise, men and horses were quite blown when we reached the river
bank. Here we said our farewells, crossed the river in canoes—the ponies
swimming—mounted again and rode off.
We had a capital sandy track through shady forest country, the young
green grass seemed absolutely _made_ to be a background for primroses
and bluebells—instead it was thickly sprinkled with delicate mauve
terrestrial orchids, and the deeper purple iris-like flowers of ‘ground
ginger,’ while feathery asparagus fern climbed and trailed everywhere.
We crossed two deep rocky rivers with some difficulty, lunched and
rested awhile on the shady bank of the second, and late in the afternoon
reached our first halt, a town named Wa-wa. One incident of that day’s
march which comes back to me was my dismounting to lead my pony across
an awkward deep cleft in the road; he jumped very wide, dragging the
rein from my hand, broke away and cantered gaily off up the path towards
Wa-wa, leaving me to contemplate ruefully the joys of a five-mile walk
to complete a long march! Nevertheless, recollecting an insatiable
greediness to be one of the culprit’s chief characteristics, I set
off along the path at a leisurely walk, and, as I expected, very soon
discovered him, grazing to his heart’s content, and so pleased with his
surroundings that he submitted most placidly to be captured and mounted.
Wa-wa is a large town of rather unusual appearance, consisting of
groups of tiny hamlets separated by wide green spaces, at this season
of the year covered with delightful short turf. Narrow red gravel paths
connecting these clusters of houses gave quite a cultivated air, and the
spacious green stretches were very pleasant to look at. The trees, too,
were unusually large, and each hamlet rejoiced in spreading ‘shedia’ and
‘durmi’ trees. We had a roomy and comfortable rest-house, which unluckily
admitted a fair share of the torrential rain which fell during the night!
The following day we found the rivers much swollen, and crossing them by
means of fallen trees and rickety native bridges savoured somewhat of
Blondin’s feats. Between Kali and Vera we had quite a special piece of
good fortune; cantering through the cool shady woodland, we both pulled
up suddenly, noticing two large animals moving among the trees and high
grass. We had barely exchanged a whisper when, as they bounded across an
open grassy space, we discovered, to our delight, that we were watching
two large lions! There was no possibility of doubt, the ground was quite
open and the animals were distinctly in view, in brilliant sunshine—and
the tail of a lion is quite unmistakable, with its odd little bunch
of hair at the end! The road itself was crossed and re-crossed with
numberless tracks of deer, so, no doubt, the lions found it a profitable
hunting-ground. We watched the bush intently on the chance of getting
another glimpse of the splendid creatures, but the few stragglers who
had come up did not apparently sympathize with our desire, and displayed
unusual activity about reaching the camp!
As we approached Kaiama, the old Sariki came out with all his people,
and the usual accompaniment of beating drums and blowing horns, and
escorted us to the confines of the town, where we turned off, and, after
following a path in the bush for about a mile, came upon a clearing, some
eight or ten acres in extent, in the centre of which stood, bare and
solitary, a double storeyed brick bungalow—the Residency! Formerly Kaiama
was the provincial headquarters, and the staff inhabited a clay-walled
enclosure in the town, containing a few wretched huts, originally a
French fort. Here, the site was low and unhealthy, and a change was
decided on; the brick bungalow was built, but was never finished or
permanently occupied, as a further decision was arrived at to move the
headquarters altogether to Bussa! It is regrettable that the bungalow
could not have been removed too! It was very comfortable, of course,
to find oneself on a wooden floor, and under a watertight roof, but
the situation was so ill-chosen, so utterly lonely and desolate, that
it was depressing to a degree. Absolutely nothing was in sight but the
monotonous endless bush, not a sound, not a single habitation, not even a
breath of rising smoke, for the town was distant and invisible. Scarcely
a soul ever came or went, for the path to the town was said to be
infested by leopards and hyænas, and was sedulously avoided, even before
sunset.
We visited the grave of Mr. Ward-Simpson, a young police officer who
died there three years ago; it was a very peaceful spot, in the deep
shade of a spreading tree, and we satisfied ourselves that it was
well-cared for, and neatly fenced in.
