ROYAL ANTHROPOLOGICAL INSTITUTE.

IKOM FOLK STORIES FROM SOUTHERN
NIGERIA.

BY

E. DAYRELL,

District Commissioner, Southern Nigeria.

OCCASIONAL PAPERS, No. 3.

LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY THE

Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland.

50, GREAT RUSSELL STREET, LONDON, W.C.

1913.

PREFACE.

These folk stories have been told to me by natives of the various countries to which they relate in the Ikom district of Southern Nigeria. In all cases they have had to be translated by an interpreter, and frequently it has been found necessary to employ two. Some of the stories are very old and have been handed down from one generation to another, but it is most difficult, almost impossible, to judge with any degree of accuracy how old they really are. The word “dowry” comes frequently into these tales, and is used as meaning the amount paid to the parents of the girl by the husband. In the introduction to my Folk Stories from Southern Nigeria, published in 1910, Mr. Andrew Lang suggests that the term “bride-price” would better express the institution, and, no doubt, he is perfectly right. I have, however, adhered to the old expression of “dowry” as it is in general use, and is so well known on the “Coast.” When a man is asked how much “dowry” he paid for his wife, he will frequently produce his “bush book,” consisting of bundles of small sticks tied round with “tie-tie,” one bundle for each year. He will then take one stick from a bundle, and holding it up will say: “That is two calabashes of tombo I gave to the father.” He will then place the stick on the ground and take another, saying “This is one fathom of cloth I gave to the girl.” The next stick may represent twenty yams given to the mother, and the following sticks may mean twenty-five rods, a silk handkerchief, a bar of soap and some bottles of gin. And so he goes on until the bundles are finished, the value of each article being noted in order to ascertain the total amount paid. The marriage customs vary considerably in different parts of the district. In most of the Cross River towns above Abaragba there is no restriction placed on young girls as to sexual intercourse, but when they are married twenty-five pieces of cloth (value 5s. per piece) would be paid as damages for adultery. There is, however, an old custom existing between several towns that no damages can be claimed for adultery. It may be of interest to the reader to state here briefly the usual form of marriage in vogue in this district as the point of several of the tales turns on the position of the woman with reference to her husband or lover. I do not, however, propose to enter into details, but merely to indicate what constitutes a binding form of marriage in this part of the country according to native custom. When a man takes a fancy to a young girl and wishes to marry her, he informs the parents of his intention, and gives them presents. For example, the mother would receive a piece of cloth, and the father a piece of cloth and two bottles of gin. The brothers and sisters of the girl would be given tombo to drink, and in addition the sisters would receive one fathom of cloth each. The man would work on the parents’ farm for some months, and the girl would receive small presents from time to time. Later the mother would be given two bars of salt, one spoon, one bar of soap, and twenty yams, the balance of the dowry being paid on the completion of the marriage ceremony. The girl would go and live with the man. If she did not prove satisfactory, she would be returned to her parents, who would refund the amount of dowry received up to date, and the girl would be given a present of about 8s.; she could then marry another man. If, however, she satisfied the man, he would then have her circumcized by her parents, and the man would touch her with camwood. Having done this he would hand the girl over to his best friend to rub all over with camwood. The man would then build a house for the woman, being helped with the mudding of the walls by his sisters and the sisters of the girl. He would then buy two pieces of cloth and one blanket, and hang them round the walls of the house. While the girl was being rubbed with camwood the friends of the husband would give her presents of sometimes four or five rods each, and his best friend would fire off a gun in the compound where the girl was. When the parents heard the gun, they would go in and say: “There is your wife, we have handed her over to you.” The man would then tell everybody that the girl was his wife. The girl would remain in one room for about two weeks after the above-mentioned operation, until the wound was healed, and then the man would give a feast to all his friends, the cost of the food forming part of the dowry. The girl would then go to live with her husband, and the ceremony would be completed. There appears to be a considerable divergence of opinion between the chiefs and the young men as to whom the children brought forth by a woman before her marriage should belong. Most of the old chiefs say that such children should go to the man who marries the mother and pays the dowry, as children are a valuable asset. On the other hand, the younger generation maintain that when the children are old enough to leave their mother they should be handed over to their proper fathers. This conflict of opinion is not difficult to follow, as the young men are generally the fathers of the children born before marriage, and the old chiefs who are wealthy are generally the husbands, and both the putative fathers and the lawful husbands are anxious to possess the children. It is a vexed question, and each case would be decided upon its own merits, the opinion of the parents of the woman weighing largely in the balance. This opinion is influenced to a great extent by the value of the presents received from the young man and how much he has helped the parents with their work on the farm. If the parents were satisfied, they would probably say that the child or children should belong to the father, but if, on the other hand, the presents were not large enough, they would most likely urge that the children of their daughter born before she was married should belong to her lawful husband. It should be remembered that the feelings of the girl are in no way considered, and she is handed to the man, as a wife, who is in a position to pay the largest amount of dowry. It is therefore often somewhat difficult to distinguish the difference between the dowry paid for a girl on her marriage and the price which was formerly paid for a slave, seeing that the inclinations of the girl are not consulted and she has absolutely no say in the matter of a choice of husband. When the dowry is paid she is taken away from her lover, together with any children she may have had by him, and handed over to the husband by her parents, the question of the rightful ownership of the children being settled usually when they are old enough to leave their mother. In the olden days when “might was right,” these children were taken by the husband, who kept them by the “strong hand” if he were sufficiently powerful; but there is a growing feeling amongst the younger chiefs and the more intelligent trading classes that the children born before marriage should be given to the father when they are weaned.

It will be observed on perusing some of these stories that in several of them the greater part of the tale has nothing, apparently, to do with the main object, which frequently might be dismissed in a few sentences. But that will not surprise anyone who knows the native well, as he can never come to the point at once, but must always first beat about the bush. For example, a native will come to make a complaint that certain goods belonging to him have been stolen and he wants to have the thief punished. After the usual salutations have been exchanged, he will make his complaint, which when translated by the interpreter will be something like the following: “My father and father (grandfather) catch one man goat and one woman goat. They done born two piccane. One piccane done die and leff one piccane. Them piccane, them leff, born two piccane. My father and father done die and him brother take all them thing; but he be big hunter man and no care them goat too much, so he done dash my father. My father catch one slave man, they call ’im Okon and he good man, so my father dash him them two goat. Okon catch wife and two piccane. One be mammie piccane they call ’im Awa, she fine too much, when she done grow I marry her proper and take her brother Abassi for make my head boy. Last moon I send him Calabar for my canoe with twenty bag kernel and one puncheon palm oil. I tell ’im for factory and bring tobacco and cloth and gin. He done catch them thing and one night he stop for one country, he no know how them call him. Them people come and thief them gin for night time but he no look them man cause he live for sleep, so I make them boy pay for them gin and now I want catch them thief man.”

Anyone who takes the trouble to read these folk stories seriously will notice that a great deal has to be taken for granted or understood. Although I have made a special study of witchcraft, ju-ju, and poison, and the various societies in this district for over nine years, I must confess that I understand and know for certain very little about ju-ju. In fact, the more one learns about ju-ju the more hopeless it seems. It must seem incredible to people at home that a man can die because a ju-ju has been made against him—for example, two sticks crossed on the path with, say, a rotten egg and a fowl stuck on a stick, the man’s name having been “called.” And yet one knows of numerous instances where men have died, and young, healthy men, too, against whom such a ju-ju has been made. The man whose name has been “called” and who has passed the ju-ju firmly believes in its power to kill him, and he will go home, refuse to eat, and in a short time will pine away and die. He will probably also just before he dies accuse the man whom he thinks made the ju-ju of having witched him. It is always possible, of course, in these cases, that poison may have been administered, but it is most difficult to get any proof. No amount of argument has any effect on the native mind, and you cannot convince the man that a ju-ju, such as the one mentioned above, is harmless. They generally reply: “Black man ju-ju no be strong enough to hurt white man, but black man he go die one time.”

When I first came to this district, poisoning was rife, and human sacrifices were of frequent occurrence. Whenever a chief died several slaves were killed and buried with him, and it was no uncommon thing for a whole family to accuse another family of witchcraft. They would then resort to the usual trial by ordeal of burning oil and essure (poison) bean, which would result in several deaths. These evil practices have been practically stopped now, but the native belief in witchcraft and ju-ju is just as strong as ever, although they know quite well that to call a man a witch is an offence for which they will get into trouble. As an instance of the native belief in the witch bird (the owl), I would mention a case which came under my notice. Some few years ago I happened to be having some bush cleared and some large trees cut down on the station at Okuni. An owl was disturbed from one of the trees which was covered with creepers, and flew out hooting. One of the station labourers who knew a little English, said: “Poor Okuni.” I at once asked him why he said so, and he replied, “When them witch bird cry for day time, some man go die.” I said, “Nonsense,” or something to that effect, and thought no more about it. Shortly afterwards the eleven o’clock bell rang, and the boys went home for food. When they returned at one o’clock to work, the boy who had spoken about the owl said, “Man done die for Okuni when them witch bird cry.” I then sent to the town and found that a man had died in the morning. This was proof positive to the boy’s mind that whenever the owl hooted in the daytime a man would die, and no amount of explanation would alter his belief. It was a case of “I told you so.”

