I put pen to paper in this white bread with a blazing lamp and an overflowing pool of thoughts. Even though it isn’t as good as Woolwich’s, I like the shelter here. The back window of the house shows the young bronze sun in the morning with a thousand birds streaking below, like moving black dots on the clear sky.
Evenings are equally as creative. These times, I will look out the window of my living room at the dashing old sun disappearing into the faraway horizon where the earth keeps a date with it. It will be sweet and beautiful, like an orange split in half, and then, of course, the loud birds will prance through again, this time appearing like a painting.
I cannot fail to mention Bundu, a boy of fourteen from the eastern tribe who has served as my housekeeper and tour guide. This boy, who has deep, darting eyes and ebony skin, learns English in a day faster than I can learn French in a year. He is extremely intelligent, humble, and reserved, like a cat. When Whittingham and Darlington came to visit the other day, they called him a “clean imperial material,” and I didn’t find that particularly patriotic, like Bundu did.
I know from what I’ve seen that Bundu’s descriptions of this land are as accurate as water because he talks about distant wars and tales that would only be plausible in a sprawling epic with mind-boggling fiction.
Before Bundu, my guide had been Osifor, a brash young man with feminine brilliance and unearthly features. He was articulate in the languages, but I found him to be a little too ambitious. I must tell you how I met this unusual boy.
I was taken to a village in the eastern tribe by Osifor, whose name I have struggled to pronounce for a long time but should sound more like “Ama Enedibo Cha.” I met the chief at Ama Enedibo Cha, whose name my indomitable pen has no wits or grace to attempt. A carnival was held in my honor by the chief, who impressed me greatly with his charisma; They regarded me as the Queen. Oh! How hospitable, Lord Lugard, are the people of central Sudan?
The actual carnival was like a bonfire. Drummers were exuberantly pounding stretched lion skin on carved wood by drummers. To the beat of the drummers, powerful dark women violently vibrated their beaded waists. The wrestlers then appeared, young men with a ferocious appearance and dripping sweat on their godly bodies. They are more natural, more majestic, and less cynical than gladiators. The wrestlers fought fiercely, twisting themselves around with skill, precision, and superhuman strength that was greater than the Stamford bridge.
May I suggest that these men be considered by Queen Victoria’s royal army? The entire event crashed into an unfortunate wall just below its crescendo. He was brought in in rags, tied with palm fronds made of raffia like an animal. The palace guards, who were as massive as wrestlers, threw him around, smashed his jovial face into the brown earth, and then placed him on something odd—though it could have been an alter. “Separate his cursed head from the body,” the chief ordered, giving the impression that my adrenaline was as high as the cheering crowd’s.
“What has he done wrong?”
“He is Osu.” With broad grin, the chief informed me.
What is an Osu?
The chief then began his narration, “You see madam, the origin of the Osu’s are very much conflicting,” still glowering sardonically, in an effort to persuade me that the boy required to be executed. According to our interpretation, they were slaves who committed a sacrilege by stealing from the gods and fleeing into numerous villages with their loot. Their unsuspecting hosts suffered more because they attracted curses in the same way that palm oil attracted ants. Everywhere they go, there are no crops, no streams, no children, and so on and so forth. “How do you identify one?” asks the gods, “The gods curse any land they set their feet on.” I inquired.
“We consult the oracle, who reveals the signs to us, as soon as we begin to receive them. Aside from that, finding them is simple. They steal, kill, and defecate all of the young women, or, in the case of an Osu woman, they share half the land with half the men. They are even more evil than witches.
I demanded, “I don’t care, I want that boy spared.”
“These bad people don’t know you, ma’am. Kill the Osu first if you encounter a snake and an Osu in the bush. I was told by the chief.
“Tie him,” I ordered.
“Okay, madam, but we cannot allow him to remain here; We will expel him in his place.
“I will acquire him.”
“But these people, madam, are…” Tie him off.
The boy was brought toward me after the tie was untied. The boy looked at me with eyes the color of smoldering glass and a demonic expression. When he said, “Thank you, Queen of London,” “Call me lady Lugard, what’s your name?” I quickly lost my fear of this young man.
This Bundu is the subject of my letter to you, he stated. A pure imperial product was referred to as the Bundu Wittingham and Darlington.
I appeared to have been possessed by demons on the fateful day the gentlemen came over. Walking them out of my cottage for no apparent reason was a most unladylike act on my part. I tried unsuccessfully to finish the final paragraph of my novel that night. As happy words eluded me, it could have been that I had reached writer’s block; I tried everything, but all I got was a migraine. If it weren’t for the fact that Bundu was fast asleep on the couch in the living room, I wouldn’t have made with a cup of tea. I therefore sought peace by venturing outside into the chilly night. And I did find peace.
The flowers danced with the gentle whirling winds that night. My nerves were soothed by the blue air, which was easy to breathe in. Then drumbeats from a different village followed, at first as faint, far-off drones. I felt a surge of nostalgic feelings right away. In over a hundred of the villages I’ve visited in this region, I’ve heard these same drums. I believe they will combine to create a formidable brand for a people that is so robust, diverse, and nourished by culture and nature. That night, I decided to write an article for THE TIMES instead of the novel.
In that article, I bring to light the poetic, historical, and magical beauty of this land. I emphasized a lot of the advantages of combining the tribes and the crown. Honestly, I think the name “Royal Niger Company Territories” is a little too long. Merchants and diplomats also used the name “Central Sudan,” which doesn’t really represent the people in these parts. People all over the world have countless fantasies about the Niger River, including romantics. I truly believe that the region of Niger, which should be spelled Nigeria, is both romantic and convenient.
I expect a response.
Many thanks, Lady Flora Shaw.