The Sariki of Kaiama is a highly intelligent old gentleman, though he
bears a distinctly bad character among all his neighbours for high-handed
bullying and dishonesty. We found it very interesting listening to his
stories of past years, which he delighted to tell with a considerable
sense of humour, while he turned the leaves of the _Spectator_ with a
great air of interest and appreciation. He had rather a special connexion
with the late High Commissioner, Sir Frederick Lugard, having, years ago,
when the latter was travelling through Borgu, making treaties, saved his
life by warning him of an ambush prepared for him. He has always been
very loyal to the Government, and it is a pity that he is held in such
detestation by his own people, though, perhaps, only natural that, with
native cunning, he should have used his boasted friendship with the High
Commissioner as an universal threat to all whom he wished to intimidate.
He goes in terror of death by witchcraft or ‘medicine’ (i.e. poison) and
solemnly assured us that quite lately he had had a wonderful escape—a
woman in the town having actually _kept an iguana_, and, of course,
everybody knows that to touch an iguana with any article belonging to
the Sariki would cause the latter’s instant death! This well-known fact
was warmly upheld by many of our own following, so it evidently behoves
one to choose one’s pets carefully in Kaiama! The Sariki had, however,
soothed his shattered nerves by relieving the conspirator of every bit of
‘real estate’ that she possessed!
A few days’ marching through the cool green woods, lavishly decorated
with what the florists call ‘stove plants,’ white and crimson striped
lilies, and the earliest Gloriosas, unfolding their delicate crimson,
gold-edged petals—for, in June, the ‘mauve’ season is over, and the
‘scarlet-and-gold’ time coming, brought us to Bodebere, a pretty little
hamlet where we camped under a huge shady tree, and had the benefit of a
truly magnificent view of miles of wooded country, sloping away to the
south, where some blue peaks were faintly visible. We were much struck
with the quantity of young life around us—beside the human babies, there
were lambs, kids, ducklings and chickens scuttling about under our feet.
The sheep and goats in this country are extremely small, for the most
part, and their babies are the most fascinating, absurd little furry
bundles imaginable, about nine inches high, and needing only a green
painted stand to make them perfect toyshop treasures!
On the road into Ilesha we noticed that almost every third bush was a
custard apple, loaded with fruit. We gathered them as we passed, and
thoroughly enjoyed their delicious creamy golden-hued pulp. The people
call them ‘Gwando-n-daji’ (wild paw-paw), and, judging by the hundreds
of skins and stones scattered on the road, they greatly appreciate them
also. The custard apple is almost the only wild fruit in the country
which is really palatable, except, perhaps, the tamarind, which, though
very refreshing, is terribly acid when eaten raw.
We found Ilesha a wretched ruinous-looking town, dirty and unattractive;
there was no rest-house on the high ground where the police detachment
is quartered, so we descended, rather disgustedly, into the town, quite
fifty feet lower, and, after winding amongst grubby little lanes and
evil-smelling narrow byways, emerged upon an open space beside the
market, where a fair-sized native house was got ready for us.
There was a general air of disturbance, quite contrary to custom no one
had come to welcome us, the markets were deserted, hardly an individual
was to be seen—obviously there was trouble in the air! Presently a string
of most forlorn-looking, decrepit old men limped, crawled and hobbled up,
and, when they had, with immense difficulty, doubled up their rheumatic
limbs into a sitting posture before us, they poured forth their tale of
woe. A misfortune unprecedented, unheard-of, beyond the experience of
even the most aged of them, had occurred in the night—the old Sariki had
died! ‘Full of years’ he must have been—our toothless, palsied visitors
mumbled that he was much older than any of them, and one amongst them was
actually the heir!
[Illustration: REPAIRING THE BUSSA RESIDENCY. (p. 170)]
[Illustration: BALU. (p. 180)
(SERVAL CAT.)]
Their sorrow and dismay was truly pathetic, as they lamented that ‘all
the people were bewildered ... they could do nothing ... they knew not
what to think....’ We offered our condolences and sympathy, and when they
had asked and received permission to carry out the funeral ceremonies
exactly as if we were not there, they departed somewhat cheered and
comforted.
