A Resident's wife in Nigeria

by Constance Belcher Larymore

The rest-house at Oduapi is placed in a clearing in the forest—a lovely spot, with troops of little grey monkeys chattering and swinging in the trees, the undergrowth alive with birds and butterflies, and an occasional ‘ough, ough,’ betraying the whereabouts of the larger dog-faced monkeys, who, however, did not show themselves, though they seemed to resent our intrusion.

That night, I woke suddenly, listening intently, to hear, for the first time, the roar of a lion. It was a very awe-inspiring sound, echoing again and again in the depths of the silent forest, followed by a deep hoarse cough, and made one, for the moment, consider our thatched shelter somewhat inadequate! However, we had a fire burning outside, and, remembering the saying that no lion will tackle a mosquito curtain (and, further, being very sleepy!), I merely took the precaution of lifting Timmie, our Irish terrier, on to my bed, and slept placidly till dawn.

After a hot march, we reached Kabba, and though we were most kindly received by the officer commanding the detachment there we found the ruinous tumble-down ‘fort’ so uncomfortable that we were glad to leave again. Afterwards, I saw a good deal more of Kabba, and learnt to love it, and think it far the most beautiful spot I have seen in Northern Nigeria. At Lukpa, where the village nestles away among the trees, and the rest-house is set on a hill with magnificent views all round, an incident occurred which is worth describing in detail, for it ‘gives one furiously to think’!

‘The Sahib’—as, from ineradicable Indian habit I still commonly call my husband—had gone out at sunset, after deer, and, during his absence, the entire population of the village came streaming up the hill to the rest-house, all talking loudly and at once, and evidently under the influence of strong excitement. I was, by that time, well accustomed to creating a sensation wherever I appeared, no white woman having been seen previously; but these people struck me as having more than salutations in their minds and on their clamouring tongues. I had been six weeks in the country, my knowledge of Hausa was confined to salutations and a few simple words, so I summoned our interpreter to help me to entertain my visitors. They chattered, shouted and gesticulated at ‘Paul,’ who eventually explained to me, smilingly, that they had never seen a white woman before, and were anxious to offer me a personal welcome. I nodded and smiled in high gratification, thanked them cordially, and, when I had exhausted my small stock of polite salutations, told the interpreter to give them leave to go home. This they did, somewhat reluctantly, I thought; but after describing the interview with some amusement to the Sahib, I dismissed the matter from my mind. Six weeks later we passed through Lukpa again, on our way back to Lokoja, and found it deserted—not a man, woman or child, not a goat, not a fowl—all gone, obviously fled into the bush! I felt distinctly hurt at this churlish behaviour on the part of my late admirers, and learnt, long afterwards, that, on our first visit, our precious interpreter and others of our party had seized and killed every goat and fowl in the village! The wretched owners had rushed up to the rest-house to complain and implore protection, and all they got was: ‘Thank you! Thank you! Yes, that’s all right! You can go home now!’ I am not ashamed to confess that I cried when I made that discovery! The lesson, however, went home to us both, and drove us to work ceaselessly at the Hausa language, knowing there could be no security for ourselves, or justice for the people, until we could be independent of dishonest interpretation.

At Ekiurin, we pitched our tent under a great shady tree in the centre of the village, and strolled about in the cool of the evening, finding large plantations of scarlet and yellow Cannas, the seeds of which are pierced and threaded into Mahomedan rosaries. As a great mark of confidence, I was shown the interior of the ‘Ju-ju house,’ and was as disappointed as one usually is at the unravelling of a mystery! The shrine consisted of a dark, empty room, swept very clean, the walls were roughly coloured red, and on one was drawn an unshapely, meaningless figure, executed, apparently, in white chalk. In the verandah, another reddened wall was decorated with similar designs, and in a prominent place was the sacrificial stone, black and roughly carved. In a niche in the wall stood a carved wooden figure, some eighteen inches high, hideous and much blackened with exposure and nasty gory smears, caused, however, by nothing less innocent than the blood of an occasional fowl.

And so on to Aiede—the country alternating between grass-land and forest. I found precious trophies in the shape of terrestrial orchids, varying in hue from palest mauve to deepest purple, with delicate reddish-brown stems, and growing about three feet high. There were yellow ones and some were green, all most wonderfully striped, spotted and splashed with contrasting colours.

Very prominent features of the Nigerian landscape are the red ant hills, sometimes attaining a great height, and most fantastic in shape and appearance. They remind me of a story told of a gallant officer, more zealous than comprehending, who was engaged in quelling a petty disturbance in West Africa. This hero, spying one of these queer-looking clay erections, took it to be a ‘heathen fetish,’ and, plunging his sword through and through the imaginary idol, exclaimed to the astonished villagers and his troops: ‘Thus does the Great White Queen destroy the Black Man’s Ju-ju!’ The villagers, of course, thought him mad, but were too polite to say so, and the native soldiers must have smiled!

At one small village I created a painful impression, apparently; the headmen, who came to the usual interview, lay on the ground, their heads wrapped tightly in their gowns, and groaned aloud, in abject fear, and no persuasion could induce them to speak or look up till I retired from the scene! The scare subsided happily, before we left, and they recorded their opinion that I had come straight from Heaven, and besought me not to permit it to rain for a day or two. I could but hope for the best, and felt relieved when we got away without a shower!

The roads, or rather tracks, were terribly bad going when rain caught us on the march; we crossed mountains, stumbling along among masses of rock, loose boulders and slippery clay, on foot, of course, riding being out of the question, and our hearts ached for our plucky little ponies, labouring and clambering up—the descent in each case being worse and more dangerous. They were indeed ‘as active as monkeys and as clever as cats.’ On the return journey we tied putties on their knees to save them in case of a slip, and felt much happier.