A Resident's wife in Nigeria

by Constance Belcher Larymore

‘Fritz.’ ([p. 151])

Our Start From Bussa for Illo. ([p. 161])

A tangible part of the universal placidity was our pilot: he would sit crouching on the deck, hour after hour, wrapped in a white blanket, for the morning air was very keen, his wise old face tirelessly watching the water. They steer by sight, of necessity, as the channels shift and change continually; not a word passed, but the slightest wave or quiver of his slender brown hand conveyed his meaning to the stolid sailor at the wheel, and the little boat crossed and re-crossed, dodged and curved in perfect obedience to the silent watcher, closely noting every ripple and swirl with his far-seeing dreamy eyes.

At Jebba the scene changed abruptly from low-lying grassy marsh land and warm sandbanks, where the wild duck and geese were wont to gather, to great beetling cliffs and walls of rock, which rose sheer from the still water, seemingly shutting in the river altogether, and giving the impression of one end of a Highland loch. Jebba struck me as rather a dreary spot, in spite of its undoubted beauty, having been formerly the headquarters of the Government and now utterly deserted, save for the Niger Company’s Store, which gives it an air of some life and briskness. I climbed the hill by the old zig-zag path, now scarcely discernible, and wandered round the remnants of ruined bungalows; of some, nothing remained but the flight of cement steps, standing forlorn where all else had vanished; others were the crumbling ruins of native-built mud houses—everywhere was desolation and decay. There is something essentially saddening about an abandoned station, and the island at Jebba, with its traces of ‘white’ occupation, added to the impression of melancholy desertion: the cemetery was there, a lasting and tragic record of duty doggedly done, in the teeth of all difficulties, quiet heroism, and true British persistence, under the inspiration of an indomitable leader—to the end.

However, there was little time for cheerless reflection; our evening was spent strenuously—the Sahib struggling with fever—in shifting our belongings from the security of the Kapelli which now had to turn round and steam down river again, to carry the mails and passengers from Mureji to Lokoja, to the narrow quarters of a steel canoe; and, in the chilly grey dawn of the following morning, with endless unnecessary buzzing, chatter, and running to and fro, the little paddle-wheel began to revolve, and we were away on the next stage of our journey. The fussing and churning of our tiny boat seemed utterly impertinent in the face of the gigantic frowning cliffs, the ‘Ju-ju Rock’ towering grim and bare save for a thick undergrowth, at the base, of the unsightly euphorbia, greatly dreaded by the natives, who declare that like strophanthus, it will cause instant blindness to all who touch it. The sun rose on scenery resembling a mighty salmon river, the water swirling past smooth grey rocks, sheer cliffs and overhanging verdure; this stretch of the Niger immediately above Jebba had almost the appearance of a stone gateway, for, later, the swift current spread itself out again, wide and placid, to level green lowlands far away on either bank, until Badjibo was reached, and we were once more among rocks and rising ground.

Here a halt of two days occurred, perforce, as our small craft could go no higher, a further transfer of our possessions into native canoes being necessary, and we had to wait until the ‘Etsu’ of Badjibo could procure the said canoes from some mysterious direction indicated by a vague wave of his hand. Meanwhile, we were most comfortably installed in an excellent rest-house—excellent, that is, to African travellers’ eyes—the square compound, encircled by a mud wall, containing four native-built huts, might not appeal very strongly to fastidious tastes, but, to us, it spelt something like luxury, plenty of room, a dim, cool, clean dwelling, built solidly and well as the Nupe custom is, and a real relief after the terribly cramped accommodation and blistering heat of a steel canoe. Here, too, a new diversion awaited us in the shape of the undesirable activities of an angry swarm of bees, whose advent made our household generally move faster than I had ever seen them do—I can imagine nothing more effective than swarming bees for making slow folks bustle!

Outside our compound were two immense trees, one covered with creamy-white pendant blossoms, the other bearing bright yellow berries in almost incredible profusion. It was one of our chief pleasures to watch these trees, and find delight in the ever-varying throng of brilliant-hued birds who came, chirped, ate and fought all the morning long. Great plump green pigeons, with their exquisite plumage, deep yellow breast and wings shaded mauve, green and grey, others which we called the ‘black fidgets’ from their incessant twittering and flying, flashing, as they went, a deep metallic blue; there were smaller birds too, one almost entirely canary-coloured, another tiny wren-like thing, all crimson and soft brown, hundreds of tiny atoms of bird-life, hopping and darting so quickly that a clear view of them was almost impossible, except in the case of the exquisite little ‘honey-birds’ who, caring nothing for the luscious berries, frequented the other tree, and delicately sipped the honey out of the drooping flowers, their backs gleaming brilliant green, and breasts glowing copper—their whole persons smaller than a cockroach! They were a busy, merry crew, children of the sunshine, happily untouched by want or fear.

We fished the next day, without much science or skill on my part, and, to our immense surprise, our efforts were rewarded by the landing of a most uncanny-looking fish; indeed, as it whirled out of the water, I believed for a moment that we had inadvertently hooked the corpse of a green pigeon! Its length was about ten inches, the head blunt and the body very round, gaily striped with brilliant yellow and green, the breast a paler yellow, and protruding like a pouter pigeon. He was quite a stranger to me, and to this day I have never discovered his name—I trust it may be one befitting his truly gorgeous appearance! At all events, the immediate circle of admirers of our prowess unanimously cried ‘A—a!’ (No, no!) and assured us that our catch was bitter and uneatable; and when an African native pronounces any living thing uneatable, it must be uneatable indeed, so we took their word for it, and having sufficiently admired his somewhat grotesque beauty, we carefully unhooked him and put him back.