A Resident's wife in Nigeria

by Constance Belcher Larymore

On our way back to Bussa we spent two days at Kaiama, and while there a terrific tornado came up one afternoon, and we were very thankful for the solid protection of the bungalow there. We stood on the verandah, watching the magnificent lightning, as the storm passed away over the town, and, simultaneously with a blinding flash, came a report like a Howitzer, which made us both wonder if anything had been ‘struck.’ Early the next morning arrived the Sariki himself, and with an air of mystery and some trouble, informed us that ‘a stone from God’ had fallen during the storm, burning and wrecking a hut—happily unoccupied at the time—and had buried itself at some depths in the ground. His people were scared and worried, and were already ‘making ju-ju’ and preparing offerings of blood and oil on the spot where the ‘demon’ lay buried. They seemed, in a dim sort of way, to connect the event with our visit, and when we suggested digging up the stone, they obeyed with the greatest alacrity, and the ‘devil’ was accordingly exhumed and handed to us, while we, in return, made a present of money to remove unpleasant impressions by means of a little feast.

The find appeared to be an aerolite of most singular appearance, and I cannot describe it better than by quoting a letter written by my husband to the Spectator on the subject:—

‘It is shaped like an axe-head, or like a slightly flattened egg, with the broad end sawn off and filed to an edge. It is four inches in length, and two and a quarter inches wide at its widest end, gradually narrowing to a blunt point. At its greatest depth, about three and a quarter inches from its point, it measures an inch and a half; from this point its curves to both ends are beautiful. It has a smooth mottled surface, is non-magnetic, and weighs a little over half a pound.’[1]

[1] This ‘aerolite’ has subsequently been examined by the Royal Meteorological Society, and pronounced to be ‘a very good specimen of a Celt.’

We bore this treasure off in high delight at acquiring so unusual a curiosity, and found ourselves back at Bussa by the end of the month. By that time the rains were in full swing, and the surrounding country had become a marsh, rendering walking impossible, and riding dangerous and unpleasant. It was, however, a good opportunity for closer study of the primitive Bussa folks, and their town—the scene of Mungo Park’s tragic death. I spent much time endeavouring to elicit details on this latter subject, which might have more resemblance to the probabilities, and even the truth, than the published and accepted accounts. I am now convinced of what I had always suspected, that Mungo Park’s death was a purely accidental one, due entirely to ignorance of the dangers of the river in the neighbourhood of Bussa. The statement that ‘armed natives, seeing the predicament the strangers were in, hurled their weapons in showers on them,’ is, to any one who knows the geography of the place, bordering on the ridiculous, and is strenuously denied by the natives of Bussa, who declare that the correct version of the tragedy is that said to have been given to Major Denham in Kuka by the son of a Fulah chief, who had come from Timbuctoo. This man ‘denied that the natives who pursued the boat in canoes had any evil intention; their object was mere curiosity to see the white men, and the canoes that followed Park from Timbuctoo contained messengers from the King, who desired to warn the strangers of the dangers of navigating the river lower down!’ More than this, the Bussa people tell how, at every hamlet by the riverside, the inhabitants, seeing the travellers speeding to almost certain death among the rapids, rushed to the bank, gesticulating and shouting warnings, which, alas! misunderstood by the Europeans, doubtless hastened the tragical climax. And this is by far the most reasonable hypothesis, for, had any of these natives desired to compass the destruction of the exploring party, there was no need for them to raise a finger or a voice—the rocks in the river would accomplish all that was necessary. That they had no sentiments of ill-will towards Park is manifest from the fact that the Sariki-n-Yauri (king of Yelwa) had provided him with all necessary transport, and was himself a heavy loser in canoes and men by the disaster. I laboured patiently to obtain the true facts of the story, and felt rewarded by the hope that, in the future, the Bussa folks may be acquitted of so cowardly and cruel a deed.

