However, the 30th of April brought the first rain, and we thankfully put the ‘hot weather’ behind us for the rest of the year. At the end of May we started on a visit to Ilesha, a customs station in the south of the province, to inquire into a serious theft of Government money which had occurred there. It was infinitely pleasanter marching than our last journey northward, and the paths were good enough to allow of our cantering a great part of our long marches. From Bussa we were escorted to the Meni River, some three miles, by the Sariki and all his myrmidons on horseback, and, as we had a march of twenty-two miles before us, and a good road, we drove the whole party in front of us at a sharp canter. It is curious and amusing to notice how utterly uncongenial to the native and his horse is a steady canter—they simply cannot do it, their horsemanship consisting entirely of furious sprinting and a dancing sort of walk, varied by plunges into the high grass, and rushes back on to the road. We had the greatest difficulty in keeping our escort going, and, to our surprise, men and horses were quite blown when we reached the river bank. Here we said our farewells, crossed the river in canoes—the ponies swimming—mounted again and rode off.
We had a capital sandy track through shady forest country, the young green grass seemed absolutely made to be a background for primroses and bluebells—instead it was thickly sprinkled with delicate mauve terrestrial orchids, and the deeper purple iris-like flowers of ‘ground ginger,’ while feathery asparagus fern climbed and trailed everywhere. We crossed two deep rocky rivers with some difficulty, lunched and rested awhile on the shady bank of the second, and late in the afternoon reached our first halt, a town named Wa-wa. One incident of that day’s march which comes back to me was my dismounting to lead my pony across an awkward deep cleft in the road; he jumped very wide, dragging the rein from my hand, broke away and cantered gaily off up the path towards Wa-wa, leaving me to contemplate ruefully the joys of a five-mile walk to complete a long march! Nevertheless, recollecting an insatiable greediness to be one of the culprit’s chief characteristics, I set off along the path at a leisurely walk, and, as I expected, very soon discovered him, grazing to his heart’s content, and so pleased with his surroundings that he submitted most placidly to be captured and mounted.
Wa-wa is a large town of rather unusual appearance, consisting of groups of tiny hamlets separated by wide green spaces, at this season of the year covered with delightful short turf. Narrow red gravel paths connecting these clusters of houses gave quite a cultivated air, and the spacious green stretches were very pleasant to look at. The trees, too, were unusually large, and each hamlet rejoiced in spreading ‘shedia’ and ‘durmi’ trees. We had a roomy and comfortable rest-house, which unluckily admitted a fair share of the torrential rain which fell during the night!
The following day we found the rivers much swollen, and crossing them by means of fallen trees and rickety native bridges savoured somewhat of Blondin’s feats. Between Kali and Vera we had quite a special piece of good fortune; cantering through the cool shady woodland, we both pulled up suddenly, noticing two large animals moving among the trees and high grass. We had barely exchanged a whisper when, as they bounded across an open grassy space, we discovered, to our delight, that we were watching two large lions! There was no possibility of doubt, the ground was quite open and the animals were distinctly in view, in brilliant sunshine—and the tail of a lion is quite unmistakable, with its odd little bunch of hair at the end! The road itself was crossed and re-crossed with numberless tracks of deer, so, no doubt, the lions found it a profitable hunting-ground. We watched the bush intently on the chance of getting another glimpse of the splendid creatures, but the few stragglers who had come up did not apparently sympathize with our desire, and displayed unusual activity about reaching the camp!
As we approached Kaiama, the old Sariki came out with all his people, and the usual accompaniment of beating drums and blowing horns, and escorted us to the confines of the town, where we turned off, and, after following a path in the bush for about a mile, came upon a clearing, some eight or ten acres in extent, in the centre of which stood, bare and solitary, a double storeyed brick bungalow—the Residency! Formerly Kaiama was the provincial headquarters, and the staff inhabited a clay-walled enclosure in the town, containing a few wretched huts, originally a French fort. Here, the site was low and unhealthy, and a change was decided on; the brick bungalow was built, but was never finished or permanently occupied, as a further decision was arrived at to move the headquarters altogether to Bussa! It is regrettable that the bungalow could not have been removed too! It was very comfortable, of course, to find oneself on a wooden floor, and under a watertight roof, but the situation was so ill-chosen, so utterly lonely and desolate, that it was depressing to a degree. Absolutely nothing was in sight but the monotonous endless bush, not a sound, not a single habitation, not even a breath of rising smoke, for the town was distant and invisible. Scarcely a soul ever came or went, for the path to the town was said to be infested by leopards and hyænas, and was sedulously avoided, even before sunset.
We visited the grave of Mr. Ward-Simpson, a young police officer who died there three years ago; it was a very peaceful spot, in the deep shade of a spreading tree, and we satisfied ourselves that it was well-cared for, and neatly fenced in.
The Sariki of Kaiama is a highly intelligent old gentleman, though he bears a distinctly bad character among all his neighbours for high-handed bullying and dishonesty. We found it very interesting listening to his stories of past years, which he delighted to tell with a considerable sense of humour, while he turned the leaves of the Spectator with a great air of interest and appreciation. He had rather a special connexion with the late High Commissioner, Sir Frederick Lugard, having, years ago, when the latter was travelling through Borgu, making treaties, saved his life by warning him of an ambush prepared for him. He has always been very loyal to the Government, and it is a pity that he is held in such detestation by his own people, though, perhaps, only natural that, with native cunning, he should have used his boasted friendship with the High Commissioner as an universal threat to all whom he wished to intimidate. He goes in terror of death by witchcraft or ‘medicine’ (i.e. poison) and solemnly assured us that quite lately he had had a wonderful escape—a woman in the town having actually kept an iguana, and, of course, everybody knows that to touch an iguana with any article belonging to the Sariki would cause the latter’s instant death! This well-known fact was warmly upheld by many of our own following, so it evidently behoves one to choose one’s pets carefully in Kaiama! The Sariki had, however, soothed his shattered nerves by relieving the conspirator of every bit of ‘real estate’ that she possessed!
A few days’ marching through the cool green woods, lavishly decorated with what the florists call ‘stove plants,’ white and crimson striped lilies, and the earliest Gloriosas, unfolding their delicate crimson, gold-edged petals—for, in June, the ‘mauve’ season is over, and the ‘scarlet-and-gold’ time coming, brought us to Bodebere, a pretty little hamlet where we camped under a huge shady tree, and had the benefit of a truly magnificent view of miles of wooded country, sloping away to the south, where some blue peaks were faintly visible. We were much struck with the quantity of young life around us—beside the human babies, there were lambs, kids, ducklings and chickens scuttling about under our feet. The sheep and goats in this country are extremely small, for the most part, and their babies are the most fascinating, absurd little furry bundles imaginable, about nine inches high, and needing only a green painted stand to make them perfect toyshop treasures!
On the road into Ilesha we noticed that almost every third bush was a custard apple, loaded with fruit. We gathered them as we passed, and thoroughly enjoyed their delicious creamy golden-hued pulp. The people call them ‘Gwando-n-daji’ (wild paw-paw), and, judging by the hundreds of skins and stones scattered on the road, they greatly appreciate them also. The custard apple is almost the only wild fruit in the country which is really palatable, except, perhaps, the tamarind, which, though very refreshing, is terribly acid when eaten raw.
We found Ilesha a wretched ruinous-looking town, dirty and unattractive; there was no rest-house on the high ground where the police detachment is quartered, so we descended, rather disgustedly, into the town, quite fifty feet lower, and, after winding amongst grubby little lanes and evil-smelling narrow byways, emerged upon an open space beside the market, where a fair-sized native house was got ready for us.