The three next days were rather a trial—the drumming day and night,
the incessant wailing and shrieking of the women, the entire cessation
of business of all kinds, and the consequent difficulty of obtaining
supplies, made me watch the digging of the huge grave with rather a
personal interest. It was done in a manner exactly similar to the Kabba
custom which I have already described in detail. By the evening of the
third day all the people from the surrounding villages had arrived, the
last comer being the special person entrusted with the duty of actually
laying the dead man in his grave, a duty which might be performed only
by one who had never seen the Sariki’s face in life. The funeral was
accompanied by much firing of Dane guns, a terribly noisy performance,
and we felt sincerely thankful to hear before long that the ammunition
had given out. But the drums and horns lasted all night, and were used
with untiring vigour!
The curious custom ordains that the women of the establishment must
‘wail’ in idleness for three months, and, further, that no head of a
household may sleep inside his own house for the same period. Therefore,
immediately the burying was accomplished, a large camp of little grass
huts sprang up all round the grave, outside the ‘royal’ compound. It
seemed to me very touching, the absolutely conscientious way these
simple souls obeyed the ‘custom’ at what must have been the greatest
inconvenience and discomfort to themselves, many of them infirm old men,
bent and crippled with rheumatism, sleeping for many weeks in miserable
little grass shelters, in the torrential rains just then commencing.
Some days were spent in endeavouring to get light upon the robbery
of money from the toll-clerk’s house, but with little or no success.
It was rather defeating, at the outset, to be gravely assured by the
clerk himself, an intelligent, educated native, that ‘the robbery was
undoubtedly effected through the wicked machinations of these evil-minded
Borgus—they having placed ju-ju or medicine in his dwelling, so that
he—and the police guard!—should so soundly sleep that the unprincipled
thieves were enabled to pass over his prostrate body, and remove the
box!’ This perfectly lucid and apparently satisfactory explanation was
borne out by the production of the said ju-ju, consisting of little balls
of grass containing horrible mixtures of various ingredients, which
had been found stuffed into the thatch of his house. Such overwhelming
reasons for successful burglary had, in every one’s opinion, rendered
all inquiry useless, and the thief had had plenty of time to carry his
prize out of Northern Nigeria altogether, which made the investigation
rather a hopeless task. Not a clue of any kind could be obtained, and
all examination produced nothing but the wearying reiteration of the
bewitchment story.
On our way back to Bussa we spent two days at Kaiama, and while there a
terrific tornado came up one afternoon, and we were very thankful for
the solid protection of the bungalow there. We stood on the verandah,
watching the magnificent lightning, as the storm passed away over the
town, and, simultaneously with a blinding flash, came a report like a
Howitzer, which made us both wonder if anything had been ‘struck.’ Early
the next morning arrived the Sariki himself, and with an air of mystery
and some trouble, informed us that ‘a stone from God’ had fallen during
the storm, burning and wrecking a hut—happily unoccupied at the time—and
had buried itself at some depths in the ground. His people were scared
and worried, and were already ‘making ju-ju’ and preparing offerings
of blood and oil on the spot where the ‘demon’ lay buried. They seemed,
in a dim sort of way, to connect the event with our visit, and when we
suggested digging up the stone, they obeyed with the greatest alacrity,
and the ‘devil’ was accordingly exhumed and handed to us, while we, in
return, made a present of money to remove unpleasant impressions by means
of a little feast.
The find _appeared_ to be an aerolite of most singular appearance, and I
cannot describe it better than by quoting a letter written by my husband
to the _Spectator_ on the subject:—
‘It is shaped like an axe-head, or like a slightly flattened egg, with
the broad end sawn off and filed to an edge. It is four inches in length,
and two and a quarter inches wide at its widest end, gradually narrowing
to a blunt point. At its greatest depth, about three and a quarter inches
from its point, it measures an inch and a half; from this point its
curves to both ends are beautiful. It has a smooth mottled surface, is
non-magnetic, and weighs a little over half a pound.’[1]
[1] This ‘aerolite’ has subsequently been examined by the Royal
Meteorological Society, and pronounced to be ‘a very good
specimen of a Celt.’
