A Resident's wife in Nigeria

by Constance Belcher Larymore

Early next morning we left Badjibo, heading a procession of native canoes, and a most adventurous journey we had! The river hereabouts is split up into various channels by islands and rocks, and we found ourselves in true Highland scenery, brown water rushing and creaming in its fall round and over huge boulders, the river fringed on either side by an immense growth of trees and bushes hanging above the stream, and making it a matter of great difficulty for the canoe-men to make any headway against the strong current, owing to the almost impossibility of finding ground for their long palm-wood poles. They could only seize branches and twigs, and so endeavour to haul the canoe up-stream, which method was, naturally, productive of a rich crop of misadventures, such as the sudden crashing down of the rotten branch to which the muscular brown arms were clinging, and the consequent rush down-stream of the canoe—our heads being banged and swept by branches and creepers, until it could be brought again under control by the whole party hanging desperately on to the nearest tree, and the strenuous effort, swirling and rocking, had to be commenced again, till we could crawl back to the same point, and beyond, perhaps, into smoother water, till the next rapid appeared, and the same difficulty—and, incidentally, danger—had to be encountered once more. I can vouch for it that we had not a ‘dull moment’ from start to finish, and one could hardly be reproached for harbouring a slight feeling of insecurity, especially as the water continuously bubbled in through a very inadequate mend in the bottom of the canoe, just under my eye, and vigorous baling went on ‘amidships’ all the time! Anything less like the lower reaches of the Niger could hardly be imagined; in the narrow channels where the trees meet overhead and the water tumbles, loud-voiced, over rocks and snags, it is hard to recognize it as the same river, and only in the open reaches do the crimson and white quisqualis and purple convolvulus remind me that I have met and loved them some three hundred miles nearer the coast.

At the worst points, where the whole face of the river appeared to be barred with a rush of falling waters, and no smallest passage was visible amidst the tumbling foam, the canoes were hauled under the steep bank, and their entire contents bundled out thereon, we, the passengers, clambering, by the aid of roots and branches, to a place of some security, where we sat on the warm sand and watched the manœuvres down below. The majority of the canoe-men, divesting themselves of their clothing, took boldly to the stream, where, with the rushing water up to their shoulders, struggling against the current and slipping on the stones, they deftly and manfully dragged the absurd little crafts through the rapids by means of rope hauling, vigorous pushing, swimming, and attempts at poling. They are practically amphibious, these men, and it was a fine sight, the active figures swimming and wading, dark, wet skins gleaming, white teeth flashing, while the air was full of shouts and cries, not to mention the chorus of advice and directions from the bank, and pious ejaculations of thanksgiving as each canoe reached a place of safety. Once arrived in more placid waters, the re-embarkation would take place, and the journey be resumed.

Our river trip ended at Leaba, a small village above which is the Wuru rapid, about the worst on the river; the natives have driven great tree trunks vertically into the rocky bed of the stream, and attached to them a stout rope by which the unfortunate traveller must drag himself and his canoe through the seething torrent. There is a saddening loss of life here, and death by drowning is so frequent that the riverside folks are perfectly stolid and unmoved by it, as we noticed when a man lost his life that very afternoon, trying to cross the river at this spot. The water is also infested with alligators of considerable size; possibly they come up at high water, and are unable to get back until the next wet season—one is told that the body of a man upset from a canoe in the rapids is seldom or never recovered.

At Leaba we found ponies awaiting us, and did the remaining few marches on horseback, leaving the baggage to make its way slowly up-stream, and on the 9th of January we reached Bussa, where the Assistant Resident, Mr. Dwyer, gave us a cordial welcome. Bussa town is a mere hamlet, or, rather, collection of hamlets, straggling along the river bank; a place of no importance whatever, where there is not even the mildest attempt at a market, where trade is nil, and existence about as stagnant as the mind can picture it.

At that time, however, we had no opportunity of making close acquaintance with the place, as, about ten days after our arrival, we were obliged to hurry off to Illo, as work of much urgency awaited my husband there. Anticipating long marches and great heat, I decided to travel in an improvised hammock, but the paths were so bad, and the bearers so unskilful, that, after the first day, I gladly mounted my pony, leaving Diana in sole possession of the hammock! It was a hot, weary journey, the dust and glare very unpleasant; each halting-place seemed a dirtier and more unsavoury hamlet than the last, till we reached the large walled town of Kaoji, where our spirits, which had rather drooped at the apparently hopeless poverty and desolation of our new province, revived a little at the sight of brisk, intelligent Fulanis, replacing the apathetic, ignorant, dull Borgus.

We had scarcely unpacked at Illo, when, to our intense dismay, Diana, who, with her sweet disposition and high intelligence had made herself very, very dear to us both, began to flag and display the usual dread symptoms, and ten days later we miserably buried her under a great shady tree. I do not think we have ever cared to go out shooting since.

That very day came the disquieting news of the disaster at Satiru near Sokoto, involving the deaths of Mr. Hilary, Mr. Scott and Mr. Blackwood, while endeavouring to effect the arrest of the ringleaders of a small faction of malcontents, who had been spreading disaffection. Such an event as anything resembling a native rising naturally called for prompt action, and troops were hurriedly moved north, the Illo detachment was ordered away at once, and, as my husband’s work called us to Yelwa, we also prepared for departure, and, less than six hours after the telegram had arrived, the busy ‘lines’ and fort stood empty, silent and deserted, while a procession of canoes was rapidly descending the river.

Illo is not actually on the Niger, and at Giris, the small village where we embarked, we noticed a quaint local custom which I do not remember to have seen elsewhere. Some of the round huts had bunches of short, dry bamboo twigs hanging from the apex of the thatch, rattling cheerfully in the evening breeze, and, on inquiry, we were told that any young man who desired to marry hung out this signal, so that all match-making parents of daughters might take a note of his intentions, and presently parade their most attractive daughters for his benefit! A vision crossed my mind of this simple system adopted in more civilized circles, and harassed mothers anxiously scanning the surrounding chimney-pots from a top window in Grosvenor Square!

A few days later we were back at Bussa, and a time of considerable discomfort arrived for all of us. March and April are always the hottest and most unpleasant months in Nigeria, but Bussa seemed to me to be much hotter and more unpleasant than any other spot I know. This was partly due to our wretched houses—badly built, ill-thatched mud dwellings, which afforded little protection from the heat, the inside temperature reaching 103° and 104° every afternoon. The nights were oppressively hot. We used to move our beds all over the compound in order to catch the least particle of breeze, and were out each morning at five o’clock to get an hour’s ride in the cool—for by half-past six no one would care to be out in the sun. Perhaps the worst feature of these months was the ‘dry tornadoes,’ violent dust-storms, when the clouds would roll up with most hopeful rapidity and inky blackness, and a hurricane of wind would tear through the house for an hour or so, laden with dust, dirt and sand, almost instantly covering every thing with a deep layer, at the same time usually removing a good deal of the flimsy thatch. One could only sit and endure, protecting eyes, mouth and hair from the flying grit by means of a motor veil, and longing for rain till the hurricane passed and died away, leaving us very miserable and uncomfortable—and as dry as before!