CHAPTER X

Bida

The journey down river was less eventful than the one we had made the

previous January; it commenced with an eight mile walk round the Mullale

Rapid, while the steel barge, emptied of most of its contents, plunged

and tossed like a small Noah’s Ark on the rushing river. The rest of the

‘bad water’ we negotiated in the barge ourselves, and some of it was

quite exciting, the fall of the water being quite appreciable.

Christmas Day was spent on the river below Jebba, and on the 27th the

familiar outline of the hulk at Mureji loomed large ahead, and we found

ourselves among our old friends. We met Captain Mercadier, one of the

French Commissioners of the Anglo-French Boundary Commission, on his way

up to Bussa, which meeting was fortunate, as we were able to give him all

necessary information about his journey and the transport arrangements

made for him before we left. For this he expressed his gratitude with all

the delightful courtesy so characteristic of our French neighbours, a

courtesy we had more than once experienced in Borgu, where our Province

marched with part of French Dahomey.

We paddled up the Kaduna in a steel canoe, slept at Dakmon, and in the

morning mounted the horses sent for us and rode along the shady road

winding away from the river and over the low hills to Bida.

The first instalment of our ‘welcome’ was a dainty breakfast on the road

spread under the shady trees and greatly appreciated after a ten mile

ride, and that disposed of, Mr. Lafone, the junior Resident, who had been

in charge of the Province, arrived, escorting the Emir, accompanied by

his ‘Court’ and, it seemed to us, most of the inhabitants of the city.

It was an interesting meeting; one’s mind went instinctively back to the

occasion of our last visit to Bida, when something of the same sort had

happened, and one realized that five years in the placid lives of these

simple people make little or no mark. But the Emir himself had aged very

remarkably, having passed, seemingly, out of vigorous manhood into more

than middle age, but his proportions were, if anything, more generous

than ever, and his emotion and pleasure at seeing us was touching and

sincere.

While ‘the Sahib,’ with his unerring memory for faces, that most precious

gift, recognized and saluted the various officials of the Emir’s Court, I

noticed unmistakable surprise mixed with the cordiality of the greeting

offered to me. I suppose the dear souls had expected me to have been

divorced or sold long ago!

After a few minutes’ chat with the European officers who had so kindly

come out to welcome us, we all remounted and commenced the hot dusty

ride to Bida, drums banging, horns braying, ‘praises’ shouted in hoarse

stentorian tones, the usual dashing about of horsemen, and breathless

rushing to and fro of the crowd on foot, a curious kaleidoscope of varied

colours appearing and disappearing in the glittering haze of dust.

Though we both felt the sincerest pleasure and contentment with all

things, it was a relief to all of us when the police guard of honour had

been inspected, we had passed through the Residency Gateway and the gay

crowd was wending light-heartedly towards the city, and we six white

folks sat down in the cool bungalow, and gaily drank to ‘Bida and the New

Year’ in cool and delicious champagne cup which our hosts had provided in

honour of our arrival and the festive season.

We settled down at once in our new and comfortable quarters, which

seemed actually luxurious after the mud houses of Borgu, and, when we

had time to inspect the compound, found a great interest in noting the

changes and improvements since our last visit. It was charmingly laid

out and thoroughly well planted with orange, lime, and mango trees,

showing every sign of care and interest, a thing extremely comforting to

a gardener who had always struggled against ‘fearful odds’; an excellent

lawn tennis court had been made of ‘native cement,’ formed in the first

instance of mud patted and beaten to the solidity almost of stone,

then washed over with a solution of locust beans, soaked in water for

forty-eight hours, a dark-coloured evil-smelling mixture which served to

bind all the loose particles on the court and gave it a black metallic

shine. I, of course, found endless occupations in a field so desirable

as my new home, while my husband bent all his energies to studying the

different conditions of a new Province; in this work he had the most

loyal help from every one, and I fancy that we shall always look back on

our four months at Bida as a time instinct with warm friendship and good

feeling.

The Residency stood considerably higher than the surrounding country,

and I never tired of the picture from our verandah, where the city lay,

about a mile distant, in a gentle hollow outlined by the pink wall, and

crowded inside with dense and luxuriant trees and clusters of closely-set

thatched roofs with, here and there, the more imposing buildings rising

rosy-red among the humbler grass roofs.

We made close acquaintance with the market, which, in its way, interested

me even more than that of Kano, being less extensive and so more

accessible. It was always a pretty and animated scene, the open squares

and spaces crowded at sunset with a dense throng of happy folks, selling,

buying, chattering, shouting, and laughing, moving in a haze of dust, all

apparently giving far greater heed to the social aspect of the gathering

than any serious commercial enterprise. The market continued until long

after dark, and the flares and native lamps made a weird and fascinating

effect. The goods offered were of the most varied description, articles

of brass and leather work, grass mats, fishing nets, cloth, beads,

sugar-cane, and food-stuffs of all kinds—even wooden doors were for sale,

ready to be fitted to any clay hut, in fact a highly representative

collection of the heterogeneous miscellany presented in any West African

market.

On January 25 occurred the ‘Great Sallah,’ a Mahomedan festival which

appears to commemorate the Sacrifice of Isaac—a sheep being killed

ceremonially on the occasion. We assembled ourselves outside the city

wall, and, sitting under an improvised shelter, watching the seated

thousands waiting patiently in the sunshine, it would not have seemed

strange to me to see the Disciples passing down the irregular lines,

distributing the loaves and fishes to the hungry listeners.

Presently the Limam’s voice rose clear and shrill, away in the distance,

under the shade of a mighty tree where the Emir and his court had their

places; the thousands rose to their feet, and as the sonorous Arabic

pealed out on the hot still air, the prayers began. It was a wonderful

and moving spectacle; the reverent responses rose from the assemblage

like a muffled roar, but perhaps the most astonishing feature of all was

the prostration when the huge throng fell on their faces as one man,

reminding us of a vast field of corn swept by a sudden gust.

The prayers finished, we were conducted to the Emir’s seat, where special

prayers were offered for us all, each being named in turn, strictly in

order of precedence, not forgetting the High Commissioner and the two

former Residents of the Province, Major Burdon and Mr. Goldsmith, both

dearly loved and remembered.

[Illustration: THE GREAT SALLA. (p. 189)]

[Illustration: THE PROSTRATION. (p. 190)]

Shortly after this festival our little community was reinforced by Mr.

and Mrs. Bargery of the C.M.S. They occupied a large compound outside

the city, and we all admired the business-like energy with which they

settled down and ‘got square,’ turning two unattractive mud houses into

a bright pretty home in an incredibly short time. The days slipped

away, February drifted into March, and March into April, clouds began

to gather in the hard blue sky, and lightning and distant thunder

proclaimed the approaching rains; our thoughts turned towards ‘leave,’

and only one event, but that an important one for us, remained before

we left Nigeria—the arrival of our new High Commissioner, Sir Percy

Girouard, who had succeeded Sir Frederick Lugard. He arrived at Katcha

on the Niger on April 13, where my husband was ready with two members

of his staff, to receive him. About twenty of the highest officials of

the Bida Court and their followers had been despatched also by the Emir

as a mark of his fealty and loyalty to the Government. By all these,

the High Commissioner was escorted to within ten miles of Bida, where

the remainder of the European staff and the police guard of honour had

assembled. The Emir, with the rest of his Court and five or six thousand

followers, mounted and on foot, was also waiting to receive him, and

accompany him triumphantly to the Residency. The cloud of dust raised by

the horsemen was visible for three or four miles as they approached, so

the High Commissioner must have had a choky time, to say the least of

it! We did our best to induce him to remain for the night, but with his

characteristic energy he determined to push on the same evening, and camp

five or six miles further on, to the north of the town, towards Zungeru.

My husband’s leave had already been sanctioned, and, on mentioning the

fact, his dismay can be imagined when Sir Percy Girouard apparently

demurred, saying that all the senior officers appeared to be proceeding

on leave directly he arrived! I need hardly say, however, that he would

not hear of our remaining longer, as we had already completed eighteen

months, and we therefore left Bida, as we had arranged on April 20.

It was, in truth, disappointing to have to come away at such an

interesting stage in Nigeria’s development; a page was being turned

in its history, the old order was changing, and the long projected

railway was to become a solid fact, a change that could not fail to

prove an immense advantage. Caravan trading, so far, had attracted all

the energies of many thousands of the inhabitants, who had employed

their time in lengthy journeys from the interior to the coast and back;

with the railway in operation this anachronism would lose its _raison

d’être_ and gradually cease to exist; much greater numbers would then

be available for cultivation, a gain of the highest importance, as the

future prosperity of the country must depend greatly on its agricultural

success, especially in the direction of cotton. As one who has watched

its growth and steady advance during the last five years, I should like

to close my book with the heartiest good wishes for the future success

and advancement of the country we both love so well.

Part II

HOUSEHOLD HINTS

CHAPTER I

The Home

This chapter is, of necessity, addressed chiefly to those who are

permanently settled at headquarters, either Lokoja or Zungeru, as the

Political Officer and his wife will, naturally, have to abandon all hopes

of conveying household furniture, etc., to a far distant objective, owing

to the great difficulty and expense of transport; the chapter on Camp

Life will be found more useful by them.