We bore this treasure off in high delight at acquiring so unusual a
curiosity, and found ourselves back at Bussa by the end of the month. By
that time the rains were in full swing, and the surrounding country had
become a marsh, rendering walking impossible, and riding dangerous and
unpleasant. It was, however, a good opportunity for closer study of the
primitive Bussa folks, and their town—the scene of Mungo Park’s tragic
death. I spent much time endeavouring to elicit details on this latter
subject, which might have more resemblance to the probabilities, and even
the truth, than the published and accepted accounts. I am now convinced
of what I had always suspected, that Mungo Park’s death was a purely
accidental one, due entirely to ignorance of the dangers of the river in
the neighbourhood of Bussa. The statement that ‘armed natives, seeing
the predicament the strangers were in, hurled their weapons in showers
on them,’ is, to any one who knows the geography of the place, bordering
on the ridiculous, and is strenuously denied by the natives of Bussa,
who declare that the correct version of the tragedy is that said to have
been given to Major Denham in Kuka by the son of a Fulah chief, who had
come from Timbuctoo. This man ‘denied that the natives who pursued the
boat in canoes had any evil intention; their object was mere curiosity
to see the white men, and the canoes that followed Park from Timbuctoo
contained messengers from the King, who desired to warn the strangers of
the dangers of navigating the river lower down!’ More than this, the
Bussa people tell how, at every hamlet by the riverside, the inhabitants,
seeing the travellers speeding to almost certain death among the rapids,
rushed to the bank, gesticulating and shouting warnings, which, alas!
misunderstood by the Europeans, doubtless hastened the tragical climax.
And this is by far the most reasonable hypothesis, for, had any of these
natives desired to compass the destruction of the exploring party, there
was no need for them to raise a finger or a voice—the rocks in the river
would accomplish all that was necessary. That they had no sentiments of
ill-will towards Park is manifest from the fact that the Sariki-n-Yauri
(king of Yelwa) had provided him with all necessary transport, and was
himself a heavy loser in canoes and men by the disaster. I laboured
patiently to obtain the true facts of the story, and felt rewarded by the
hope that, in the future, the Bussa folks may be acquitted of so cowardly
and cruel a deed.
Another theory about the Borgus which, to the best of my belief, is
entirely erroneous, is their supposed connexion with early Christianity.
Major Mockler Ferryman remarks that ‘they (the Borgus) themselves assert
that their belief is in one Kisra, a Jew, who gave his life for the sins
of mankind.’ I was much astonished to find that this idea is utterly
fallacious, and is not even known to the people. In the first place,
Kisra, or rather Kishra, is buried close to Bussa, and his tomb can be
seen by any one, which immediately disposes of the possibility that the
Borgus, in honouring him, refer in any way to Jesus Christ.
Kishra was a Mahomedan pure and simple; he lived—so the tradition runs—in
Mecca, during the lifetime of Mahomed, and beginning to prove himself
positively a rival to the Prophet, was driven forth, with his large
following, and apparently drifted eventually down to Borgu. His memory
is deeply honoured and revered, but entirely as a warrior king, and
in no sense as the pioneer of any special religion. Certain rites and
ceremonies of the most frankly Pagan description are still performed
at his burying-place, the site of which is well-defined and, as I have
already said, visible to all.
The Borgus to-day, whatever their previous record may be, could not, by
any stretch of imagination, be called a war-like race. They are absolute
Pagans, and appear to be still very low in the order of civilization;
their progress has perhaps been hindered by their being somewhat apart
from the large Emirates and busier centres of the Protectorate: they
are also separated by their peculiar language and customs. In Bussa
itself a language quite distinct even from Borgu is spoken, which
greatly increases the difficulty of obtaining reliable historical
information from them. They are the quietest and most law-abiding folks
imaginable—indeed, I have heard it said of them that ‘they have not
the intelligence to commit a crime!’ They do not trade, and appear to
have an unlimited capacity for sitting silent and motionless, dirty and
unclothed, before their huts, gazing vacantly into space. Their farming
is as scanty as their need for food-stuffs will permit; just sufficient
is grown to save the little communities from want, and not a square yard
more! The villagers on the river-bank are fishermen, and live greatly
on river oysters, as is attested by the enormous heaps of oyster-shells
surrounding each hamlet. These oysters are found on the rocks at lowest
water, and though we never attempted to eat them, the shells interested
us greatly, answering exactly to the description of the _Aetheria
semilunata_, having very rough outsides, and the interior showing a very
beautiful mother-of-pearl appearance—exquisitely iridescent, with raised
pearly blisters. We cherished visions of discovering ‘Niger pearls,’ but
that dream, I fear, will have to be realized by some one else!