It is noteworthy that when you get over the watershed between the Cross River and the Katsena (Niger), and into the Munchi country, ju-ju does not seem to exist in the same way as it does further south. In the year 1909, while I was Political Officer on the Anglo-German Boundary Commission, I marched up through the Munchi country into Northern Nigeria, and back again, being absent from my district altogether about six months. During the whole of that time there was not a single death in any of the Munchi or Domi towns where I stayed. It was so noticeable that even the soldiers and carriers remarked upon the absence of deaths, and could not understand the reason. It may have been that the country was more healthy, and we may have been very fortunate, but the fact remains that where there was no ju-ju there were no deaths, and when we returned to the country of ju-ju deaths were of frequent occurrence.

It has been suggested in one of the criticisms on my Folk Stories from Southern Nigeria that the native words should be given on one side of the page, and a fairly literal translation on the other. This would, however, involve a larger expenditure of time than I have at my disposal. There are ten different languages spoken in this district, and it would be extremely difficult to give exact translations of the stories, particularly as some of them as told would be quite unfit for publication. The stories have, however, been set down as nearly as possible in the way they were related to me, the only alterations made being those necessary to render the tales into simple English, as bush English would not be understood, and certain passages containing objectionable matter have been omitted.

In some of the stories it may be noticed that articles such as plates, glasses, bottles of gin, brass pans, and pots have been mentioned, also the use of locks and keys has been introduced into at least one of the tales, although it is quite obvious that the above-mentioned articles could not have existed in this country when the majority of the stories were first related, I have written them down when they were so translated by the interpreter. It is not difficult to understand how some of the things crept into the stories. For example, demijons (which are brought up river from Calabar filled with rum) are used every day in most of the towns for tombo, and glass tumblers are also quite common, and it is easily conceivable that a native, who is accustomed to using these articles, in relating a story might say in his language the equivalent for “The pourer-out then took the demijon of tombo and poured some into a glass which he gave to the chief,” instead of saying, “The pourer-out then poured some tombo from the calabash into the drinking-horn which he handed to the chief.” The latter translation would probably be far nearer to the original version. It is also extremely doubtful whether brass rods, which are mentioned so frequently, existed at the date of many of the stories. The approximate date of the importation of rods into this country is probably known, and cannot be more than about sixty years ago, and most likely considerably less. The author is of the opinion that in the early days there was no form of native currency in the Ikom district. At the present time, rods are not used further north-east from Ikom than Umbaji, and in 1909, whilst on the Anglo-German Boundary Commission, he found that there was no form of native currency at Bassankwala, and no substitute therefore, with the possible exception of a few native forged iron hoes which found their way down from the north-west, and had a fixed marketable value. But the use of these implements is doubtless of a comparatively recent date, as nearly all the natives in that part use wooden hoes lashed on to the bent handles with tie-tie. In the country mentioned, all trade was and is still done by a system of barter and exchange. The Umbaji people exchanging salt and house rats (which form an article of diet for the Bassankwala people, who are cannibals) for palm oil and yams. The Bassankwala people admitted to the author that they ate human beings, and had always done so, but they asserted vehemently that they did not eat their own dead—these they passed on to the next town, who sent them theirs in exchange. Prisoners taken in fighting or people killed were also eaten, and, from what the adjoining countries told the author, natives straying into their bush were similarly treated. These people, however, all promised, and were apparently perfectly sincere, at once to stop this abominable practice, at the same time saying that they were unaware they had been doing wrong, as they had never heard the white man’s laws before.

It is perhaps noteworthy that these people, who are pure cannibals, all file their teeth to a sharp point.

With reference to the eating of rats, it may be remarked that all the natives in the Ikom district eat the bush rat, which is quite different from the house or domestic species, but the Bassankwala people are the only natives the author has met who eat the “common or garden” house rat. The large fruit-eating bats, about which so many native stories are told, are looked upon as a great delicacy, and at Insofan on the Cross River, there is quite a trade done in them, one bat selling for one rod or sixpence in English money. In the evening, just before it gets dark, you can frequently see thousands of these bats flying off, high up in the air, to their favourite feeding places. The way they are obtained for food is simple and may be worth mentioning. On the bank opposite to Insofan there are some very tall trees covered with creepers, in which many thousands of these bats sleep during the day. A few hunters go out with their long Dane guns and station themselves one under each tree. Then when one man has found a thick cluster of bats, he fires into them, and with luck brings down a few. (The author has killed seven at one shot, with number 6 from a full choke 12-bore, at the particular request of a chief who wanted them for food.)

Immediately the bats hear the gun fired, they desert the trees they are sheltering in, and commence circling around in the air, flying about in a most aimless and erratic sort of way, until, after about ten minutes, they settle on a different tree. Then another hunter fires, and so the game goes on. In connection with these creatures, it is curious to notice the agitation amongst the birds, should one happen to be disturbed in the day time. The same applies to the large eagle owls, who are invariably chased by the smaller birds, whenever they appear while the sun is up, but it is seldom the owl comes out in the day time, and then he takes shelter in some thick covert as soon as possible.

E. D.

IKOM FOLK STORIES FROM SOUTHERN NIGERIA.

BY

E. DAYRELL.

I.—How an Inkum Woman Abandoned One of Her Twins in the Forest,
and How it was Saved by the Hawk.

Awu was a native woman of Inkum, a town on the right bank of the Cross River, consisting of five compounds separate one from another by about half a mile of bush. Awu was a fine girl, but preferred to enjoy herself as she liked rather than to get married, which would mean too hard work. She used to walk from one town to another, and attend all the dances and plays, as she was a good singer and dancer. She always wore a cloth of the latest pattern, and a silk handkerchief round her head, with plenty of hairs from the elephant’s tail round her neck, and strings of beads round her waist. She also wore a piece of black braid tied round each ankle, and some rings on her fingers. These are the signs of a girl who is popular with young men. Awu had men friends in every town she visited, but she never stayed long with any of them, being what is called a “walking woman.”

At last she conceived, and when she was about eight months gone with child she happened one day to go into the forest to gather firewood to cook her morning food. While she was thus engaged a branch fell from a tree and hit her on the belly, this immediately brought on her confinement, and she gave birth to twins in the forest. The first born was a girl, to whom she gave the name of Aro, and the second was a boy, whom she named Agbor. When Awu found that she had given birth to twins she was very much ashamed of herself, and was afraid to take both the babies back to the town as they would be killed by the people, and she would be turned out of the town and left to starve in the bush. She therefore decided to take the first-born child Aro back with her, but Agbor she left on the ground underneath a tree.

Very soon after Awu had departed, the driver ants discovered Agbor and quickly covered him, commencing to eat him. The bites of the driver ants made the child cry. All this time a hawk had been circling around, high up in the air, searching for food, and when he saw Awu had deserted her baby he swooped down and carried the infant off with him to the top of a high tree. The hawk, seeing what a fine child Agbor was, thought he would try to save his life, and immediately set about removing the ants from Agbor’s body. He lit a fire and boiled some water, with which he washed the child, and the ants very quickly disappeared.

The hawk looked after Agbor until he grew up. One day Awu sent her daughter Aro to get her some fire, and Aro, after wandering about, eventually found herself at the hawk’s house, where she saw Agbor sitting down.

Aro was so taken with Agbor’s good looks that she continued to stare at him without speaking, until at last Agbor said, “Why do you look at me like that?” but Aro did not reply, and picked up some fire, continuing to stare at Agbor. Then he repeated his question, and added, “Do I resemble either your father or your mother? If so, let the fire you are holding go out,” and the fire went out at once. Aro then took up some more fire, and Agbor put the same question to her again, and the fire Aro was holding went out a second time. This was done three times, each time with the same result. Then Aro ran home to her mother and reported what she had seen, and said what a fine boy Agbor was.

When Awu, the mother, heard about the fire, she knew at once that Agbor must be her son whom she had deserted and left to die in the forest. She therefore made up her mind that she would go and see him. The following morning, therefore, she rose at first cock crow and went to the hawk’s house, where she found Agbor and took a great fancy to him. Awu wanted to get Agbor away from the hawk and keep him for herself, but did not quite see how it could be done.

At last she thought of the porcupine, who was well known throughout the country as a clever and resourceful person, and went to him and told her story.

Now, the porcupine was a lot caster, and when he had cast lots he decided that the best thing that Awu could do was to go to a house and lie down, pretending to be dead. The porcupine told her that, if she did this, directly the hawk heard that she was dead he would send Agbor to his dead mother’s side to mourn for her. Then Awu would be able to seize him. The mother having paid the porcupine for his advice went away, and did what she had been told to do. When the hawk heard that Awu was dead he told Agbor that the next day he should go and cry at his mother’s side, so, when the morning came, the hawk dressed Agbor up and he started off to cry.

When he arrived at the house Agbor wanted to sit at the head of his mother, but the people who had assembled would not allow this, and told him to sit at Awu’s feet, which Agbor did. Directly he sat down, his mother jumped up and seized him, and said she would not let him go again.