The house itself is a wooden bungalow, or, at the out-stations, a

native-built clay house; in either case it consists of four walls,

a ceiling and a floor—and a wide shady verandah. In the distant

out-stations, of course, there is no furniture at all, to speak of,

except the camp outfit belonging to each official, which he carries with

him, and which includes a camp bed, wash-stand, bath, one small table,

one chair and a Lord’s lantern. But we are ‘getting on’ in Nigeria, and

it is now found possible to do a little more for every one in the way of

plain furniture at headquarters, so that I do not think any one need walk

into an utterly empty bungalow nowadays. However, it is obvious that

anything in the way of ‘home comforts’ must be brought out independently

from England, as there is not even the opportunity, which occurs

constantly in India, of buying second-hand furniture from neighbours on

the move.

Fortunately, very little is needed: I should advise investing in a few

wicker chairs and light tables either at Madeira, or at home; they are no

trouble to bring and are very cheap. It is worth noting that the faster

line of steamers do not always call at Madeira now, so that, unless one

is certain of calling at the Canaries, it is wisest to bring wicker

furniture direct from England.

A few yards of a pretty, light chintz or cretonne can be converted into

chair cushions, stuffed with native cotton, and will furnish a room

amazingly. It is well, too, to bring out some lengths of cheap muslin,

coloured or white, as fancy dictates, for curtains, etc. A coarse kind

of muslin can be bought locally, and, when faintly dyed with indigo,

it becomes quite a pretty pale blue, very cool-looking, and can be

constantly renewed when faded. A barrel, containing a small outfit of

crockery and glass, makes one quite independent of the local stores,

which, at most, may be able to replace breakages—after a fashion! A

supply of enamel paint will enable you to give quite an ‘air’ to the

rough shelves which can be made locally, beside lengthening their

lives considerably. For the floor, nothing is nicer or cheaper than an

Indian _dhurri_ or cotton carpet, but, as the bungalows are all fitted

with linoleum, no more is really needed than a few of the artistically

coloured grass mats, made chiefly at Bida, and found almost everywhere;

they cost about three shillings each, rising to six shillings, according

to the distance from Bida, and are quite delightful. No one could fail

to be pleased with the brightly coloured native cloths, or to find them

useful for covering rough ugly tables and unsightly deck-chairs, and for

making portierés, etc. You will also find Bida brass-work of a highly

decorative sort, charming, quaintly-shaped little burnt earthenware

jugs from Ilorin, carved wooden stools, boasting of from ten to twenty

legs—cut from one solid block of wood—from Ibi, queer carvings from away

down south of Kabba, the brilliantly tinted Hausa leather work, fashioned

into cushion covers, bags, purses, and an endless variety of articles,

and carved and ‘poker-worked’ calabashes, etc., all of which will help to

cover the walls and give the room a home-like, or, at least, an occupied

look.

At Kano, we lived in a great vault-like apartment in the Residency

(formerly the Emir’s summer palace), and though, at first, it presented

an appearance of utter gloom and desolation, an extraordinary improvement

was effected in a couple of hours by an improvised sideboard, boxes piled

up to serve as tables, and covered with gaily-coloured cloths, the

pinky-red walls decorated with sketches and prints, a few gorgeously hued

Japanese paper wall hangings scattered about, and the clay floor covered

with grass mats.

The walls of a wooden bungalow are usually of boarding, either painted

white or a horrible ‘duck’s egg’ blue, or else varnished a rather

dark and monotonous brown, so the whole room will need colour as much

as possible. A few pictures are an immense help in decorating, and,

nowadays, such beautiful and artistic framed prints can be bought so

cheap, it would be well worth while to bring out half a dozen. Of course,

if you sketch yourself the problem of wall decoration is solved; polished

brown boards make a perfect background for water-colour sketches,

unframed, but placed in gilt mounts, so that all you need is a packet of

tacks and a hammer. If you cannot do your own sketching, make a point,

before leaving England, of pillaging those among your friends who do;

no one, I think, could resist a pathetic appeal for a pretty sketch to

carry away into far Africa! And, indeed, it is a joy sometimes, when the

temperature is unpleasantly high, little worries abounding, and _Africa_

asserting itself unduly, to be able to glance occasionally at a sketch of

some English woodland, or a corner of a picturesque village.

[Illustration: MY WRITING TABLE. (p. 198)]

[Illustration: THE RESIDENCY, BIDA. (p. 200)]

Whilst we were in India, we had, among our treasures, a most beautifully

executed water-colour sketch of one or two deodars, standing out from

a cool, wet, grey mist on some hill-side in Kashmir, and we used to

consider this picture as a most valuable tonic during a Punjaub ‘hot

weather.’ While on this subject, let me add, from personal experience,

that sketch-books and blocks will be ruined during the rainy season,

unless carefully wrapped in waterproof paper, and the best kind of paints

for standing the climate are the ‘slow-drying’ kind, in tubes, sold by

Windsor & Newton.

If lamps are brought out, they should be plain metal ones, with punkah

tops; extra wicks must not be forgotten, and at least a dozen spare

chimneys are quite necessary, on account of breakages—the simple plan

of boiling the chimneys before using them should never be neglected, as

they do not break nearly so easily. A folding wire frame with three or

four simple paper shades is a more simple arrangement than a globe, and

far more serviceable. The servants will be found absolutely omnivorous

over kerosene oil; they spill it, they light the kitchen fire with it,

and I have heard a despairing bachelor housekeeper declare that they

_drink_ it, so rapidly does it disappear! Kerosene is, of course, very

dear, and more so up country than in Lokoja; I have often found it a

distinct economy to insist on the pantries and kitchen burning native

oil in native lamps when far away from headquarters; these little lamps

give quite a bright light and do not smoke—they are also most useful for

night-lights.

It will be found better and far cheaper in the end to bring out all house

and table linen from home, even dusters and chamois leathers, though the

coarsest sort of native cloth makes excellent kitchen cloths and stable

rubbers. Plate powder is still, I think, practically an unknown luxury

in Northern Nigeria, and silver is usually cleaned with bath-brick! A

process which may well be substituted is to wash the silver well in hot

water, containing a little Scrubb’s Ammonia, and then polish it with a

chamois leather; nothing keeps it in such good order, and the average

‘boy,’ though untiring in putting _on_ the plate powder, feels no

inducement to take it _off_. But, alas! the friendly ‘Scrubb’s’ is not

always available, so that, as far as possible, articles of real silver

should be confined to toilet things and tea-spoons. A plated tea-spoon is

a horror, but I once had the pleasure of seeing four of my silver ones

light-heartedly thrown into the Niger, along with a basin of soapy water!

A set of carpenter’s tools, and a collection of hooks, screws, nails

and tacks will be found perfectly invaluable; armed with these, and,

I hope, the help of the foregoing hints, the little bare room can be

transformed into a bright pretty sitting-room where every one will enjoy

coming, and will feel it more ‘like home.’ Sometimes space does not

admit of a separate dining-room, but this need not necessarily spoil the

appearance of the sitting-room. The dinner-table, when not in use, can

wear a gaily coloured native cloth, a few books, photographs, etc., and a

well-polished, neatly arranged sideboard is no eyesore. This latter, by

the way, must have its legs placed in saucers or tins fitted with water,

with a little kerosene added, to save the sugar, jam, cake, etc., from

the incursions of millions of hungry ants.

Let the filter stand on a box or table on the breeziest side of the

verandah; almost every one has a special plan, or a pet filter, so that

no rule can be laid down to suit everybody. I think that, perhaps,

the evolving of cool drinks is more a matter of personal endeavour

and experience than almost any other department of housekeeping: it

is an attainment so very necessary that it is attempted by every one,

more or less, and the best advice I can give is to seize upon the host

who provides you with really cold soda or sparklets, and find out how

he arrives at them! In Lokoja and Zungeru there is a supply of water

condensed from the river; this we have poured at once into a Berkefeld

drip filter, merely with a view to getting rid of the ‘condensed’ taste,

though this can also be accomplished as well by pouring the water from a

good height several times from one vessel to another. Ordinary water can

be boiled, then pumped rapidly through the large foot-pump Berkefeld

filter into the drip filter; this first filtering saving much wear and

tear to the candles of the latter. The water is then drawn off into

bottles and placed in native earthenware coolers, which, being porous,

keep it delightfully cool. These coolers are extremely cheap; they can

and must be frequently renewed to ensure perfect cleanliness, and can be

employed most usefully for cooling butter and cream as well as soda-water.

In one’s bedroom, little furniture is needed; in fact, I think the less

one has the better. This is distinctly fortunate, as there is none

forthcoming! In Nigeria, we have not yet arrived at the stage of walnut

wardrobes and pier-glasses, and a new-comer may be appalled at the lack

of accommodation for stowing clothes. I have found that clothing is

much better not shut up in boxes, unless they are damp-proof tin ones,

and even these must be carried out into the sunshine, and the contents

sunned nearly every day in the rainy season. It is almost incredible how

quickly clothes will acquire a mouldy smell, and appearance of mildew,

unless they are constantly looked at and aired. Any native carpenter

will be able to make rows of stout wooden pegs for hanging clothes, and

it is far better to have them so, as, when disturbed daily, and hung out

in the sun for an hour or so, they will not harbour mosquitoes to any

great extent. Where one is dealing with a clay wall, it answers well

to stretch a length of native cloth tightly along the wall, immediately

below the nails or pegs, to protect light coloured clothes from the

reddish dust, always rubbing off. All boxes should be placed on blocks

of wood or bricks, on account of white ants, and all boots and shoes on

shelves, _never_ on the floor; foot-gear must be kept in constant wear,

and also be inspected carefully and polished daily. Insects of all kinds

abound; there is one whose special aim in life is to build little mud

palaces in any quiet spot, boots, shoes, folds of gowns, keyholes—even

in the bowl of a pipe, unused for a day or two. No corner of any room

can be left undisturbed even for a few days, and it is advisable to have

each room completely cleared once a week, and the floors washed with a

weak solution of creolin. It has a pleasant tarry smell, and acts as an

excellent deterrent to mosquitoes and sandflies.

