A Resident's wife in Nigeria

by Constance Belcher Larymore

Once shaken down into the routine of marching, you will elect to get up at dawn, your toilet will take about twenty minutes, and a simple breakfast, consisting of coffee and eggs, or grilled chicken, should then be ready. During breakfast, the carriers will pounce upon, and whisk away, the whole contents of the camp, and in less than an hour from the time you woke the long line will have streamed away into the distance, the head-man having instructions where to pitch the next camp, and to have a good supply of water and fire-wood ready. Your better half will probably have a little work to do, in the shape of a final interview with the Chief of the place, so the carriers can always get a good half-hour’s start.

You will then begin your march, walking in the fresh, cool, morning air, through the loveliest, greenest, dew-soaked country possible to find, along the tiny footpaths, which constitute the ‘high roads’ in Nigeria. I believe some people never walk a yard on the march, but I always thoroughly enjoy it; it breaks the monotony of many hours in the saddle, and, I think, must be good for one, as riding at a snail’s pace is not, after all, very violent exercise.

If a march is extremely long, it is quite easy to keep the cook and a few carriers, with table, chairs, etc., behind the others, have a cold luncheon prepared the day before, and select a shady spot near water, about half-way, for luncheon and a rest—as a rule, you will find that the carriers have already selected it with some discrimination. The ordinary day’s march occupies five or six hours, and averages from fifteen to eighteen miles. This sounds very little, but it is as much as your carriers and ponies (and yourself) are able for, without distress, and, unless time is a serious consideration, I do not advocate marching again in the afternoon. A Political Officer will usually have ample work at each halting-place to occupy the hours of daylight. I have done seven and eight hours in the saddle many a time, but it is tiring, hard work for every one, and makes the whole thing a weariness, instead of a pleasure.

You will, I think, find, when you ride in, that tents have been pitched, everything unpacked and made ready for you, the servants will have rested, the cook will be hard at work, preparing luncheon, and the staff will assure you, with smiling faces, that the march has been ‘not far too much at all.’ If one anticipates several weeks of hard marching, it is a good thing to hire small ponies for the cook and head steward, as it ensures their arriving first, and arriving fresh.

The evening stroll at sunset is always full of interest for me. There is the village to inspect, cloth-making and cotton-spinning to admire, and, perhaps, many little trifles of Hausa leather work, etc., to buy. In places where a white woman has never been seen before, she may cause a panic among the simple souls. In one remote little Pagan village, I remember, the men came, as usual, headed by their Chief, to the ‘palaver,’ and, at sight of me, they fell prostrate, covered their heads with their flowing garments, lay on the ground and moaned in fear, refusing to be comforted till I retreated from the scene. I have since discovered that an occasional albino negress (truly, a fearsome sight) is held by them in great reverence, and practically worshipped!

In another village the people fled at the sight of me, the only person holding his ground being a man, nursing a sick baby, who had high fever, from teething pain. We prescribed, and supplied, for the poor mite, a remedy so old-fashioned, that I almost blush to record it—a nicely smoothed and rounded chicken bone! And, when the incessant wail of pain died away, and the baby chewed contentedly at its ‘comforter,’ the frightened women and children crept back and smiled, and told each other, doubtless, that we were physicians of a very high order!

One can always, I find, gain the confidence of the women-kind, by taking notice of the ‘pikkins,’ or by a little care and solicitude for a wound or sore. Merely the applying of a clean bandage, personally, establishes your position in the village as the ‘Godsent,’ and, which matters more, as the friend of the ladies—for I have a strong conviction that (in spite of the laments indulged in by good people at home, over the sad position of the down-trodden woman of Africa) the ladies rule the villages and set the public tone: I have seen most lively rows and free fights started by one lady’s uncontrolled tongue, or quarrelsome temper.

You will, of course, like to see that your ponies are properly housed, well-fed, and comfortable for the night. It is as well to take blankets for them, in case they have to sleep in the open, or stand in the rain. When possible, it is a great comfort to have an extra pony, to march along with you—one of them may go sick or lame, on a rough road, and have to be put out of work. Ponies usually fatten and thrive well on the march, possibly because guinea-corn, etc., is so much more plentiful in the bush than at headquarters; but it is decidedly anxious work, taking horses one values into thick, forest country, where guinea-corn is not obtainable and grass rank and scarce. Great care should be exercised over the ponies’ drinking water, and they should by no means be allowed to drink at any pool or stream they may cross. I firmly believe that bad water is one of the causes of much of the horse sickness so prevalent here, and unless I can see clearly up and down stream for some distance, and satisfy myself that the water is not full of decaying vegetation, nor stagnating under overhanging branches, my pony has to wait for his drink until a healthier state of things can be found.

Where roads are rough and stony, extra care is, of course, needed in searching the ponies’ feet for stones—it may not occur to the doki-boys.

In some parts of the country tents are seldom necessary, as there are rest-houses at all the halting-places on the main roads, and very delightful they are to spend a day or two in, when they are watertight and in good repair—simply shelters, with a very deep, low, thatched roof coming to within four feet of the ground, no walls (grass ones can be added by the villagers in half an hour, if desired), cosy, yet airy from their great height, very roomy, and usually watertight; though, to ensure this, when there is rain about, it is a good thing to pitch the outer fly of a tent over your bed, thus securing a dry, comfortable night, even in a tornado. In a few places, where the rest-house is placed in a forest clearing, outside the village, it seems rather confiding to sleep so insecurely, but I have been told that a lamp and mosquito curtains will daunt any but the hungriest lion.