Very soon afterwards, the hawk arrived on the scene to take Agbor away, but his mother would not part with him. Then the hawk became angry, and addressed the people, as follows:—

“Here is a ‘walking woman’ who, several years ago, gave birth to twins in the forest, and, being naturally ashamed of herself, deserted her baby boy, and left him on the ground to be eaten by the driver ants. I saved the boy’s life and have brought him up and fed him. I now demand that he shall be returned to me at once.”

When the people heard, this, they said to the hawk: “If you will let Awu have her son back we will give you a slave in his place,” but the hawk refused this offer indignantly.

Then they offered him cows, sheep, goats, and pigs, all of which the hawk refused with scorn.

The people then suggested giving some cocks and hens to the hawk, to which he replied that, although he would not accept them for Agbor, they were getting nearer to what he possibly might accept.

At last the people offered him a large basket of eggs, whereupon the hawk immediately closed the bargain, handed over Agbor to his mother, and flew away with the basket of eggs in his claws.

The next morning early the hawk started off with his basket of eggs, and left one egg in every house all round the country, until all the eggs in the basket were exhausted. He then returned home in the evening with the empty basket.

After a few months had elapsed, the hawk said to himself: “The time has now come for me to take my revenge upon the people for taking my boy Agbor from me.”

So he flew from town to town, taking chickens from every compound.

This is the reason why hawks always take chickens wherever they find them, and in those days the people never thought of making any trouble with the hawk, as he had a right to the chickens, but nowadays when a hawk swoops down and seizes a chicken, the people shout out and try to kill him, as they have forgotten the story of how the twin child Agbor was redeemed by a basket of eggs.

This story was related by a native of Inkum called Abassi.—[E.D., 25.5.10.]

II.—The Cunning Hare; or, Why the Tortoise has a Patched Shell.

The hare (asima bieso, native name) was known to everyone as a very cunning animal. He was very fond of meat, although he was unable to kill anything himself. He therefore thought out a scheme by which he would be able to obtain meat without any trouble.

The first thing the hare did was to call all the animals together, and when they arrived, he said: “We ought to have a king over us,” to which the animals agreed, and, after some discussion, the elephant was chosen. A law was also passed, at the hare’s suggestion, that a piece of ground at the roadside should be set aside for the king’s own private use, and that if anyone was caught defiling this piece of ground in any way he should be killed and eaten.

In the night time the hare went to the king’s private piece of ground and made a mess there.

When the morning came he hid himself in the bush near the place, in order to see who might be the first animal to pass the piece of ground, so that he could give false information against him.

After he had been waiting for a short time, a bush cat passed on his way to the farm, whereupon the hare jumped up and said: “Have you visited the king’s piece of ground this morning?” Upon the bush cat saying “No,” the hare ordered him to go there at once. He did so, and returned saying that the place was very dirty indeed. The hare then said: “How is that possible? I visited the place myself this morning, and it was quite clean then. You must have defiled it yourself, and I shall report you.”

The hare then ran into the town and told the people what he had seen. The big wooden drum was then beaten, and when all the animals had come together the bush cat was put upon his defence.

The bush cat told the people what had happened, and that he had nothing to do with the matter. But the hare stood up as the accuser, and the people decided that the bush cat was guilty, and the king ordered him to be killed, and said that the meat was to be dried by Keroho and brought to him in the morning.

Now, Keroho is a fruit-eating animal, who is very lazy, and sleeps most of the day. He always seems tired, and after he has taken a few steps he lies down, and sleeps for a time.

The hare had suggested to the king that Keroho should be told to dry and guard the meat, and said to the king that, as Keroho only eat fruit, he would not be likely to steal any of the meat.

In reality the hare suggested Keroho for a very different reason, and that reason was that Keroho was a fat animal in good condition, and far too lazy and sleepy to guard the meat properly.

When the evening came, Keroho made a fire and cut up the body of the bush cat and set it out to dry. He then went to sleep.

The hare, being very greedy and fond of meat, wanted to have it all to himself, so, when all the people had gone to bed, he slipped out of his house by the back way, and very soon had taken the dried meat out of Keroho’s yard and returned to his house, where he made a good meal, and buried what he could not eat.

Early in the morning the hare went and beat the big drum to call the animals together at the king’s house.

Keroho, hearing the drum, got up and went to the fire in his back yard, where he had left the meat drying, and, to his intense astonishment, found that it had vanished. He was very frightened at this, and went to the meeting trembling in every limb. He tried to explain that he had left the meat before the fire when he went to bed, but the hare got up at once and said, “Do not believe him, most likely he has sold the meat to get some money. I propose that Keroho be killed so that we shall not lose our meat.”

All the people agreed to this, so Keroho was killed and cut up, the meat being given to the bush cow to keep.

The hare, in order to make himself acquainted with the bush cow’s house, waited until sundown, and then went to the bush cow’s house with a large calabash of strong tombo. The hare was careful to drink only a little himself, and very soon the bush cow had finished the whole calabash.

That night the bush cow slept very soundly, and at midnight, when nothing could be heard but the occasional hoot of an owl or the croaking of the frogs in the marsh, the hare went very quietly and stole the meat from the bush cow’s fire and took it home with him, as before.

The following morning he beat the drum as usual, and the people met together. The bush cow, failing to produce the meat, was killed by the king’s order and his meat given to another animal to dry.

As usual, the hare stole the meat at night and the animal was killed the next day. This went on until there were only seven animals left.

The meat of the last animal that was killed was handed over to the tortoise. The tortoise at once placed his wife on guard over the meat, and went off into the bush to cut rubber.

Now, the tortoise was looked upon as one of the wisest of all animals. For some time it had seemed to him very curious that every night the meat should disappear and another animal should be killed. He therefore determined that, when it became his turn to dry and guard the meat, he would take every precaution possible, and would try to catch whoever it was who always removed the meat at night, as he had no intention that his body should supply food for the remaining six animals.

Before going into the bush, he gave his wife strict injunctions not to let the meat out of her sight.

When he returned in the evening, he cut up the meat, saying as he did so: “Ah, there goes another poor animal. I wonder whose turn it will be to-morrow, but it shall not be mine if I can help it.”

So he made a big fire and put the meat on, and then covered it all over with the rubber he had brought back with him from the bush.

The tortoise then told his wife that he was tired, and went to bed pretending to be asleep, but he had one eye open all the time, and that eye he kept fixed upon the meat, as he was not going to take any risks, knowing full well that, if the meat disappeared, as it had a habit of doing, he himself would be the next victim.

When all was quiet, and the hare thought everybody had gone to sleep, he went round to the back of the tortoise’s house and put his right hand out to take the meat, but when his hand closed on the rubber, he found that he could not remove it because the rubber was so sticky. He tried his hardest to get his hand away, but without success. He then called out softly, because he was afraid of waking the tortoise, “Let me go! Let me go!” but the rubber never answered, and held on tighter than ever. This made the hare angry, so he whispered to the rubber, “Look here, if you don’t let my right hand go at once I will hit you very hard with my left hand, and then you will be sorry.” He got no reply, but thought he heard a laugh somewhere. The hare then hit the rubber with his disengaged hand as hard as he was able, and that hand also stuck fast.

Then the hare heard the tortoise murmur, “Yes, to-morrow I will discover that rat who is always stealing the king’s meat.”

At length the hare became absolutely terrified, and kicked the rubber hard with one of his feet, which became as fast as his hands were, and very shortly the other foot also became caught up, so that he was held quite securely.

When the morning came, the tortoise called his wife to help him, and together they put the meat and rubber into a basket with the hare on top, and carried them all to the king’s house.

When the drum was beaten, the people assembled as usual, and discussed amongst themselves to whom the meat of the tortoise should be given when he was killed. In the middle of the discussion, the tortoise appeared carrying the meat with the hare on top.

The tortoise then charged the hare with attempting to steal the king’s meat, and told the people of the trap he had set. The hare was found guilty, and was ordered to pay a large number of brass rods, and he was told that if they were not forthcoming, he would be killed, and that his mother and sister would be killed with him, as he had been the cause of the death of so many animals.

The hare begged for a little time to enable him to get the rods, which was allowed to him.

He then ran home and got his mother and sister to come with him at once to the foot of a big cotton tree, and, having got a rope round the lowest branch, he very soon got to the top of the tree, where he built a small hut for himself and his people.

The hare then went down to the lowest branch where the rope was, and hauled his mother and sister up. He put them in the hut at the top of the tree, and sat down himself next to the rope with a sharp knife in his hand.

As the hare did not appear at the appointed time to pay the rods, the people went to his house, and found that they had all disappeared. It did not take long, however, to discover that he had taken refuge in the cotton tree, so they all went there and found the rope hanging down.

Then they all began to climb the rope together, leaving the tortoise on the ground, and just as he was about to commence to climb, the others having already reached halfway, the hare cut the rope with one cut of his sharp knife, and all the animals fell down upon the tortoise, smashing his smooth shell into small pieces, and hurting themselves very much. No one was killed, however, and they limped home one after the other.