While on the subject of mosquitoes, I should like to mention (what I

imagine to be a small discovery of our own five years ago) that it is an

excellent plan to sew a strip of calico or nankeen, about eighteen inches

deep, all round the mosquito net, just above where it tucks in under the

mattress. This greatly protects one’s hands and feet, should they touch

the net during the night, otherwise they will be devoured. Moreover, the

strip is not wide enough to keep away any air or make one feel ‘stuffy.’

An air-cushion is a most useful possession, being so easy to stow away in

a bedding valise; ours, we found, were greatly coveted by the boys, who

regarded them with some awe, and designated them as ‘breeze pillows’!

The whole subject of small comforts and house decoration is a most

fascinating one, but it is so much a matter of personal taste and

activity that it does not seem to me to be necessary to add more to

these very general hints than to express the conviction that no English

housewife in West Africa—if she is ‘worth her salt’—will spare herself in

the endeavour to, at least, turn ‘quarters’ into ‘home,’ even if only for

a few months.

CHAPTER II

The Household

The household in Nigeria, and indeed, all over West Africa, is by no

means the complicated affair that one has to cope with in India, and

housekeeping is reduced to the greatest simplicity.

The staff consists of a cook, with an attendant satellite, called a

‘cook’s mate,’ a steward, or ‘boy,’ with usually, in a married household

at least, an under steward, or perhaps a couple of small boys to assist

generally in the housework and table service. There may be an orderly

attached, but his duties consist rather in the airing of clothes and

boxes, cleaning of guns and boots, and carrying of letters, etc.

Each pony has his own ‘doki-boy,’ whose duties are fully described in the

chapter on the stable, and the mistress may, in her enthusiasm, decide to

employ a regular gardener. All these good people live in the compound,

the only outside servant being the laundress. This lady is only to be

found at headquarters (she is usually a Coast woman), in out-stations,

and in the bush the washing is done—generally with inconspicuous

success—by one’s own boys, or the wife of a doki-boy. It is distinctly

useful to bring out from home one or two flat-irons, and make a point of

‘getting up’ one’s most cherished muslin blouses, etc., oneself.

Wages are high, absurdly so, but the demand for fairly capable servants

is so great, and the supply so small, that there is little prospect

of the present scale of pay being reasonably reduced. Also, alas! in

many bachelor establishments, the standard of excellence in service is

not high enough to produce a really good class of servants, and I am

quite certain that any Englishwoman who has kept house in India would

absolutely _gasp_ at the quality and quantity of work done by a highly

paid ‘boy,’ in possession of most eulogistic testimonials from previous

masters. The following is a fair average of wages paid, per month, all

over the country: in some cases, servants of an undesirable kind may be

engaged for less, but this is no real economy, while in some other cases

even higher wages are paid.

£ _s._ _d._

Cook 2 0 0

(If an Accra boy £3 or £3 10_s._)

Cook’s Mate 0 15 0

Head Steward 2 0 0

Under Steward 1 0 0

Laundress 1 0 0

Doki-boy 1 0 0

Gardener 1 0 0

Roughly £100 a year, for the services of seven people, all lazy and

stupid, mostly untruthful, and frequently dishonest, ignorant of the

first principles of order and cleanliness, and, unmistakably, considering

Missis rather a bore when she insists on trying to inculcate these.

My personal experience with house servants is not a very varied one, as

we still have some of those we engaged on first coming to West Africa

five years ago; but, in fairness to them, I must not omit to say that

I have only _very rarely_ found any one of them in the least degree

untruthful, and that I know them to be absolutely honest; they have never

stolen a single article or a halfpenny from either of us during these

years.

Servants may be of all languages and tribes, and they have no ‘caste.’

Some are Mahomedans, some Pagans, some professing Christianity, but their

religious convictions do not appear to affect any of them very seriously.

One important point for the new-comer is, that one servant, at least—the

head steward for choice—should speak good, intelligible English; most of

the Coast boys, and those trained by the Roman Catholic missionaries at

Onitsha, can do so.

With the exception of the cook and steward, our household is required

absolutely to speak Hausa, and nothing else, to us and each other, which

saves endless confusion, and gives a comfortable sense of security that

one’s orders are correctly transmitted to doki-boys, gardener, etc.

It is the custom to pay a certain percentage of the wages weekly, usually

two shillings per head, for ‘chop money’ (subsistence allowance), and the

balance at the end of each month, which arrangement shows ingenuously

what a solid, clear profit the household makes. This balance of pay is

generally expended, on the spot, in the acquiring of such luxuries as a

gaily striped umbrella, or a smart pair of ‘English’ boots.

The majority of servants are reckless gamblers, and a perfect network

of lending, borrowing, and extorting of an exorbitant rate of interest,

prevails amongst them, in spite of strictest prohibitions on the subject.

THE COOK AND HIS KITCHEN

The Nigerian kitchen is arranged on the Indian plan—apart from the house,

and just as much inspection and supervision will have to be exercised.

Kitchen appliances of a rough-and-ready kind can be bought at the local

stores, but it is far more satisfactory to bring most of them direct from

England, especially a nest of aluminium saucepans, their lightness being

a great advantage while marching.

At headquarters, a kitchen table, some rough shelves and pegs will be

available, and a meat-safe, which, however, has to be accommodated on

the breeziest corner of the verandah.

The mistress will do well to walk into the kitchen, as a matter of

course, at any hour of the day: the cook and his mate will, possibly,

like to sleep there, and if the visit is made regularly, after breakfast,

the beds or mats can be whisked out of sight, for the time being, and the

malpractice never discovered. In Lokoja and Zungeru the kitchens are now

fitted with very good little ranges, which are a great improvement on the

open, brick fireplaces of earlier days. I remember well, the day that

mine was first put in, going to the kitchen to see how it worked, and

finding the cook, radiant with pride and pleasure, lighting the fire _in

the oven_. The fuel consists entirely of wood. In out stations, the poor

_chef_ has a good deal to contend with, usually an open fire for ordinary

cooking (on the floor) and for an oven, an ingenious arrangement of a

large country pot half buried in the ground; into this, blazing wood is

thrust until the interior is quite hot, when the fuel is hauled out, the

cake or bread popped in, a flat piece of tin or iron laid on the top, and

piled up with burning wood. It can be readily understood that an oven of

this description makes successful baking a matter of some uncertainty.

The kitchen table must be scrubbed with soap and water daily, the pans

and utensils scoured, and the walls occasionally whitewashed. You will

find your cook slightly bored with your insistence on these small

details, but always polite, cheerful and amenable. He is a teachable

person, too, and takes a kindly interest in one’s making of cakes,

sweets, etc., but his knowledge of cookery is strictly limited—the

veriest tyro in India earning ten rupees a month is a _cordon bleu_

compared with him.

Housekeeping in his department is of the utmost simplicity: he turns

up immediately after breakfast, smiling genially, usually arrayed in

a spotless white suit, or a suit of pyjamas of striking pattern and

colouring, a jaunty straw hat in his hand, and immaculate white shoes

on his feet. He gives you the account of the previous day’s marketing,

you reproach him for the toughness of the mutton, the heaviness of the

bread, and the total absence of the savoury; all of which he takes most

philosophically, and explains glibly, to his own entire exoneration. You

then give him half-a-crown (or, to save trouble, ten shillings twice a

week), and indicate tentatively what you would prefer for luncheon and

dinner. It is no use ordering dishes definitely; they never appear,

and when you indignantly demand the devilled kidneys arranged for, the

tranquil answer: ‘Cook say, kidney no live for market to-day,’ defeats

without soothing you.

So you let him depart, to work his wicked will, stalking off under

a patriotic sun umbrella, striped in sections of red, white and blue

cotton, followed by the satellite, bearing the market basket, while you,

the anxious housewife, must simply put your trust in Providence and hope

for the best.

[Illustration: ‘AMELIA,’ A YOUNG GIRAFFE BROUGHT HOME BY THE LATE CAPTAIN

PHILLIPS, D.S.O. (p. 210)]

[Illustration: ‘CHUKU,’ A NATIVE DOG—RESCUED DURING THE ARO-CHUKU

EXPEDITION. (P. 223)]

The average cook has little or no discrimination, if the menu is

left entirely to him: we once found ourselves guests at a bachelor

dinner-party, where the feast commenced with chicken soup, followed by

stewed chicken, which was, in its turn, succeeded by minced chicken;

finally, to our despair, the board was graced by a couple of roast

chickens—and this with an unlimited supply of mutton and beef in the

market.

You must be prepared to get very indifferent meat; the animals are

badly slaughtered, and cut up without any regard to joints, etc., so

that beef is really useless, except for making soup or mince, so tough

is it. The mutton usually grows on a goat, and is also tough, which, I

suppose, accounts in part for the eternal chicken taking so prominent a

place in the day’s menu. Tough meat, by the way, can be much improved

by wrapping the joint in paw-paw leaves for an hour or two; if left too

long it will decay altogether, so personal supervision is necessary—the

cook does not profess to understand such faddy nonsense! Turkeys can be

reared in the compound quite easily, also ducks; both are excellent, and

there is always a pleasant possibility of occasional additions to the

larder, in the shape of guinea fowl, bush fowl, pigeons, and venison,

which, when hung for twenty-four to forty-eight hours (according to the

temperature), is absolutely delicious. The menu can always be kept from

monotony by small dishes, such as sheep and ox tongues, brain cutlets,

stuffed paw-paws—an excellent substitute for vegetable marrow—tomatoes,

‘farcies,’ or garden eggs, treated in the same way.

