A solitary colossal baobab, raising its huge, leafless, smoke-blackened frame from the prickly underwood which thickly overgrew the locality, pointed out the market-place, once teeming with life, a half-charred monument of a fierce and desperate struggle for religious and political independence. But in order to get away from this neighbourhood, so full of melancholy associations, Mohammed, cursing and execrating the memory of Haddedu, pushed forward until we came to a large granitic mass projecting from the ground, which my Arab companion called Korrematse, and stated was once a place of worship of the pagans. Here we dismounted and spread our mats for the maghrib, afterwards encamping at the wild, deserted spot until dawn, when we moved off still southward, three hours later obtaining our first glimpse of the broad Niger, glittering in the bright morning sunlight.
At the river bank it became a question for me to decide in which direction I should travel upon my strange quest—the nature of which I had been careful not to impart to Mohammed—and at length, knowing that in the north Gando, Borgu and even the fetish city of Nikki had been well explored by traders of my own race, I decided to continue southward, following the river as far as possible, and then striking in the direction of the sunrise across the unexplored regions in search of any information that would lead me to the spot where was promised an elucidation of the indelible mark I bore, and of a mystery which had puzzled the wise men of Al-Islâm for centuries.
After much parleying and considerable persuasion, Mohammed decided to accompany us through the country of the Nupes, therefore we moved along the river bank through swamps of giant mangroves, those weird trees with gaunt grotesque roots exposed in mid-air that seemed to spend their leisure in forming themselves into living conundrums. To the medley of unsightly tree-forms the contrast of the bank of forest which bordered the river-side when the mangrove swamps were past proved a welcome and pleasing contrast.
Proceeding with difficulty along a track made by the natives, we found the fringe of forest exquisite both in colouring and form. In colouring, because mingled with every tint of green were masses of scarlet, yellow and purple blossoms; in form, because interlaced with the giant mahogany and cotton trees were the waving, fern-like fronds of the oil palm, and the still more beautiful raphia, as well as colossal silk-cotton trees, veritable giants of the forest. Dum and deleb palms, the kigelia with its enormous branches, the shea, or butter-tree, mimosas, euphorbias, gummiferous acacias, and hundreds of varieties of thorny and scrubby plants.
Indeed, as day after day we slowly ascended the river by the narrow winding track, the scene on the opposite side was a panorama of beautiful colour. We met one or two traders of the Franks and many woolly-headed natives, half-clad and wearing strange amulets and curious head-dresses; we passed through many palm-shaded villages, but were unmolested, for being two Arabs travelling alone with a single negro slave we were regarded as traders and not as slave-raiders, or “wicked people,” who always appeared suddenly, with an armed band ready to burn, massacre and plunder.
Besides, Mohammed had taken a wise precaution before setting out upon the journey. While Shukri Aga, the Governor of Sokoto, had taken coffee with him on the memorable night prior to our departure, he had obtained from him a letter in Arabic, without which credential we might have been regarded with suspicion by the various chiefs through whose territory we travelled. It read:—
“Praise be unto Allah, Lord of all creatures, and to His Prophet, for the gift of the pen by which we can make known our salutations and our wishes to our friends at a distance. This letter cometh from Shukri Aga, son of Abdul Salami, who was called Kiama, Governor of Sokoto, in the name of the Great Sultan ’Othman, whose actions are directed by the one Allah, with salutations to his friend Mohammed el-Arewa, citizen of Sokoto. Thou art our friend in this affair. Thou art not among the warriors; thou art a traveller in many towns of different people. Look now, he is a traveller on account of buying and selling and of all trades. Thou shouldst hear this. Friendship and respect existeth between us. If he come to you, dismiss him with friendship until he cometh to the end of his journey. Assuredly he is high in favour with the Sultan of our land. Thou shouldst leave this Arab alone. It is trade he requireth of thee; he is not of the wicked people, but peace.”
Armed with this letter of introduction we ascended the river, receiving the greatest civility from the industrious people, who, however, were living in daily dread of their lives from the incursions of the wild Borgu raiders.
Until we arrived at the town of Lokoja, at the confluence of the Benue river with the Niger, a journey occupying thirteen days, Mohammed remained with us. Then we parted, he to return home by the route of the ivory caravans which ran due north, through Zozo and Zamfara, we to ascend the Benue river in search of the Rock of the Great Sin. When on the morning he embraced me, sprang into his saddle, and raising his hand wished us farewell, I felt that I was parting from an old friend. To him my dwarfed companion and myself owed our lives; to him we owed our safe conduct beyond the clutches of the Sultan’s horsemen; to him we owed the letter from the Governor of Sokoto which now reposed in the pocket of my gandoura; to him we owed the directions that we were about to follow, in order to reach the great, unexplored land.
“May Allah, peace and safety, attend thee. May the One Merciful guide thy footsteps, be generous to thee, and give thee prosperity,” he cried, as he turned to leave. “And may the sun of his grace shine upon thee and illuminate the path of thy return to the true-hearted woman thou lovest. At the isha each night will I remember thee. Farewell, and peace. Fi amaniillah.”