WOMEN POUNDING OIL PALM NUTS.
About four o’clock, “when the monkeys in the forest begin to chatter,” the women return to their huts and commence preparing for the principal meal of the day. Above the hum of conversation, the passing jest, or the humorous repartee, the clear ringing thud, thud, of pestle and mortar is distinctly heard. Most dishes at some stage or the other are pounded. The boiled manioca, the pottage leaves, the palm nuts, the plantains, all find their way to the mortar, and no doubt the muscular physique of many of the women is largely the result of the perpetual wielding of the heavy wooden pestle.
The African woman is at home with any industry, hardly anything comes strange to those deft fingers and muscular arms. The husband may go on a journey by canoe, and his wife, or wives, will be there paddling amidships and cooking the meals at intervals. The husband, however, always takes the post of danger, which may be bow or stern, according to the weather, the current, or the district through which they may be passing.
Much has been written, backed by little knowledge, about the brutality of man in making the woman carry the loads when on an overland journey. To the uninitiated European, it may seem callous for a strong able-bodied man to walk in front of a line of women every one of whom is struggling along with a 50-pound load on her back. But make them change positions, force the man to take the load, tell the women to walk in front, and before you have gone many yards the women will all have bolted into the bush, for the “Lord Protector” under a load is no longer ready to shield them from the danger which lurks behind every tree and beneath almost every leaf in the African forests. The African knows his business when on a journey, and his first duty, from which no matter what the odds, he never shrinks, is that of protecting his family from the ravages of wild animals no less than the violence of hostile tribes. But to do this he must be unencumbered and alert.
WOMAN A MONEYMAKER
The women of West Africa, by reason of their thrifty natures, are frequently the bankers. To them the husband entrusts the keeping of his worldly goods, and right sacredly they guard anything placed in their keeping. Not only are the women trustworthy bankers, but as moneymakers they are extremely keen. The finest business woman it has been my lot to meet was a farmer woman of Abeokuta. This old lady could tell at sight, almost to a penny, the value of a pile of kernels without weighing them. I fell to discussing with her so technical a question as the possibility of cotton in Southern Nigeria, and she was adamant in her opinion upon this: “Unless they can guarantee me 1d. per pound for unginned cotton and 4½d. per pound for the ginned, I would even prefer to grow yams.” I gathered that on the whole she was not likely to become a shareholder in any cotton producing company.
GRINDING CORN ON THE KASAI, UPPER CONGO.
In the mart the women excel. It may be in the streets of Accra, Abeokuta, Freetown, or in that finest of all marts in West Africa—Loanda, or again in some wayside market of a tributary river in the far distant hinterland. Wherever you find the market, the women are in control and right merrily goes the auction. The din amounts to a pandemonium, the tricks of the trade are to be looked for in every basket of fruit or pile of vegetables. The eggs are probably old ones, carefully washed and possibly doctored; that fowl tied by the legs could not walk from sickness if it were free. Billingsgate, Smithfield, Covent Garden, rolled into one could not be at once more entertaining, more noisy and more novel than those African markets where you may buy almost everything you want, and receive a great deal gratis that is not welcome.