Personally, I do not care for native dishes, and ‘palm-oil chop’ is, to

my mind, an abomination; but ground-nut soup is very good indeed, and

should not be overlooked, especially as it is a delicacy that every cook

understands how to make. Fish can nearly always be had, so that once one

has taught the cook how to make real curries—as they are made in India—a

fair variety can easily be had, with little or no assistance from odious

and unwholesome tinned food.

I fear the _chef_ will not be found a great hand at puddings: his

inspirations do not soar much higher than banana fritters and cornflour

mould. I remember a painful incident which occurred at the commencement

of my career as a West African housekeeper, when the appearance of

an unexpected guest caused me to order an impromptu pudding, a sweet

omelette. When, in due course, the pudding appeared, looking deliciously

light and frizzling hot, a curious smell accompanied it, and the first

mouthful revealed it as a savoury omelette, highly seasoned with onions

and fresh chilis, filled with apricot jam! I have since heard of an

enterprising cook, who artistically tinted a cornflour mould bright blue,

with indigo. He can be taught to make very fair tart pastry, but, as a

rule, it is safer to confine oneself to fruit salads, trifles, and other

cold sweets, which one can prepare oneself. The impossibility of getting

fresh milk is, naturally, a great handicap in cooking, but ‘Ideal’ milk

is quite useful in preparing mayonnaise and many other sauces, and the

tinned cream (Golden Butterfly brand) sold by the Niger Company is almost

as good as the fresh article, as it can be whipped quite stiff if kept in

cold water for a few hours before opening.

Vegetables cannot be had regularly, unless the housekeeper is also a

gardener, and grows them herself. There is, however, a native spinach,

which is quite as good as the English kind, and grows like a weed.

Country tomatoes, garden eggs, okros, sweet potatoes, green paw-paws,

and yams are all of great use in supplying the table with the necessary

green food; but I feel sure that the housekeeper who reads the chapter

on Gardening will instantly decide to do better than tamely submit to

limiting her household to country produce of this kind.

At a pinch (when touring in forest country) we have found young Indian

corn, or maize, well boiled, not at all a bad substitute for other

vegetables, and, when the corns are boiled, then lightly browned over the

fire, they are excellent, eaten with butter, pepper and salt.

In the way of fruit, there are usually bananas to be had, pineapples in

the spring and summer, and occasionally oranges. In Lokoja the mangoes

are quite good, and I have had guavas and custard apples. The country

abounds in tiny limes, which are sold in great quantities, very cheap,

and make most delicious lemon squashes.

THE STEWARD AND HIS DUTIES

The head steward, or ‘boy,’ must be carefully chosen, and is worth

training, for in his hands lies the greater part of your daily comfort,

and to his shortcomings can be traced most of the irritability which is

recognized as a natural weakness of the dweller in West Africa.

He will require endless patience, and daily insistence on small details

of cleanliness and order, for he has a happy knack of carrying out an

order for five or six days, then quietly discontinuing it, and trusting

to his mistress’ preoccupation not to observe the omission. Never flatter

yourself that any system you have introduced, with apparent success, will

continue to work for a week without some supervision and inspection.

The genus ‘head boy’ is a light-hearted, easy-going, tractable sort of

creature; some are masterful and quarrelsome, some are placid and lazy,

but all of them like to have one or two small boys about the house, to

whom they can relegate most of their work, while they are swaggering in

the market, in spotless raiment, with redundant watch-chain and a sun

umbrella. Some, I am sorry to say, are bad, very, very bad, and I cannot

help feeling most strongly that more than one vigorous, valuable young

life has succumbed out here to sickness and death, mainly for the want

of proper attendance—better cooking and the small comforts and niceties

that every man requires, but is, usually, helpless to obtain and insist

upon for himself. I have seen unspeakable habits of dirt and slovenliness

prevailing amongst bachelors’ boys—yes, and dangerous ones too, tinned

food kept for days in open tins, and served up again to the unfortunate

master, cups and plates washed and wiped—well, it serves no purpose of

mine to recount these horrors, and it is only fair to add that I have

known boys whose skilful care, devotion and unselfishness towards sick

masters could hardly be excelled. I only hope that every Englishwoman who

spends even a few months in Nigeria will leave behind her two or three

servants inoculated with habits of scrupulous cleanliness, thoughtfulness

and common sense, to lighten the lot of some lonely man who now feels

uncomfortably that in his mother’s house at home the table-cloth is

_not_ hideously grubby and crooked, the milk and jam served in messy

tins, the glasses cloudy, and the forks and spoons more than doubtful,

but vaguely supposes all this is necessary in West Africa—_it isn’t!_

As a rule, I suppose the Coast boy makes the best head steward: he

speaks English, and has usually served a white master before. He acts

as housemaid and parlourmaid in one, starts his day with energetic

sweeping and some sketchy dusting, waits at table, cuts his master’s

hair, acts as valet generally, and is the spokesman and middle man

between his mistress and the rest of the household. He is responsible

for the existence and condition, good or otherwise, of nearly all of

your possessions; therefore, it really answers best to have the actual

work of laying tables, cleaning knives, lamps, etc., performed by the

under steward, so as to leave your major-domo free to superintend and

investigate the working of the whole establishment, down to the stable,

and report on it to his mistress; he should be taught to do this without

fear or prejudice, or any suspicion of sneaking or mischief-making:

obviously he cannot, with any show of dignity, rebuke the misdeeds of

the cook or orderly; if he has to wash plates and scrub out the pantry,

equally obviously he _must_ be honest and, as far as possible, superior

to bribery. Not being embarrassed with caste prejudices, he will

concern himself with the feeding and washing of the dogs, the care of

the poultry-yard, and our faithful head boy has, more than once, been

employed to shoot a hopelessly sick pony.

There is little more to add on the subject of the household staff. The

cook’s mate is but an embryo cook, who presently emerges from his modest

position and blossoms into a cook, with a satellite of his own. I believe

that, as a matter of fact, the cook’s mate does a fair share of the

cooking: this will be readily ascertained when the cook gets helplessly

drunk and dinner is forthcoming all the same!

The small house boys are equally budding stewards, and, if well looked

after, it is amazing how they sprout, physically and mentally, and how

soon they find out that a rise in pay is merited.

One word of advice to housekeepers, masculine and feminine—_don’t_ beat

the boys. There is still a prevailing idea that the master who wields the

_bulala_ (whip) with most vigour gets best served. But this I beg leave

to doubt. For the time being, fear may make them move faster and remember

longer, but there is, deeply implanted under every woolly, black scalp,

the sacred duty of reprisals, and the boy who is frequently flogged will

take it out somehow, sooner or later—be sure of that. Moreover, the

servant who really needs constant hitting is not worth keeping; and,

indeed, were he, through such a process, to be evolved into a perfect

treasure, he would be bought too dear, at the cost of so much irritation

and mental stress. For, it must be admitted, that for one occasion when a

boy really deserves a flogging he gets _bulala_ ten times, because Master

is feverish or worried, or ‘jumpy’; and poor Master seldom thinks, till

afterwards, of the spectacle he presents, pursuing a fleeing boy, and

vociferating—because he cannot find his shirt-stud. Alas, for ‘British

prestige’!

I was told, a short time ago, by one such master, whose naturally sweet

disposition had doubtless been tried by time and circumstances, that he

had had his boy severely flogged (‘six dozen’), _because the salt on his

dinner table was damp_. As a rule, a little mild sarcasm, or a ridiculous

nick-name bestowed is far more efficacious than a scolding, and if a

severe reminder is necessary, judicious fining has the greatest effect,

for the most sensitive bit of a house boy’s soul lives just underneath

his belt: when this is done, the culprit must _see_ the fine, in money,

thrown into the river, or placed in the kitchen fire, and know that it is

gone beyond recall, or else he merely credits you with making money out

of him, and is rather shocked at your meanness.

We want, do we not, to raise their standard, not to lower our own, and

though, of course, there are black sheep, many of them, I do believe that

good treatment evokes good service. The householder who, remembering how

comparatively new to the country the art of domestic service is, shows a

little consideration, never breaks a promise, and does not scold or whack

all round, because it happens to be a hot morning, will probably fare

best, after all; moreover, on returning from leave, he or she will be

sure to find ‘Audu’ or ‘Ibrahim’ smiling a welcome at Burutu, all anxious

to take up service again with such a desirable Master or ‘Missis.’

CHAPTER III

Dogs, Poultry and Cows

DOGS

This collection of notes, which aims at giving assistance to English men

and women in Nigeria, would, to my mind, fall miserably short of the mark

if it failed to include within its scope some practical suggestions for

the provision of comfort and the preservation of health of their dogs.

That West Africa is _not_ a healthy country for English dogs is only too

sadly certain, but it is equally certain that they will continue to come

as long as Englishmen do, therefore it is not worth while giving sage

advice as to the wisdom and true kindness of bringing or not bringing

them—especially as I like to try and be consistent, and I cannot picture

myself taking ship at Liverpool without one, or even two of my own!

