Gerald Durrell - A Zoo in My Luggage

‘You well, my friend?’ I asked, peering up into his face.

‘I well, I well,’ he said grinning.

It seemed to me an understatement: he looked positively blooming. He had been well into his seventies when I had last met him, eight years before, and he appeared to have weathered the intervening years better than I had. I introduced Jacquie, and was quietly amused by the contrast. The Fon, six foot three inches, and appearing taller because of his robes, towered beamingly over Jacquie’s five-foot-one-inch, and her hand was as lost as a child’s in the depths of his great dusky paw.

‘Come, we go for inside,’ he said, and clutching our hands led us into his villa.

The interior was as I remembered it, a cool, pleasant room with leopard skins on the floor, and wooden sofas, beautifully carved, piled high with cushions. We sat down, and one of the Fon’s wives came forward carrying a tray with glasses and drinks on it. The Fon splashed Scotch into three glasses with a liberal hand, and passed them round, beaming at us. I surveyed the four inches of neat spirit in the bottom of my glass and sighed. I could see that the Fon had not, in my absence, joined the Temperance movement, whatever else he had done.

‘Chirri-ho!’ said the Fon, and downed half the contents of his glass at a gulp. Jacquie and I sipped ours more sedately.

‘My friend,’ I said, ‘I happy too much I see you again.’

‘Wah! Happy?’ said the Fon. ‘I get happy for see you. When dey done tell me you come for Cameroon again I get happy too much.’

I sipped my drink cautiously.

‘Some man done tell me that you get angry for me because I done write dat book about dis happy time we done have together before. So I de fear for come back to Bafut,’ I said.

The Fon scowled.

‘Which kind of man tell you dis ting?’ he inquired furiously.

‘Some European done tell me.’

‘Ah! European,’ said the Fon shrugging, as if surprised that I should believe anything told to me by a white person, ‘Na lies dis.’

‘Good,’ I said, greatly relieved. ‘If I think you get angry for me my heart no go be happy.’

‘No, no, I no get angry for you,’ said the Fon, splashing another large measure of Scotch into my glass before I could stop him. ‘Dis book you done write … I like um foine … you done make my name go for all de world … every kind of people ’e know my name … na foine ting dis.’

Once again I realized I had underestimated the Fon’s abilities. He had obviously realized that any publicity is better than none. ‘Look um,’ he went on, ‘plenty plenty people come here for Bafut, all different different people, dey all show me dis your book ’e get my name for inside … na foine ting dis.’

‘Yes, na fine thing,’ I agreed, rather shaken. I had had no idea that I had unwittingly turned the Fon into a sort of Literary Lion.

‘Dat time I done go for Nigeria,’ he said, pensively holding the bottle of Scotch up to the light. ‘Dat time I done go for Lagos to meet dat Queen woman, all dis European dere ’e get dis your book. Plenty plenty people dey ask me for write dis ma name for inside dis your book.’

I gazed at him open-mouthed; the idea of the Fon in Lagos sitting and autographing copies of my book rendered me speechless.

‘Did you like the Queen?’ asked Jacquie.

‘Wah! Like? I like um too much. Na foine woman dat. Na small small woman, same same for you. But ’e get power, time no dere. Wah! Dat woman get power plenty .’

‘Did you like Nigeria?’ I asked.

‘I no like,’ said the Fon firmly. ‘’E hot too much. Sun, sun, sun, I shweat, I shweat. But dis Queen woman she get plenty power … she walka walka she never shweat. Na foine woman dis.’

He chuckled reminiscently, and absent-mindedly poured us all out another drink.

‘I done give dis Queen,’ he went on, ‘dis teeth for elephant. You savvay um?’

‘Yes, I savvay um,’ I said, remembering the magnificent carved tusk the Cameroons had presented to Her Majesty.

‘I done give dis teeth for all dis people of Cameroon,’ he explained. ‘Dis Queen she sit for some chair an’ I go softly softly for give her dis teeth. She take um. Den all dis European dere dey say it no be good ting for show your arse for dis Queen woman, so all de people walka walka backwards. I walka walka backwards. Wah! Na step dere, eh! I de fear I de fall, but I walka walka softly and I never fall … but I de fear too much.’

He chuckled over the memory of himself backing down the steps in front of the Queen until his eyes filled with tears.

‘Nigeria no be good place,’ he said, ‘hot too much … I shweat.’

At the mention of sweat I saw his eyes fasten on the whisky bottle, so I rose hurriedly to my feet and said that we really ought to be going, as we had a lot of unpacking to do. The Fon walked out into the sunlit courtyard with us, and, holding our hands, peered earnestly down into our faces.

‘For evening time you go come back,’ he said. ‘We go drink, eh?’

‘Yes, for evening time we go come,’ I assured him.

He beamed down at Jacquie.

‘For evening time I go show you what kind of happy time we get for Bafut,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Jacquie, smiling bravely.

The Fon waved his hands in elegant dismissal, and then turned and made his way back into his villa, while we trudged over to the Rest House.

‘I don’t think I could face any breakfast after that Scotch,’ said Jacquie.

‘But that wasn’t drinking,’ I protested. ‘That was just a sort of mild apéritif to start the day. You wait until tonight.’

‘Tonight I shan’t drink … I’ll leave it to you two,’ said Jacquie firmly. ‘I shall have one drink and that’s all.’

After breakfast, while we were attending to the animals, I happened to glance over the verandah rail and noticed on the road below a small group of men approaching the house. When they drew nearer I saw that each of them was carrying either a raffia basket or a calabash with the neck stuffed with green leaves. I could hardly believe that they were bringing animals as soon as this, for generally it takes anything up to a week for the news to get around and for the hunters to start bringing in the stuff. But as I watched them with bated breath they turned off the road and started to climb the long flight of steps up to the verandah, chattering and laughing among themselves. Then, when they reached the top step they fell silent, and carefully laid their offerings on the ground.

‘Iseeya, my friends,’ I said.

‘Morning, Masa,’ they chorused, grinning.

‘Na whatee all dis ting?’

‘Na beef, sah,’ they said.

‘But how you savvay dat I done come for Bafut for buy beef?’ I asked, greatly puzzled.

‘Eh, Masa, de Fon ’e done tell us,’ said one of the hunters.

‘Good lord, if the Fon’s been spreading the news before we arrived we’ll be inundated in next to no time,’ said Jacquie.

‘We’re pretty well inundated now,’ I said, surveying the group of containers at my feet, ‘and we haven’t even unpacked the cages yet. Oh well, I suppose we’ll manage. Let’s see what they’ve got.’ I bent down, picked up a raffia bag and held it aloft.

‘Which man bring dis?’ I asked.

‘Na me, sah.’

‘Na whatee dere for inside?’

‘Na squill-lill, sah.’

‘What,’ inquired Jacquie, as I started to unravel the strings on the bag, ‘is a squill-lill?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I replied.

‘Well, hadn’t you better ask?’ suggested Jacquie practically. ‘For all you know it might be a cobra or something.’

‘Yes, that’s a point,’ I agreed, pausing.

I turned to the hunter who was watching me anxiously.