Tefuga (17 page)

“Now, there was a rush to form parties. Those who already had power and authority formed parties to protect themselves. The rest formed parties to take it from them. Here in the north the emirs and chiefs formed the N.P.C. Yakali, who was Sarkin Kiti, was among them. I will tell you about him.”

“I met his son in Lagos, as a matter of fact. One Umani Ban.”

The Sarkin closed his lips tight, sucking them inward, as if to seal off the pressures of speech. The check was a physical effort, a measure of the vehemence of those pressures. The old man had hitherto shown himself affable but in no way self-revealing. Now, though, circumstances—the young thatcher's public attack on him, the mention of his obligation to Jackland's mother, perhaps even the place where he was sitting—seemed to have compelled him to rebut that attack for the benefit of Betty Jackland's son. Whatever the causes, the reference to Umani Ban pulled him up short. His head tilted back. His unseen eyes could only be looking half-sideways down at Jackland with querying suspicion. Jackland as a very experienced interviewer may simply have recognized the nature of reassurance now required. On the other hand his response may have been perfectly genuine—despite his pose of tolerance he was given to sudden vehement dislikes.

“I thought he was a total and unmitigated shit, if you want to know,” he said.

“Umani Ban is my brother-in-law.”

“Ah well. We can't choose our relations. Or our wife's.”

The Sarkin laughed aloud, not an old man's cackle but a hardly enfeebled version of the open, generous laughter Betty Jackland had remarked on.

“I chose my father-in-law, at least,” he said. “Umani Ban is as you describe him. We Kitawa would say that he has a small spirit in him. Small and mean. He intrigues continually against me. Yakali was a vain, lustful, greedy man, but with a big spirit in him, such as Kama Boi had too. Yakali's great wish was to be Emir of all Kiti, and we knew when he joined the N.P.C. and became a politician this was his chief aim. I resigned my post as Messenger and went out among the villages. The Kitawa wanted to form their own party, but I persuaded them that the emirs would then eat us up. I was right. This is how it has been in Nigeria. So I told the Kitawa to collect money, and I went to the Emir of Soko and paid him two hundred pounds for nomination on his list of candidates. Politicians, radicals and men from the south, came and pleaded with me to tell the Kitawa to vote against the N.P.C. but I refused. I had worked almost thirty years with the British and I knew they would not let the emirs be unseated.

“There were then five constituencies among the Kitawa, and at the next elections I agreed that two should choose members of Yakali's household. One of those thus elected was the then Bangwa Wangwa, an office that had become purely ceremonial since the Incident. This man was too stupid to understand the new situation, and within a year complaints were brought against him for extortion and corruption …”

“By his constituents?”

“Who else?”

“But with your help?”

“They came to me for advice, of course. Since I had stood on the hill that day it was my task to prevent such oppression, both in their eyes and in mine. Let me go on. The Bangwa Wangwa was sent to prison and I then asked Yakali to give me his office. I gave Yakali presents. It was the custom. No doubt he saw other advantages. He believed that I would become, as it were, his Messenger and he would thus control all five constituencies. Later I married his daughter. Yakali was already working to bring about the K.H.P.—the Kiti Highway Project, you know?—and he wanted to feel secure on his own power base. By this time the British had left. Instead of a white Resident at Birnin Soko we had a black Provincial Commissioner to represent the Government at Kaduna. The emirs still ruled. They chose the candidates for the N.P.C. lists. They treated the candidatures much as they used to treat the offices in their Native Administrations, things to be given away in return for presents. Among the Fulani and Hausa there is still great competition for the prestige of office. It is part of their culture.

“The emirs despised the black men from Kaduna. Many of them thought that now the British had gone they could begin to do just what they liked. Our Emir of Soko was such a one, a pious scoundrel of the old sort, learned in the Koran, very dignified in public, always making speeches about his duty to lead and protect his people while stealing by double handfuls from his own treasury. Yakali went to him with presents and unfolded his scheme for the K.H.P. It was very grand—a bridge at Kiti, great highways into the interior, communal farming schemes, the fish-factory, and so on. Of course the Emir was eager for the Project. He saw that immense sums of money could be milked from it in one way and another. He did not foresee there was any need to take precautions against being found out, because now that the British were gone Kaduna would never dare depose an emir. Yakali thought otherwise. He too, of course, intended to milk the Project, but more carefully. At the same time he intended to collect evidence of the Emir's depredations and then inform against him. The Emir would then be deposed and Yakali, by giving presents to the right people, would get the old Emirate of Kiti revived in his favour.”

“I don't suppose the Kitawa were even consulted. How did they take it?”