I have met a variety of English dogs out here, from massive bull-terriers

down to the most fascinating little person, a tiny Yorkshire terrier;

but, to those who, coming out for the first time, are puzzled in the

selection of a dog, I would like to say:—let him be a young dog and a

small one. A puppy, well over distemper, aged from six to twelve months,

will suffer far less from the change of climate, food, etc., than an

older dog, and, when he does not weigh more than twenty or thirty pounds,

his lightness makes it a simple matter for him to be carried on the

march—for no dog should ever be allowed to run all through the hot hours

of a long march. We, who are a long way off the ground, on horseback,

occasionally grumble at the heat; what must be the sensations of the

faithful little follower padding wearily along, close to the baking

earth, all chance of breeze kept from him, as a rule, by high grass on

either side, and a pitiless sun scorching his spine all the time?

We learnt this lesson through sad experience, the loss of a dearly loved

little Irish terrier, who marched always on his own feet. He had lived

in perfect health for four years in India, and had even weathered eight

months in Sierra Leone, but died in Lokoja, after three months almost

continuous touring in the bush.

Since then our dogs have never been allowed to run; we have had two

carried all the way from Zungeru to Katāgum and back, a distance of eight

hundred miles. They very soon got accustomed to the confinement; one was

usually carried on the saddle of one of our mounted servants, and, after

a few days, he learnt to appreciate the arrangement and to jump up at

the pony, begging to be picked up as soon as the sun got hot. The other

dog, a bull-terrier, had an ordinary square provision box filled with

grass, its cover, a native-made wicker basket, having a small goat-skin

fastened just on the top to keep off the sun. The cover fitted loosely,

admitting plenty of air and was easily secured to the box by a few

strings. After the dog had run three or four miles in the fresh early

morning, and hunted and amused himself to his heart’s content, he was

usually very ready to pack himself into his box, especially as there were

invariably a few toothsome bones to be found there, and he then slept

peacefully in it, until his carrier dumped him down in camp.

The feeding of dogs is naturally a great factor in the preservation of

their health, and it will require supervision. The main difficulty is to

give them sufficient bulk of food without including too much meat; here,

we have no fresh potatoes, etc., and porridge becomes rather an expensive

article of dietary, as oatmeal costs a shilling for a small tin, which

disappears at once! I have been told that two large dogs required a

tin of oatmeal and a tin of army rations daily to feed them. I think

they must have become very bilious bull-terriers, and a serious item of

expense to their owner! We allow threepence a day per dog; this buys a

piece of meat and some bone, also a fair quantity of ‘gari’ (native

flour). The gari is well boiled with the meat, and appears looking like

a brownish sago pudding. The mixture is then flooded with milk and much

appreciated by the dogs. Every few days a little powdered sulphur is

mixed up with the feed, and is highly beneficial. Afterwards, they get

their bones, and the fare seems to suit them admirably. We always make a

point of giving our dogs, especially young puppies, weak tea if they will

drink it. In India I was told that it would prevent distemper altogether,

and, though I cannot vouch for the truth of this, it seems to be a

harmless little indulgence, and every mistress will, I expect, like to

see the little wistful faces asking ever so plainly for a saucer of tea.

Dogs are all the better for a dose of castor oil about once a week; it

improves their appearance and condition immensely, and it is a perfectly

simple matter administering it—when one knows how—so a short explanation

of the process may not be misplaced here. One person, kneeling down,

holds the dog’s body firmly between his knees to prevent him from

backing, and, putting his left forefinger gently into the corner of the

dog’s lips, pulls out his cheek, forming a sort of pocket into which the

oil is gently poured by another person, thus avoiding all forcing open of

the teeth and the consequent struggle and horrors of spilt oil. As a rule

the patient does not object in the least; the oil quietly filters through

his teeth, and down his throat; if he does not seem to be swallowing

it readily a little pressure on his nostrils closes them, and compels

him to open his throat. When a dog’s coat becomes ‘staring,’ his eyes

lustreless, and he appears generally spiritless and feverish, castor oil

is indicated, after which quinine must be given—five grains daily is

not too much—until he recovers. One of our dogs swallowed a tabloid of

quinine, wrapped in a slice of meat, every day, without detecting its

presence; but some are tiresome in this respect, and the only alternative

is to open their mouths and drop in a salt-spoonful of sulphate of

quinine. This they cannot get rid of except by swallowing it, and the

bitter taste is soon forgotten in the joy of a rewarding tit-bit of some

sort. We had a small fox-terrier who knew the very sight of the quinine

bottle, and bolted at once out of the room! The foregoing suggestions,

however, are intended only for occasions when the dog’s owner is quite

convinced that treatment of this kind is absolutely necessary; failing

that, I would most earnestly say, leave drugs alone, merely permit no

neglect, for, assuredly, a comfortable dog will be a healthy dog!

Another point of the utmost importance to a dog’s well-being and comfort,

is to keep him, as far as possible, free from fleas and ticks. Fleas, I

suppose, dogs _will_ have for all time, no matter how carefully they are

washed and brushed; the great enemy in Nigeria is the tick. During the

rains the grass swarms with them, and, as one cannot walk along a bush

path for a hundred yards without finding several of them on one’s skirts,

the number acquired by the dogs on a ten minutes’ hunt after a mouse or

a lizard can be well imagined. Each dog must be most carefully searched

and the pests removed at least twice a day, special care being taken to

inspect the inside of his ears, the little ‘pocket’ on them, between

his toes, and underneath his collar. There is none so wily as the dog

tick in choosing secluded nooks in which to suck his victim’s blood. The

inside of the dog’s ears should be smeared over with carbolic or sulphur

ointment applied with a feather; both are abhorrent to ticks, and it is

really a kindness to rub his whole body lightly with these ointments

or a very weak solution of creolin or ‘Jeyes’ Fluid.’ It will be found

that flies attack and bite dogs’ ears to a quite serious extent; I have

seen native dogs with their ears positively eaten away, but this can, of

course, be prevented by persistent care and perseverance. Carbolic or

sulphur ointment must be rubbed on thickly, daily, and at night-time, but

unless notice is taken of the very first few bites, it is most difficult

to effect a cure.

POULTRY

The keeping of poultry is certain to become, in the near future, a

feature of every English household in Nigeria, therefore the subject may

as well have its place in this chapter, though I do not, in the least,

feel qualified to offer any ‘counsels of perfection,’ as, so far, we have

been able to make only two efforts to introduce English fowls into this

country, and I must frankly confess that there are many difficulties in

the way of a complete success.

However, the class of fowl bred in the country is such a wretched one,

the birds are small, skinny and tasteless, and the eggs no larger than

bantams’, that the importation of good breeds is a very real necessity.

Here, as in other matters, the periodical leave to England after twelve

or eighteen months has prevented the rearing of chickens from being very

seriously undertaken, but I have a strong impression that if every one

will, at all events, ‘make a start,’ the good work will be carried on,

and it will not be long before the miserable ‘country fowl’ is a thing of

the past.

My personal experience on the subject of English fowls is as

follows:—Five years ago, we brought out four Black Minorca hens and one

cock; the latter died shortly after his arrival in Nigeria, but, on our

way up country, we had the good luck to be presented with a very fine

Plymouth Rock cock. The hens behaved beautifully; they travelled in a

large wicker basket, and regularly laid eggs in it during the daily

march. A fortnight later, alas! the Plymouth Rock died, and two hens

succumbed also, all dying from the same complaint, dysentery. After

six months, we brought our remaining two hens back to Lokoja, and they

survived for the rest of the tour, but they greatly deteriorated, both

in their appearance and in their laying, the eggs diminished in size and

lost their flavour.

On our return from leave, we brought a fresh consignment of fowls, and

if I call them ‘a mixed lot’ it is not intended altogether as a term of

disparagement, for we had purposely selected mixed breeds. A fine Buff

Orpington cock with a slight Black Minorca strain, two Black Minorca

hens, a handsome Houdan hen, and two highly indiscriminate ‘would-be’

Orpington hens made up the party. Further fortified by an incubator, a

kindly gift of Sir Alfred Jones, we fared forth to Bussa, firmly intent

on poultry rearing.

This time, our efforts were distinctly successful; in six months our

stock of six had increased to twenty-three, and had it not been for the

persistent and endless depredations of hawks, we should have reared a

far greater number. We found the Houdan an admirable and devoted mother,

and her progeny were our delight, so handsome were they, with a slight

Orpington strain added to their own beautiful spangles and jet-black

crest. Before a year was out all the original hens except one died, quite

suddenly and mysteriously, pointing to poisonous food or snake-bite;

but still, to-day, I am glad to think that we have distributed four

fine English cocks in different parts of the country, and have, at all

events, contributed our mite to the all-important task of improving the

food supply in this country. It is not in the least sublime to say that

empires are built on men’s stomachs, but, indeed, they form a surer

foundation than their gravestones to my un-soaring mind!

The incubator—owing to our peculiar circumstances—but to no fault of

its own, was not a great success. Our manner of living was, however,

exceptional, and did not give the incubator a ghost of a chance.

During the day the lamp could not be lighted at all, and in spite of

all ventilation, etc., the atmospheric heat in the room itself ran the

thermometer higher than it should be. Almost every night violent gusts

of wind, sweeping through the house, extinguished the lamp two or three

times, thoroughly chilling the eggs. Another difficulty was the obtaining

of really fresh eggs; the only successful hatchings I accomplished were

with guinea-fowls and eggs obtained from our own hens: but, as the

action of the incubator was so uncertain, we were reluctant to risk many

eggs, when the hens were ready and willing to sit. It was, however, a

great amusement and delight to us, and the hatching process was one

of absorbing interest—to our native friends it appeared a piece of

paralyzing Ju-ju—the newly born chick gracefully dropping from the tray

above to the softer floor below with a comical air of bewilderment and

surprise! Under more normal circumstances I am certain that incubators

(which can now be bought very cheap) would be of the greatest value in

chicken rearing out here: a ‘foster-mother’ or ‘breeder’ is _quite_

necessary to avoid the terrible infant mortality resulting from careless

mothers and prowling hawks.

