Tefuga

by Peter Dickinson

  “I do not think you need anticipate too much trouble. The military will be anxious to ingratiate themselves with foreign powers.”

  “I’m more worried about getting Mary out, and then the last cans of film. I come third.”

  “Do you think you will be able to make your rendezvous?”

  “With a bit to spare, starting at first light. I’ve done this sort of trek before. No point in trying before then if I’m going to follow our tracks.”

  “Well, I wish you good luck, and give you my sincere thanks for your help. Perhaps we will meet again.”

  “Hope so. There’s quite a bit more I’d like to ask you. Good luck, old man.”

  The Sarkin turned and walked away. Despite the moonlight he became invisible after the first few paces. Jackland lit a last cigarette and smoked it before trying the starter motor once more. There was still no sign of a spark, so he huddled down on to the bench seat, spreading the Sarkin’s robe over himself as a coverlet, and tried to sleep.

  Fourteen

  Thurs Oct 9

  To Kiti this morning, to watch KB going into exile. I thought I’d do a picture for my album ’cos it’s an historic occasion (and I did it!) but it didn’t come out at all well. Not just ’cos there was nothing special to paint, no brolly-men or trumpeters—they haven’t got a ceremony for that sort of thing—but I felt v. low. I’ve got a funny sort of tummy-bug I can’t shake off—not too dire, but sick every morning and queasy most of the day. It does drag you down. I expect that’s why I keep wondering if I’ve made any difference at all to my dear Kitawa, or if I have whether it’s a good idea after all—when Bevis gets his bridge and his roads, what’ll that do to them? Clothes and tinned peaches and the clever ones going to Lagos and wearing suits and ties and pretending to be just like us! Oh, dear.

  Anyway, we wanted everyone to see KB going in disgrace, so that the Kitawa would know he’d really crossed the river and the new Emir (whoever he’s going to be—terrible ructions about that) saw what’d happened to him if he didn’t behave. We thought everyone in the town would turn out and Elongo might persuade the Kitawa to send a few elders, but it was quite the other way round! When we passed the market it was clattering away just like an ordinary day and there were only a few traders up by the ferry, and no Hausa at all far as I could see, but over on the other side of the track hundreds and hundreds of naked bush Kitawa, women and men and children, one silent dark mass, waiting.

  “Good for Elongo,” said Ted. “He’s going to be a decided asset. Last thing I want is rumours going round the bush that old Kama Boi’s still in Kiti. Wish I had some of those Kaduna desk-drivers here to see that the Emir crossing the river actually means something to the Kitawa.”

  “If Bevis gets his way the next Emir’s going to start off crossing, to go to school.”

  “If Bevis has his way there’ll be a railway siding at Tefuga by 1940.”

  “Oh, I hope not!”

  “Bit late to change your mind now, Rabbit.”

  He’s been quite snappy with me these last few weeks, sometimes. He’s still dreadfully cut up about losing Salaki, and he can’t help wanting to blame someone and I can’t help feeling guilty. After all, it was my fault, sort of. I’m quite sure Ted doesn’t know, but there’s been a sort of awkward feeling between us. The new horse, Beano, isn’t bad, only a bit dull. And a bit expensive—we couldn’t really afford him. On top of all that there’s still the strain of being a good loser with Bevis, or pretending to be. Bevis is not a good winner!

  Well, I had a bit of a problem with my picture. I’d like to have painted it with KB going past my Kitawa, but there was nothing to give it a shape, so thought I’d do it from the other side with Kiti wall and the rapids in the distance, and the islands. Besides, that meant I could set up close to them and have a chat. But they didn’t want to talk, even among themselves. There was a bit of a rustle when I walked over and started to get ready. Perhaps they thought I was going to do another magic picture. No more of that for me. Not if I can help it.

  KB was late, of course, but he came in the end. Bevis had sent a couple of lorries from Birnin Soko to take KB’s party to Ibadan. They were standing on the far side of the ferry crossing. I dabbed them in at the edge of my picture while I waited. I knew already it wasn’t any good. Then he came. Quite a lot of Hausa, and him in the middle. We’d said he mustn’t wear his turban or have a brolly-man, so he was wearing a white cap and a pale robe (clean, far as I could see!), but all the Hausa who weren’t going with him were in their party best. We’re only letting him take a few servants and half a dozen wives. (He couldn’t afford more on his pension.) The wives were bundled up like accident patients, but I don’t suppose my little girl was one of them.