On the way they passed the tortoise’s house, so they told Mrs. Tortoise that they had fallen on her husband from a great height, and that his shell was broken into pieces.

On hearing this the mammie tortoise got her basket and went off to the cotton tree. Having picked up all the pieces of her husband’s shell, and having placed them in the basket, she lifted the tortoise and carried them all home.

When she got inside she put all the little pieces of the shell together and placed them on her husband’s back, where they grew quite strongly, but the marks showed where the pieces were joined together, and that is why you always find that the shell of a tortoise is covered in patches, and not smooth as it was formerly.—[E.D., 26.5.10.]

Note.

The Inkum people came from a country about five or six days’ march north-west of the site of their present town, where hares abound. There are no hares in the country now occupied by them on the Cross River. This is one of their old stories, which they brought with them when they were driven south by the Awala tribe, and is still handed on from one generation to another.

Told by Abassi, an Inkum boy.—[E.D.]

III.—The Story of Igiri and her husband Inkang, who brought up
a mushroom baby boy, and what became of him.

Chief Inkang of Inkum was married to a woman named Igiri. She was a fine well-made woman, and the chief was so fond of her that he would not have any other wives.

Igiri was quite faithful to her husband, and never went with other men. They lived together for several years without having any children, much to their mutual grief.

Inkang then told his wife to consult the ju-ju man, to see what should be done, in order that she might bear a son who would inherit his father’s property and look after his mother in her old age. The ju-ju man was consulted by Igiri, and the usual sacrifices of fowls and eggs were made, but without any result.

When the time for collecting mushrooms arrived, which is the beginning of the rainy season, about the month of May, Igiri went out with her basket to collect mushrooms for their food, and her husband went with her.

When they arrived at the forest they separated, Igiri going in one direction and Inkang going off in another, but not so far away that they could not hear one another shout.

Igiri went on gathering the mushrooms and putting them in her basket, until at last she came across a very large mushroom which was fat and white. Then Igiri said, “How I do wish that this mushroom would turn into a boy baby, which we want so badly.”

The mushroom, who was kind-hearted, then took pity on Igiri, and turned itself into a boy baby, much to the joy of the woman, who at once picked the baby up and placed him in her basket with the mushrooms.

Without troubling to look for any more mushrooms, she put the basket on her head and called out to her husband, saying she was going home at once, and that he was to follow.

When she reached the house, she was so pleased at having got the baby, that she asked Inkang to help her down with the basket. At this he was rather surprised, as, although it is the custom for anyone near to help the women to put down their heavy loads when they come in from the farm, this would not be done with a light load like mushrooms.

Inkang therefore said to his wife, “What have you put in the basket to make it so heavy that you want me to help you down with it? Is it not mushrooms you have there?”

His wife replied, “Only help me with the basket, and you shall then see what I have got.”

Inkang’s curiosity was immediately aroused, so he went to his wife and helped her to place the basket carefully on the ground. Then they opened the basket together, and, to the chief’s intense surprise and joy, he saw a fat little baby boy lying smiling in the bottom of the basket, half covered with mushrooms. He then embraced his wife, who told him all that had happened in the forest.

Inkang then said, “We must hide the boy in the house until he grows up, so that the people will not know what we have got.”

Igiri took great care of the child for the next six years, and he grew up a strong boy.

When the planting season came round, which is towards the end of the dry season, the chief and his wife used to go off every morning early to their farm, returning in the evening. The boy was always left at home, but the woman prepared food for him and placed it high up over the fireplace, and showed the boy how to get at it by standing on a native-made box.

The first day they went to the farm the little boy got his food down and eat it, but did not notice that a small boy from the neighbouring town was watching him. The next day the small boy from the town, who was hungry (yams being scarce at that time), waited until the mushroom boy had gone out, and then went softly in and stole all the food, filling the calabash with water, which he replaced where he had found the food. This happened for three days in succession, until the mushroom boy became so hungry that he determined to go back to the forest where he came from, and turn himself back into a mushroom again. He was angry with Inkang and Igiri because he thought they were fooling him, and, of course, he knew nothing about the thief boy who had stolen his food each day.

On his way to the forest he met his foster parents returning from the farm, and told them what his intention was. They did their best to persuade him to return home with them, but he was obstinate, and ran away to the place in the forest where he came from, and, having arrived there, turned himself into a mushroom and disappeared for ever.

Since that time the mushroom has refused to take pity on women who have no children, and he has never changed himself into a baby again.

Told by Abassi of Inkum.—(E.D., 27.5.10.)

IV.—How Elili of Inkum died, and was Brought Back to Life Again.

Elili and Aikor were both Inkum women, the wives of Chief Nyip. They each had a female child by him.

Elili was the head wife and looked after the house, and for several years everything went well, until at last Elili became sick, and, after a short illness, died, and was buried.

Her daughter Oga was quite young when her mother died; her breasts were only just beginning to get round, and she had not been circumcised.

On Elili’s death Aikor took charge of the house, and cooked all the food. When it was time to hand the food round, Aikor always gave her daughter Nagor the best food, and only gave a very small portion to Oga, as she was a very jealous woman, and disliked Elili and her daughter.

This went on for some time, until one day Oga took the food which was not sufficient for her to her mother’s grave, and sat there crying and calling for her mother until the evening came, when she went home. The next day she went again and wept on the grave, until at last the grave opened, and she could see the top of her mother’s head. Oga continued to cry until sunset, and then she had to go home.

The following day, as soon as it was light, Oga started off again for the grave, and cried more, and by sundown her mother’s head and shoulders had appeared.

The day after, by constant crying, she induced her mother to come out as far as her waist, and, after a few more days of persistent weeping, she got her mother out altogether.

As it was dusk at the time, Oga led her mother to the back of the house, and hid her in a small room which was used only for storing yams and baskets. There she remained undiscovered for three days, and then Oga went to her father and said, “If you will give me a good present, I will show you my mother alive.”

Her father then gave her a piece of cloth, and Oga took him to the room where Elili was hiding, and said, “Here is my mother, who I have got alive again out of the grave.”

Chief Nyip was delighted to get his favourite wife back again, and they lived together as they had done before.

Very soon after the return of Elili from the grave, Aikor died, leaving her daughter Nagor in the charge of Elili and Oga. Elili then began to revenge herself upon Nagor for the way Oga had been treated. Nagor was made to do all the hard work of the house, and was also half starved.

This caused Nagor to go and cry on her mother’s grave. After crying bitterly for three days, her mother began to come out of the grave, and on the fourth day, when Aikor’s head and shoulders were showing above the ground, Nagor was so anxious to get her mother out altogether that she caught hold of her head and pulled with all her might, with the result that she pulled her mother’s head off her shoulders. Nagor then took the head and placed it in the same room where Oga had put her mother Elili.

She then called her father to come, but when he saw his dead wife’s head, he was very angry with Nagor, and told her to go and bury it again in the grave. Instead of doing as she was told, Nagor threw her mother’s head amongst the young palm oil trees. This caused them to bear fruit which resembled a woman’s head in shape and size, and even at the present time the young palm trees have bunches of fruit which look like a woman’s head with the plaits of hair all round.

Told by Abassi of Inkum.—[E.D., 27.5.10.]

V.—Concerning the Human Sacrifices which took Place on the Death of
Chief Indoma.

Chief Indoma was a very powerful chief. It was he who led the Inkum people to the site of their present town when they were driven out of their own country by the Awalas. When he arrived at the Cross River, he established the five compounds which still exist, and ruled over all the people. They were very fond of Indoma, as he was a just man.

A few years after they had built their compound, the two adjoining countries, Inde and Akparabong, made war against the Inkum, but Chief Indoma, who was skilled in warfare, led his people so well and wisely that both countries were driven back, and they have occupied the land ever since.

Indoma had two sons by his wife Isibe, whose names were Agatin and Ogum. When they were grown up, Chief Indoma died. All the country people were very sorry, and a big play was held, and the mourning was kept up for a long time.

Then a large and deep grave was dug, and a number of slaves were killed by knocking them on the head with wooden clubs. Their bodies were placed in the bottom of the grave, and Chief Indoma’s body was put on top. The head chief then ordered four young men to be caught alive and bound. One was placed under Indoma’s head as a pillow, another under his feet to make him more comfortable, and the other two were placed one on either side of the corpse, so that it was surrounded by living boys.

Then the head chief remembered that Indoma had been very fond of a boy named Edim, so they caught him, and, having tied him up, placed him in the grave near the dead chief’s head, so that he and the other four young men should be able to work for their master in the spirit land.

As the grave was very big and deep they put sticks across it, wedged firmly into the sides, planks were then placed over the sticks, and the planks were covered with sand.

By this time the grave was about half full, and the people left it until the next day, when more slaves were being brought in from the farms to be killed and put in the grave to fill it up.

When night time came, Edim, who had not been very securely fastened, called to the other four boys, and, managing to get his teeth to the tie-tie which bound the boy nearest to him, he bit it through, and the boy who was then released undid Edim’s thongs, and together they freed the other three boys. Edim then made a hole in the planks and sand, and got out of the grave.