Far the easiest and most paying is the rearing of ducks; they give no

trouble, and seem to require none of the coaxing and attention apparently

necessary for the hens; quite quietly they appear to make their own

arrangements, and in due time emerge with an eminently attractive and

satisfactory family of sixteen or thereabouts. Except for a tendency to

walk the babies off their legs, ducks are devoted and excellent mothers.

An extremely useful scrap of knowledge we have picked up, is, when the

hatch is due, or nearly so, to seize the opportunity, when the hen or

duck is off the nest, to immerse the eggs gently in hot water (105°);

almost immediately the ‘live’ eggs begin to roll about and dance in the

most exciting fashion, and those which, after a few minutes, make no

movement at all may be safely considered as ‘wrong’ and removed from

the hatch, as their presence is injurious to the hatching chicks, and

embarrassing to the mother.

I have found that the chief difficulty lies in finding enough _boiled_

food for the fowls; the victims of dysentery undoubtedly got the disease

from eating too much whole grain, but it is a grave problem to give them

enough of anything else. There is, at present, in this country, nothing

available to answer to the regular ‘chicken’s food’ mixture, provided

at home, consisting of boiled turnip cuttings, potato peelings, cabbage

leaves, sharps, etc. Perhaps when our vegetable gardens are on a firmer

basis we shall be able to lavish green food on our fowls; at present,

there are but boiled yams and sweet potatoes to be had, but the fowls do

not take kindly to them, nor to boiled rice, which, by the way, does not

agree with them. On the whole, I think they prefer boiled _gari_ to any

other cooked food; I have seen them enthusiastic over _aggidi_ (a native

food) mixed up with maize and a few odds and ends from the breakfast

table. Guinea-corn thus becomes their staple article of diet, and it

is only by giving them full liberty all day long, and allowing them to

procure their own grass and insect food, that the enemy, dysentery, is

avoided.

We were wrong, I suppose, in selecting Black Minorcas, from a sitting

point of view, as I believe that, even at home, they are non-sitters,

and they certainly are in Nigeria! However, with an incubator this is

a matter of no importance, and it would be difficult to find a more

satisfactory breed from a laying point of view. I should say, most

decidedly, that Dorkings or Plymouth Rocks would be found excellent

breeds to bring to this country, the latter being good sitters and a

hardy breed; but they must be kept free from damp, which is, I fancy,

the cause of their frequently contracting disease in the legs and feet.

I have also heard an authority on different sorts of poultry describe

Dorkings as ‘the very best breed for amateur poultry keepers,’ they are

excellent mothers, and quite the best kind for table purposes.

I cannot feel that I am able to give any very practical advice on this

subject; my own experience has been too limited to build a theory on, but

as the chicken, in one guise or another, is bound to appear so frequently

on our tables, it is more than advisable, it becomes a positive duty, to

endeavour to encourage all newcomers to help, by importing fowls from

England, to improve the Nigerian species. When next I come out I shall

certainly bring a collection of Dorkings and another incubator, for it

is worth remembering that the hen of the country is such a tiny creature

that she cannot possibly cover more than three or four good-sized eggs.

I also cherish golden dreams of bringing out English geese, as I believe

they would succeed, and repay, a hundred-fold, the trouble of bringing

them. Geese are less troublesome to feed than fowls, as they find so much

for themselves roaming about; they are also good sitters (I am speaking

of the white Embden geese), and, of course, a great delicacy for the

table. They should be brought out in the proportion of two geese to one

gander.

It is, perhaps, worth mentioning that bringing out live stock entails

little or no trouble; any large dealer will ship the birds in strong

coops with a supply of grain for the voyage, and their owner will find

them established on deck, and requiring nothing more than a daily visit,

and a little arrangement with the ship’s cook or butcher, as to their

cleanliness and a small supply of boiled food. These good folks are so

accustomed to the care of all kinds of live stock, domestic and wild,

being carried to and from West Africa, from a full-grown giraffe to tiny

gazelles, no larger than a rabbit, that they are invariably most ready

and willing to supervise anything of the sort.

All this considered, I am sure that every one will agree with me that it

is worth while giving a trial to imported live stock for the farm-yard;

my ambition even soars—in secret, and in fear and trembling—to the

importation of a few rabbits, for experimental purposes. I am aware

that the indiscriminate introduction of rabbits has caused unpopularity

elsewhere before now, but I should suggest their being kept in

confinement at first, and I should not think that the provision of green

food need be a difficulty, as they would almost certainly enjoy the

young leaves of Indian Corn, which can be grown anywhere. I will venture,

finally, to say, that, in my opinion, the humble bunny would prove a most

welcome addition to the Nigerian menu!

COWS

To mention the subject of dairy management may seem rather unnecessary,

and cause a smile when it is realized that cows cannot be persuaded to

live and flourish in Lokoja, or any of the southern districts of Nigeria,

and that for the most part one’s sole anxiety, as a dairy expert,

consists in the selection of sound tins of preserved milk! But, as the

joys of possessing one’s own cows, and obtaining a sufficiency of milk,

cream, and butter, can be realized by those whom kindly Fortune allows to

live in the Hausa States, far removed from the deadly Coast, and further

north still, it seems to me as well to set forth my own very small

experience in the matter.

My first step towards keeping cows—and that a veritable step in the

dark—was the selection of a churn. At this point, the eternal difficulty

of transport loomed into view as uncompromisingly as usual, and I decided

on a small tin, plunge churn. It consisted of a tin cylinder about

eighteen inches long, and four inches in diameter, with a cover, through

which passed a tin plunger, with flanges at the lower end. This churn

has the advantage of being very light and portable, and we found it a

complete success; it was perfectly easy to clean, and did its work most

rapidly, turning out a pound of butter in fifteen minutes.

The next necessary point is to possess _your own_ cows; the usual

plan of receiving a daily dole of a bottle full of milk, Heaven knows

how or where obtained, cannot be sufficiently condemned. Out of my

own experience I have known the simple Fulani cow-keeper to half fill

the basin before milking with extremely dirty water, and this I only

discovered by the merest accident. One would hardly expect to find such

up-to-date practices as ‘watering the milk’ in Nigeria, but it is done!

I know that milch cows are not at all easy to come by out here; the

Fulani, the only herdsman in the country, knows the value of his stock,

and will not sell, for there is a tremendous trade done in the markets in

sour milk and rancid butter.

I started with a stock of five cows, each with a small calf, and in full

milk: I then, with a lamentable want of foresight and proper humility,

decided on, and attempted to carry out all kinds of innovations and dairy

principles, such as separating the calves from the cows, endeavouring

to pacify the former with milk mixed with _dusa_ (bran)—which I could

never induce them to touch—and treating in a high-handed manner the

remonstrances of the _mai-sanu_ (cowman or head dairymaid). I may say at

once it was a dead failure; the cows went off their milk immediately,

and from all of them I did not get more than a quart twice daily, and

the mai-sanu ran away, appalled at my wicked violation of immemorial

customs! My courage, born of ignorance, ran into the soles of my shoes,

I obtained a new mai-sanu, and, bowing my head in chastened submission,

I resigned into his hands the whole outside arrangements of the ‘dairy,’

only stipulating that his hands should be scrupulously clean before

milking, and the udders wiped with a damp clean cloth—also that he should

produce a large basin full of milk morning and evening. This was done;

how and when the calves were tied or separated, I did not inquire. I

am quite sure that, one day, a more strong-minded and conscientious

fellow-country-woman will know all about it, and reform things

magnificently; meantime—cleanliness and purity assured—I was content to

leave ‘pretty well’ alone, and let the mai-sanu make his own arrangements.

The cows of Northern Nigeria are splendid animals, of great size, with

enormous branching horns, but their udders are very small, and English

dairy folks would doubtless smile at the idea of extracting milk at

the rate of one quart only, daily, per cow! But so it was, and when

due allowance is made for inferior grazing and the dry season, perhaps

it was not so astonishing. At any rate, the supply proved ample for

our requirements, so I felt it would be both ungracious and foolish to

grumble. I found the milk very rich and delicious, and from the special

pan set aside each evening for cream to set, a good pint and a half of

thick cream was forthcoming the next morning, yielding roughly a pound of

excellent butter. There was always cream for the porridge at breakfast,

plenty for puddings and mayonnaises, and even for cream cheeses, which I

made every few days.

[Illustration: OUR ENERGETIC D.S.C. (CAPTAIN BURNSIDE) TRAINING BULLOCKS.

(p. 236)]

[Illustration: GIANT SUNFLOWERS AT BUSSA. (p. 243)]

We marched our cows down country from Katāgum on our return, and they

gave us a capital supply of milk on the road; but, once established in

Lokoja, they fell off in appearance and milk. The calves sickened and

died, as well as the cows, and, much to our sorrow, we had to recognize

that, obviously, the only thing to do was to dispose of the remainder,

alas! to become tough beef in the market. It was, I suppose, inevitable,

owing to the total change of diet to green, luxurious grass, which the

cows devoured eagerly, to their own undoing; but I parted very sadly from

my philanthropic dream of providing the English community in Lokoja with

a regular supply of fresh milk, etc. It was a plan I had very much at

heart, and I have not altogether forsaken it, but I quite recognize that

it cannot be done with the Hausa cow.

