A Resident's wife in Nigeria

by Constance Belcher Larymore

Native Drummers at Keffi. ([p. 54])

A Detachment of the N.N. Regt. ([p. 68])

Our thoughts, while there, were naturally occupied with the sad events of Captain Moloney’s death, and we heard the story in detail from the Resident’s clerk, a native called Silva, who was present, and as his account of it is rather a curious one, I may mention it here, though, of course, I cannot vouch for the absolute truth of it, and give it just as it was told to me. The main facts (I am quoting partly from the best authority, the High Commissioner’s Annual Report for 1902) are as follows:—

On the day in question, Captain Moloney, being anxious to ‘come to an amicable understanding’ with this influential Chief, the Magaji, who had apparently been giving him much trouble throughout the Province, slave-raiding and robbing caravans, and preferring to endeavour by argument and persuasion to win him over to the side of law and order, and make of him a useful friend to Government, determined on a decisive interview, while he had a large military force temporarily at Keffi, to back up his authority if needful. The account runs thus:—

‘Captain Moloney ... went to the king’s house, and the Magaji was summoned to attend. He declined to do so, and Mr. Webster, Assistant Resident, was sent to fetch him. Misled by the Government native agent, to whose intrigue and false representations it now appears probable that the deplorable results which followed were directly due, Mr. Webster entered the private quarters—probably the harem—of the Magaji. That Chief was surrounded by armed retainers, who immediately set upon Mr. Webster. He very narrowly escaped with his life, and was eventually seized and literally thrown out. Captain Moloney then sent him to call up a detachment of troops. The Magaji, seeing his arrest was imminent, rushed out of his house, and killed Captain Moloney and the agent, Awudu, before the soldiers could reach the spot. He and his followers then fled, but sent messages that they would presently return and finish their work.’

Now, this clerk, Silva, had been a hospital dresser, and the task of preparing Captain Moloney’s body for burial, fell to him. He declared earnestly and emphatically that there was no wound on the body whatsoever, except an arrow wound in the neck which had pierced the carotid artery, and caused almost immediate death. He further described how the Magaji was armed with a ‘gun’ only, he did not touch Captain Moloney, but rode straight at Awudu, the native agent, who, as described by the High Commissioner, was the cause of the whole trouble, and, crying out, ‘You have done this! It is your fault!’—shot him dead, as he ran, in terror, towards the barracks. The whole crowd of the Magaji’s followers, rushing out like a swarm of angry bees, of course fired off a cloud of arrows, more or less at random, and, from this man’s earnestly told story, it seems fairly certain that it was one of these which killed Captain Moloney. The old Sariki of Keffi, who was standing close by, endeavoured to support the wounded man, but received an arrow himself, in the foot—a slight wound, however, from which he recovered.

These differing facts do not, however, in the least remove from the Magaji’s shoulders the indirect guilt of murder, although his hand may not have given the actual death-blow; he was said to have been killed at Burmi, among the army of the Ex-Sultan of Sokoto, in the following July.

We beguiled some of the long hot hours by making an effort to learn Arabic; we did not progress very far or very fast, but, indeed, I think circumstances were rather against us! Our teacher spoke Arabic and Hausa—no English, of course—we spoke Hausa, much English, and, in moments of excitement, as our habit is—voluble Hindustani! Our text-book and dictionary were Arabic-French! Something like a miniature Tower of Babel ensued, and we decided to postpone our studies till a more favourable opportunity presented itself! I also amused myself by decorating the whitewashed walls of our house with sketches, which completely depleted my paint-box, but entertained me mightily—I believe they are still to be seen there!

We had bought a very handsome pony in Keffi, and one day, to our distress, he developed violent colic, and appeared to be dying. Every available remedy was applied, and for the whole afternoon he was fomented with hot blankets, but he lay helpless, swollen, limp and moaning. We then resigned him, at our boy’s earnest request, into the hands of a native horse-doctor, a wizened old individual, who stood and looked, then, remarking laconically, ‘He will recover!’ proceeded, with great difficulty, of course, to get the pony on to his feet. He then passed his hands five or six times down the pony’s flanks, murmuring to himself the while, finally taking the muzzle in both hands, he looked very hard into the pony’s eyes, recited a string of rapid Arabic sentences and, stooping low, blew into each nostril three times. I stood by watching and wondering, then, in amazement, realized that a cure had been effected! The ‘doctor’ stood aside, and announced as placidly as ever: ‘He has recovered!’ directing that a bran mash should be given at once; this ‘Kim’ ate eagerly, and never showed another symptom of pain or illness! I cannot explain this cure in any way; I can only say that I saw it done, and done in less than ten minutes, and that the wizard stoutly declined to give me his prescription or to share the secret!