When he had helped the others out, they all ran down to the beach, where they seized a canoe and paddled down river as hard as they could go to Akuna Muna. When they got there they presented themselves to King Egugo, and told him their story.

The King then took Edim as one of his boys, and, finding him to be intelligent, made him his head canoe boy.

After five years had elapsed Edim had made a lot of money, so he returned to Inkum with the other four boys, knowing that, even if he were recognised, he would not be killed, as the people had filled the grave with bodies the day after he had escaped.

Edim very shortly afterwards became one of the head men of the town under Agatin and Ogum. He married some wives, and many children, and lived to a good age.

Told by Abassi of Inkum.—[E.D., 27.5.10.]

VI.—The Story of the Witch who tried to kill her Husband; or, Why
Native Dogs refuse to obey their Masters.

Chief Leku of Inkum married a woman called Achor, and lived with her for some years.

At that time there was a very fine woman walking about the towns named Akoba. She was a yellow (light skin) woman, and had many hairs from the elephant’s tail, and beads round her neck. She did not wear any clothes, as she preferred to walk about naked, so that everyone could see her fine skin. Akoba had very large breasts, which hung down, but this did not in any way spoil her beauty in the young men’s eyes.

Many of them, including chiefs, wanted to marry her, but Akoba refused them all, as she made a lot of money out of them, and would not bind herself down to one man.

When she saw that so many men were bidding for her, she got a calabash and painted it different colours. Having placed the calabash some little distance off, Akoba said that anyone who wanted to marry her must hit the calabash with a small stone.

Many young men and chiefs tried who were anxious to possess her, but did not succeed, as she had put a ju-ju on them.

At last, however, Chief Leku managed to hit the calabash with a stone, and at once took Akoba home as his wife. He then called all the women together and held a big play, fired guns off in the town, rubbed Akoba with camwood, and told all people that she was his wife.

Akoba lived with Chief Leku for a little time, but very soon got tired of him. So she made up her mind that she would kill him and resume her former life. She said to herself, “It is very dull living with Leku all the time. If I kill him, I can have any man I fancy and make plenty of money, as all the young men want me, and are willing to pay, whereas now I have to do all the housework, and work hard on the farm, and Leku does not ‘dash’ me anything.”

Now, Chief Leku was a hunter, and made his living by killing animals (bush cows, buck, and kobs) and selling their meat. He had five dogs who were very clever, and had been taught to follow animals by scent. When they were young, a ju-ju was made for them, and certain leaves were mashed up and rubbed on their noses, which gave them very strong smelling powers, and they could follow wounded animals in the bush, which was most useful to Chief Leku.

The morning after Akoba had made up her mind to kill her husband, she said to him, “I want you to come into the forest with me to cut some palm nuts, but leave your hunting dogs behind as I do not like them.” Chief Leku, suspecting nothing, agreed, and they started off together.

When they got to the palm tree, the chief put his climbing belt of tie-tie round the tree, and, having secured it round his back, walked up to the top and commenced to cut the leaves or branches off round the nuts.

Akoba then beat her breast, and produced a sharp axe with which she began to cut down the tree, at the same time calling out to her husband that she was going to kill him. Very soon, the tree began to fall, but was fortunately caught by another tree growing near. Then Leku climbed into the other tree. Akoba, who was a witch, then started to cut down the tree in which her husband had taken refuge.

So the chief called a bird to him and sent it off with a message to his hunting dogs to come and rescue him. Immediately the dogs got the message they started off to help their master, but the witch Akoba caused a flood to overflow the path, so that the dogs could not track her. At last one of the dogs jumped into the water and swam across, and was very soon followed by the other four.

When they reached the foot of the tree the Chief told them to kill the woman, so they all leaped on her, and bit her until she died.

Then the chief came down from the tree, and divided Akoba’s body into five bundles, and told his dogs to carry them to his house, which they did.

When they reached the house it was night time, so the chief went to bed and told Achor what had happened to his new wife.

In the morning Achor saw the five bundles outside, and asked her husband how he had managed to carry them all, but he refused to tell her. So when night came and the chief went to bed, Achor said to him, “I will not sleep with you unless you tell me how you managed to carry those five bundles.” Now, Chief Leku was very fond of Achor, and wanted her badly, so he gave in, and told her that his hunting dogs had carried the bundles for him. Achor then went to bed, but the next morning she rose early, and calling the dogs to follow her, she went to the farm, where she collected five bundles of firewood and placed them in a row. Then Achor said to the dogs: “If you can carry bundles for your master, you can carry my firewood. Take those loads to my house at once.”

The dogs did not answer, but picked up their loads and carried them to the house. As each dog placed its load of firewood on the ground, it dropped down dead. Then the chief came out and said to Achor, “Look what you have done. All my hunting dogs are dead. This is what comes of telling you that my dogs carried the bundles for me.”

Ever since that day dogs never speak or do anything for their masters, although they can understand quite well. The reason the dogs will not obey now is because they say that the chief broke their dog law when he told his wife what they did for him.

Told by Abassi of Inkum.—[E.D., 27.5.10.]

VII.—How two friends fell out: the Spider and the Grasshopper.

Long ago the spider and the grasshopper were good friends. Unfortunately the spider was intensely greedy, and this led to much unpleasantness.

Now the spider wanted to go some distance from his house to marry a wife in a strange country, so he called upon his friend the grasshopper to accompany him. They started off together in the morning before the sun was hot, and when they had gone some little way, the spider said to his friend, “While we are away together, I want you to call me ‘Stranger,’ and I will call you ‘Dabi.’ We must not call one another by our proper names, as I do not want the people to know who we really are.” To this the grasshopper readily consented, little knowing what he was letting himself in for.

Shortly afterwards they arrived at the first town, and were welcomed by the chief. The grasshopper said he was called Dabi, and introduced his friend as “Stranger.”

The chief then ordered food to be placed before them, but the spider, whilst thanking the chief for his kindness, said: “Surely the custom of the country is, when a stranger arrives in a town, to first of all offer him ‘the peace dish,’ consisting of dried meat and kola nuts, to show that he is welcome, and that there is peace between them.”

The chief replied, “Yes, there is certainly that custom here, but as I thought you were hungry after your long walk, I ordered the food to be brought at once.” He then told one of his slaves to bring the dried meat and kola, and when it was brought, the spider eat all the meat and kola except two nuts, one of which he returned to the chief, and the other he gave to the grasshopper, saying, “You must wait, my friend Dabi, for your food, as this meat and kola was brought for the stranger, and your name was not mentioned.”

Later on the general supply of food was passed round, a certain amount being set on one side for the strangers. This the spider also eat, saying, “I am sorry, Dabi, but there is no food for you, as this was brought for the stranger, and that is my name.”

The next day they resumed their journey, and when they arrived at the town where the girl lived whom the spider was about to marry, he went to his future father-in-law’s house, whose name was Tawn, and said, “Tawn, I have come to marry your daughter.”

Now Tawn had a wife called Osegi, who was a very good-natured woman, which was lucky for the grasshopper as things turned out.

When Tawn had embraced his future son-in-law, he ordered a cow to be killed to welcome him. And when the people brought the food, they said, “Here is the stranger’s portion.” Immediately the spider said to his friend, “Did you hear that, Dabi? Your name was not mentioned, so you have no right to this food, which is all for me, ‘the stranger.’” But the grasshopper kept quiet and never said a word to anyone, although he was very hungry.

The marriage between the spider and Chief Tawn’s daughter was celebrated the following day. All the people were called together to dance and play, guns were fired off in the town, and Chief Tawn killed four more cows for the strangers who had come from a distance.

The grasshopper longed to eat the food, but did not see how he could manage it, as he was known as Dabi, and his name was never called. The spider therefore ate his own share and the grasshopper’s as well, while the poor grasshopper sat down by himself, feeling very sad, and not speaking to anyone.

When he had finished the food the spider went out to dance and play with his new wife, but the grasshopper did not go, as he was very hungry and weak, and not feeling at all up to singing and dancing.

After he had been alone for a little while, the Chief’s wife Osegi came in, and seeing the grasshopper looking so miserable, went up to him and said, “Why are you so silent and sad at my daughter’s wedding, when all the other people are feasting and dancing?”

At this the grasshopper could contain himself no longer, and burst into tears saying, “Three days ago, when we left our home, the spider asked me to call him ‘Stranger’ and said he would call me ‘Dabi.’ During all this time I have been starving, and I am very hungry indeed, as all the food has been brought for ‘the Stranger,’ and the spider has eaten it because my name is Dabi, and I was never mentioned.” Then Osegi said she would tell the people what their proper names were so that when the food was brought the grasshopper would have his share. Osegi then went out and gave the necessary orders, and told her slaves to be most particular to call the grasshopper’s name the next time there was food so that he should be able to eat. In the afternoon this was done, but when the spider heard his friend’s name called out, he was so angry that he would not eat.

The second day the servants did the same, and the spider again refused the food when it was brought. Early in the morning of the third day the spider told his father-in-law that he was going home, and that he would leave his wife for a time, and come back for her later.