  I must say KB behaved with terrific dignity. Ted says he still doesn’t believe he’s the slightest bit in the wrong. It wasn’t him, you see, who’d been burning villages and murdering people, or even taking taxes and not telling us. It was his sons and nephews and hangers-on, using his name and his juju power to terrify the Kitawa. Of course, it meant they could afford to give him much better presents, but if you’re an African that’s something quite separate! Anyway he still walked past like a king, so in spite of all the crowd round him you knew it was all about him. If I’d been on form that’s what I’d have got in my picture. (Spilt milk, Bets.) The town people had shouted a few times as he went past—just good-byes and wishing him luck—but it was too solemn for that. We all watched him walk down to the ferry. Ted was waiting there. They shook hands. KB walked onto the ferry and gave a present to the ferry-master, who’d fallen flat on his face to greet him. The wives and servants followed, the baggage was on the lorries already. The tail-board was slotted in and the ferry-master shouted to go. The men sang out and heaved at the cables, all together, like dancers. Slowly, heaving and chanting, they hauled the ferry away. As the gap of water showed between it and the bank I heard a long deep hoo-o-o-o like wind in a chimney, all round me. The Kitawa, watching the juju broken. They didn’t say anything else till we’d seen KB and his people pulled up into the back of the lorries, and then the lorries driving away along Bevis’s road.

  Then the muttering began. I turned, trying to catch eyes, and smiling, but they wouldn’t let it happen. I’d hoped they’d look a bit joyful (a bit grateful, even!), but no. I couldn’t even tell if they were worried or unhappy. Perhaps Bevis is right, and we’ll never know what’s going on inside their heads. It isn’t enough to speak the tones. You have to belong to understand.

  Then Ted came up to take me away.

  Thurs Oct 30

  Well, I was right about that last bit, anyway! To think we’ve been here twenty years and there’s still something quite important nobody’d told us! We found out almost soon as KB had gone, and Ted and Bevis tried to get on with their battle about the next Emir. It’s been a pretty dire time for Ted, but at least he’d got Kimjiri back, and that’s something! The poor fellow got here good as under arrest ’cos the D.O. at Jos had sent a policeman along to see he didn’t run away again, so at first he was too scared to talk sense, but soon as he found KB had gone and Lukar was under arrest already (they’d found him hiding in the Bangwa Wangwa’s house) he spilled the beans about Lukar trying to bribe him to put poison in our food and then threatening him with KB’s juju powers. All so’s we shouldn’t go on our surprise tour. Not such a surprise as we thought! Kimjiri even knew how Lukar’d found out. Elongo’d told him! Lukar’d tried to frighten Elongo away too, before any of that, but Elongo’d stood up for himself but he’d got to have something to fight with so he’d threatened Lukar back with my juju powers(!) and said I was going to find everything out with my magic pictures. (Doesn’t all this seem absolutely mad when I write it down? But it was real for them, and true, and Lukar already sort of half-believed in my juju ’cos of the Tefuga picture I’d given KB. And isn’t it totally extraordinary them knowing all this and us
not having any idea—except that Ted had guessed Lukar and Elongo had had some sort of a row?!! And spite of what he tried to do, I do think it’s rather awful Lukar will probably be hanged now.) So that was all right.

  But about the next Emir? Even Ted saw he’d have to give up Zarafio, who it turned out had been the ringleader in the whole business—no wonder he’d been so keen on having me watched on my first tour in case the Kitawa told me anything! Quite likely he’ll go to prison now! So who? Before us British came all the emirs got chosen by special electors, and the only rules were that the new man had to come from the right family and the electors weren’t allowed to choose one of themselves. (They didn’t mind, ’cos they’d been getting masses of presents from all the hopefuls for years!) We still pretend it’s like that, but usually we make it pretty clear who we want, tho’ it’s no use us picking a man they won’t respect. This time Ted thought Alafambo was the best bet and the Hausa would have been happy with that, but Bevis persuaded Kaduna to insist on a young prince called Azikofio—KB’s great-nephew, far too young to have given anyone any presents!—and there was a terrible fuss. In the end Kaduna told Ted to say that if they didn’t choose Azikofio we’d abolish the emirate completely and lump it in under Soko, and Alafambo could be just District Head, which would have been a frightful comedown. So they gave in and we thought that was that.

