Нигерия: народы и проблемы. Эдмунд Дене Морель

are concerned—with your goods. You may, you probably are, either miles ahead of him, or miles behind him. The headman—“Helleman,” as he is termed by the rank and file—is at the rear of the column. Between the first man and the “Helleman” several miles may intervene, and so on, proportionately. During these hours of total lack of supervision, your property is absolutely at the carrier’s mercy. Your effects. The uniform case in which, he knows, you keep your money. The uniform case, of which he knows the lock is broken. The “chop-box,” of which he knows the padlock is missing. But at the end of every day your things are intact. I have not lost a matchbox, except a few dozen or so that white men have stolen (I may say it is the local fashion—I have caught it myself, and steal matches regularly whenever I get the chance). The only thing I have lost is something I lost myself. You may say “Yes, but think of the risk and the difficulty of breaking open a uniform case on the road.” As for the difficulty, there is little or none. A vigorous fling upon one of these granitic boulders, and there would be precious little left of your uniform case. As for the risk, well, in many parts of the country I have traversed, a carrier could get clear away with his loot, and not all the Sarikuna and dogari in the country would set hands on him. Faithfulness to the bargain struck. Well, I have passed through the mining country. Some of the mines declare they are short of labour—those that do not suffer from that complaint declare that those that do have themselves to thank for it—and the mines pay ninepence a day for work which is much lighter than that of a carrier, who gets sixpence. The few shillings a carrier would sacrifice by deserting, he would recoup at the mines in ten days, or less. I have not had a desertion. The only man of the crowd who has absconded, did so openly. On a certain spot on the line of march he suddenly got a fit of fanaticism, or something unhealthy of that kind, and declared himself to be proof against sword cuts. Whereupon, being laughed at, he “gat unto himself” a sword and smote himself with much vigour upon the head, with the natural result of inflicting a deep scalp wound nearly seven inches long. The next morning, finding his load incommoded him in consequence, he returned homewards, a sadder, and, presumably, a wiser man.

      If I were a poet I would write an ode to the African carrier. I cannot do justice to him in prose. But I place on record this inadequate tribute to the reckless, cheery, loyal rascal, who seems to me a mixture of the knight of the road and the poacher—for both of whom I have ever conceived a warm affection … in books—and with whom I shall part to-morrow with regret, remembering oft in days to come that cheery “Sanu zāki” as I passed him, footsore, weary and perspiring, on the road.

      * * *

      CHAPTER IV

      ON AFRICAN MODESTY AND AFRICAN COURTESY

      Each twenty-four hours brings its own series of events and its own train of thoughts following upon them. A new incident, it may be of the most trivial kind, sets the mind working like an alarum; a petty act, a passing word, have in them revealing depths of character. Nature seems such an open book here. She does not hide her secrets. She displays them; which means that she has none; and, in consequence, that she is as she was meant to be, moral. The trappings of hide-bound convention do not trammel her every stride like the hobble skirts of the foolish women who parade their shapes along the fashionable thoroughfares of London. What quagmires of error we sink into when we weigh out our ideas of morality to the African standard—such a very low one it is said.

      Well, I have covered a good deal of ground in this country—although I have not been in it very long, measured in time—and I have seen many thousands of human beings. I have seen the Hausa woman and the bush Fulani woman in their classical robes. I have seen the Yoruba woman bathing in the Ogun, clad only in the natural clothing of her own dusky skin. I have seen the scantily-attired Gwarri and Ibo woman, and the woman of the Bauchi highlands with her bunch of broad green leaves “behind and before,” and nothing else, save a bundle of wood or load of sorts on her head, or a hoe in her hand. I have visited many African homes, sometimes announced, sometimes not, at all hours of the day, and sometimes of the night. I have passed the people on the beaten track, and sought and found them off the beaten track. I have yet to see outside our cantonments—where the wastrels drift—a single immodest gesture on the part of man or woman. Humanity which is of Nature is, as Nature herself, moral. There is no immodesty in nakedness which “knows not that it is naked.” The Kukuruku girl, whose only garment is a single string of beads round neck and waist, is more modest than your Bond Street dame clad in the prevailing fashion, suggesting nakedness. Break up the family life of Africa, undermine the home, weaken social ties, subvert African authority over Africans, and you dig the grave of African morality. It is easy, nothing is easier, and it may be accomplished with the best intentions, the worthiest motives, the most abysmal ignorance of doing harm. Preserve these things, strengthen them, and you safeguard the decencies and refinements of African life.