Tawu then said he would make another feast to celebrate their departure, and that he should like to see his son-in-law dance once more before he returned home; so the people were called to another play, and the chief milked one more cow for their food. When the food was ready the spider said to his friend, “Come on, Dabi, let us go and dance.” But the grasshopper refused and said, “No, you go and dance, and I will join you later.” So the spider went by himself, leaving the grasshopper in the room where the food was. Seeing there was no one about, he took his outside skin off very quickly and hung it up on a peg on the wall, making it look just like a living grasshopper; he then went out and joined the dancers.

When the spider saw the grasshopper had arrived and was busily engaged dancing, being very hungry he stole off by himself to the room where the food was and put his hand into the pot. But, just as he was going to take out a piece of meat, he happened to look up and saw the skin of the grasshopper, which was so lifelike that it deceived him into thinking that it really was his friend on the wall, so he pulled his hand out of the pot and said, trying to laugh, “It is all right, Dabi, my friend, I was not going to eat anything, I just came in to see what the food was like.” He then went out again to where the people were dancing, and to his great surprise he saw the grasshopper, where he had left him, dancing and enjoying himself with some pretty young girls.

The spider could not understand how it was that the grasshopper had managed to get back to the play so quickly, but, as he saw him there, he was too hungry to trouble much about that, and went back again to get the food he was so much in need of. Everything was quiet when he returned, so he lifted the lid again, and took out a large piece of yam, and had only taken one bite, when his eye was caught by the grasshopper’s skin in the same place where he had seen it before. The spider was amazed at this, and thought there must be some ju-ju in it, so he put the yam down and ran out of the house, shouting as he went, “All right, Dabi, I only thought I would like to taste the food to see that it was good.”

But when he got to the dance he again saw, to his intense astonishment, that the grasshopper was dancing away as merrily as before.

The spider then went up to his father-in-law and asked him to stop the dance, as he wished to go home at once. This was done, and they all went back to the chief’s house together.

Chief Tawu then gave both the spider and the grasshopper a dog each as a present, and shortly afterwards they started off together on their-return journey.

After walking a short distance outside the town, the spider was so hungry that he stopped and killed the dog his father-in-law had given, and very soon had eaten the whole of it.

He then tried to get the grasshopper to kill his dog, but he refused, saying, “The dog was given to me by the chief as a present and not for food. I shall take it home with me.”

When the spider had finished eating his dog, he put the skull of the dog in his bag, and asked the grasshopper to go in front of him. Shortly after this, the dog, scenting some game, dived into the bush, and very soon returned to the path with a small bush buck in his mouth. As the grasshopper had gone on in front and had not waited for his dog, the spider took the buck, and, having cut its head off and put it in his bag next to the dog’s skull, he sat down and eat the body.

When he rejoined the grasshopper later in the day, he produced his bag, and took out the buck’s head, and told the grasshopper that his dog’s skull was very clever, and had killed the buck. Although the grasshopper knew quite well what had happened, he did not say anything, but walked on again in front with his dog as he had done before.

That night they slept in the bush, and the next day, when they got near the first town they had passed through when leaving home, the dog again dashed off into the forest, and chased a bush cow which he bit very badly in the leg.

When they reached the town, the spider told the people that the grasshopper’s dog had chased one of the chief’s cows and bitten it very badly. This made the people angry, and they all turned out with sticks to beat the grasshopper, but when he saw them coming, he called out to them and soon convinced them that his dog had not bitten the chief’s cow, but had chased a bush cow and had wounded it badly. He then offered to show the hunters where the place was, and they gladly accepted his offer. The hunters then got their bows and arrows, and having been shown the tracks of the bush cow by the grasshopper, they had little difficulty in tracking it by its blood, and eventually killed it.

The people then carried the meat back to the town and placed the horns in front of their ju-ju. Half the meat was given to the grasshopper, and the remainder divided amongst the people, the spider getting nothing.

When the spider saw this he was vexed, and told the grasshopper that he did not want him for his friend again. He then set himself to make a net of web in order to revenge himself on the grasshopper, and has ever since lived on insects.

N.B.—This story was given to me at Akparabong by a native, but there would appear to be some doubt as to whether it is a local story or not. A native from Cavally on the Kroo Coast affirms that he first told this story which was afterwards related to me, and this boy certainly gave me afterwards the main features of the story, but with a different local colouring.

VIII.—How Ewa Abagi, an Inkum Woman, was Drowned in the Cross
River, and how She was Rescued by the Young Men of Insofan.

In the olden days, Ewa Abagi lived at Inkum. She was very rich and was considered to be a most beautiful woman. She made most of her money by trading in palm kernels and camwood, but, as she was so popular wherever she went with the young men of the country, she also made a lot of money out of them, as, if they did not pay her well in advance, she would have nothing to do with them.

She received many offers of marriage, but refused them all, until one day a chief of Insofan named Awor sent a message to her that he wished to make her his wife, as he had heard what a fine woman she was.

Ewa Abagi then sent word back to the chief that she could not marry him just then as she was expecting to bear a son, but that, some time after the child was born, she would go up the river to Insofan and marry him as she had heard that he was rich and was a good man.

The child turned out to be a girl, and shortly after her birth, Ewa Abagi bought a young slave woman called Mossim to look after her baby, while she herself went to the different markets trading.

When the girl baby had become six years old, Ewa Abagi dressed herself and her daughter up in their best clothes, and crossed over the river to Okuni with the slave woman Mossim carrying her load. They then proceeded to walk overland to Insofan.

On reaching the Abum River which is quite close to Insofan, Ewa Abagi went to bathe, and took her little daughter with her, putting down her cloth and beads on the ground. As the river was very shallow, it being the dry season, they walked and waded down to the Cross River.

When she got there, she washed her daughter and then called upon Mossim to scrub her back. The slave woman then came up behind her mistress, and pushed her into the Cross River, where she at once disappeared.

When the little girl, whose name was Essere, saw that her mother had gone, she began to cry, but Mossim said, “Do not cry. You must call me your mother, and I will treat you well. When we get to the town, you must not tell anyone that I am not your mother, or I will punish you severely.”

She then dressed the child and put on the cloth and beads of Ewa Abagi herself, having just tied up her own clothes into a bundle with some stones and thrown them into the Cross River.

Mossim and the child then walked on to Insofan, and, when they got there, the slave woman went to Chief Awor’s house and said, “I am Ewa Abagi whom you wanted to marry, and this (turning to the little girl) is my daughter Essere.” The chief welcomed her, but was not very pleased, as he had expected to see a much finer woman from all the reports he had heard of her beauty.

When the people of Insofan heard that the chief’s new wife had arrived, many of them went to see her, as she was so well known by name. When they saw Mossim, they were not greatly impressed by her looks, and said so quite freely in very plain terms.

Now, one of the young men of the town, who had been down the river trading, knew Ewa Abagi very well indeed, and, when he saw the slave woman, he recognized her as the servant, so he told Chief Awor. The chief said, “Very well, I hear what you say, and will not marry the woman at present. We will wait for a time, and I will make enquiries.”

In the morning Mossim told the girl to go and get water from the spring, and the little girl went off with the water pot on her head. Essere, however, did not go to the spring as she had been told, but went to the place where she had seen the slave woman push her mother into the water. She then sat down and began to cry for her mother.

When Ewa Abagi heard her daughter crying, she came out of the river and talked to her. She then painted her daughter with okukum,[1] and having helped the child with the water pot, she returned to the river, and Essere went home.

When she arrived at the house, Mossim asked her who had painted her with okokum and why she had been so long getting the water from the spring. The child did not answer, so the slave woman said to her, “Don’t you be so long another time, or you will get into trouble.”

The next day Essere went to get the water at the same place. She called for a long time, but her mother did not come out, as she saw a man making tombo in a tree near at hand. At last, however, as she did not like to hear her little daughter crying, Ewa Abagi came out very quickly, helped Essere with the water pot on to her head, and went back again into the river.

The man, who had been watching, saw Ewa Abagi and recognized her. He therefore came down from the tree and went at once to the chief and told him what he had seen.

The chief then told all the young men of the town to go early the next morning to the place where Ewa Abagi had been seen and to try and get her out of the river. He promised them that, if they succeeded in bringing the woman to him, he would hold a big play and “dash” them plenty of tombo and food.

The chief told Essere that, when she went in the morning to get the water, if she wanted to get her mother back, directly she had got the water out of the river she must take the pot back some little distance into the bush.

When the morning came, the little girl went off with her pot, as before, and having filled it with water, carried it back into the bush some little way from the river, and then sat down, and called for her mother to come and help her.

The young men, who had gone to the place before it was light, and who had lined both banks of the Abum river, by the chief’s orders, were all hidden out of sight, and, when Ewa Abagi came out of the water, they immediately surrounded her and caught her before she could get back to the river. They then carried her back to the chief.

The slave woman was then seized, and tied up to a tree, and, when the morning came, the chief charged her with trying to kill her mistress. She was found guilty, and was ordered to be killed as a sacrifice to the water ju-ju.