  But then, believe it or not, the meek, peaceful, downtrodden Kitawa dug their heels in! Elongo brought a deputation to Ted. They wanted me there too. And they explained to us they had a choice too. They have special electors. You see, they are the real owners of the land, and KB was only there because they’d allowed him to be and given him his juju-powers to protect them. And now he’d broken the juju and crossed the river they weren’t going to choose anyone else. They were going back to the old days when they didn’t have an emir at all, not even chiefs.

  This was a real poser. Ted told them that was impossible. You can’t work Indirect Rule without chiefs—besides, we’d already good as promised the Hausa. (Typical of the Hausa they hadn’t told us, tho’ it turned out they knew perfectly well, in spite of nobody having had to do any of this for thirty years!) Anyway Ted sent the Kitawa away and told them to consult their people while he whizzed off messages to Bevis and Kaduna, and yesterday we had another palaver with them out in the bush. The choosers came this time, five old men, very scrawny and used up and unimpressive to look at, but solemn and dignified too. We gave them ginger-nuts and lemonade. They thought the fizz was some kind of trick and were v. suspicious, but Elongo calmed them down. He was marvellous. They treated him as an equal, which was nice to watch. Kaduna had said we’d got to offer them the same choice as the Hausa—Azikofio, or come in under Soko. They thought that was a terrible idea. They said Soko people would come and take them away for slaves again (they talked just as if that had been happening yesterday, when it’s almost a hundred years!) We tried to explain we’d never let it happen but they said how did they know we weren’t going away again as suddenly as we’d come?

  But they didn’t want Azikofio either. How could a child protect them? He wasn’t even a young man—he hadn’t reached that age-change. How could he take part in the Tefuga ceremony? That was v. important. They kept coming back to how young he was. I explained we’d chosen him exactly ’cos of being young, so we could send him off to Katsina to the chiefs’ school where he would learn to be a good chief. It wasn’t much of an argument, seeing they didn’t really want a chief at all.

  But then Elongo, without Ted or me telling him, said, “The White Man will bring this boy to Tefuga for a ceremony. It will be a new ceremony. No man’s blood will water the graves. And then immediately the White Man will send the boy across the river for many years.”

  That did it really. They asked me about it, and I explained to Ted, who said yes, they could have a sacrifice at Tefuga but it would have to be a goat or something, and yes, Azikofio would have to cross the river to go to school, and I explained back to them, very slow and clear, and they got up and walked away into the bush. Elongo told us to wait. I didn’t hear any voices and it was more than an hour before they came back. They asked us about the sacrifice and the river again, just to make sure, and then they said alright and finished off the lemonade. (They quite liked it by now and were disappointed there wasn’t any more!)

  We were riding back—I was thinking how well it had all gone—when Ted gave a funny yapping laugh, angry and sad, not like him at all.

  “What’s funny, darling?” I said.

  “It’s a complete farce,” he said. “We’ve got to go through with it, but it’ll never wash.”

  “I thought it had all come out rather nicely.”

  “Total waste of time. Just now we’ve good as told your pals that Azikofio’s never going to be more than our puppet. The ceremony at Tefuga won’t mean much without a human sacrifice, and then our very next act will be to send the new Emir across the river. They’ll know, and he’ll know, so he’ll never have any respect from them, which at least old Kama Boi had. That’ll mean in turn he’ll never have any incentive to rule properly, and—you and I’ll be gone by then, thank God—my successors are going to find themselves having to run Kiti direct. I hope old Bevis is here to see it, driving his motor along his roads!”

  Of course we’d been terribly careful not to say anything to the Kitawa about having to work on roads as well as paying proper taxes. I don’t think they’d have understood, so what’s the point? But it’s going to be a horrid shock for the poor dears.