“No peasant will refuse a road to his door, provided it goes through his neighbour's garden and not his own. Motorway protests are a phenomenon of rich countries. The proposal for farming co-operatives was always nonsense. The land is mostly useless. Everybody knew that. My concern was to see that Yakali was not made Emir, so I collected evidence to prove his frauds—it was not difficult, he was a man who talked to women and I was married to his daughter.

“Then in 1963 the Emir of Kano, one of our great emirs, was forced to resign on a charge of corruption. Now our little Emir was frightened. He had already begun to milk the Project, though the actual construction had barely started. I went to Birnin Soko and had audience with him and laid bare for him Yakali's scheme. I told him that while there was a Sarkin of Kiti who was of the lineage of Kama Boi there would always be intrigues for the revival of the emirate. The solution was not far to seek, for one versed in Fulani and Hausa politics of the traditional kind. Yakali must be deposed and the lineage of Kama Boi replaced by another. Therefore on my advice the Emir disburdened himself of such sums as Yakali might have evidence of his taking, and let Yakali learn that he had done so.

“Now, I knew through my wife that Yakali had long held schemes for the construction of a grand new palace when he became Emir. Seeing that time postponed he was likely—he was not a patient man—to begin building at once. Furthermore, now that he was not going to be able to bring evidence of fraud against the Emir, his need to protect himself against counter-accusations …”

During the ten minutes or so it had taken the Sarkin to tell his story Jackland had listened with apparently total attention, not even stirring when another outburst of frustrated cries told of further breakdowns in the process of filming six people walking from A to B. The interruption to the story came from the other direction. Miss Boyaba appeared at an opening in the inner wall so small and dark that it might have been taken for the entrance to a dog-kennel. Blinded by glare, despite her sun-glasses, she craned towards the sound of the Sarkin's voice, then evidently made out who was there and stilted over, laughing with delight. She prostrated herself in front of her great-uncle then rose and kissed him on the cheek. He seemed equally pleased by both gestures, though a bystander might well have thought they were performed as much for Jackland's benefit as for his.

“Look what I found,” she said.

She unclenched her left hand, holding it low enough for Jackland to see. In the pale palm glinted what looked like a fluffy piece of seed-head. She smoothed it with a gentle fingertip and it became a few criss-crossing threads, gold, with crumbling faint millimetres of green silk caught here and there.

“In the diary,” she explained. “Don't you remember—when the wives got out the best dresses so that Betty could paint them? I found it in a tiny room beside the harem courtyard. I wonder if it's all that's left.”

“Of course not,” said the Sarkin. “They are stored in the new palace. I have offered some to museums, but they are not interested in the traditional dress of women.”

“Typical,” said Miss Boyaba. “So they just sit there. What a waste.”

“Nonsense, Annie. You have seen some with your own eyes. When you last came to the anniversary celebrations of my inauguration as Sarkin, your great-aunts wore them. And I will give you one for yourself on the day you marry.”

“It almost makes it worth the awfulness.”

There is a curiosity about conversation with royalty, in that the faces of courtiers may express reactions at variance with the superficial politeness of their prince but expressive of his inward feelings. To judge by the brolly-man, though the Sarkin smiled at Miss Boyaba's unthinking liveliness, he was not amused. He turned to Jackland.

“Many are of Damascus weave,” he said. “The ancestors of Kama Boi were nobles in Katsina long before the jihad.”

“Eighteenth century then.”

“At least.”

“Astonishing in this climate.”

“The jars are sealed and we use the bark of local trees to prevent fungal and insect damage. It is safer than air-conditioning, because the power may fail.”

“I wonder if there's any of the ones your mother painted,” said Miss Boyaba. “Wouldn't that be thrilling!”

“The Sarkin let us copy some for when we shot that sequence,” said Jackland.

“Oh, what a pity. There's nothing like the real thing.”

“The real thing tends to produce real worries, insurance in this case. If we'd been able to shoot those scenes here I'd have risked it. As it was the Sarkin sent us photographs.”

“Would you like this to keep?”

Jackland shook his head.

“Give it to Mary,” he said. “She likes scraps of things.”

Miss Boyaba's fingers twitched as if restrained from an impulse to close round her find. Jackland seemed not to notice.

“God!” he said. “What's holding them up? There's nothing to this shot. I do apologize for keeping you bottled up in here, Sarkin.”

The sounds of breakdown and exasperation were once more rising from beyond the outer rooms. Somebody was trying to shout to someone else a considerable distance away. The call, its words inaudible, was repeated and repeated, growing fainter each time as the caller moved towards whoever he was shouting at. The Sarkin smiled at Jackland and spoke to the brolly-man, who unfolded from the side of the chair an aluminium shelf, on which he placed a miniature board for the ludo game, drawn from a pocket. He and the Sarkin started to set up the pieces.