Sir Frederick Lugard was perfectly correct in ascribing the invincibility
of the Borgus to their reputation for a knowledge of witchcraft and
deadly poisons; they are more deeply steeped in ‘Ju-ju’ and superstition
of all kinds than any African natives I have come across. One firm
article of their faith is the ‘Tsafi’ or ‘speaking of oracles,’ the
message being received by a ‘priest’ who, while holding a freshly killed
fowl in one hand and rattling a calabash full of seeds in the other,
announces that the ‘god’ speaks to him in these sounds. A curious test
for ‘false witness’—a matter of very frequent occurrence—is for the two
people concerned to mix a handful of earth taken from in front of the
Sariki’s compound in a bowl of water: a portion of this mixture is drunk
by the disputants, and also by the Sariki himself, to prove that it is
not poisoned. Shortly, very shortly, he who has sworn falsely swells up
to an enormous size and dies in torment! Such implicit faith is placed
in this method of ascertaining the truth that my husband was frequently
implored to make use of it, for it is said that no man who has not a
clear conscience would dare to submit to it—and this I quite believe.
On one occasion while we were at Bussa, a prisoner was brought in with
terrible festering wounds on his arms and wrists, the explanation—quite
placidly given—being that his captors (the inhabitants of a remote
village) having secured him with ropes, and so cut into the flesh, became
aware that he was a ‘witch’ and _would fly away_; to avoid which disaster
they had ‘made medicine’—some unspeakable compound—and poured it over
the prisoner’s head and shoulders. This treatment had produced appalling
blood-poisoning, and though I cannot vouch for what he can do from a
flying point of view, the poor witch will never use his hand and arm
again.
The most precious and sacred possession of the Bussa people is a couple
of drums said to have been brought by Kishra from Mecca and treasured
ever since. These drums are kept in a small house built for the purpose,
and watched over day and night by their own keepers, rigorously and
jealously guarded; and, but for a lucky accident, we might have left
Bussa without obtaining a glimpse of them. Most fortunately a festival
occurred, when the drums were exhibited in the open, and we seized the
opportunity of inspecting them. Their antiquity was undoubted, and
we decided that they had a distinctly Egyptian appearance, being, in
reality, I think, great water basins; they were made of solid brass,
and were about the size of large wash-tubs, covered roughly with
ox-hide, to convert them into drums. We hunted eagerly for inscriptions
or hieroglyphics, of which there were none whatever, and one of us
ventured to photograph them, but owing to the crowd and the dust, and the
universal reluctance to have their ‘Ju-ju’ submitted to the higher Ju-ju
of the camera, we felt obliged to respect the people’s feelings and make
no insistence on obtaining a successful photograph.
On the morning of October 4, while we sat at breakfast in the verandah,
appeared a ragged, scantily-clothed native, with a sheepish smile,
holding in his hand a tiny bunch of long, soft, pale fawn-coloured
fluff—a ‘bush’ kitten of some kind evidently, scarcely a week old, blind
and helpless, chiefly remarkable for his large round ears, conspicuously
barred with black and cream-colour. Delightedly, I seized him, and
overwhelmed the bringer with streams of eager questions, which he, good
man, was quite unable to answer, and, having rewarded him with the sum
of eighteenpence (which produced transports of gratitude) we applied
ourselves to the task of ‘bringing up’ our new acquisition. His sole
desire, poor mite, was to crawl to warm darkness, so we arranged for him
a small wooden box filled with cotton wool, and here he slept away the
first week or two of his existence, while we anxiously improvised for
him a feeding-bottle out of an empty eau-de-Cologne bottle, fitted with
a piece of rubber tubing! This device proved brilliantly successful, and
‘Balu,’ as we called him on account of his woolly, bear-like appearance,
throve and grew, gaining strength and spirits daily. His education was
confided to an orange-coloured domestic cat, who had been presented to
the household, and though the latter laboured under the disadvantage
of being a kitten himself—and a male kitten, too, and presumably
unacquainted with nursery customs—he devoted himself absolutely to the
new-comer, and would spend hours licking the long pale fur, which puzzled
and concerned him sorely. But he stuck manfully to his task, and we
usually had to rescue Balu, a miserable little object like a drowned
rat, with wet hair clogged all over his shivering body. We discovered him
to be the Serval or Tiger cat (_Felis Serval_), and he speedily proved
himself the most fascinating and playful of pets. He showed the most
furious antipathy to natives—in his earlier days fleeing at the sight of
one, and later, standing his ground, spitting and growling, his ears flat
on his head, and a relentless little paw ready to strike at the intruder.