  Now I must stop—we’ve got a dinner party! Bevis and the engineer he’s brought to survey for the bridge. I’m v. nervous. Eleven months married and my first dinner party! Bet that’s a record.

  Nov 30

  The direst thing possible. I’ve found out why I’m being sick. I haven’t told Ted yet, but I’ll have to, soon as we’re back from Tefuga. It’s not just me who knows, you see.

  I found out in rather an awful way, too. What happened was Kaduna made up its mind we’d have a proper show for installing the new Emir, spite of Kiti being such a potty little place. Idea was to let everyone see it had been all KB’s fault things got so bad, and none of us British were blaming each other, and now there was a lovely fresh start and everything was going to be hunky-dory from now on. So we had quite a party at Kiti, Bevis, and the Soko D.O.s, and Bevis’s Emir, and two other neighbouring Residents and their Emirs, and several bigwigs from Kaduna. Wives, too. The Lieutenant Governor’s on leave, but his Deputy came to read the main speech and take the salutes.

  Ted had the stalls cleared away to make a space in front of the Old Town gates, and there were soldiers marching past with a brass band, and bangy native music and brolly-twirling and horse-charges, all jolly exciting tho’ I couldn’t do any pictures and had to watch between two huge floppy hats belonging to Kaduna wives sitting in front of me. The Deputy has the most beautiful voice, like an actor’s, and was v. inspiring about the responsibility of the rulers to the ruled, except that it didn’t really seem to have anything to do with what happens when you come to a village and try to work out how much tax it ought to be paying and persuade mothers to wash their babies” eyes when they get sore. Or even explain to an emir that the money in his tank isn’t his to do what he likes with. The new Emir is tiny and thin, with big eyes. Looks quite bright but a bit shifty already. (Sad, after all that. Katsina might drill it out of him.) He behaved jolly well, v. solemn, and made the speech Ted had written for him in a nice clear voice.

  Then I had to hurry home and get ready for another dinner party. Two in two months—what a whirl! I don’t really enjoy them, actually (even without what happened this time, I mean). Ted and I aren’t much good at shining, except for each other. We both go dim when anyone else comes. Not that this lot were all that brilliant, Soko people, Johnstone and Cadbury who’re D.O.s and Cadbury’s sister who’s staying with him. She’d dim anyone! Like a buffalo wit
h huge black eyebrows and a booming voice. Terrifically strong opinions about the way we treat the natives—Ted says it’s astonishing Lagos ever let her into Nigeria! And she’s writing a book about it all, which’ll be the end of Cadbury’s career if she ever gets it published, Ted says. But he was obviously scared stiff of her. Me too.

  Well, it was quite a nice dinner. River fish and then francolin which is a sort of small guinea-fowl Ted had managed to bag three of, and the reason I’d had to rush home was to stand over Kimjiri and see he didn’t roast them black, and see our new boy (Sixpence) laid the table right, etc. It was nice in the end so I was greedy, besides being twitchy with strangers and Miss Cadbury so rude to the men, and half way through I got one of my queases and had to rush out and be sick. And then (imagine!) she came after to see I was alright. Ted swore later he’d tried to stop her but you might as well’ve tried to stop a hippo! Then to get her to go away I said I was quite alright and I’d been having little sick goes for a bit but they weren’t anything to worry about. But instead of taking the hint she started asking the most intimate questions, which I’d be shy of talking about even to a lady doctor, and she isn’t even married! I sort of said yes or no and she told me to sit on the bed and then she said, sort of triumphantly, “I have to tell you, Mrs Jackland, that in my opinion you are pregnant.”

  And then, believe it or not, before I’d even had time to understand let alone get my breath back, she started off about men and what thoughtless brutes they were insisting on doing it just to gratify their animal impulses without a thought of the woman who’d have to bear the consequences!

  Something snapped. I’m not like that, really I’m not. But I jumped up and started to screech at her, saying exactly what I thought of her behaviour, coming and accepting our hospitality and being unspeakably rude without even noticing that the men she was criticising were doing their level utmost—literally killing themselves quite often with disease and overwork—while people like her went gallivanting round the country in the cool season putting themselves up at other people’s expense and then going back to safe comfy England to pass judgement on the very men who’d looked after them.