“I know,” said Miss Boyaba. “Let's go and see if we can't find some more. It was pretty dark in there, but you've got a lighter, haven't you?”

Jackland let her help him to his feet and followed her across the glaring space beyond the tree-shade into the dark burrow of the harem entrance. They returned in about ten minutes to find that the filming had at last been finished. The Sarkin had been joined by the borrowed members of his entourage, who stood and watched the ludo game, silent and dignified in their grand robes, while the film people milled and chattered. Burn was arguing with the actor playing Kama Boi. Miss Tressider stood just beyond them, looking as drained as if she had just completed some huge role. If the sequence showing Betty Jackland being helped into the saddle by Elongo had been part of the script she would not have needed to mould her features to exhaustion. Miss Boyaba pranced up to her, proffering the scrap of fabric, and explained what it might be. Miss Tressider picked it up and listlessly let it fall back into Miss Boyaba's palm.

“I'm feeling perfectly foul,” she said.

Jackland must have understood her to be referring to her mood rather than her physical sensations.

“Almost through now,” he said. “What held you up?”

Miss Tressider sighed, glanced at him, then at Miss Boyaba and then away. But Burn, in earshot, swung round.

“The bloody Army. Deliberately getting in shot. That pan to the outer battlements, up there with their berets and guns against the skyline. Each time we got rid of them up they popped again soon as we started shooting. They seemed to think it was some kind of joke.”

Ten

M
on April 7

Just to tidy up the tour—this morning was Ted's weekly official visit to KB, and I rode over with him to give my present to the old brute. I'd made it really rather nice—I didn't think any of the pictures were much good so I felt I'd better make the wrapping a bit special, and I'd mounted them and bound them into a sort of album with a nice stripy cover (made from a pair of Ted's pyjamas, actually, which I won't let him wear!). The best pictures were things like Zarafio's people and their horses lounging around during the mid-day rest. I put in two or three of the villages, tho' I'd never managed to get any of those going, somehow. I couldn't get hold of them, the way you have to. Looking at them now I can see I wasn't sure of myself the way I like to feel when I've got a brush between my fingers—as tho' my hand hadn't quite believed what my eyes thought they were seeing. Difficult to explain. I don't usually mind so much—you've got to expect to do some duds—but I long to do a good one of the Kitawa. I feel so drawn to them. In a silly sort of way I can't help feeling I'm meant to be their protectress, and that's why I came to Africa at all! Childish.

Anyway, tho' Ted had sent a message I was coming KB didn't seem at all pleased to see me. 'cos it was the official visit it took place in the outer courtyard of his palace. All his entourage were there, more than twenty, including horrid little Zarafio and two other sons. I had to go and sit and wait under the other tree, the dying one, while the palaver went on. And on. They made a lovely group and I'd have had masses of time, but I hadn't got anything with me except a pencil and my little notebook. I did sketches, with notes about colours and effects, the way you're supposed to, but it's never the same thing for me 'cos of having to think about it. Mine only really work when I suck the scene in with my eyes and send it straight down to my hand without my tiresome brain getting a chance to interfere.

Ted told me after that KB was in a whiny mood, his salary too small and Sokowa crossing the river and settling on his land but still paying their taxes to Soko (which is true, but it's KB's own fault) and why is his Native Court still only a ‘D' court ('cos if it were made ‘C' he'd try bigger cases and get better presents from both sides). Things like that. KB knows he's not going to get anything out of Ted but whining is his way of keeping his end up in front of his entourage. It went on for ages. I began to feel—the way you do when you're kept waiting—he was trying to punish me for something
I'd
done.

At last he got up from his stool and came waddling across to talk to me. V. royal and grand. I gave him the album. He leafed quickly through (Ted says he was hoping I'd put a pound note or two between the pages 'cos that's the sort of present chiefs expect!). He didn't seem at all interested, specially remembering how excited he'd been about my paintings of his wives—I forgot to say, I'd put them in too and tho' they were only copies they still weren't bad. He hardly glanced at them. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped. His eyes popped. Really. They bulged as tho' someone had come up behind and started to strangle him. His hands shook. He'd have dropped the album in a mo, so I grabbed it and he stepped away from me. Everyone was staring, tho' only a couple of the others had come over with him and even they couldn't have seen what was bothering him.