But of white people he had no fear, and would walk up to any stranger to
inspect and sniff him, and usually began inconsequently to play with him
or sharpen his claws in his putties!
He showed high intelligence when quite tiny, and when hungry he would
trot off and try to fish his ‘bottle’ out of the water-cooler, where it
was kept, which effort usually ended in over-balancing and an impromptu
bath!
To assure ourselves of his whereabouts and safety, we had a couple of
shillings beaten out into tiny silver bells, which were tied round his
neck, and greatly assisted us to find him when he was leading us wild
dances, hiding under bushes, tearing up and down the borders and in and
out of the sunflowers.
His first essays towards solid food were somewhat disastrous, taking
the form of catching and eating large locusts, with an accompaniment of
furious growls. Doubtless he found some which were not wholesome, for we
rescued him twice when almost dead—the result of nocturnal expeditions,
followed by violent sickness and exhaustion. This decided us to ‘wean the
infant,’ which we accomplished by means of tiny spoonfuls of porridge,
gradually progressing to scraps of lightly cooked chicken. Once he
commenced to lap milk and eagerly eat cooked meat and eggs we heaved a
gigantic sigh of relief, for our rearing troubles were ended, and Balu
fattened and grew—almost visibly—his kitten fluff gradually disappeared,
and he emerged a most beautiful little animal, bearing a magnificent coat
of tawny colour, striped and marked with black, the chest and stomach
being pure white with black spots and stripes.
I have thought it worth while to describe our pet at this length as his
kind is, I believe, extremely rarely seen, and is considered absolutely
untameable. Our success in this direction we owe, no doubt, to the fact
that, by a most lucky accident, we obtained him so extraordinarily young,
and, with unremitting care, were fortunate enough to bring him safely
through his babyhood.
As he grew older his play naturally became rather fierce, as his teeth
and claws developed; but his temper was always perfectly sweet, and the
manifold scratches with which we were both adorned were all the results
of the glorious games he would play by the hour, and regularly, each
night, little paws would scratch at my mosquito net, and urgent demands
for admission would be made, when a tired happy kitten would creep in,
curl himself on the blanket at my feet, and sleep blissfully, till ‘early
tea’ brought milk and more play-times!
At this time we were greatly cheered and enlivened by the arrival of the
British Commissioners of the Anglo-French Boundary Commission, on their
way up river. They spent two days with us—on their part, I think, rather
glad to ‘spread’ themselves after their cramped journey up the river, and
for us it was a ‘whole holiday’ and one we thoroughly enjoyed, so that
it was with real regret that we speeded them on the next stage of their
travels.
But we had no chance of further stagnation, as, to our great delight,
orders had even then arrived transferring my husband to the Nupe
Province, and the prospect of making a home for ourselves at Bida was as
pleasant an undertaking as we could possibly have desired. In December
Mr. Fremantle arrived, and, after handing the Province over to him, we
left Bussa on the 21st, and, as we dropped down the swift stream, we
forgot, as one always does, all the disappointments and drawbacks of
Borgu, and remembered most distinctly all its charms and the kindly
friendships we had formed there.
[Illustration: THE STEEL CANOE IN WHICH WE DESCENDED THE BUSSA RAPIDS.
(p. 184)]
[Illustration: THE TENNIS COURT, BIDA. (p. 188)]