Saturday, June 7.—We set out at a tolerably early hour, being all very wet. The rain had been so heavy that the labours of the field could be deferred no longer; and close to the village we saw a couple sowing their little field, the man going on in advance, and making holes in the ground at equal distances with a hoe of about five feet long (the “kíski kúllobe”), while his wife, following him, threw a few grains of seed into each hole. These people certainly had nothing to lose; and in order not to risk their little stock of seed, they had waited till the ground was thoroughly drenched, while some people commit their grain to the ground at the very setting in of the rainy season, and risk the loss of it if the rains should delay too long. After we had passed a small village called Keríkasáma, the forest became very thick; and for a whole hour we followed the immense footprints of an elephant, which had found it convenient to keep along the beaten path, to the great annoyance of succeeding travellers, who had, in consequence, to stumble over the deep holes made by the impression of its feet.
About eleven o’clock we reached the outskirts of Molghoy, having passed, half an hour before, a number of round holes, about four feet wide and five feet deep, made intentionally, just at the spot where the path was hemmed in between a deep fiumara to the left and uneven ground to the right, in order to keep off a sudden hostile attack, particularly of cavalry. Molghoy is the name of a district rather than of a village; as the pagan countries, in general, seem to be inhabited, not in distinct villages and towns, where the dwellings stand closely together, but in single farms and hamlets, or clusters of huts, each of which contains an entire family, spreading over a wide expanse of country, each man’s fields lying close around his dwelling. The fields, however, of Molghoy had a very sad and dismal aspect, although they were shaded and beautifully adorned by numerous karáge-trees. Though the rainy season had long set in, none of these fine fields were sown this year, but still presented the old furrows of former years; and all around was silent and inert, bearing evident signs, if not of desolation, at least of oppression.
I had already dismounted, being a little weak and fatigued after my last sleepless night’s uncomfortable drenching, hoping that we should here pass the heat of the day; but there seemed to be nothing left for us to eat, and after some conversation with a solitary inhabitant, Bíllama informed me that we were to proceed to another village, which likewise belongs to Molghoy. We therefore continued our march, and soon after entered a dense forest, where we had more enjoyment of wild fruits, principally of one called “fóti,” of the size of an apricot, and with three large kernels, the pulp of which was very pleasant. Behind the little hamlet Dalá Dísowa I saw the first specimen of the sacred groves of the Marghí—a dense part of the forest surrounded with a ditch, where, in the most luxuriant and widest-spreading tree, their god “Tumbí” is worshipped.
It was one o’clock in the afternoon when we reached the village where we expected to find quarters. It also is called Molghoy, and is divided into two groups by a watercourse or komádugu (as the Kanúri, dílle as the Marghí call it) about twenty-five yards wide, and enclosed by steep banks. My kashélla, deprived of his former irresistible authority, was now reduced to politeness and artifice; and having crossed the channel, which at present retained only a pool of stagnant water, and was richly overgrown with succulent grass, we lay down on its eastern bank in the cool shade of some luxuriant kúrna-trees, the largest trees of this species I have ever seen, where we spread all our luggage, which had been wetted the preceding night, out to dry, while the horses were grazing upon the fresh herbage. In this cool and pleasant spot, which afforded a view over a great part of the village, I breakfasted upon “chébchebé,” a light and palatable Kanúri sweatmeat, and upon “núfu,” or habb’ el azíz, dug up in large quantities almost over the whole of Bórnu.
By-and-by, as another storm seemed impending, we looked about for quarters, and I with my three servants and Mʿallem Katúri took possession of a small courtyard enclosed with a light fence four feet high composed of mats and thorny bushes, which contained four huts, while a fifth, together with the granary, had fallen in. The huts, however, were rather narrow, encumbered as they were with a great deal of earthenware, besides the large “gébam” or urn, containing the necessary quantity of corn for about a week, and the “bázam” or the water-jar; and the doors—if doors they could be called—were so extremely small, while they were raised about a foot from the ground, that a person not accustomed to the task had the greatest difficulty to creep in. These narrow doors were direct proofs of the great power of the rains in these climes, against which the natives have to protect themselves, as well as the raised and well-plastered floors of the huts, while reed is still the prevalent and almost exclusive material for the whole building. As for my own hut, it had the advantage of a contrivance to render the passage of the opening a little more easy, without diminishing the protection against the inclemency of the weather; for that part of the front of the hut which intervened between the doorway and the floor of the hut was movable, and made to fold up. Each family has its own separate courtyard, which forms a little cluster of huts by itself, and is often a considerable distance from the next yard. This kind of dwelling has certainly something very cheerful and pleasant in a simple and peaceable state of society, while it offers also the great advantage of protecting the villages against wholesale conflagrations, but it is liable to a very great disadvantage in a community which is threatened continually by sudden inroads from relentless enemies and slave-hunters.
