A Resident's wife in Nigeria

by Constance Belcher Larymore

Ahead of us was a tiny canoe, with only one occupant, but fully laden with newly-made earthenware pots, coming to seek a market at Egga; steadily the man pulled, watching the sinking sun all the while; then, as it finally disappeared, he deliberately poled into a flat sand-bank, tied the canoe to the pole fixed in the sand, carefully washed and prepared himself, then, with his face devoutly raised to the eastward sky, he commenced his evening devotions. A picturesque figure with the flaming sunset afterglow as a background, intent only on his prayer, unconscious of our approach under the bank, alone and—to his knowledge—unseen, not a gesture, not a movement of the hands, not a single word was omitted or hurried over—a curious blending of simplicity and solemnity, and, as we left him behind, I murmured, ‘Thy Father which seeth in secret ...’ and the Sahib nodded his head comprehendingly.

It was quite dark when we slid into the Egga creek, and figures began to move on the bank and lights flash as we pulled up; the most prominent was a short, squat personage, clad in spotless white drill, white shoes and a jaunty straw hat in his hand, holding the big lantern and generally directing the disembarkation! Jim Dow, the sinner, restored to his former greatness, perfectly sober and full of serene cheerfulness—assuring us genially that he was ‘quite well again’ and the dinner progressing most satisfactorily!

A scramble up to the rest-house, hot baths and a change—and Jim Dow was quite as good as his word!

CHAPTER IV
Keffi

Immediately after the New Year we marched north from Egga to Pateji, where we were to meet the Resident of Ilorin, and with him accomplish the delimitating of the Ilorin-Kabba boundary. At one of our halts we were lunching one day, when the servants ran in, begging us, in some excitement, to ‘come and look!’ In the dusty roadway were a couple of donkeys, loaded with potash, a pair of evil-looking men, and two of the most forlorn, wretched little mites of children that it has ever been my misfortune to see. The younger of the two was certainly not more than four or five years old, both were crying helplessly, stumbling along in the dust, limping and exhausted. They had begged our boys for water, and so, most fortunately, attracted their attention.

It was the first case of obvious slavery I had ever seen, and the terrible cruelty of it made one’s blood boil. My husband of course detained the ‘caravan,’ the leader of which declared glibly that the children were not slaves, but his own offspring, and that their mother was just coming along behind. The elder toddler had spirit enough to cry out: ‘We are not, we are not! He bought us, for a horse ... a thin horse.’ ... with a mournful touch of self-pity. Presently, a young girl came toiling along the road, and the caravan leader flung at her a flood of a language unknown to us, so that, when questioned, she spiritlessly agreed that they were her children. She was, herself not more than fourteen or fifteen, and could not possibly have been the mother of either child; her owner, when sternly reminded of this, hurriedly shifted his ground, saying that this was not the woman of whom he had spoken, the children’s mother was still further behind. This was greeted with loud denials from the mites, who had already placed themselves definitely under our protection! We had the caravan leader removed when the next dejected figure came slowly in sight, and the new-comer immediately and frankly described them all as slaves, confirmed the children’s story, and with pitiful indifference remarked that they had already covered twelve miles that day, and were prepared to travel another six, so as to avoid the observation of the ‘White Judge.’

The men were taken into custody, the donkeys and loads confiscated, the women elected to attach themselves to another caravan, travelling back to their own district, and we took charge of the children. After a good meal and twelve hours’ sleep, they were different creatures, but their swollen feet made it almost impossible for them to walk a yard. I carried the tiny boy on my knee, and, after a grunt or two of satisfaction, his head dropped back on my shoulder, and he slept for hours. It was not exactly a comfortable arrangement in a side-saddle, and we were much relieved when we reached Pateji, and could ship our charges down to Lokoja, where they became two of the liveliest inmates of the Freed Slaves’ Home.

At Pateji, my husband found orders to return at once to Lokoja, hand over the Province to a new Resident, then on his way out from England, and start for Keffi, the headquarters of the Nassarawa Province, where he was to take temporary charge. We crossed to Mureji, at the mouth of the Kaduna River, and returned to Lokoja to make preparations for our departure. There was excitement and unrest in the air, events in the North had made the Kano-Sokoto Expedition an immediate necessity, the greater part of the Force had already concentrated at Zaria, and the Lokoja garrison was reinforced by troops from Southern Nigeria, under the command of Major Moorhouse. Dr. Cargill, the Resident of Nassarawa, was urgently needed at Kano, so, after a week spent by my husband in initiating his successor into the mysteries of the daily work of a Resident, we started off for Keffi, congratulating ourselves on this opportunity of seeing a new part of the country.