Luke Williams - The Echo Chamber

The following day they reached Gusau. From here — writes Mother — we go by horseback. Rex excitable as he is keen to see the bush. Spends the whole day gathering porters. I wander through the town with the Resident, a General. Children follow us everywhere. At the market the noise is terrific. The General persuades a merchant to wave a spear in the air and, unbeknownst to him, takes his photograph. Decorated calabashes and spoons made from gourds. Food sellers. English cotton. We’re followed everywhere by the rabble of inquisitive children and also disappointed traders. The General seemed very set on buying me some antimony. That evening at the club, without anyone asking, Rex said that the most remarkable thing he’d ever seen was a drawing of a pelican. She had a gash in her side, and her young fed boisterously from the wound.

— 3rd December. I knew that it was true because again this month it hasn’t come. I feel neither gladness nor pain, only dazed.

— 4th December. At every village we approach now the district head arrives with a company of horsemen. He goes with us to our rest hut and exchanges greetings in Hausa. Sannu da ruwa, he says, which means, Welcome with the rain. And, Ranka ya dade, which means, May your life be long. One of the chief pleasures of touring is going for a walk between five and sunset. You stop and talk to people. Then someone might want to show you something. A bush with fragrant leaves, or a black and turquoise centipede, or their new baby. At night we hear voices calling and chatting and there is drumming. And wherever we go there is a dance laid on. The dancers wear magnificent head-dresses of sisal. Rex sits on his camp chair like a village Chief. Declares his approval, calling, Yâuwaa. And, Bàllee bàllee. At Maradun, a tiny outpost, with a police sergeant and no other Europeans, they were going to do us a dance called the Bòorii but they got so frightfully drunk they couldn’t perform it. The sergeant left and came back with his men from the jail and all these jailbirds solemnly stripped in the moonlight and started to dance. The sergeant danced in the middle. I could see his bald head bobbing up and down. It reminded me of England. But that is another life. I can scarcely believe I am the same person, and in Africa.

It is clear from Mother’s notes that they were travelling west. At times her handwriting is indecipherable, and pages are left entirely blank. The diary continues: Here the tiniest detail takes on enormous importance. One must establish a routine. After breakfast, if not travelling overland, a wash, a letter to be written, perhaps an entry in my diary, then a walk into the village. Rest during the hottest hours of the day, then a book, perhaps as yesterday a visit to the mosque, the evening glass of gin, dinner with the residents, bed. Equally the things one normally worries about seem quite trivial. This afternoon, for instance, we met a Scotsman, a small trader, and his son. Rex thought it was the 14th of December, the trader swore it was the 9th, and his son the 13th. We had lost the days of the week altogether. Haircut from Ben. Slept only for two hours, then lay awake imagining that the distant voices from the village meant danger.

— We have stopped in the forest town of W. Rex is gathering information about a group of ex-soldiers who are causing all manner of trouble in Sokoto province. Our house is no more than a hut. Of wattle and mud. It’s round with a single room and mud floors. It is next to the village Mosque, which doubles as the courthouse. The coolness of the forest is welcome relief. And the silence is strange. It is not flat silence but everywhere the chirping of insects and the stirring of branches. This morning, Ben found a mongrel puppy and brought it to me. It was hurt. Rex said I should keep it and was terribly excited and went to fetch some meat. It was so afraid, it kept shivering away from my touch. When it had retreated a foot it would dip its head and weakly wag its tail. Eventually I shooed it away and Rex came in and said, Dammit, Eve, can’t you give the little mite a chance, and I said nothing and walked out of the hut. Rex followed me and said, What’s wrong? And suddenly I knew I hated him, standing there with healthy red cheeks, clear eyes. Every day they grow clearer.

— 14th December. It is remarkable how Ben manages to produce such delightful meals. He cooks with a debbie, a four-gallon paraffin tin with its top cut out and coals underneath. He mixes flour, yeast and water in the morning and has it carried in cloths. As soon as the fires are made in the evening out comes the dough, which he bakes at night in a hole in the ground, with cinders. Without our porters, eight in total, as well as Ben and Talle, it would be impossible to make headway in this terrain. One realizes the world is designed as one great work-pit so that certain people don’t have to think about everyday affairs. What is done with our nightsoil, I wonder? Apart from suitcases, which contain our clothing, there are campbeds to be carried, tents, chairs and tables, the canvas bath, Lord’s lamps, kerosene, cases of china, gas, cutlery, linen, even fireworks. And, of course, the chop box.

— 26th December. Everything suddenly changes. Woken in the afternoon to the sound of a sharp, persistent rattling on the roof. Like being in a tent during a downpour. The clouds, instead of disappearing after a while, as on previous days, all at once increased in size and advanced towards us, blotting out the sky. Ben and Talle appeared from nowhere and began to rush around the residence, pulling in curtains and shutting windows and banging doors. We were only just in time, for suddenly came a roaring wind. Then the dust. It battered violently against the window panes. Inside the house, the temperature dropped like a stone, and I found myself searching in my trunk for something warm to wear. The harmattan. It gusts in from the desert, lifting sand and insects and god knows what, then comes spinning south in a choking red cloud. I’m writing this from the house of the District Commissioner at Sokoto. The sun shines feebly through the window. It looks like an English fog, but instead of feeling clammy, it’s harsh and stinging. Frequent applications of salve do not prevent our lips from cracking. This morning Rex left with Ben to check on the supplies. They returned, and for a terrible moment I thought they were coughing up blood. It was only the sand that had got through their scarves and into their mouths. We have been stuck indoors for three days. But we have only to wait until the wind passes. Then we’ll press on.

Last night Rex, the Commissioner, Ben, Talle and I sat in the living room. The Commissioner told us about suicide among expats, a common phenomenon. But it is Ben’s story I remember most clearly. He told us about the people of the Saharan desert and the tribes of the Sahel, who for centuries have practised a form of commerce known as silent trading. The inhabitants of the Sahara trade salt and receive gold in return. The salt is carried from the desert to the Niger River, where the transaction takes place. The Saharans leave a mound by the riverbank and then retreat. The Sahels deposit gold of equivalent value beside the mound. Once they have gone, the salt traders return. If they think the gold is sufficient, they take it, leaving the salt. If not, they take neither and retreat. The Sahels return and either increase the amount of gold or retrieve it. This process is repeated until both parties are satisfied and in this manner they conduct their commerce, never seeing one another and never speaking.

— And then, on the third evening of our confinement, the Commissioner stood up and raised his glass. Happy Christmas! he cried. We hadn’t known! We sang carols. Played endless rounds of Bridge. Toasted George VI. Though not Talle, who doesn’t recognize our King.