Mossim was then handed over to the young men who had rescued Ewa Abagi, and they took her to the place where she had pushed her mistress into the river, and, having cut her head off, threw the head and body into the river. This is one of the reasons why slaves are always killed and put into the grave of their master or mistress when they die, as a warning to other slaves not to try to kill their owners.

Author’s note.

There is a firm belief amongst all the natives in the Ikom district that the slaves who are killed and buried with their master will meet him again in the Spirit Land, where the conditions of life will be the same as they were on earth. The master will recognise his slaves and they will work for him. They also believe that, when a chief arrives in the Spirit Land, accompanied by these slaves, carrying the gin cloth, rods, etc., which were placed in the grave, the people of the Spirit Land-will say, “This is a chief coming. Look at his slaves, etc.”

Some years ago a road was being made through an old compound which had tumbled down and disappeared, leaving no trace of any human habitation. The road passed through an old grave of a chief who had been buried in the house, and many things, including rods, bottles of gin and plates, had been put in the grave. The natives who were working on the road were afraid to touch anything in the grave, but a native foreman, who came from another country where they held different beliefs, opened a bottle of gin and drank some of it. When the natives saw that nothing happened to him, they all rushed in and there was a regular scramble for everything.

Told by Abassi of Inkum.—[E.D., 1.6.10.]

Thomas, District Clerk, Inkom, told me this grave incident, and said it happened in his presence some years ago at Calabar, when he was time-keeper in the P.W.D.

IX.—The Story of the War between Inkum and Enfitop.

When the Inkum people first came to the Cross River about one hundred years ago, Chief Indoma established the five Inkum towns on the right bank of the river, and Chief Awum took his people over to the other side, and, having given the Enfitop people presents, asked them to allow him to build his town there, and also requested them to give him sufficient bush where he and his people could make their farms.

The Enfitop people eventually agreed to do this, and Chief Awum built his town, which he called Aliese, and appointed a man called Osode to be his second chief. Both these chiefs were under Chief Indoma of Inkum.

When the houses were finished and their farms made, Chief Awum called a society to play, the name of the society being Eberambi.

It was one of the rules of the society that anyone wishing to join must pay fifty rods, one goat, and five pots of tombo, which would be divided amongst the members.

Then Chief Osode sent invitations to the young men of Enfitop to come and join their society, and altogether about fifty of them became members.

Now, when the young men of Enfitop joined and paid their goats, rods, and tombo, Chief Osode divided up all the things they brought amongst the Inkum members, and never gave the Enfitop boys their share.

This caused great dissatisfaction, and at last they became so vexed that the Chief of Enfitop gave orders that for the future no more of his boys were to join the Eberambi Society.

When Chief Awum heard this, it made him angry, so he made a scheme or plan to rid the society of the Enfitop boys, who were no longer of any use, as they had paid up their presents to the society.

The Chiefs Awum and Osode then went into the bush, and searched about until they found an open space, which could be cleared without much trouble. There was a big rock in the middle, and the members all began working on the ground, and after a few days had it quite clear.

Chief Awum then told his young men to dig a very deep pit on one side of the rock next to its deepest side, and, when it was finished, he placed sharp stakes firmly in the ground with the points upwards.

A meeting of the members was called for the next evening, and the chief told his young men to sit all round the rock.

When the Enfitop boys arrived, they all sat together a little distance off, and one of their head boys was told to sit on the rock with his back to the pit, which he could not see, as it was dark.

The singing and dancing then began, and the tombo was passed round, but when it came to the turn of the man sitting on the rock, just at the moment when he began to drink, one of the Inkum boys, who had been instructed by the chief what to do, seized him by the ankles and pushed him over backwards, so that he fell into the pit on the sharp stakes and was killed at once. As it was quite dark and such a noise was going on, no one missed the boy or saw what had happened.

Then, in the early morning, before it was light, the Inkum boys went to the pit, and having taken out the body, covered the blood stains with sand and carried the body back to the town. The body was then cut up into small pieces and divided amongst the members of the society, who lit fires and cooked and eat their portions.

That night Chief Awum said to Osode:—“Well! that accounts for one of the members, and I hope soon that we shall have got rid of all of them.”

Chief Osode said that he thought the plan a very good one, particularly as it brought them in a supply of food which was always welcome.

Then, for four nights running, the same thing was done, and the boy who had been killed the previous night was divided up and eaten by the Inkum members of the society on the following day.

On the sixth night, however, the Enfitop boys met together, and counted their numbers. Finding that there were five of their members missing, they could not understand what had happened, so they decided not to attend the play that night.

This enraged the Inkum people, and the next day Chief Osode went to Enfitop and told them that, as they had refused to attend the play, they would not be members of the society any longer. So, after that, the Enfitop boys did not go to the play again, and the Inkum people lost their chance of getting any more of them for food.

After a short time had elapsed, Chief Awum consulted with Osode as to how they should get some more Enfitop boys to eat. After thinking some time, he said he thought the best way was to steal the children from the town.

So the following morning the Inkum young men surrounded Enfitop, but hid themselves in the bush, and waited there until all the men and women had gone to their farms to work, leaving only the old people and young children in the town.

When they had all gone, the Inkum men went very quietly into the town from house to house, and stole all the children they could find and carried them off. They did not take any of the old people as they were not much good for food.

That night they had a great feast in the town.

When the parents of the children who had been stolen returned from their farms they missed their little ones, and so they went and complained to the head chief.

The next day he called all his people together, and they held a big palaver to settle what should be done. At the meeting, one of the boys who had been a member of the Eberambi society got up and said that five of their members were missing, and he believed that it was the Inkum people who had killed them, and that they had stolen the children as well.

After a long discussion, it was decided to drive the Inkum people away, and to send them back across the river again, so a message was sent to Chief Indoma to tell his people to leave their town at Enfitop and go over to the Inkum side.

Chief Indoma could not understand the reason of this message being sent, so he replied that he certainly would not tell his people to move, and that he would see what they could do.

When the Enfitop people had completed their preparations for war, the head chief took one of his slaves to his ju-ju as a sacrifice, and the blood was sprinkled all round the ju-ju, the chiefs dancing in it. The body was then cut up and divided amongst the fighting men, who eat it. The chief then addressed the ju-ju as follows:—

“You always help us in the time of trouble. Here are my fighting men. I want you to make them strong and so that they will not receive any wounds from their enemies. If you help me, when the war is over, I will bring all the heads of the men we kill to you as tribute. I will also bring the prisoners we capture and kill them before you as a sacrifice.”

The chief then put his hand into the ju-ju pot containing water, rotten eggs, and mashed-up leaves and roots, and having stirred it well up, the fighting men all came up to him one after another, and he smeared them with the liquid on the forehead and breast.

After this ceremony was over, all the people went to the chief’s compound, where he consulted his head ju-ju man as to what the result of the war with the Inkum people would be. The ju-ju man then cast lots, and told them that they would drive the Inkum people away, killing many men and taking many men, women and children prisoners, but he warned them that they must not commence the fight, as it was the Inkum people who were in the wrong and had killed the Enfitop people.

They then armed themselves with bows and arrows, stones, and short heavy throwing sticks sharp at both ends, so that one end or the other would stick into their enemies. The next morning they surrounded the town of Aliese, and very soon the Inkum men came out.

The first arrow was fired by an Inkum man named Osim, and at once the fight became general. They fought for the greater part of the day, until at last the Inkum men were beaten, many having been killed and wounded. The survivors, including Chief Indoma, who was present at the fighting, escaped into the bush, leaving the women and children and old men at the mercy of the Enfitop people.

Most of the old men were killed, and the women and children were made prisoners and taken to Enfitop.

That very night they held a big play, and the heads of all the men who had been killed were placed before the ju-ju. Six of the best of the prisoners were then killed in front of the ju-ju, and after their blood had been sprinkled on the ground, the bodies were cut up and given to the fighting men, who lit fires and boiled the flesh with yams, pepper and salt.

While the food was cooking, a big dance was being held, and one of the prisoners was placed on his back upon the ground in front of the ju-ju. He was then staked securely to the ground, and a heavy wooden drum was placed upon his stomach and was beaten with sticks while the fighters were dancing.

When the food was sufficiently cooked the fighting men eat it, and then, after drinking plenty of tombo, went to bed. The prisoner was left on the ground all night with the heavy drum on top of him.

The next morning the head fighting man released the prisoner, and having tied him up to a tree, cut his head off with his matchet. He then dressed himself up in the long hair (mane) of a ram, wrapped a leopard skin round his waist, painted his face, breast and right hand with white chalk, and placed four feathers from the black-and-white fishing eagle in his hair, one down the centre in front, one behind, and one on either side. He then took the head of the man he had just killed in his left hand, and holding his matchet in his right, he danced all round the town, shouting out that they were great fighters, and that the ju-ju had made them successful in the battle. When he had been all round, he went into the open space in the middle of the compound, and the women came up to him with presents; some would present him with a fathom of cloth, but the poorer people would offer a few rods, yams, or some salt. The body of the man was then divided up amongst the chiefs, the head chief getting the right arm, shoulder and breast for his share, and the head fighter was given the man’s heart to eat.

