O’er a weary, sultry land,
Far beneath a blazing vault.
There was a wonderful view on either side, miles and miles of plain, all sand, low bushes and scanty grass—a veritable sea of grey-green fading into pale blue in the far distance. When the eye became accustomed to the vast sweep of green, one discovered innumerable tiny hamlets and farms, all neatly fenced, and growing healthy crops of cotton and cassava, apparently in pure sand. It was a remarkable sight, and seemed to be the very edge of the Desert. I could image it being brilliantly beautiful in the rainy season, but in December, with everything enveloped in a dismal hot grey-drab mist, the scene was depressing and gloomy to a degree. Far apart were isolated wells, some presenting quite a Biblical appearance, with the waiting herds and flocks, and white-robed figures.
As we entered the Katāgum Province, the country changed to light woodland, a great relief, and pleasant to march through, had it not been for the truly terrible thorns. The trees were mostly mimosa and camel-thorn in full blossom, the sickly-sweet scent of which is most unpleasant and powerful. The last march into Katāgum was like entering a new country, as rich and fertile as the last had been barren and dreary.
We arrived on Christmas Eve, and felt great satisfaction at not being obliged to spend Christmas Day on the road. The Acting Resident was waiting to welcome us, and we took possession of a ‘house’ of grass matting, built round an immense Kuka tree, the trunk of which formed one entire side. It was very spacious and really exceedingly comfortable but for the presence of some highly objectionable large black ants, the smell of which, should they be disturbed or crushed accidentally, was so truly awful as to drive us all—dogs included—out into the open air to recover! We had some really cold nights, when the temperature dropped to 54°, and regularly, each morning, a strong chilly wind would spring up about seven, and last till ten o’clock, when it sank away quite suddenly, and usually some extremely hot hours followed.
From our doorway we could look for miles around, over a plain of waving grass, dotted with palm trees, mainly the Egyptian Doum palm with its curious bifurcations. The town was about a mile from our settlement, and the river wound away to the south-west, bordered with brilliant green patches of wheat and onions. Game of all kinds was very plentiful at that time; we could always see the deer roaming fearlessly about, and, evening after evening, we used to ride out in different directions, and had capital sport.
My own small occupations were of quite a different nature from my usual hobbies; gardening at this season of the year was, of course, out of the question, but we had succeeded in conveying a few Black Minorca fowls from England, and they behaved splendidly, laying well all the time—even on the march, every day, we found one or two eggs in the basket! The care of a farm-yard was quite a novelty to me. I found it a fascinating occupation—one that grows upon one, too. We also revelled in rich milk, and every morning I amused myself by making butter in a small plunge churn, which I had brought with me. It was very excellent butter, and I was equally proud of my cream cheeses! But my efforts to manage cows, calves, and herdsmen after the manner of an English dairy, were a dismal failure, and I gave them up, submitting meekly, but much against my will, to the ‘custom of the country!’
The Katāgum people were specially pleasant to deal with: half Fulani, half Beri-beri,—a combination which seems to make for unusual intelligence, coupled with admirable spirit and innate courtesy. They made friends at once, and the Sariki and his immediate followers were my almost daily visitors. On one of these visits, with a sort of shy reproach he touched the skirt of my coloured linen frock, and asked gently why, when I came to his house to see him, I did not wear pretty clothes like that—his people only saw me in a black gown (my habit!) After that I had to sacrifice comfort to friendship, and be careful to ride into the town in my lightest muslin!
On another occasion, the Sariki explained to me that, as I had evidently been ‘sent’ to them as a special mark of favour, it was quite necessary for them to know my name;—what should they call me? ‘A man’s name,’ I remarked, ‘is given to him by his friends. Give me a name yourselves,’ After cogitating in whispers, the old man said, smiling, that they would in future know me as ‘Uwāmu’ (Our Mother), and so I received my ‘country’ name, one that has stuck to me ever since, and by which I am known to all my dark-skinned friends throughout Nigeria. I am always proud of it, for though, at the time, I felt inclined to smile at being so addressed by men old enough to be my father, the title is recognized to be the highest expression of respect and affection that the African man can offer to a woman.