Another theory about the Borgus which, to the best of my belief, is entirely erroneous, is their supposed connexion with early Christianity. Major Mockler Ferryman remarks that ‘they (the Borgus) themselves assert that their belief is in one Kisra, a Jew, who gave his life for the sins of mankind.’ I was much astonished to find that this idea is utterly fallacious, and is not even known to the people. In the first place, Kisra, or rather Kishra, is buried close to Bussa, and his tomb can be seen by any one, which immediately disposes of the possibility that the Borgus, in honouring him, refer in any way to Jesus Christ.

Kishra was a Mahomedan pure and simple; he lived—so the tradition runs—in Mecca, during the lifetime of Mahomed, and beginning to prove himself positively a rival to the Prophet, was driven forth, with his large following, and apparently drifted eventually down to Borgu. His memory is deeply honoured and revered, but entirely as a warrior king, and in no sense as the pioneer of any special religion. Certain rites and ceremonies of the most frankly Pagan description are still performed at his burying-place, the site of which is well-defined and, as I have already said, visible to all.

The Borgus to-day, whatever their previous record may be, could not, by any stretch of imagination, be called a war-like race. They are absolute Pagans, and appear to be still very low in the order of civilization; their progress has perhaps been hindered by their being somewhat apart from the large Emirates and busier centres of the Protectorate: they are also separated by their peculiar language and customs. In Bussa itself a language quite distinct even from Borgu is spoken, which greatly increases the difficulty of obtaining reliable historical information from them. They are the quietest and most law-abiding folks imaginable—indeed, I have heard it said of them that ‘they have not the intelligence to commit a crime!’ They do not trade, and appear to have an unlimited capacity for sitting silent and motionless, dirty and unclothed, before their huts, gazing vacantly into space. Their farming is as scanty as their need for food-stuffs will permit; just sufficient is grown to save the little communities from want, and not a square yard more! The villagers on the river-bank are fishermen, and live greatly on river oysters, as is attested by the enormous heaps of oyster-shells surrounding each hamlet. These oysters are found on the rocks at lowest water, and though we never attempted to eat them, the shells interested us greatly, answering exactly to the description of the Aetheria semilunata, having very rough outsides, and the interior showing a very beautiful mother-of-pearl appearance—exquisitely iridescent, with raised pearly blisters. We cherished visions of discovering ‘Niger pearls,’ but that dream, I fear, will have to be realized by some one else!

Sir Frederick Lugard was perfectly correct in ascribing the invincibility of the Borgus to their reputation for a knowledge of witchcraft and deadly poisons; they are more deeply steeped in ‘Ju-ju’ and superstition of all kinds than any African natives I have come across. One firm article of their faith is the ‘Tsafi’ or ‘speaking of oracles,’ the message being received by a ‘priest’ who, while holding a freshly killed fowl in one hand and rattling a calabash full of seeds in the other, announces that the ‘god’ speaks to him in these sounds. A curious test for ‘false witness’—a matter of very frequent occurrence—is for the two people concerned to mix a handful of earth taken from in front of the Sariki’s compound in a bowl of water: a portion of this mixture is drunk by the disputants, and also by the Sariki himself, to prove that it is not poisoned. Shortly, very shortly, he who has sworn falsely swells up to an enormous size and dies in torment! Such implicit faith is placed in this method of ascertaining the truth that my husband was frequently implored to make use of it, for it is said that no man who has not a clear conscience would dare to submit to it—and this I quite believe.

On one occasion while we were at Bussa, a prisoner was brought in with terrible festering wounds on his arms and wrists, the explanation—quite placidly given—being that his captors (the inhabitants of a remote village) having secured him with ropes, and so cut into the flesh, became aware that he was a ‘witch’ and would fly away; to avoid which disaster they had ‘made medicine’—some unspeakable compound—and poured it over the prisoner’s head and shoulders. This treatment had produced appalling blood-poisoning, and though I cannot vouch for what he can do from a flying point of view, the poor witch will never use his hand and arm again.