Kabba itself is much the same as any of the smaller towns in the Protectorate in appearance; a collection of clay-built thatched houses, clustered closely together, seeming to cling affectionately to the rocky hill-side above—the Ju-ju Hill, deeply reverenced, dearly loved, and jealously guarded by all. There is the usual crowded market, with low, dark booths or shelters lining the streets, where the ladies of commercial pursuits display the invariable collection of coloured cotton cloths, beads, miscellaneous food-stuffs, spices and capsicums. They are some of the most light-hearted and spirited women I have met, those at Kabba. As I rode through the busy market heads would be popped out, and white teeth flash in smiles, calling merry greetings to ‘Uwāmu,’ and vociferating warnings to the fat brown toddlers, rapt in wonder, and straying perilously near my horse’s hoofs. They are dear, simple souls, untouched by civilization, happy and unspoilt as little children, yet self-reliant and independent withal. A scene illustrative of this was enacted before me daily while at Kabba: the open space in front of our quarters bathed in warm sunlight; above, blue sky and wheeling kites; below, the valley, stretching away into purple distance. Little groups of people, humble folk, trading in a small way between Lagos and the Hausa States, carrying country-made cloth, palm-oil, salt and kola-nuts, turned in here daily to disburse, with cheerful reluctance, the small percentage then levied on each load as a caravan tax. Those moving in the same direction were, of course, travelling acquaintances. Many were women, and the babble of laughter and chatter in various tongues was incessant. The tender-hearted philanthropist would have to seek far and long in this merry crowd for the ‘down-trodden women of Africa’ and the ‘black sister in slavery’, of whom one seems to have heard. There is not much that indicates subjection or fear about these ladies, sitting at graceful ease among their loads, or strolling about in the hot sunshine, polished mahogany shoulders gleaming, white teeth flashing in laughter, while the slender perfectly-shaped hands gesticulate dramatically, illustrating the incident of absorbing interest, which is being related in musical sing-song Nupe, almost like a Gregorian chant in its slow cadences. The outer garment, consisting of a gaily-tinted country-made cloth, wrapped tightly round the body, just below the arms, is adjusted, tightened, tucked in with lightning rapidity, and precision. The “black sister” has a word, a joke, a stream of courteous greetings for every individual there. As each new arrival appears upon the scene, a chorus of salutations in Hausa, Nupe and Yoruba meets him; a dozen kindly hands are stretched out to help him down with his heavy load; endless inquiries are pressed upon him as to his health, the comfort of his journey, the state of the road, etc.; and he becomes at once an honoured guest in the cheerful coterie. Every departing traveller has the same circle of willing friends, eager to help him to adjust his sixty or eighty pounds of merchandise, and start him off on a fresh stage of his journey with a shower of valedictions, good wishes and pious ejaculations and prayers for his safety,—his replies borne faintly up to us on the warm air, as he drops down the steep path into the valley below.
Of course, it may be called merely superficial friendliness and courtesy, and it is quite possible that, while the latest arrival absents himself for ten minutes or so, discoursing to the Resident, the speckled chicken which erstwhile dangled by one leg and a piece of string from his load may not be there when he returned, and may be adorning the baggage of the astute trader, who has just left with some alacrity; but, even so, for myself, I would gladly take the chance of having my pocket picked, if, on one of the many occasions when I have entered a crowded omnibus in London, one of the row of cold, critical unfriendly faces opposite would break into a smile, and say what I heard all round me at Kabba, in sonorous Yoruba: ‘Akwabo! Akwabo!’ (You are welcome, very welcome!) Indeed, I can never conquer that curious feeling of chilly depression that overtakes me each time I return to England, and feel that, except for the tiny minority of my own friends, I am alone in the crowd; infinitely more alone in Bond Street, where almost every brick and stone is familiar, than I could ever be in the busy streets of Kano, or any other city of Nigeria, which I might enter even for the first time, where I should find two hands and one willing tongue all inadequate for the due return of the ceaseless shower of smiling salutations and greetings that would be poured upon me from every side. And this is by no means a tribute to any personal charms of mine. Any traveller, black-skinned or white, receives the same treatment as a matter of course.
It is, however, a ‘far cry’ from Bond Street to Kabba, and I very much doubt whether moralizing is permissible in so small and simple a record as this. It must have been—as usual—the fault of those chattering ladies!