All the heads were then collected and placed over a fire to singe the hair off. They were then given to the head chief, who boiled and eat the meat off them with his sons and people. The chief placed the skulls on the ground of the room where he slept, so that the room was quite paved with them. This was done so that the chief could put his feet on them, to show that he had trampled on the enemies whom he had conquered.

The head of the man who was first sacrificed before the war commenced was not eaten, but was left on the ground in front of the ju-ju as his share.

To return to the Inkum people, who had escaped into the bush on the night of the battle, as soon as it was dark, Chief Indoma called them all together and asked his ju-ju man what he had done to make him so unfortunate in the battle and to lose so many people. The ju-ju man told him that Chief Awum and Chief Osode had caused all the trouble by killing the Enfitop boys and stealing the children for food. He also said that the Inkum people had gone to fight like women; they had not consulted him (by which he lost a handsome present) neither had they killed a slave as a sacrifice to their ju-ju.

Chief Indoma agreed with the ju-ju man, and said he would not forget again, and that in the future when he went to war he would see that the proper precautions were taken and the usual sacrifices made as had always been done in the past.

He then spoke to Awum and Osode, saying “I am very angry with both of you. Up to the present I have been known to all people as a good fighter and leader, but I shall always be ashamed to meet the Enfitop people now. You have done wrong. You have killed and eaten many of the Enfitop people and told me nothing about it. When they sent a message to me, I told them that I would not move my people across the river, as I never thought they would fight against me, but now I am compelled to do so, as they have either killed or taken as prisoners nearly all the men, women and children of the town. I look to you to arrange how to get me and the remaining people over the river in safety.”

Then Chief Osode stood up, and said that he could manage that quite easily, as he was a ju-ju man, and would make a bridge for them out of his body.

Now, in those days there was a big snake who used to live on the land, and when he grew to be as long as a palm oil tree is high, he forsook the land and lived in the small creeks and rivers, where he grew to a tremendous size. The name of the snake was Ku Ku Barakpa.

In the early morning, Osode turned himself into the snake, and placed himself across the river with his tail on the Enfitop side and his head on the Inkum side, his back being out of water, so that the people could cross over in safety. As soon as he had done this the survivors of the Inkums, headed by Chief Indoma, walked over the snake’s body, but, when the Enfitop people tried to follow them, the snake waited until they were in the middle and then sank, leaving the Enfitop men to drown. After two days their bodies floated and were picked up by the Inkum people who carried them back to their town and eat them.

Chief Indoma blamed Chief Awum very much for what had happened, but he praised Chief Osode for getting them back in safety across the river, and also for his ingenious device in getting them some more human food without any risk or fighting.

Told by Abassi of Inkum, 7th June, 1910.

X.—How an Inkum Boy was Drowned by His Companions and how they
were Punished.

There was once an Inkum woman named Omegha, who was considered very good-looking, but, curiously enough, no man had ever wanted to marry her, although she was very popular and went about from one man to another. She also went from town to town, showing off her beauty, in the hopes that some man might fancy her and ask her to marry him.

At last she got tired of walking about, and returned home to live with her parents. Her father was very fond of her, but often said that he wished she had been a boy as she would then have been able to help him with his work on the farm.

After Omegha had been living at home for a little time, her father said to her, “I wish you would get a son who would help me on the farm when he grew up.” Omegha replied that, although she slept with plenty of men, she had never conceived. Her father then warned her that she would never bear a child if she went on as she was doing, always changing and sleeping with so many different men.

He then advised her to live with the same man for a whole month, and then see what would happen. Omegha waited for a week, and then did as she had been advised to do by her father, and, after a month had elapsed, she found that she had conceived.

A few months after this, Omegha’s father died, leaving her mother and herself in the house. Then her mother said to her “Now that your father is dead, you must not go about as you did before, as there are only two of us. You shall stay at home and I will look after you and the child who is soon to be born.” They then wrapped the dead body up in mats, and made a hole in a room at the back of the house, where they buried the corpse.

Some time afterwards, Omegha gave birth to a son, whom she called Ogor. The boy grew very fast, and after a time he was able to walk.

As Omegha was a poor woman, she used to take her little son with her to the farm every day. But when Ogor was six years old, she got tired of doing this, and used to leave him in the house with his grandmother, who was very fond of him. Then Omegha used to go off alone, and visit her numerous men friends.

Ogor had often been told by his mother not to go near the river, and he was frequently warned not to play about with the other boys of his age in the town, as they would surely lead him into mischief.

One day, while his grandmother was cooking, he heard the company of small boys to which he belonged playing outside, so he stole out of the house and joined them. When the boys saw who it was had come to play with them, they asked him why he did not always come out and join them, so he told them that his grandmother would not allow him to go out of the house.

The boys then said they were hot from playing and were going down to the river to bathe. They invited Ogor to go with them, but he refused and ran home.

Before he reached the house, his mother, who was returning from visiting one of her lovers, met him and gave him a sound flogging for being so disobedient.

That night, the boys belonging to Ogor’s company, of whom there were eight, met together and decided that Ogor had been very rude to them. They therefore determined to punish him the next time they caught him.

A few days afterwards, Ogor again stole out of the house when his grandmother was busy, and joined his companions who were playing in the town not far from the beach.

When the play was finished, they all went down to the river to bathe, and swam out to a sand bank in the middle of the river, it being the dry season.

One of the boys had brought some strong tie-tie with him, and two others went off and soon came back again with a heavy stone. Ogor was then put on his back and securely fastened to the stone with the tie-tie. He did not struggle or cry out, as he thought it was all done in play.

When the boys had finished tying up their companion, they looked round very carefully to see whether anyone was watching them, but, finding there was no one about, they carried Ogor out into the river, and threw him into the water where it was deep, and he sank at once. The boys then swam back to the beach, and went off to their various homes.

Just about this time, Omegha returned home, and, missing Ogor, asked her mother what had become of the boy. The old woman told her daughter that Ogor had stolen out of the house as he had done on the previous day, and she thought he had most likely gone to join the small boys’ company as she had heard them playing in the town.

Both the women then went out to look for the boy, but could not find him or any of his companions, as they had all returned to their parents’ houses. They searched everywhere for Ogor, but could not find him, so at last Omegha thought of the porcupine, and made up her mind to ask his advice as to what had happened to Ogor, and what was the best thing to do to get him back again. She then walked to the porcupine’s house and told him that she was in great grief as she had lost her only son Ogor, and could not find out what had become of him. Omegha then asked the porcupine to help her, which he promised to do. He then went into his back room to consult his ju-ju, and, being very clever, it did not take him long to find out what had happened to the boy, so he soon returned to Omegha, and told her that her son had been thrown into the river by his companions, and that the water ju-ju had taken him to his house at the bottom of the deep pool in the river.

Omegha then went down to the beach with the porcupine, and, when they arrived at the water’s edge, the porcupine, who was a very good swimmer, at once dived into the river and swam to the water ju-ju’s house. The porcupine then told the water ju-ju that he had promised to help Omegha, and asked if the boy was there. The water ju-ju replied that he had saved Ogor’s life as he was sorry for Omegha and her mother, who were poor people, and only had this one boy.

He then said that he had no objection to returning Ogor to his mother, and that the porcupine might take him away when he departed, but he insisted that the boys who had thrown Ogor into the river should be punished, and told the porcupine to tell the chiefs of the town that, if they did not punish the boys very severely, he would seize everyone who came into the river and keep them in his house for all time.

The water ju-ju also told the porcupine that he must take Ogor to his mother when it was dark, and hide him in the house until the palaver was heard, so that no one should know that Ogor was alive.

The porcupine waited until the evening came, and then, having thanked the water ju-ju for his kindness, swam off with Ogor, and took him to his mother’s house, taking care to go by the back way so that no one should see them. Omegha was delighted to get her son back again, and hid him away. She then thanked the porcupine, who went off to the chiefs of the town and delivered to them the message from the water ju-ju.

The chiefs at once sent the drummer round the town to tell all the people to attend at the palaver house the next day, that no one was to go to their farms, and that all the small boys of the town were to attend.

In the morning, the chiefs took their seats, and the people sat down all round them. The porcupine was then called upon to tell all the people what had happened. So he stood up and said that Ogor, the son of Omegha, had been thrown into the river by his companions, they having first tied him up and fastened a heavy stone to him to make him sink. They had then left him to drown, but the water ju-ju, being kind-hearted, had saved him.

Ogor was next called, to the great astonishment of the eight boys who thought he was dead. He pointed them all out, and told the chiefs which of the boys had tied him up and those who had carried him and thrown him into the river.

The head chief then said that all the eight boys were guilty of trying to drown their companion, and that they should all be taken to the beach and killed as a warning to other boys not to kill one another. He also pointed out that the water ju-ju had threatened to seize all the people who went into the river if the boys were not properly punished.

All the people agreed that it was a just sentence, but one chief, called Eka, refused to allow his son, who was one of the eight boys, to be killed, and said he would see what the water ju-ju could do.