It is a matter for great regret, this difficulty of keeping cows alive

in Lokoja; many a ‘bad case’ in hospital longs for fresh milk—as

unobtainable, unfortunately, as ripe strawberries or blocks of ice.

Possibly, one fine, _very_ fine day, when, in our wisdom, we remove our

cantonment to the breezy heights of the Patti plateau (six hundred feet

above, and perfectly accessible), all these good things may be ours.

Meantime, unless you are going to the Hausa States, and away north, the

only dairy equipment you will need to bring is—a tin-opener!

CHAPTER IV

The Garden

I remember that my opinion of the possibilities of gardening successfully

in Northern Nigeria expressed itself in three stages: first, on arrival,

with joyful confidence: ‘I am certain _anything_ will grow out here!’

Secondly, after six months, in despair: ‘_Nothing_ will grow out here!’

Thirdly, after a year, with renewed but chastened cheerfulness: ‘_Some_

things will do all right!’

The subject was more or less unexplored ground when I arrived in the

country five years ago; I could get little or no gardening information,

except that one or two enterprising spirits had tried—and failed. Perhaps

the chief reason for this was that the amount of work to be got through

in each day makes it practically impossible for any Government official

to give the personal attention absolutely necessary to the making of a

garden.

The country produces no native gardeners, similar to the _mali_ of India;

the utmost one can extract from the local artist is that he will scratch

up weeds and grass, and faithfully water everything daily in the dry

season. The tour of service of from twelve to eighteen months, followed

by leave home and an uncertain prospect of returning to the same station,

has, I suppose, prevented any attempt at all being made in the majority

of cases, and the very few spots that have been started as gardens seem

to have flourished until their owners left, when they were utterly

neglected, the bush claimed its own, and all traces of cultivation

vanished far quicker than they had appeared.

But now that things are progressing generally in Nigeria, life conditions

improving somewhat, and each station containing a larger number of white

men, willing to carry on each others’ labours in this line, the gardening

problem comes nearer solution, though I fancy that, for all time, it will

need a stout heart and endless perseverance.

THE FLOWER GARDEN

The first ‘don’t’ that occurs to me under this heading is on the subject

of English out-door flowers. One’s natural instinct is to try and

surround oneself with the old favourites, sweet-peas, mignonette, poppies

and pinks, but the attempt, I fear, is sheer waste of time and trouble;

hardly any will come to maturity and blossom in the verandah; they will

grow up cheerfully to a certain point, then wither off, and transplanting

seedlings in the open is out of the question, unless permanent shade can

be given.

I think I can claim to have given them a fair trial—I brought out the

usual ‘collection’ from England, made experimental sowings in boxes on

the verandah, nursed and watched them tenderly, but I got no results in

the blossom line except from the convolvulus. I then tried a collection

from a French firm, and from these seeds, I succeeded in coaxing

blossoms, from zinnias, marigolds, nasturtiums, balsams and petunias—the

rest were a complete failure.

My third experiment was with acclimatized seeds from India, and these

gave far the best results. The first success was a splendid bed of

portulacca, blazing with crimson, white, mauve and gold, rejoicing in the

sun which shrivelled everything else. I should like every one to make a

point of raising this beautiful little flower, for it is easily grown,

and gives a real reward for very little trouble. It should be sown at the

end of the rains, in boxes on the verandah, sheltered until the little

plants look sturdy and fleshy, then planted out in bed or border, and

shaded from the sun for a day or two, until growth is started, the plants

will then begin to spread and blossom into a carpet of glowing colour.

Balsams, marigolds, sunflowers, vinca and zinnias will do well sown out

in the open, under moderate shade, especially the last-named; the finest

zinnias I have ever seen were a bunch presented to me out of a bachelor’s

little garden at Zaria. Sunflowers attain an immense height and blossom

magnificently; I had huge plants, almost trees, at Bussa, fourteen and

sixteen feet high, bearing masses of flowers. Balsams I have always been

a little contemptuous over, but the best double kinds are well worth

while cultivating. A special packet from Sutton, called, I think, ‘Rose,’

gave splendid results, thick clusters of delicate rosy pink blossoms,

resembling pink carnations or rosettes of chiffon, flowered in one bed

continuously from July to December, and established themselves on the

firmest basis in my affections. All varieties of convolvulus can be sown

outside, and will climb and twine and riot delightfully everywhere,

clothing hideous walls and bare fences. In Lokoja I have taken great

pains to cultivate freely that most charming creeper, the sapphire blue

Clitoria, a climbing pea of the greatest beauty, and a free grower,

bringing, in the first instance, _twenty seeds_ from Government House in

Sierra Leone! It has rewarded my efforts so well that now no one need

want for quantities of seed; there is also a white variety which is just

as beautiful and satisfactory. Cannas flourish, and make capital patches

of colour, the finer kinds, some of which are very gorgeous, doing just

as well as the ordinary scarlet sort, which grows all over the country,

and from the seeds of which Mahomedan rosaries are made. Phloxes,

nasturtiums and asters can be induced to flower with a good deal of

preliminary care and watering; but those who, not unnaturally, desire

to achieve the maximum result with the minimum effort, will do well to

concentrate their endeavours on zinnias and sunflowers, especially the

single Japanese sunflowers, as they are eminently decorative. Vinca is a

flower which might be dubbed uninteresting, but it has a special virtue,

that of blossoming practically all the year round, and being available,

when everything else is shrivelled and dead, in the dryest season.

Another public benefactor is salpiglossis, an exquisite plant with

velvety glowing flowers of all shades—no well-regulated Nigerian garden

should be without it.

To my mind the wild flowers of the country are by no means to be despised

in the garden, many are really extremely beautiful; all are indigenous to

the soil and therefore no trouble to grow, and I believe that the main

reason that they are not more frequently seen in gardens is that the

gardeners have never had the opportunity of noticing them in the ‘bush.’

There is a splendid coreopsis with golden daisy-like blossoms some three

or four inches in diameter, the seed of which I gathered on the march a

year ago, and subsequently sowed in large round beds. The result was a

perfectly glorious blaze of brilliant yellow blossoms for weeks together,

when the rains had finished. Terrestrial orchids in their mauve, purple,

yellow and green beauty would be exquisite dotting the grass, as would

the crimson and white striped lilies, fragile babianas, and the lesser

gloriosa, which is not a creeper. A tiny scarlet salvia has often

appealed to me and the little plant, _Striga Senegalensis_, would form a

carpet of deep cool mauve, delightful to see.

THE LAWN

It is said to be very dear to the heart of every Englishman to own a

lawn, and it certainly should be doubly so to John Bull in exile; in a

tropical country well-kept turf is much to be desired, there is nothing

so cool and refreshing to tired eyes dazzled with the glare of sunshine

and baked earth, and, perhaps, nothing that gives such a home-like and

cared-for look to a West African compound. This demesne is usually

reclaimed bush, which in nature grows rank, reed-like, coarse grass, and

the ground destined for a lawn must be thoroughly and deeply _dug up_. It

is worse than useless to attempt to remove it by merely pulling up the

grass. After digging and turning, all the roots must be picked out most

carefully, for it is indeed heartbreaking to see the enemy reappearing

all over your infant lawn.

If the fine short grass, called in India ‘dhoob’ grass, can be found

in the neighbourhood, and it usually can be, especially along the

edges of roads, it should be brought in quantities (with its roots),

planted closely in tiny bunches all over the prepared ground, watered

daily, patted down to encourage spreading, and your lawn will be fairly

started. Another method is to chop up the grass in lengths of about four

inches, mix it with good soil and water, and spread the mixture all over

the lawn, but, on the whole, I think the planting will be found most

satisfactory. If ‘dhoob’ grass is not to be had, English grass seed must

be sown, but this is an experiment I have never had occasion to make. I

have seen what is called Bahama grass grown with great success in Sierra

Leone, and fashioned into lovely velvety croquet lawns.

TREES AND SHRUBS

The planting of useful and ornamental trees is no less than a positive

duty incumbent on every householder in West Africa; they are infinitely

less trouble, and give far more lasting satisfaction than flower growing;

besides, even in this most selfish of all selfish countries, it behoves

us all to think of those who will come after us, and not neglect to plant

a mango stone because we ourselves may scarcely hope to gather fruit from

the tree that will result. I do not think I am exaggerating when I say

that I suppose that every flowering tree and shrub in Lokoja, and many

in Zungeru, owes its existence to the wise labours of those ‘old hands’

who, years ago, planted out the ground around the old Preparanda with

trees, from which innumerable cuttings have been obtained; at all events,

I have never forgotten to feel grateful to them.

Orange and lime trees grow readily from pips, mangoes and date palms from

stones, pineapples can be raised from the leafy crowns on the fruit,

paw-paws spring up wherever the seeds are scattered, but they, like

bananas, are not ornamental, and should be relegated to the back garden.

During the rainy season slips of flowering trees and shrubs never

fail to strike; ‘frangipani’ with rosy blossoms and delicious scent,

_Poinciana Regia_, better known as ‘flamboyant’ on account of its regal

scarlet flowers, three kinds of acacias, red, yellow and white, fragrant

rose-coloured oleanders, and many others, can be put in wherever your

fancy dictates, and will certainly reward your patience—usually by

endeavouring to flower before putting out a single leaf!