It was the picture of Tefuga Hill. I should have known. I'd put it in 'cos it was a picture of somewhere a bit different from everywhere else. Besides, tho' it was still wrong, it had sort of got interesting. There was
something
in it, nothing to do with it being a good picture, which it wasn't, but … I don't know how to explain …

“Why do you bring that place into my house?” he said.

“It is a place in your kingdom. You asked me to make pictures and bring them to you.”

“I did not tell you to make a picture of that place.”

“You did not ask me not to make one. But I will take it out of the book if you wish.”

“Take it out.”

So I took my little penknife and slit down the edge of the page and removed the sheet. When I gave KB the album his hands were still trembling and he only pretended to look through it, but really it was more as tho' he thought there might be a snake in it now! He still seemed frightfully bothered, so I borrowed a match from Ted and set light to the sheet at one corner. Tho' we were in the shade the light was so strong you couldn't see the flame, but KB watched the black fringe creeping across the paper with his eyes still absolutely popping. I held on long as I could and dropped it. It burnt right to the last tiny piece. KB rolled his eyes, looking at the wisps of ash and then at me and then at Ted. Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind that I hadn't been working some frightful juju against him after all and he turned quite pleased and jolly in his leering way and took us all back to the other tree and shouted at Zarafio and the others about I don't know what. He watched me all the time. I could see he wanted to make sure I understood he was the big man here. He was, too. They are all afraid of him, not just the Kitawa, the Hausa too, including his own sons. He's a terrible old man but I'm beginning to understand why Ted secretly admires him. He'd never admit it, but deep inside himself Ted would quite like to be the KB sort. I keep telling myself how decent Ted is (and he is—it's true) but sometimes I can't help wondering if it isn't really because he's afraid not to be. If he dared he'd be more like KB. I wonder? Anyway, we made uncomfortable talk (good for my Hausa, tho') till it was time to go.

We rode home, Ted rather jolly, me a bit flat. You can't help minding when people don't like what you've done, even tho' you tell yourself you don't give a snap for what they think. Besides, if I wasn't KB's blue-eyed girl any longer he wasn't going to let me into his harem again, to try and talk to Elongo's sister, which would have been much easier now that my Kiti's come on so. I started to explain this at our language lesson this afternoon.

I said (we were talking Kiti) “Kama Boi is now not friendly with me. I will not be able to see your sister again, perhaps.”

“My sister is very well,” he said. He sounded surprised, as tho' he'd expected I'd forgotten her.

“Did she send messages?”

“Kama Boi sent good presents to my uncles.”

I didn't understand. I just stared.

“So now everything's absolutely hunky-dory,” I said. That was in English, of course, and I haven't been teaching him slang 'cos I like to think of him talking grave, old-fashioned English, like the Bible, almost. He must have realized I was miffed—and I was! Bitterly disappointed, honestly. My fault for imagining he'd be thinking about things like a European­, when he's so totally African. I can't have it both ways. I want him to be African, so I can't expect him to be upset about losing his sister 'cos he was fond of her and that was why he'd come to us in the first place, when really what he'd been minding about was KB not coughing up a proper bride-price! And why should KB take it into his head to pay up now, months after he'd stolen the child? I'll never know, tho' if I was African I daresay I wouldn't even bother to ask 'cos it would be so obvious!

Anyway we got on with our lessons. I love to hear him talking English in that deep, careful voice—careful 'cos he wants to get it right but it makes him sound so wise. My Kiti's really coming along. My tongue does the tones without me having to think and my ear can hear how different words are that used to sound practically the same. Now I'd be shocked as a Bakiti if Elongo said he'd fetch me intestines when he meant a drink. I boasted about this, and Elongo looked at me, grave as ever.

“You must learn the women's words,” he said.

(We were talking English now. I make him call me “you” as tho' he was an equal so he learns how the language really works, but he knows he's got to be careful with anyone else.)

“Are they very different?”

“Some are different. You say words that cannot come out of the mouth of a woman. You must talk with Kitawa women.”

“That's going to be a bit difficult,” I said.

“You will go out to the bush to paint more pictures. I will take you to a place.”

“Oh dear. Ofafe's much too far—we'd have to start back soon as we got there.”

I couldn't say, but I was pretty sure no one in Ofafe would risk talking to me.

“It is not Ofafe.”

“There isn't anywhere nearer.”

“I will show you a place. It is far, but there will be time. In eight days, when Master goes across the river to make arrangements about the settlers from Soko.”

