The second evening we were destined to discover the weak points of the Karonga; the rain came down in torrents, poured through the roof of the deck in vigorous streams, soaking beds and bedding in five minutes. We stripped our beds, and sat patiently, watching the water dripping steadily on the bare canvas, till, in sheer weariness, we rolled ourselves up in mackintoshes, rigged waterproof sheets on top of the mosquito nets, and slept soundly in spite of wet pillows and the prevailing drippiness!
In the morning, however, hot sunshine turned our sorrow into joy—every available space was employed for the drying of wet blankets and clothing, and, with all our gloom dispersed, Captain Ashburnham and I mixed the dough, and treated ourselves to hot scones for breakfast!
We arrived at Lokoja rather late one evening, and after sleeping that night on the Karonga, the next morning we were most kindly taken in charge by Mr. Gollan, then Chief Justice, who was temporarily filling the place of the last Resident, just invalided home. Mr. Gollan escorted us to our quarters, a massively built double-storeyed stone house, known as the ‘Preperanda,’ which had previously been the Mess-house of the N.N. Regiment, but was now in a very bad state of repair. The rooms below were used as offices, and those above as a dwelling-house. The verandah was in a ruinous condition, and most of the glass had vanished from the doors and windows; even the shutters had fallen off, so that, when the tornadoes came, as they did with annoying frequency, salvation lay in one direction only, to collect all one’s belongings in frantic haste in a heap in the centre of the floor, cover them with waterproof sheets, and sit firmly on them till the storm had spent itself, when the floor could be mopped up, and books, pictures, etc., returned to their places.
Still, I have always loved the Preperanda: it was almost buried in trees, gorgeous scarlet ‘flamboyant’ (Poinciana Regia), red and yellow acacias, deliciously scented frangipani, both white and pink, huge bushes of rosy oleanders, lime-trees, mangoes, orange-trees and guavas: leaning over the verandah railing in the fragrant soft darkness, I then and there took to heart the lesson which I have tried to practise ever since—the absolute duty of planting trees everywhere for the benefit of one’s successors.
At the Preperanda, I began to study the art of Nigerian housekeeping, and forthwith engaged a cook, a most unprepossessing looking individual, a Kru-boy, rejoicing in the name of Jim Dow; he proved an excellent cook, as they go in West Africa, but a frail vessel where intoxicants were concerned; nevertheless, he did us good service for three years in many places, was untiring on the march, and, in the main, sober. The further knowledge I acquired on this all-important subject I have gathered together in a later chapter for the sake of convenience.
Our first month in Lokoja was, in many ways, a busy one; my husband had his hands only too full of official work, we bought a couple of ponies, and I set to work to organize a stable, realizing sadly in a day or two that the amenities and conveniences of Indian life were not to be found here, any more than inside the house. We made friends, too, with the small community of white people in the station, the nursing sisters, N.N.R. officers and civilian officials, and many were the helping hands and kindly hints given to us, on all sides, and most gratefully received.
Lokoja is placed most picturesquely on a strip of level ground, encircled by hills and the Niger. Above the native town towers the Patti Hill, a flat-topped mountain some eight hundred feet high, on the summit of which, originally, there was a town and many acres of cultivation. The town has vanished, but traces of old farms can easily be seen, and the former occupiers are, even now, anxious to return to their perch and build a new village. They seem to have a high opinion of the soil up there, and we have often wished that the English community might be able to form a new station on that breezy hill-top instead of grilling down by the river bank. Perhaps it may come to pass some day, for the present Cantonment is, most unfortunately, down-stream from the native town.
The Preperanda ([p. 7])