      Here is a homily! Its origin one of those trivialities of which I have spoken. One had pushed on ahead, desiring to be alone. With that curious intuition which the African seems to possess, one’s mounted escort had, somehow, gathered that, and a good half-mile separated one from one’s followers. The sun was at its zenith, and danced over the dusky track. But there were broad grateful trees on either side, and low bushes with white sweet-scented flowers. A bend in the road brought into view a little cameo of natural life. By a tree, straight-backed and grave-faced, an elderly Fulani woman, supporting on her lap the head and shoulders of a younger woman, who lay outstretched. At her feet a small child trying to stand upright, with but indifferent success. For a moment one was not perceived, both women’s eyes being fixed on the infant’s resolute efforts, and one’s approach being quietened by the deadening dust under foot. For a moment only. Then all three looked up. From her position the younger woman’s limbs were more uncovered than a Hausa or Fulani woman considers compatible with modesty before a stranger, and, with a sight of that stranger, the instinctive movement came—the position was slightly shifted, the robe drawn down, with no fuss or precipitancy, but calmly, with dignity and decision.

      We strayed yesterday. Starting off early we struck across country, leaving the road, the red-and-green dressed gentleman and I; having arranged to meet the rest … somewhere. It does not matter where, because, as a matter of fact, we didn’t. An imposing person the aforesaid dogari, with a full black beard and fierce sword. It was good to get away from the road, despite its varied interests, and for a couple of hours one gave one’s self wholly up to the charms of the crispness of the morning, the timid but sweet song of the birds, the whiffs of scent from the mimosa bushes, the glimpse of some homestead farm in the distance, the sight of a group of blue-robed women with biblical earthenware pitchers on their heads issuing from a neatly thatched village, or congregated in a circle round one of the wells whose inner rim is lined and rendered solid by thick branches to prevent earth from falling in and fouling the water. Their laughing voices were wafted across the cultivated fields towards us, as cheery as the antics of the little brown goats skipping over the ground. What a world of simple happiness in this agricultural life of the talakawa—the common people—of Hausaland. And then, well we were clearly at fault. No signs of any of the men. No signs of breakfast, I mean of the person by whom breakfast is supposed to be produced—and nearly eight o’clock. The gentleman in red and green twisted his turbaned and bearded visage to right and left. He looked at me expressively, which look I returned—with equal gravity, the substance of our power of communicativeness. Then he turned his broad back and his white horse’s head, and ambled on, and I followed. It is queer how you accommodate yourself to philosophy, or how philosophy accommodates itself to you. After all, every road leads to Rome; and there is a certain amount of exhilaration in not knowing what particular Rome it may be, or through what twists and turns the track may lead you on the way thither. No homesteads now, and the risen sun had warmed the birds into silence. One notices that, by the way. In the early mornings the timid notes are heard, and as the sun’s rays pierce through the mists and burn them up, they cease. It is a melodious little ode to the great Life-giver, and when it has served its purpose it quavers, quivers, and is no more.

      On a sudden the thunder of hoofs behind us, and an elderly, aristocratic-looking horseman with an aquiline nose, short grey beard and piercing eyes, gallops up over the deep furrows, followed by three attendants also on horseback. An imposing figure of a man he is, splendidly mounted on a chestnut stallion, with a heavy cloak of dark blue cloth flung across his shoulders, the red crest of a fez just showing