Outside the town, there is a little stretch of forest belt, and, as no one has ever disputed its possession with me, I am pleased to consider it exclusively my own property! The path is of the very narrowest, not more than three feet anywhere, giving barely room enough for me and my pony. On either side rises a wall of greenery, full of climbing plants innumerable. Hanging from the branches of great trees, twenty and thirty feet above my head, themselves loaded with ferns and parasites, are gracefully twining creepers, swaying tantalizingly and rather contemptuously, it seems, just out of reach of my farthest stretch. Two months before, it was a flaming mass of glorious scarlet Mussaenda elegans. Now, in July, that has passed, and the mode for the month is a flower I dearly love, but which, owing to a miserable ignorance of botany, I cannot address by its proper name. I think it would strike the lay mind as a species of mimosa. The stem is thorny; the leaves, which are minutely pinnate, close modestly at sunset. The flower smells of a thousand sweet things, and consists of a collection of tiny florets massed together, forming one infinitely delicate ball of slender, silvery-white threads tipped with golden pollen. It is everywhere, clasping the tree-trunks, foaming over the bushes, and shrouding the deep cool recesses, where the shining dark ferns lie hidden away, scenting the whole air, and proving itself an irresistible fascination to the butterflies—busy gossips that they are—flashing purple and velvety black, gleaming yellow and palest blue.
One of the huge ‘Kuka’ trees is clothed to a height of fifteen or twenty feet in a gorgeous mantle of Gloriosa superba, each vivid green leaf ending in a long tendril which clings desperately to all it meets. The blossoms, when first opened, are of a delicate pale golden colour, daily developing crimson splashes at the base of each petal, and later becoming entirely an exquisite deep apricot shade—a perfect feast of daintily varying hues.
Added to these treasures, my ‘Kingdom’ is the happy home of troops of gay restless monkeys, seldom visible, but everlastingly on the move behind the green curtain, swinging, leaping and chattering, ever disturbing flights of tiny green parrots and demure little grey doves.
Skirting the crumbling wall, one follows a narrow footpath towards a rocky eminence a quarter of a mile away, and, dismounting, explores it on foot. It is a tiny hill of great steepness, composed for the most part of piles of massive boulders, from which nearly all the soil has been washed away by the rain of many seasons. An almost invisible track guides one up the precipitous side to the summit, an area of, possibly, fifty feet square, occupied entirely by great rocks, shady niches and coarse creepers.
The place has a history and a reputation of its own; it is called the ‘Look-out Hill,’ and was greatly used—so runs the tradition—in the times of Fulani slave-raiding expeditions from Bida. Once arrived at the top, the full significance of the name is grasped. Far and wide, in all directions, one can view the surrounding country, and command every road leading to Kabba, without being visible from below. How vividly one can picture the anxious watcher, crouching motionless among the rocks, scanning with straining eyes the paths winding like white ribbons among the peaceful yam-fields and waving grass, on the alert to detect the first signs of the advancing Fulah army, and then flying breathless along the scented forest ways, back to the town, his poor heart thumping on his ribs, to carry the dread news that sounded the knell of slavery for himself, his wives and children.
The Kabba folk are of the Bunu tribe; whence their origin I cannot venture to say. At all events, they speak a remarkably unpronounceable language of their own, to the utter confounding of any unfortunate interpreter who does not happen to have been born within fifty miles of the place. Bunu language is not precisely musical, but I have observed with mild astonishment that these natives rather like talking it! My friend, the Balogun, likes to chat easily with his retinue in this tongue, which appears to have no vowels except odd sounds evolved from somewhere in the region of the collar-bones, and which seems to demand some special development about the nose and chest, just as Yoruba and Kru require peculiarly shaped mouths for their correct enunciation. I think the Balogun likes to feel that he is making an impression on ‘the Judge’ in a small way, by this exhibition of jaw-breaking phraseology. He, by the way, is a man of property, and, as befits the ‘second chief’, is a leader of society in Kabba, dressing recklessly in a gorgeous black and white velvet robe. He knows, too, what is due to a lady, even an English one. Once, when I showed him some elaborate embroidery on which I was working, he rose manfully to the occasion, and, making use of his one piece of colloquial English, rather startled me by ejaculating pleasantly: ‘My God!’
Fetish has a firm hold in Kabba, but to which ‘school’ the people belong, I have never been able, nor indeed have I tried, to find out, as I have some belief in treating any man’s religion with as much reverence and reticence as he does himself. Before describing what I do know of Bunu ceremonies, I would like to repeat here Mary Kingsley’s admirable definition of ‘Fetish’: ‘the religion of the natives of the western coast of Africa, where they have not been influenced either by Christianity or Mahomedanism’: a fairer and truer view than that usually taken, as ‘rank heathenism.’ However, the whole subject of Fetish is so well and exhaustively treated both by Miss Kingsley and Major Mockler-Ferryman in their respective works on West Africa, that it would be as futile as unbecoming for me to attempt to stumble and halt over the ground they covered so royally and so completely; therefore I will content myself with describing the Bunu funeral ceremonies as carried out in Kabba, as these happened to come under my notice and seemed to me rather unique and interesting.