The storm luckily passing by, I walked through the village, and visited several courtyards. The inhabitants, who, at least outwardly, have become Mohammedans, go entirely naked, with the exception of a narrow strip of leather, which they pass between the legs and fasten round their waist. But even this very simple and scanty covering they seem to think unnecessary at times. I was struck by the beauty and symmetry of their forms, which were thus entirely exposed to view, and by the regularity of their features, which are not disfigured by incisions, and in some had nothing of what is called the Negro type; but I was still more astonished at their complexion, which was very different in different individuals, being in some of a glossy black, and in others of a light copper, or rather rhubarb colour, the intermediate shades being almost entirely wanting. Although the black shade seemed to prevail, I arrived at the conclusion that the copper colour was the original complexion of the tribe, the black shade being due to intermixture with surrounding nations. But the same variety of shades has been observed in many other tribes, as well on this continent as in Asia.
Being allowed to stray about at my leisure, I observed in one house a really beautiful female in the prime of womanhood, who, with her son, a boy of about eight or nine years of age, formed a most charming group, well worthy of the hand of an accomplished artist. The boy’s form did not yield in any respect to the beautiful symmetry of the most celebrated Grecian statues, as that of the praying boy, or that of the diskophóros. His legs and arms were adorned with strings of iron beads, such as I shall have occasion to describe more distinctly further on, made in Wándalá, which are generally worn by young people; his legs were as straight as possible: his hair, indeed, was very short, and curled, but not woolly. He, as well as his mother and the whole family, were of a pale or yellowish-red complexion, like rhubarb. His mother, who was probably twenty-two years of age, was a little disfigured by a thin pointed metal plate about an inch long, of the figure represented here, which was stuck through her under lip. This kind of barbarous ornament is called in the language of these people “seghéum,” and is very differently shaped, and generally much smaller than that worn by this woman; indeed it is often a mere thin tag. It is possible that its size varies according to the character of the females by whom it is worn. However small it may be, it can hardly be fastened in the lip without being very inconvenient, and even painful, at least at first; at any rate it is less monstrous than the large bone which is worn by the Músgu women in the same way. These simple people were greatly amused when they saw me take so much interest in them; but while they were pleased with my approval, and behaved very decently, they grew frightened when I set about sketching them. This is the misfortune of the traveller in these regions, where everything is new, and where certainly one of the most interesting points attaches to the character of the natives,—that he will very rarely succeed in persuading one of them to stand while he makes an accurate drawing of him. The men are generally tall, and, while they are young, rather slender; some of the women also attain a great height, and in that state, with their hanging breasts, form frightful objects in their total nakedness, especially if they be of red colour.
In another courtyard, I saw two unmarried young girls busy at housework: they were about twelve years of age, and were more decently clad, wearing an apron of striped cotton round their loins; but this was evidently a result of Mohammedanism. These also were of copper colour; and their short curled hair was dyed of the same hue by powdered camwood rubbed into it. They wore only thin tags in their under lips, and strings of red glass beads round their neck. Their features were pleasing, though less handsome than those of the woman above described. They were in ecstasies when I made them some little presents, and did not know how to thank me sufficiently.
I had scarcely returned from my most interesting walk when the inhabitants of the neighbouring yards, seeing that I was a good-natured sort of man who took great interest in them, and hearing from my people that in some respects I was like themselves, sent me a large pot of their intoxicating beverage, or “komíl,” made of Guinea-corn, which, however, I could not enjoy, as it was nothing better than bad muddy beer. Instead of confusing my brains with such a beverage, I sat down and wrote about two hundred words in their own language, which seemed to have no relation to any of the languages with which I had as yet become acquainted, but which, as I found afterwards, is nearly related to, or rather only a dialect of the Bátta language, which is spread over a large part of Ádamáwa or Fúmbiná, and has many points of connection with the Músgu language, while in certain general principles it approaches the great South African family. Having received, besides my home-made supper of mohámsa, several bowls of “déffa,” or paste of Guinea-corn, from the natives, I had a long pleasant chat in the evening with the two young girls whom I have mentioned above, and who brought two fowls for sale, but were so particular in their bartering, that the bargain was not concluded for full two hours, when I at length succeeded in buying the precious objects with shells, or kúngona, which have no more currency here than they had since we left Kúkawa, but which these young ladies wanted for adorning their persons. They spoke Kanúri with me, and their own language between themselves and with some other women who joined them after a while. In vain I tried to get a little milk; although the inhabitants in general did not seem to be so badly off, yet they had lost all their horses and cattle by the exactions of Bórnu officers. Indeed it is really lamentable to see the national wellbeing and humble happiness of these pagan communities trodden down so mercilessly by their Mohammedan neighbours. The tempest which had threatened us the whole afternoon discharged itself in the distance.