I absolutely stared. How did he know about that? Ted's going to make a dash Tuesday week halfway to Soko to palaver with Mr de Lancey and the Emir. KB ought to be going too, except that he refuses to cross the river 'cos of the juju. But it wasn't just Elongo knowing that, it was the way he said it, as tho' it'd be a good idea me making the expedish while Ted was away so he didn't find out what I was up to! I mean there's absolutely no reason why I shouldn't just say, “I'm going out into the bush, darling, and Elongo's going to find me some women to teach me women's talk.” I'd have to tell him something in any case, 'cos otherwise he'll want to take Salaki for his trip and I don't think I can manage Tan-Tan. I suppose Elongo might have heard something about what happened on tour and got it into his head Ted's laid down I'm not allowed to talk to any Kitawa without a spearman watching, but the funny thing is now he's put the idea into my head I'm terribly tempted just to tell Ted I want to go on a painting expedish while he's away and can I have Salaki for that? You see, if I am let alone with them for a bit and if I can get them to talk I'm sure I can worm something out of them, but I don't want Ted thinking before I go that's what I'm up to. He thinks the whole thing's blown over. I'm pretty sure Mr de Lancey never asked him about it—Ted would have told me, and even if he didn't I'd have known. I'm getting to understand my dear man better and better. I usually know how he'll react to anything. For instance, now, if I told him I wanted to go and learn to talk women's talk he wouldn't say I mustn't. But he might make me promise not to talk politics—or he just might say he didn't want to ride Tan-Tan all that way and insist on taking Salaki. So …

And besides all that, it's my secret. If I'm going to go on being a good, happy, loving little wife for him, I really must have bits of my own he doesn't know about. Otherwise all I'll become is a boring sort of human pet.

It's in his interest, really. It's part of my job of keeping him happy, like Mr de Lancey said.

So I said alright to Elongo and we went on with the lesson. And I'm not going to tell Ted.

Wed April 30

I've hooked my tiger-fish! I think. The fish doesn't know yet, but I'm almost sure I've done it! Me!

Don't get too uppity, Bets, it was a complete fluke really, but another way I can't help feeling it was really somehow meant. I certainly wasn't expecting anything like it, tho' I was a bit excited about getting a chance to talk to real Kitawa again.

I got up with Ted at 3 a.m. and kissed him good-bye and waved him off on his way to the ferry, but I didn't go back to bed again. I told Mafote, who'd brought Tan-Tan round, to get Salaki ready straight off, and I'd got my own kit together the night before, so quite soon, before dear Ted had even reached Kiti Town I should think, I was riding off through the dark the opposite way with Elongo striding ahead. There was a good moon, so I could follow his white housecoat—a bit spooky when we went in under the trees. Then out into the thorn scrub. Millions of insects creaking away. Fireflies. The dawn seeping up. Doves beginning to call. By this time we were out beyond the thorns. If I'd really been on a painting expedish I'd have stopped then and there and tried to get that special moment, only about half an hour before the sun comes up, it's so quick, when the sky goes indigo and suddenly the whole world is there, all round you, flat bush stretching away for ever, empty, waiting … I'd always had Ted with me when we were on tour. Now it happened for me alone. My Africa.

Well, we went on and on. I asked Elongo if he wanted a rest but he didn't seem to get tired. There wasn't a road, not even a path some of the way, or only just, but he seemed quite sure where he was going through all that sameyness. The sun got up and soon it was pretty hot. I was in a sort of dream after that dawn. Every few minutes something would cry out to me, call to my eyes, I mean, a tree or a termite's nest or a clump of spiky grass, as tho' they were saying, “Look at me. Understand me. Understand how I am what I am, the only one of me in all the world!” It was a very strange feeling. Of course, that's what I try to get when I paint things, but I've never felt it so strong and clear before. There are things I saw on that journey, ordinary, ordinary things, that'll still be bright and new in my mind's eye when I'm an old, old woman.

Well, I suppose we must have been going nearly three hours—8 miles? Anyway, a long way to go for a Kiti lesson!—and it was getting quite hot when Elongo turned left. I wasn't at all sure but I'd got a sort of idea from where the sun was that we'd been going sort of parallel to the river, tho' quite a long way out.

I'd better explain that the thorn belt isn't smooth on that side. It goes in and out, like a coast, with bays and capes, and it moves, too. Some places it's spreading and others it's dying back, nobody's sure why. Something to do with underground water, Ted thinks. After a bit I saw that now we were going into one of the bays, more of an inlet, really, like a river mouth, with thorn on either side. The sides got closer, and there, right down at the end of it, was a village! Tiny and terribly poor, I could see at once. Only half a dozen huts, and some of the roofs very shabby, but others nice and new, and one actually being mended when we arrived. Only two “gardens” I could see but sometimes they have them a long way from the villages.