Well, I have covered a good deal of ground in this country—although I have not been in it very long, measured in time—and I have seen many thousands of human beings. I have seen the Hausa woman and the bush Fulani woman in their classical robes. I have seen the Yoruba woman bathing in the Ogun, clad only in the natural clothing of her own dusky skin. I have seen the scantily-attired Gwarri and Ibo woman, and the woman of the Bauchi highlands with her bunch of broad green leaves “behind and before,” and nothing else, save a bundle of wood or load of sorts on her head, or a hoe in her hand. I have visited many African homes, sometimes announced, sometimes not, at all hours of the day, and sometimes of the night. I have passed the people on the beaten track, and sought and found them off the beaten track. I have yet to see outside our cantonments—where the wastrels drift—a single immodest gesture on the part of man or woman. Humanity which is of Nature is, as Nature herself, moral. There is no immodesty in nakedness which “knows not that it is naked.” The Kukuruku girl, whose only garment is a single string of beads round neck and waist, is more modest than your Bond Street dame clad in the prevailing fashion, suggesting nakedness. Break up the family life of Africa, undermine the home, weaken social ties, subvert African authority over Africans, and you dig the grave of African morality. It is easy, nothing is easier, and it may be accomplished with the best intentions, the worthiest motives, the most abysmal ignorance of doing harm. Preserve these things, strengthen them, and you safeguard the decencies and refinements of African life.
Here is a homily! Its origin one of those trivialities of which I have spoken. One had pushed on ahead, desiring to be alone. With that curious intuition which the African seems to possess, one’s mounted escort had, somehow, gathered that, and a good half-mile separated one from one’s followers. The sun was at its zenith, and danced over the dusky track. But there were broad grateful trees on either side, and low bushes with white sweet-scented flowers. A bend in the road brought into view a little cameo of natural life. By a tree, straight-backed and grave-faced, an elderly Fulani woman, supporting on her lap the head and shoulders of a younger woman, who lay outstretched. At her feet a small child trying to stand upright, with but indifferent success. For a moment one was not perceived, both women’s eyes being fixed on the infant’s resolute efforts, and one’s approach being quietened by the deadening dust under foot. For a moment only. Then all three looked up. From her position the younger woman’s limbs were more uncovered than a Hausa or Fulani woman considers compatible with modesty before a stranger, and, with a sight of that stranger, the instinctive movement came—the position was slightly shifted, the robe drawn down, with no fuss or precipitancy, but calmly, with dignity and decision.
We strayed yesterday. Starting off early we struck across country, leaving the road, the red-and-green dressed gentleman and I; having arranged to meet the rest ... somewhere. It does not matter where, because, as a matter of fact, we didn’t. An imposing person the aforesaid dogari, with a full black beard and fierce sword. It was good to get away from the road, despite its varied interests, and for a couple of hours one gave one’s self wholly up to the charms of the crispness of the morning, the timid but sweet song of the birds, the whiffs of scent from the mimosa bushes, the glimpse of some homestead farm in the distance, the sight of a group of blue-robed women with biblical earthenware pitchers on their heads issuing from a neatly thatched village, or congregated in a circle round one of the wells whose inner rim is lined and rendered solid by thick branches to prevent earth from falling in and fouling the water. Their laughing voices were wafted across the cultivated fields towards us, as cheery as the antics of the little brown goats skipping over the ground. What a world of simple happiness in this agricultural life of the talakawa—the common people—of Hausaland. And then, well we were clearly at fault. No signs of any of the men. No signs of breakfast, I mean of the person by whom breakfast is supposed to be produced—and nearly eight o’clock. The gentleman in red and green twisted his turbaned and bearded visage to right and left. He looked at me expressively, which look I returned—with equal gravity, the substance of our power of communicativeness. Then he turned his broad back and his white horse’s head, and ambled on, and I followed. It is queer how you accommodate yourself to philosophy, or how philosophy accommodates itself to you. After all, every road leads to Rome; and there is a certain amount of exhilaration in not knowing what particular Rome it may be, or through what twists and turns the track may lead you on the way thither. No homesteads now, and the risen sun had warmed the birds into silence. One notices that, by the way. In the early mornings the timid notes are heard, and as the sun’s rays pierce through the mists and burn them up, they cease. It is a melodious little ode to the great Life-giver, and when it has served its purpose it quavers, quivers, and is no more.
On a sudden the thunder of hoofs behind us, and an elderly, aristocratic-looking horseman with an aquiline nose, short grey beard and piercing eyes, gallops up over the deep furrows, followed by three attendants also on horseback. An imposing figure of a man he is, splendidly mounted on a chestnut stallion, with a heavy cloak of dark blue cloth flung across his shoulders, the red crest of a fez just showing through the top of his dark blue turban. An animated conversation ensues between him and the gentleman in red and green. The Chief—for one knows he must be such from his bearing and the sharp ring of his tones—waves a long, thin hand to right and left. The dogari listens respectfully, somewhat crestfallen in appearance (perhaps he was hungry too!). The mounted attendants career away in different directions, one, I learn afterwards, to trace the main body of carriers, the other to find the cook, the third to call for milk and firewood from some neighbouring village. Then the Chief bows low over his horse’s neck, places himself between the dogari and myself, and we proceed once more along the narrow pathway, cut at frequent intervals by small streams, now mostly dry, with precipitous banks that need some negotiating. The courtesy of that grey-bearded old aristocrat—every inch a ruler of men—the Fulani who has become the statesman and the lord over many! He is the Governor, I learn later, of one of the principal districts of Kano province, and he looks it from head to foot. At the approach of every stream, half hidden with tangled creepers, wherever the path is broken or impeded by some natural obstacle, he half turns his horse towards one in warning, then waits on the other side until he is satisfied that the difficulty is overcome. Does the over-hanging branch of some tree threaten a blow to the careless rider? He either breaks it off short in its passage, or, if it be too formidable for that, points with uplifted finger. And when, at last, in an open space a small group under a tree proclaims the much perturbed—his usual condition—cook, busy boiling milk and cocoa, another low bow, and the old gentleman retires at an appropriate distance, turning his back with the politeness required of tradition and custom, but not before another rapid order has been given, and the quite unnecessary attention of clearing a piece of ground where you may conveniently partake of your meal is in process of accomplishment.
And soon from out of nowhere come shouts and laughter, and the jangle of bits and the confused hum of approaching men and horses. The bush and the grasses cave outwards and your people appear, a little wondering whether the white man is grumpy or not; very pleased to know they have pitched on the right road at last; rather enjoying the adventure and thoroughly happy with themselves and the world in general. Off-saddle and hobble the beasts! Down with the loads! Out with the “chop!” And all as merry as a marriage bell. So another morn has dawned and gone, bringing with it its lessons and its thoughts.
CHAPTER V
ON THE MEANING OF “RELIGIOUS”
It was dusk, dark almost. The road glimmered dimly in the distance. Over the deep furrows the shadows crept, and the little path between them mingled with the gathering gloom.
I became aware of a vague white figure standing out from the sombre background some little distance off. Presently it seemed to sink downwards and assume formlessness. My route back to the camp took me within perhaps a dozen yards of it. A nearer view disclosed a man, whose bent back was turned to me, making his solitary evening prayer to God. Alone. Yet not alone, perhaps.
That night I passed through my sleeping camp at the foot of the giant bombax, bathed in the silvery beams of a full moon shining out of a velvet sky; and trod the road again, trying to puzzle it out.