There is a delightful, sweet-scented golden allamanda, growing in sturdy

bushes, and forming an ideal hedge, as it is loaded with blossom for

more than half the year. Another somewhat similar flower is _Thevetia_,

which sows itself pertinaciously from its poisonous seeds, and

_Tabernaemontana_ is another most decorative shrubby plant, with shining

dark foliage, and a flower resembling a gardenia.

Nigeria abounds in indigenous blossoming trees and creepers, all

beautiful, and mostly sweet-scented, from the gorgeous _Spathodea

Nilotica_, _Erythrina_ and _Kigelia Africana_ downwards; indeed, no one

who travels about with open eyes can fail to acquire enough seeds, pods

and stones to plant acres with beauty and fragrance; day after day, on

the march, I have filled my pockets.

The bush, too, is full of flowers well worth cultivating, as I have

before remarked. There are creepers and climbing plants innumerable,

including _Mussaenda elegans_, bearing handsome flame-coloured blossoms,

crimson _Caconia paniculata_, Strophanthus with its fantastic, trailing

creamy petals, delicate asparagus fern, and _Landolphia owariensis_

(the rubber vine), queen of climbers, a sheet of snow-white, intensely

fragrant flowers. And if Landolphia is the queen of climbers, surely the

king is a gorgeous apricot-hued _Gloriosa Superba_, which fastens its

delicate persistent tendrils round every available support, and when the

flowering season is over is beautiful still with bursting pods full of

scarlet seeds. In the forest, beside the river one finds clerodendron,

bryophyllum, quisqualis, and a thousand others; indeed, I only wish I had

enough botanical knowledge to name half the native flowers and trees I

have raised from seed collected casually on the march.

THE VERANDAH GARDEN

Perhaps the verandah garden is one’s dearest and closest interest; wise

people may shake their heads, and mutter about the number of mosquitoes

attracted by the watering of ferns and flowers, but, after all, when

there are at least two millions of mosquitoes about, a thousand more or

less makes very little difference, and I am certain no Englishwoman in

Africa will forgo her verandah garden for so trifling a reason!

I have had orchids and ferns, all varieties of so-called crotons, for

they are really codeums, hundreds of sturdy little orange trees, raised

from pips collected at the luncheon table, cannas and caladiums, and

tubs of the invaluable aromatic-scented occimum viride, whose virtues

saved us endless annoyance from mosquitoes. Here a few English flowers

blossomed, one tiny rose bush, petunias, balsams, Japanese sunflowers,

etc., creepers of all kinds flourished, sky-blue, rose-coloured and

yellow convolvuli climbing and clasping the verandah posts, sapphire

blue clitoria twisting and twining in beautiful confusion, mingled with

a brilliant scarlet convolvulus-like climber, while tiny, starry _Ipomea

quamoclit_, crimson and white, wound slender feathery arms round every

available twig and stem.

The bath-water must be kept every morning to water the verandah garden,

the soapiness and especially the suspicion of Scrubbs ammonia, if that

is used, are most beneficial, and by doing the watering yourself you

can ensure a due proportion and see that ferns are not starved while

seedlings are drowned.

I have always longed to have _real_ roses in my verandah garden, but I

fear they would but add one more to the long list of disappointments.

Though they do well in Southern Nigeria, I have so far seen only one rose

tree here at Zungeru; it was growing an immense height, full of green

leaves and long stalks, an infallible sign that the general temperature

is too high, and its blossoms have been few and poor. Still, I believe

with much care and pruning the more delicate kinds might succeed; I hope

to try one day. Last year I devoted my energies to the cultivation of

geraniums and pelargoniums, which were only a partial success, but were

handicapped by being carried about the country. I also experimented with

tuberoses, which were an immense success, growing freely as if they

really liked the soil and temperature. I _have_ great hopes that the more

delicate bulbous plants _will_ flourish in Nigeria during the rains,

therefore I have included a few of them in the list at the end of this

chapter.

THE VEGETABLE GARDEN

It seems to me a matter for the gravest regret that the culture of

vegetables is not more seriously undertaken in this country where fresh

vegetables are so essential to health, and such a priceless addition to

the daily menu of tough and tasteless meat. To any one who has lived in

the tiniest Indian station, and seen the Government garden supplying each

household with an enormous basket of vegetables for the noble sum of

1_s._ 6_d._ per month, it seems as incredible as it is almost criminal

that West Africa is not as well catered for; it _could_ be done, as

many private gardens in the country have amply proved, but—it is _not_

done! To quote Major Ronald Ross:—‘Government sometimes maintains, at

considerable cost, botanical gardens for various economical purposes. I

was told that these gardens used to grow vegetables for the Europeans,

until stopped by a mandate from England, on the ground that a Government

botanist is not a market gardener!’ Comment is quite needless, but there

is some comfort in reflecting that if we cannot all soar to the giddy

eminence of a ‘Government botanist’ we may yet emulate, more or less, the

humble market gardener, and to this end I am offering my small experience

in this line.

[Illustration: OUR GARDENER AT PLAY. (p. 250)]

[Illustration: ‘JEWEL’ AND ‘BROWN MOUSE.’ (p. 258)]

Growing vegetables is, to my mind, the most satisfactory part of garden

work in West Africa; the percentage of failures is certainly smaller, and

the results so entirely to be desired. But, like the rest of your garden,

it will have to be _made_ before you can set to work to grow vegetables.

Divide the ground into beds as long as space will allow, and not more

than three feet wide, with paths between. Every bed must have a roof or

shelter, consisting of matting or palm branches, fastened to uprights

four or five feet high, and the earth must be well banked up so as to be

quite a foot above the ground level.

Vegetables do best when sown in September, when the heaviest rains are

over, though a few kinds can be sown even in the dry season with some

success if care and regular watering are given to them; I have sown

vegetables in May, August and December, always with satisfactory results,

my object being to secure fresh vegetables nearly all the year round.

The most important factor in the success of the vegetable garden (and,

indeed, amongst the flowers too) is that the seed should be quite fresh

from England. A small quantity arriving twice a year will give far better

results than one of the large ‘collections’ which, moreover, invariably

contain many items that are quite useless in this country. I had a huge

tin of vegetable seeds given me last year—a precious prize—only to find,

to my dismay, that it consisted mainly of strawberries and peas! I have

heard of English peas being grown and eaten in the Bornu country; my own

experience has been that they grow most hopefully until they are about

two feet high, they then begin to wither off and disappear.

Tomatoes will be found to succeed admirably; if they are inclined to

grow too luxuriantly and to run to leaf rather than to fruit, this can

be checked by cutting off half the leaves and snipping away many of the

flowers. I have never seen better tomatoes than those grown in Nigeria.

French beans and scarlet runners are most successful; the young plants of

the latter shoot up in the most amazing ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ fashion,

and the dwarf beans are quite loaded with beans six weeks after sowing.

Cucumbers give excellent results, also vegetable marrows. These should

be sown in boxes on the verandah, and planted out when they attain the

dignity of four leaves. Let them be planted close to the uprights so that

they can commence climbing at once instead of sprawling along the ground.

I found it quite a good plan at Bussa to plant these vegetables out

beside a low clay wall, and, after assisting them to reach the top, to

leave them to their own devices; it was always an amusement to hunt for

and happen upon unexpected ripe cucumbers!

Lettuces, radishes and cress may all be relied upon, also spinach (the

native sort) and carrots; kohl rabi, the turnip-rooted cabbage, is a most

excellent and useful vegetable eaten quite young; we found it one of our

best crops, and beyond the thinning out required no attention at all. My

beet-root, cabbages, Brussels sprouts and rhubarb all failed, but that

I strongly suspect was in some degree due to the incursions of greedy

fowls. In this connexion, I may mention that a low close railing, made

even of guinea-corn stalks, is most useful to fence in each bed if there

is a farm-yard loose in the compound.

English potatoes have been grown at Zungeru, I believe, but rather as

an interesting experiment than as an article of diet. Onions are so

extensively grown by the natives that they are hardly required in the

garden, except the tiny spring onions for use in a salad.

I do not think it is widely enough known that, when English vegetables

are ‘out’ the native bean (_wake_) if gathered very, very young, is

practically indistinguishable from French beans, and a tuber (_tumuku_)

in appearance and taste closely resembles new potatoes; both plants

grow like weeds and are immensely prolific; I have seen fifty pounds of

tumukus gathered from _seven plants_!

I should say, from my study of the climatic effect on plants generally,

that hardly any of the really hardy English vegetables would ever reward

one for the trouble of growing them in Nigeria, such as cauliflower,

turnips, etc. Sea kale might do well, and such a delicacy would be well

worth striving after. A valiant effort has been made to grow mushrooms

from imported spawn, but the process entailed a good deal of rather

elaborate arrangement, and the result was nil. But I see no reason why

they should not be cultivated in grass; I have eaten quite delicious tiny

mushrooms which I gathered myself on the polo-ground at Lokoja. It seems

to me that if a crisp fresh salad and cucumber can be produced daily,

with a dish of tomatoes and another of French beans, one may well be

grateful for small mercies, and concentrate attention on growing these,

experimenting meanwhile with everything and anything that comes to hand.

I am specially anxious to see the Avocada pear grown freely in Northern

Nigeria; it flourishes on the coast, and a more delicious fruit could

hardly be desired. I raised four strong little trees in Lokoja, which,

alas, went the way of all things in my absence, and I believe there are a

few at Zungeru. It is a very easy matter to bring a quantity of the large

seeds from Sierra Leone, or from off the ship, where they usually appear

at table.